Radu-Chapter XXXXI (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)

Links to previous chapters are at the end of this chapter
Radu-Chapter XXXXI (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
7 pages approximate
Michael left after Agnes’s funeral, determined the time had come to return to his family. He did not even bother to ask Khoska to come with him. He was in fact quite angry.

“I know you are upset with me,” Khoska said.

“Agnes would never have agreed to be cremated,” he said. “What gives you the right to make such a decision?”

Khoska looked at him strangely. He had already went over this with him once before, and he was positive Agnes as well had discussed it with him.

“She was hardly in her right mind those last few days,” Michael stubbornly insisted. “On the other hand, I can easily say the same for us all lately. The idea that she might have come back under some satanic curse”-

“You doubt this still, even after what you went through, here in this very church, with that vile creature?” Khoska demanded.

Michael bowed his head as if in prayer. For a minute, he was silent. Khoska waited in awkward silence, not wanting to push him to admit the evidence of his own experience.

“I don’t know what to believe any more,” he finally said. “What I do know is my family needs me. Someone is evidently determined to wipe out our entire family. So far, they have achieved a remarkable rate of success. If you insist on staying here, I will not belabor the issue.”

He left the next day, as Khoska placed Agnes’s urn next to the now empty one for his niece Lynette, as he wondered at the power of Marlowe Krovell. He had somehow managed to wear the both of them down, to weaken their defenses sufficiently to enable him to victimize them. Lynette was one thing. She was young and her faith was new. Despite her strength, she did not have Agnes’s bedrock of faith on which to call. Nevertheless, he deduced Agnes’s main area of weakness-her devotion to the children under her care. She never should have brought them with her. That she could not bear to leave them behind provided evidence of the one chink in her armor of faith.

Khoska remained glum all through the day, and into the night, as he continued to pray and meditate. He then removed himself down to the basement and, retrieving the old keys, he accessed the safe that held the powdered bones of Cornelieu Codreanu. Either they had failed him or he had failed in their application. Now, there was only one vial remaining. The others had proven worthless at protecting both Lynette and Agnes.

That night, as he slept, he dreamed of Agnes in her bed. She cried as she looked into the mirror.

“How, poppa, can you help us now? Why should you bless the damned?”

She hid her face, and as Khoska approached, he heard a voice call to him in a hushed tone from behind him. He turned to see Lynette, smiling at him. He awoke with a start. There was the vial at his bedside where he left it.

“Of course,” he said. ‘That is it. Why did I not know?”

He arose and ate. After he bathed, he spent the remainder of the day in quiet prayer. In every application, he had blessed the relic, which was not a sacred relic at all, but the bones of a grasping, power hungry and possibly fanatical madman. In so doing, he actually lessened its power, had perhaps even gone so far as to make it completely worthless. By the end of the day, he was in an inspired state of near frenzy.

He blessed the sacred wine of the Eucharist. Then, without blessing the bones, he added them to the wine.

“That was the whole problem,” he said in wonder, as he dropped down on his knees before the icon of the Archangel Michael.

The demonic entity that possessed the person of Marlowe Krovell was itself under a peculiarly malicious curse. The blood of the righteous or the innocent alone could sustain him. The blood of sinners was as poison to him. Yet, only the truly faithful, the very ones necessary to sustain him, could repel him. Therefore, the demon found itself faced with a quandary. In order to feed, he had to wear down the faith of those whose blood he needed to survive. Their assured salvation gave him strength and sustenance. Yet, the bones of Codreanu would destroy him, already would have had Khoska not foolishly blessed them. He felt like a complete idiot. Now, however, he felt waves of faith and even profound peace sweep through him.

Neither Lynette’s death nor that of Agnes would be in vain, he vowed. He allowed himself no further recriminations. Such would not bring either of them back. Perhaps it was necessary in order for him to grasp the truth. They should both be alive now, and would be if he had discerned the truth in time. Yet, his faith was not sufficient to see it. He begged forgiveness for his lack of faith, and vowed to carry on the fight, for which he now felt assured of victory. He had to win. He could not allow such abominable evil to prevail. It would make a mockery of the deaths of the two people he loved the most.

By nightfall, he had a not completely unexpected visitor. The Metropolitan Abraham, who in fact had presided over the funeral of Sister Agnes, promised he would see him in a few days. He no longer dreaded it, as he would have a few months ago.

“Where is Michael?” he asked. Khoska remained bowed in front of the Archangel.

“He has returned home, to see to his wife and family,” Khoska replied. “I am frankly glad he has done so. His place is not with me but with them. How are the children?”

“The children are well,” he answered. “They will soon all be placed in fine homes, with families who will love them and raise them well, I am sure.”

“That would make Agnes very happy,” Khoska replied. “They were her life.”

“Aleksandre, let’s not beat about the bush any more, all right? This is awkward enough. You know why I am here. It is time for you to retire.”

“We have had this conversation before,” Khoska replied.

“Really, Aleksandre, you have no place in this city. You have no parish of which to speak. You are a shepherd without a flock.”

For the first time, Aleksandre rose from his attitude of prayer and turned to face the Metropolitan.

“You are my flock,” he replied. “Not just you, but the entire church. You are all blind, walking toward a precipice that will lead to your destruction. I can do nothing about that, but I can and will slay the wolf when he comes to slaughter you. Are you aware that Michael saved my life from the clutches of a woman who in fact has been dead for two years? Not falsely presumed dead, mind you-the recent autopsy performed on her remains verified that she has in fact been dead for that long.”

“Do you really believe she was dead that long, Aleksandre?” the Metropolitan asked sadly, albeit with a faint smile.

“Yes, I do-well, give or take a week or two. You do not have to take my word for it. Her name was Raven Randall, and she died a victim of murder, at the hands of the very man who raised her from the dead and used her as a subterfuge, as a distraction in order that he could get to Agnes.”

“Yes, indeed, the amazing Marlowe Krovell, I know, I have heard all about him. Really, Aleksandre. Of course it so happens she was also affiliated with this strange young man you took under your wing, whom ended up impaled on the upright beam of the cross I am happy to see you have had replaced. Oh, and that other girl, Sierra I think her name was. You know-the one who seemed to be the unwitting victim of a satanic type sacrifice performed here on this very altar.

“Would you like me to once again read to you the police reports on these people, these loathsome criminals whom you insist you saved and who were a part of your war against the devil?”

“Sierra was an unbeliever to the end,” Khoska reminded him. “Joseph sincerely believed. His death was a tragedy, regardless of his past actions.”

“Khoska, Khoska, Khoska, what can I say?” Abraham said in undisguised anguish. “Perhaps Joseph Karinsky was sincere, but more than likely, he was at best desperate to save his own skin from the fate he brought upon himself. At worse, he may have been-and I do hate to say this-playing you for a fool.

“I do not know who or what killed him, but whoever-or whatever-it was may have done you a big favor. A great lot of these troubles, Aleksandre, I fear you have brought on yourself. When you jump in a lake, you get wet. When you lie down in the mud, you get dirty. When you stick your hand in the flame, it burns, and so on and so forth.

“Now you, the self-described shepherd of us all, seem to think you are empowered to save us. I am afraid you are badly deceived. If anything, your endeavors threaten to destroy us. You have already lost almost your entire family. I don’t mean to sound cruel, but why could you not save them?”

Khoska looked at the Metropolitan with a barely disguised disdain that did not go unnoticed by his superior. By this time, Khoska did not care. He looked at most high-ranking officials of the church as though they were for the most part bureaucrats, barely functional ones at that, who cared more for appearances and propriety than they did the truly important spiritual issues of the Church. Unfortunately, such attitudes were indispensable in any rise in position of authority. It was but one of those fatal human flaws from which the church never purged itself. By this point, Khoska was not about to defend himself to the Metropolitan, whom he viewed as a well-meaning individual, but whose value beyond his job description was questionable at best.

“I need just a little more time,” he said at length.

“And you shall have it,” Abraham replied. “In fact, I am giving you a month-that is to say, I am giving you a month to find yourself new and suitable living arrangements. Your duties as a Priest are, I am very much afraid, over. You have now officially been retired. At this point, whatever activities you engage in are of your own volition, and are not to be assumed to have the permission or the blessing of the church.”

Abraham waited a couple of minutes, to give Aleksandre time to digest this pronouncement, but to his chagrin, Khoska betrayed no surprise in his reaction, only one of resignation.

“I did not want it to be this way,” Abraham continued. “You have left me no choice. Actually, I spoke up for you, believe it or not. I suggested you be promoted to Bishop. I believe Daniel would have been amenable, but too many others objected. You have kept yourself too insulated, Aleksandre. You have been an island unto yourself, here in this Catholic city without a flock to call your own, and with nothing or no one to recommend you.

“I consider myself quite fortunate to have secured your retirement. You can live quite comfortably, if you choose to. Whatever the case, the doors of the church are henceforth closed to the public. Soon, officials of the Church shall inventory the property. What is yours, they shall transfer over to your possession. The rest shall be catalogued and delegated to where they might be needed and wanted.”

As he said this, Abraham focused his attention on the icon of the Archangel Michael, his foot upon the vaguely serpentine form as he prepared to plunge a sword into the heart of the demoniac best.

“It has come to my attention that this icon was formerly in the possession of a Greek Orthodox Church that burned to the ground some decades ago. I understand the party responsible for its transfer to your care did so at the behest and in honor of your grandfather, who was indeed a remarkable man of God. I understand you are quite attached to it. As it is not a legitimate church property, you may more than likely keep it, provided its transfer to you turns out to be valid and above-board.”

Khoska looked on, as though he had other matters on his mind.

“You know the Metropolitan Daniel’s life is in danger, do you not?”

Abraham looked at him strangely.

“I understand you heard this second-hand, from some one who supposedly heard it from the lips of your son. I believe the individual in question is someone who supports himself as a photographer for the Baltimore Enquirer-not among the most reputable of newspapers. How unfortunate that Phillip is yet in a coma and therefore unable to verify any of this.

“Aleksandre, Daniel’s life is constantly in danger. There are those who resent his outreach to other churches of the Christian community. Please-no longer concern yourself with these matters.”

“I am concerned not just for him, but for all of us,” Khoska replied, his exasperation getting the better of him and showing now in his voice. “The heretics whom I wrote to you about, and who are led by some person whose identity I am unaware of”-

“Aleksandre!” Abraham shouted, and then restrained himself as he sought to regain his composure.

“Please, Aleksandre,” he said. “Let it drop. I beg you. Daniel is going to meet with officials of not only Christianity, but leaders of other world religions. He is coming here to Baltimore in a few days. I assure you, he is well guarded. I want no nonsense to interfere with his plans, or to disturb his meditations and his preparations for the coming days.

“These heretics of whom you speak are a small number of malcontents who have somehow inflated their power and influence only in your own mind. There will always be heretics and malcontents. Twenty years from now their names will be forgotten, and others will arise to carve out for themselves a similar pathway to obscurity. The church and its people will go on forever, until God reclaims his earth in the name of the Crucified and Resurrected Lord Jesus. I believe that with all my heart. That is my faith, Aleksandre. I should like to think it is still yours.

“As for the Brothers Dracula, including Radu, they are mere historic personages, important in their day, but whose sole importance in our time belongs chiefly in the domain of the motion picture industry, to some degree to the Romanian Board of Tourism. If the heretics of whom you speak truly believe that Radu Dracula has somehow resurrected and leads them on a quest to world domination, well that is-well, that is interesting, and perhaps a little sad. Is it a cause for great concern? Not for me, Aleksandre-nor for any sane person, I hasten to add.”

Aleksandre Khoska was livid, though Abraham’s words were by no means unexpected. It would be easy for an outsider to conclude he was making way too much out of past events. After all, the Centers for Disease Control seemed certain the recent epidemic would quickly wind down to at least relatively manageable levels. They pronounced it unnecessary to impose quarantines on vast areas, as everyone initially feared would be required. Though the death toll was significant, it showed recent signs of abating significantly, as recent victims, for the most part, responded well to treatment.

The recent power outage, which afflicted the entire nation for a period of four days, ended quicker than anyone expected. The local police, state, and federal responses resulted in minimal looting and rioting in Baltimore and in other urban areas, and though it was an inordinate expense, fund-raising drives in addition to government assistance provided replacements for the vast quantities of spoiled food. The mere fact that elected officials found it to their advantage to debate over the amount of federal funds needed to repair the damage gave testament to the fact the damage was not as severe as initially feared.

Its cause even was traced-evidently a virus had insinuated itself at a previously unheard of level and shut down almost the entirety of the not only US computer systems, but in fact the entire world. It was quickly traced to the DVD of Toby Da Pimp, on which it was embedded within the video that portrayed the horrific murder of the youngest daughter of Doctor David Chou.

Now, Chou himself, presumably one of the main ringleaders of what law-enforcement officials identified as a terrorist plot, was in prison, awaiting certain indictment and prosecution, while yet another alleged conspirator, Detective James Berry, while still in hiding, would most likely be found soon.

It was easy to conclude that the true instigators had misjudged and underestimated the capabilities of those they sought to undermine and destroy. Khoska, however, believed there was something missing, some component yet identified. Marlowe Krovell had masterfully used the reanimated corpse of Raven Randall to provide a distraction in order for him to wage his ultimately successful assault on his dear, sweet Agnes. Khoska could not help but believe that Marlowe Krovell was himself a minor player, no more important in the overall scheme of things than Doctor Chou or Lieutenant Berry. He was certain that some yet unknown person or entity manipulated things behind the scenes. Who was it? Could it be his demented half-brother and his abominable wife-or could it possibly be the mysterious Edward Akito? Perhaps it was some other person whose identity was beyond Khoska’s comprehension.

Khoska believed this was more than likely the case. His own son Phillip, a man who was a multi-millionaire leader of a previously successful and wide-ranging international crime cartel of nearly unstoppable power, himself turned out to be the merest of pawns.

Yet, Abraham stood now in judgment over him. No one could see the danger. Khoska however was far too aware, the true depths of disaster waited to unfold, when all least expected it. There was no need in trying to convince him further.

“Will you at least stay for dinner? I promise I will not bore you with my little conspiracy theories. I accept the pronouncement of the church fathers-as always.”

Abraham was stunned. It took a few seconds to respond.

“You-really mean that?”

“Of course I do.”

Abraham remained for over an hour, and joined Khoska for dinner. Yet, he seemed reserved through most of the evening. Finally, he rose to leave, but Khoska had one final request.

“Will you please administer the Eucharist to me, one last time?”

Abraham could not believe the request, yet Khoska was truly sincere.

“It has been years since a Priest other than myself has administered the Lord’s blessings unto me,” he explained. “It would seem as though I no longer have the authority to do so.”

Abraham performed Khoska’s request, and noted that Aleksandre seemed strangely at peace, for the first time in years.

“You have served the church well over the years, Aleksandre,” he said. “Your very determined efforts to bring to an end Voroslav Moloku’s hypocrisy we all look upon with a great deal of admiration. It is most commendable that you should act in such faith against the interests of your own son-in-law. Neither did you spare your own son when it came time to act for the good of the Church, to which we all appreciate that you have truly devoted your life. You have suffered greatly through the years. I and in fact all of us are well aware of this.

“However, all things must end, my friend. You will see, in time, that it is all for the best. If what you say is accurate, you should at least be aware that, whatever Satanic evil has been unleashed, the power of the Lord Jesus Christ would destroy it as easily without your continued involvement as it would with it. You have earned your rest, Aleksandre. We shall handle it from here on out. You have my word on that.”

That easily, his career ended. No longer would Aleksandre Khoska legitimately conduct a mass or lead a service of the faithful. For years, he lived as a shepherd without a flock. He was no longer even a lonely shepherd. He retained the title in retirement, but without any authority to utilize it, he was no more than a figurehead with a title kept out of respect for past services.

Soon, he would conduct his own personal inventory. He had money, enough saved over the years to retire in comfort, in a private home where he would certainly move the Archangel which looked down upon him now seemingly in knowing sympathy. He had clothing, as well as many books, and other personal items. What would become of the Church? A few days before he left, Michael had mentioned something about it becoming a private retreat, or perhaps an orphanage in honor of Agnes. She would have liked that.

However, until he had to leave it, he had precious little time in which to conclude his true business. Personal matters could wait. He slowly moved to Agnes’s room. He reflected on how it was in this room that both she and Lynette lost their lives at the hands of Marlowe Krovell.

He waited in vain for an answer on how to end his evil existence since the day of Lynette’s murder. He prayed endlessly, but no answer was forthcoming. At times, he felt abandoned. Then, upon the murder of Agnes, he ironically received the answer for which he waited so long.

He picked up the mirror into which she gazed constantly during her last few days of life, horrified at the image she saw, though no one else could discern the reason for her terror.

He touched the wine to his lips from within the flask that contained the last of the powdered bones of Cornelieu Codreanu. Then, he gazed down upon the mirror, still streaked with the dried tears of Agnes, a remarkable woman of God.

He muttered a quick and silent prayer as he gazed upon the tears of the virgin.

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
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Chapter XXXIX
Chapter XXXX

Back To The Broom Closet

Anymore, it is getting harder to identify as a Pagan or Wiccan. This is truer of my relations with people I know in the real world than it is of my musings on this blog or in regards to my communications in other areas of the internet. At the same time, it is growing exponentially more troublesome even here on-line, in regards to people with whom I converse, even though more than likely I will never meet in real life the vast majority of them, if indeed any at all.

I look back on the days of my self-proclaimed conversion with equal parts amusement and amazement. I too went through the religious fanaticism stage that marks any true believer. I approached days of hardship with varying degrees of faith in the “gods of my ancestors” and in the hidden science of magic. The good days I found easy and appropriate to render thanks for divine guidance. I longed for more spiritual as well as occult knowledge, and hungered to find meaning beyond the oftentimes quite whimsical mythologies of the past, in some cases inventing or devising hidden meanings where perhaps there were none to be found, nor were any intended.

When confronted with the skeptics and the ignorant, those who identified Pagans and Wiccans as evil black hearted magicians or sorcerers in the employ, knowing or unknowingly, of “the Devil”, I admit to a perverse satisfaction in their reaction. I felt oh so superior to them and what I saw, correctly in many cases, as their superstition and hypocrisy.

All things change and evolve over time. I am no different in this regard. I like to think of it as the wisdom that comes with growth, experience, and maturity.

Some things, unfortunately, seem almost to never change for the better.

Disclaimer-

American taxpayers have a perfect right to criticize the policies, both internal and external, of those foreign nations said taxpayers subsidize in any way-this is especially true of those nations whose defense we subsidize-such as Europe, Japan, and, yes, Israel.

Of course, American taxpayers are often divided, finding themselves in stark disagreement when it comes to the policies of many of these countries. This is especially true of Israel, it would seem.

Therefore, when such Wiccan luminaries as Starhawk offer criticism of the nation of Israel, she is merely doing what many other American citizens have done and have a perfect right to do. However, there is legitimate criticism, and there is crossing the line. Many Israeli critics cross that line often-figuratively and literally.

Starhawk has joined their ranks. The fact that she might feel, as a person of Jewish ancestry, that she has a compelling reason and right, and even a responsibility to do so, changes nothing.

Starhawk is a member, or at least a supporter, of the International Solidarity Movement. These people have in the past acted as human shields against Israeli operations in Palestinian territories. They claim to be acting in the defense of innocent Palestinians (I refrain from putting quotation marks around the phrase in the hopes there are at least a few).

It is hard to take that claim with more than a grain of salt when I remember how people such as this once acted in such a manner in defense of Yasser Arafat, who, whatever you might think of him, can hardly be called innocent. In fact, both Hamas and the rival Palestinian group Fatah typically use them as pawns. They are in fact little more than propaganda props to these thugs, and when women like Rachel Corrie end up dead-and that is always a real possibility in situations like this-in all likelihood there is little that could possibly please them more. One of the few things they might find more satisfying is when a few hundred of their own people end up dying because of an Israeli counter-attack on them within their positions in Palestinian residential neighborhoods.

It would be much easier to take Starhawk and her peers seriously were they to make a point of standing around Israeli pizzerias and bus stops with signs saying things like “I Too Might Be a Victim of a Palestinian Suicide Bomber”.

Of course, that now is unnecessary. Such bombings seem now a thing of the past. Perhaps that is why the ISM is so devoted to forcing the Israelis to dismantle the fence now separating them from the Palestinians of the West Bank Perhaps that is why they insist on the Palestinian right of return. Maybe if all those things happened, the ISM would be at the vanguard of protesting such atrocities when they inevitably resumed.

On the other hand, probably not. The ISM, and others like them, cannot be taken seriously as honest critics of Israeli-US policies. That is because their movement is entirely political. True, it is based on legitimate criticisms of those policies, but the agenda obviously moves much deeper than that. It, like most alleged “peace” organizations, seem to be concerned with considerably more than changing US foreign policy. I am very much afraid it is also about more-much more-than merely standing up for the beleaguered Palestinian people. All of that is a facade, mere window dressing for the ultimate goal of removing capitalist influence and ushering in a socialist internationalist system with little if any regard for currently recognized national borders. International policy is not the problem to the way of thinking of most of these groups. The established international facets of the US government is in fact to them an opportunity-the world as an oyster is a more than appropriate cliché.

They do not want to dismantle the current system so much as take it over and remake it in their own image, a socialist one. Of course, they are a small faction of lunatics with little real influence on the hearts and minds of average people, at least in the US. However, they are a real and growing influence on policy. Thanks to incompetence in regards to conduct of the Iraq War, and to the current financial crises, especially in the Housing Market and energy prices, their influence is not as minimal as one might suppose. They are in fact the ugly face of liberal politics. They are the crazy aunts and uncles the Democrats just cannot seem to keep locked in the attic. When election year rolls around, unfortunately, they grow strong enough to break their bonds, and many times roam out of control. It must be the effect of all that red meat tossed around.

I long ago wearied of warning the Democratic Party members, what ones that would listen, of their pernicious influence. I should have known better. After all, as crazy as these people are, they are still their uncles and aunts, and blood is thicker than water, to use yet another tried and true cliché.

Until they purge themselves of this influence, if they ever do, I will vote Republican-or, even more likely, not at all-and let the chips fall where they may.

Paganism and Wicca, however, are different matters. While many of Starhawk’s concerns and objections are, I repeat, well founded, she has crossed the line. Now she complains that Israel denied her entry to their country, and held her briefly in detention. Well, let’s see now-she is a member and supporter of International Solidarity Movement and Code Pink. She has openly accused the Israeli government of apartheid. Her criticisms of Palestinian atrocities are tepid at best when compared to Israeli responses to these very same Palestinian atrocities. (By the way, most such Israeli critics, when you point out the Palestinian contribution to the problem, like to react in such a way that their opposition to these tactics should be taken for granted and so they need not dwell on them).

Starhawk likes to complain that her reason for wanting to go to Israel is humanitarian. She wants to teach a two-week course of permaculture and organic design to the people of Israel, a country that has successfully turned what for centuries was basically a desert into an agricultural exporter. They accomplished this despite the constant attacks from or on behalf of the people she deems in need of her defense. Can anyone blame the Israelis for viewing this former Jew, now a Neo-Pagan Witch, with some degree of suspicion, given especially her past association with radical left-wing organizations?

I support Starhawk’s rights to her views, just as I have in the past supported the legitimate rights of other Wiccan luminaries, such as Gavin and Yvonne Frost, who like Starhawk seem to lean greatly to the left in a great many of their beliefs. However, there is a vast difference in supporting freedom of association and freedom of speech, and allowing something of which I am a part-even if admittedly on the outer periphery-to be seen as an entirely left-wing phenomenon.

Though there are of course many liberals and leftists within the Wiccan/Pagan world-in fact, the liberals probably do make up the majority of our overall numbers-there are nevertheless many libertarians, conservatives, and moderates as well-in addition to complete and unabashed independents such as myself.

Unfortunately, I am very much afraid that when I identify myself as a Wiccan or Pagan, the first image that comes to people’s minds is no longer the evil, wart-ridden, spell casting Satanic “devil worshiper” that such phrases tend to conjure up. More and more often, they might instead come to identify me with an even more pernicious influence. A radical leftist airhead who in a good many cases never grew up or out of the sixties is not much an improvement, if at all, and when you stop to think about it, to me at least is no less terrifying.

Radu-Chapter XXXX (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)

Links to previous chapters at end of this chapter
Radu-Chapter XXXX (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
6 pages approximate
Chou did not like it, but he had his instructions. James Berry was too valuable to die. He watched him through the glass partition that enabled the staff to monitor him within his isolated environment. He was still obviously dangerously ill, yet improved from the day before when he hung to life by a thread. He talked incoherently as Chou fed him intravenously and insured a steady dosage of the formula developed from the white blood cells extracted from the whole blood of Marlowe Krovell.

Berry improved considerably. In a way, Chou was glad. Berry had much to answer for, and Chou was determined to get answers. Some things, however, there were simply no answers for. Chou walked grimly down the hall to where yet another patient waited for his services. He entered the room where the old woman lay. Though seemingly ancient, she was yet spry, and cackled with delight when Chou entered the room.

“I was beginning to wonder if I would ever see you again,” she said.

“Oh, I would never just abandon you. You know that.”

“When can I get out of here?” she asked. “I am tired of being cooped up in this place.”

“It is way too soon for you to leave.”

“I feel as good as I ever did. I want to visit my children. Is there any word on them? You would think the least they could do is drop by for a visit.”

“We have had to limit visitations to the hospital,” Chou replied sadly. “There is a multi-epidemic going around, and we fear for the safety of the public.”

The old woman howled with laughter.

“That is hilarious. What place could be safer than a hospital?”

“There are few safe places anymore,” he replied.

Chou turned away from the old woman. It was hard to come in here, but he had no choice. Each visit, however, was more and more difficult. He tried feverishly to find a cure for the old woman. Yet, he was unsuccessful. Nothing he tried seemed to work, and at her advanced age, he had to be careful not to put too much of a strain on her. Yet, as she clearly seemed to be well over a century in age, and although she seemed healthy for one so ancient, she obviously did not have much longer to live. Chou had to face the eventuality of her death, and the likelihood that he was helpless to do anything about it.

Her mind had adjusted to her dilemma. At first, she fell into shock, and went through all the various stages of adjustment. She went through them very rapidly, in fact, and now was past even the stage of acceptance. She was to all intents and purposes well adjusted. Some might even consider her happy. It was as though she had lived a full, long, productive, and happy life, and experienced no tragedies or, for that matter, nothing out of the ordinary.

“David, how long have we been married now?”

“Twenty four years,” Chou replied. “You know I love you still, don’t you Mia?”

Chou turned to look at his wife, now so blissfully ignorant of reality in her advanced stage of dementia, only to see she was already asleep.

He lowered the light in her room, and, looking one more time at her, he silently walked out. It was so ironic. Her reaction to the death of Susan and to her disappointment with the other children was not one of despair or surrender. She wanted to have another child, despite the fact she was past childbearing age. She did not care. She would take fertility drugs if necessary.

That was all Chou needed. One child hated him and was now dead, before Chou could ever come close to establishing a rapport with her. Another daughter kept the family in debt with her extravagant and impulsive spending, while their only son, who was gay, drifted habitually from one job to another and seemed totally lacking in ambition. The last thing he needed was a litter.

When he injected her with Marlowe’s blood, he thought it would boost her immune system, provide her with renewed strength and vigor, and at the same time pull her out of her depression. He got more than he bargained for when she raped him, and then, unsatisfied with him, she left. When she returned two months later, she looked as though she aged more than twenty years. Every day that went past, she seemed to age more than a month by his reckoning. He was helpless to reverse the process. Now, she was obviously near the end. So was Chou.

He made his way slowly toward his office, but stopped when he heard someone call his name. He turned to see the man flashing a Baltimore Police Department badge.

“I’m Lieutenant Frank Anderson,” he said. “I’m here about my colleague, James Berry. I hear that he has improved considerably.”

“Yes, he has improved a great deal, but he is by no means able to leave here yet.”

“That is fine, I don’t want him to be discharged,” Anderson replied. “I was just wondering if it’s possible yet that I could have a word with him.”

“I am sorry, but I can’t allow that,” Chou replied. “It would not only be detrimental to his recovery but it would be dangerous to you, and in fact any contact with him would necessitate your remaining here in isolation. I know you had contact with him when he first fell ill, but we cannot assume your immune system will protect you from prolonged exposure. Even if it did, you might still carry it and infect those with whom you might later come in contact. This is a very serious situation, Lieutenant Anderson. The CDC is just two steps away from placing the entire city of Baltimore and the surrounding areas under quarantine. The only thing that has prevented this so far is the logistical problems such an endeavor would entail. In my opinion, they should do it anyway. But, I am, alas, a simple physician.”

Anderson looked at Chou with a good deal of obvious suspicion, and even some frustration.

“I have just been informed that Berry is willing to talk to me. In fact, he has requested that I personally come here to take his statement. He has sent word that he has some important information. It might interest you to know some of this has to do with the death of your own daughter. That is another thing I am concerned about. Are you sure you should even be involved in his case?”

Chou rolled his eyes, a habit born of frustration that he usually tried to avoid. Mia always chided him for it, calling it a mark of inferiority, to say nothing of bad manners. Some times, he could just not help himself.

“Lieutenant Anderson, my patient has gone through hell. He is not quite yet in his right mind. He will say anything to get his way. I would be derelict in my duties were I to allow you to question him while he frankly does not know what he is talking about. We are both professionals. I am sure you understand the need for objectivity and discernment.”

“I would be more than willing for you or someone else to monitor our conversation. I know there is a system set up to where I can question him without having to come in contact and risk exposure. Look, Doctor Chou, this could be very important. James Berry might have a lot of information, vital information, not only about this plague, but also about other matters. Many innocent lives could be at stake here.”

“I am sorry, but my answer is still no,” Chou replied firmly.

Anderson seemed shocked by his determination.

“I guess I’ll have to go over your head. I will get a court order if I have to. I do not know why you are being so stubborn, but your attitude is incomprehensible to me. You are very possibly interfering in a criminal investigation. You might want to take some time to rethink your position. Good day to you, DOCTOR Chou.”

Anderson stormed off then, while Chou realized he had better do something quickly. He made his way back to the isolation ward, and soon found himself standing at the window to the room where James Berry, though still feverish, anxiously paced the floor.

“You had better get some rest, Lieutenant,” Chou advised him. “You have a ways to go yet before you are sufficiently recovered.”

Berry reacted to this with obvious agitation.

“I sent word two hours ago I wanted to speak with someone from the Department. His name is Frank Anderson. I was assured he would be here way before now.”

“I am afraid I cannot allow that, Officer Berry,” Chou replied. “Perhaps in a few days”-

“A few days is not good enough,” Berry shouted.

“Oh, but I am afraid it will have to be,” Chou replied. “So, calm down. You still need to rest. By the way, I must tell you, you have very unusual taste in women. I am sure Officer Anderson will be more than curious about your recent association with Raven Randall. The next time you find yourself so eager to speak to him or any of your colleagues as to send messages to them, you might want to bear that in mind.”

Berry almost collapsed when he heard this.

“What about Raven?” he demanded. “Is she all right?”

“She is dead, my friend. She seems possibly to have died of a traumatic stab wound to the heart, pierced all the way through with some kind of ceremonial sword. Perhaps she died from the third degree burns over ninety percent of her unaccountably decayed body. I am not sure what the actual cause of death is. This time, however, unlike before, her death seems to be, shall we say, permanent?”

Berry sunk back down to his bed in an obvious state of shock. He seemed on the verge of tears.

“That is right, James,” he said. “Stay in bed and get some more rest. It can always get worse. However, as my wife always used to say-not too many months ago in fact-surely it cannot get much worse.”

Berry said nothing, just sat on the edge of his bed, unsure of what to say. Chou watched him silently for a few minutes, until he heard the receptionist page him. He had a phone call on his office phone. He looked around and, certain no one was watching him, he pushed the button that unlocked the door to Berry’s room. Berry visibly reacted to the sound, and looked strangely all around as he rose.

“It won’t be much longer, Lieutenant,” Chou promised. “Just wait and things should get much better, maybe in-oh, say an hour?”

When Chou returned to his office, he saw his son Jack was on the phone.

“Are you serious?” he asked. “Why in the hell would you want us to go to Lapland? What is there?”

“Well, snow and reindeer,” Chou replied. “That’s about it. Oh, and there are Lapps, of course. You and your sister will be safe there, at least. Most of the diseases involved in this epidemic do not seem to thrive too well in cold weather. Your chances of survival are exponentially better there than they would be anywhere else.”

“Oh, okay, then, but why not Helsinki, or Saint Petersburg, or”-

“There are too many people there,” Chou replied. “Trust me, Jack. Catch your flight tonight, and when you get there, a driver will be waiting to take you to your new home. I hope that you will not have to live there more than three or four years at the most. Now, if you please, let me speak to your sister. Please do not say she is out shopping.”

Christy was there, however though outraged.

“How can I shop when you’ve cancelled all my credit cards? And how can you expect me to go to a place like Lapland without buying the things I need?”

“The things you tend to buy will not be very useful to you there anyway. Just be thankful I finally managed to pay off your debt. It was not easy to do, by the way. Forgive me for not wanting to have to go through it again. You will have everything you need there in the way of food and clothing, and then some. Now, are we settled? Are you ready to go?”

Christy mumbled that she was as ready as she would ever be, and Chou said goodbye as he picked up the DVD that sat on his office desk. He then called his receptionist to tell her he did not wish to be disturbed for the next hour, unless it was an absolute emergency.

He put on the DVD, and there she was-Susan, his late daughter, dancing to the beat of what he considered a butchered version of an old Frank Sinatra standard. As he watched her, and heard her, it finally occurred to him that he had not failed, nor for that matter had Mia failed. Some people were just born naturally stupid. He tried his best, but in the final analysis, his and Mia’s share of the responsibility was probably limited to a bad DNA combination. He clicked on the link, and grimly watched the final fate of his daughter. He saw what now tens of millions of people across the world saw, from all walks of life. Rich and poor, young and old, lawless and lawmakers, all watched in amazement as Susan Chou, his daughter, while ripped to shreds by a variety of savage dogs, screamed in pain and helpless terror. He watched the scene, allowing it to run farther along than he ever had before. He knew the hospital’s computer monitoring system would copy every second of it while he watched. Soon, the scene changed to a close up view of Dwayne Lecher, sarcastically advising his listeners with a smiling leer-“kids-don’t do drugs. Thugs do drugs.”

The DVD then went back to where it left off, to the point where Susan was now vanished, unceremoniously flung to her ultimate fate at the apparent hands of the random thugs and assorted street trash that lined the alleyway setting of the number. Dwayne Lecher then went into a version of yet another Sinatra song, now a number one single-“That’s Life”.

Chou left the music playing in the background as he focused his attention on the electron microscope upon which set a few drops of the Krovell blood. He watched it, as it now slowly replicated. He focused the light of the microscope upon the substance, which seemed to react to the intrusion of even this faint light. It seemed to cringe as though in fear and pain. Chou separated the samples into two distinct groups, to which he added two different samples of blood. The reaction to one was seemingly benign, although it soon became apparent that it was actually soon absorbed completely within the Krovell sample.

The other sample reacted violently to the Krovell blood, as though rejecting it with a fury. He then put a small portion of the newly infused Krovell sample onto the rejecting one, and the reaction first slowed, then halted all together. Within a matter of minutes, the Krovell sample had absorbed it as well-or so it seemed, at any rate. He magnified the power of his microscope until he finally saw what he was looking for. It was some kind of spore, of unknown quality. He had never noticed it before, within either of the samples. Now that he combined the two samples, the spore manifested, as it did once before during two previous similar experiments. He took a small safety pin and pierced his finger, then allowing two drops of his blood to mix with the combined samples. The spores roared to a seeming new life, attacking the new blood-his blood-while they burst open to reveal a variety of bacteria and viruses, which seemed previously contained within the spore as though it were a natural habitat for them all. Yet, in this case, they seemed unable to absorb the fresh new intruder.

Chou smiled as he withdrew from his pocket a bottle, one that contained a cocktail of antibiotics. He quickly downed three of them and drunk a glass of water. Suddenly, the lights went off, the voice of rap star Toby Da Pimp now silenced, as there was a sudden hubbub in the halls outside his office. The power was now completely gone, as he had been promised it would be at this time. He looked at his clock and noted the time was 6:47 PM. It actually happened with thirteen minutes to spare.

He looked out his window as he wondered whether the problem might for now just be contained within the walls of Johns Hopkins. However, a brief glance outside his window was enough to tell him the entire city was experiencing a blackout. He had no doubt the phenomenon extended well beyond Baltimore. He smiled. Then, there was a knock on his door.

“Doctor Chou, are you in there?”

Yes, of course, he thought, but he did not intend to leave-not just yet. He had waited too long and worked too hard for this day. He wanted to savor it while it lasted. He knew that the best was yet to come. All the same, he realized he should spend some more time with Mia. She would probably not last too much longer now.

“Doctor Chou,” the persistent nurse continued, “James Berry has walked out of isolation and no one knows where he is. It is dark and all the lights and power has shut down. If you’re in there, you might want to stay in your office and keep your doors locked for a while.”

Chou laughed silently, stifling his merriment, even as he felt a presence inside the locked and now pitch-dark office with him.

“All this brings back old memories, doesn’t it Doctor Chou? Terror and panic at Johns Hopkins University. Do you remember that day months ago, when you hid me here in this very office, until I was able to make good my escape?”

Chou had forgotten all about it. I fact, he was in terror for his life until Marlowe Krovell reassured him with the power of his piercing green eyes, the same eyes that now peered at him from the barely visible mirror from which Chou now looked not at his own features, but Marlowe’s.

“Marlowe, damn you are everywhere,” he said to the image of the laughing Marlowe, which soon turned into the image of Chou. His entire body then shook as he cackled uncontrollably.

By the time he came to an hour later, his nurse banged furiously at his door. He opened it, still groggy, as though he had slept an entire night. He felt out of it. Worse, he felt hung over. The nurse informed him of Mia’s death, the news of which he greeted with stoic complacency. Soon, however, the arrival of the Johns Hopkins Administrator shook him to his core.

“The CDC has ordered the program terminated,” she told him. “We’ve been ordered to hand over your papers, along with all your equipment and supplies.”

“I don’t understand,” he said. “Why?”

“There is reason to believe the epidemic originated with the experimental blood,” she explained. “Agents from the CDC are waiting to speak to you now. They are saying this might have something to do with some kind of criminal conspiracy, and possibly terrorism. Also, a Lieutenant Frank Anderson from the Baltimore Police Department is waiting to”-

The Administrator, a woman named Betty, found it impossible to go on.

“Why did you do it, David?” she asked. “I’ve known you for years. I just do not understand any of this. Why did you let James Berry leave? Now you have the Baltimore Police and the Feds after you. They are fighting now over which one gets you. I do not know what in the hell is going on, but you had better come up with some answers fast.”

Chou looked all around. The hospital lights were on. He had not even considered the generators. They probably saw him on tape unlocking Berry’s door. Now Berry was gone, and he was finished. The Feds would take precedence of course, so it was only a matter of time before they led him out of the hospital in handcuffs. According to Betty, they were waiting outside his office now.

He looked out the window. The lights of the city were still out.

“Well, we might as well get this over with,” he told her, without a word of explanation. He walked slowly toward the door, and a burly looking Federal investigator approached him flashing a badge from the CDC. He looked past him to see a frustrated Frank Anderson pacing the floor, engaged in conversation with other federal agents as some of Anderson’s partners from the Baltimore PD looked on with some concern, probably more for their own presence in a hospital everyone now realized was the origin of a multi-state, at the very least, epidemic of immense proportions.

Not bad, Chou mused to himself, for a simple general practitioner.

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
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Chapter XXXIX

Out Of The Prison And Over The Shark

First there was Prison Break Season One-Escape From Fox River
Next came Prison Break Season Two-Manhunt
This was followed by Prison Break Season Three-Escape From Sona
Now comes word that the fourth season might well go down in television history as Prison Break Season Four-Jumping The Shark

Yes, Sarah Wayne Callies, who was killed by way of decapitation in episode three of Season Three, her bloody head delivered to Lincoln Burrows in a box-oh, strike that, it turns out this WASNT REALLY HER HEAD AFTER ALL.

Yeah, Sarah is still alive. The MiSa fans have prevailed. The shows producers give some credit to the fans for the ultimate decision, but at the same time try to claim they had this in mind the whole time.

Yeeeeahh, right.

Let's see now, here's the latest story of Callies return to the show. Compare that to this article in which was explained the original decision to kill her off.

I would offer the MiSa nuts some grudging congratulations, but it's kind of hard to congratulate what might turn out to be success at ruining the best dramatic series on network television.

So, MiSa, what's next on the agenda? Maybe Theodore "T-Bag" Bagwell should find God by way of Sister Mary Francis and change his evil ways and become a "good guy". Hey, what about that Gretchen? She's too pretty a woman to be so evil. Maybe she should find love and change her evil ways. Maybe her and Mahone would be good together. No, strike that, Mahone should get back with his wife and kid, if not you'll probably scream at the television.

Hey, by all means, don't stop with Prison Break. Why not exert your influence on other shows? Hey, maybe if Dexter Morgan would finally get some real therapy he would change and make a positive contribution to society instead of being a miserable vigilante serial killer.

But, whatever you decide to do next, you can at least congratulate yourselves on this victory-

Prison Break has now officially become Bones.

Cincinnati Shits On The West End

CityLink gets its way. The Cincinnati social services agency has prevailed in the courts, and so will soon turn a former slaughterhouse on the West End of Cincinnati into what basically amounts to a warehouse for the downtrodden and dispossessed. Here is the key point, copied from the Enquirer article.

"West End residents don’t want the social services mall, believing the neighborhood already has enough charities and that Citylink never talked with the neighborhood about its plans".

Of course the West End residents have never been on a par with the denizens of Indian Hills, so evidently their input is not considered necessary or warranted.

Of course for the most part what this will amount to is actually not so much as a warehouse for the poor as a clearing house for city funds to be funneled from one bureaucrat to another as dollar after dollar disappears down what I promise will turn into just another rat hole. In the meantime, West End residents will be faced with declining property values, and stuck in an area that will be overrun by drug addicts, alcoholics, whores, bandits, muggers, rapists, and killers.

The ones that will really get the short end of the stick will be the truly legitimate poor who will find themselves surrounded by vermin on three sides-

*The dregs of society who will keep them down to their level and victimize them in every way they can.

*The neighborhood residents who after all have no way of distinguishing them from the vermin majority.

*The poverty pimps who will be in charge of the project and who will, as always, have no impetus to actually help anyone out of poverty, for the simple fact that the more people that are mired there, the more funds these leeches can drain from the city-in other words, the taxpayers.

Does anyone really believe the courts would rule in favor of such a project in an area like, for example, the aforementioned Indian Hills? If so, here's a little reality tip for you. People in Indian Hills have just a tad more influence than the ones on 8th and State.

Hat Tip to Blogging Isn't Cool

The LA Times And Tupac Shakur-Just The Facts, Please

The Los Angeles Times must be following in the footsteps of Dan Rather. They ended up having to investigate one of their own stories, and then ended up apologizing for the story, but not until after The Smoking Gun blew the whole story wide open.

Now, I can't seem to find a link to the story in question, so I guess that's the end of that story. Only the real story would seem to be not the fake story given by con man Paul Sabatino, in which he accused rap impresario Sean "Diddy" Combs of instigating an assault and robbery of West Coast rapper Tupac Shakur, who was then later murdered.

No, the story here seems to be that the Times ignored all the warning signs that the story, based on forged documents-which should have been easy to spot-was an obvious scam. Why did they do it? Was the initial reporter that easily fooled? Was his editors that lax in their judgment?

The LA Times is obviously now to be considered on a par with the National Enquirer. The hell with the facts, as long as the story makes a big splash and conceivably wins a Polk or Peabody Award and raises subscription rates.

In the meantime, they also have an opportunity to put the screws to the LAPD, some officers of which the Times-by no means newcomers to this story-have long alleged was actually involved in the murder of Shakur, which resulted in the seeming retribution murder of Sean Combs protege and East Coast rapper Christopher Wallace, "Notorious B.I.G", a noted rival to Shakur who was himself accused of complicity in Shakur's murder.

Confused? That would be understandable. Both murders, which occurred a decade ago, will probably never be solved. That's because alleged newspapers like the Times are more vested in muddying up the works and creating controversy than taking the time to discover the real facts and running the risk of the truth being far more mundane than is good for their subscription rates. They may have in so doing interfered in the initial police investigation. In fact, the Times has been so muddied by it's past association with this case, some of their own staff have even been accused of complicity themselves.

I am no fan of Sean Combs. I consider him an arrogant ass, maybe a bit of a prick at that. It wouldn't surprise me in the least if he was not in some way responsible for the death of Shakur, a rapper whom in fact I liked. It wouldn't surprise me if Suge Knight, the head of the West Coast based Death Row Records, was behind the retribution (if that's what it was) murder of Wallace, another rapper whom I also liked.

What most people don't realize is that, at one time, Wallace and Shakur actually worked together. That is not to say they were bosom buddies, of course, but I wonder if this whole West Coat-East Coast rivalry thing is another example of overblown media hype, just another promotional gimmick.

True, these people are actual gangsters. Biggie Smalls was engaged in cocaine trafficking even after he started recording for Combs (who to his credit made Wallace cease when he discovered it). Shakur as well had a shady past.

But was this rivalry for real? If so, was it really that big a deal? Shit, rap was a big business in the nineties. It still is. There is plenty of room to play in that sandbox. There was plenty of room then.

Of course, somebody murdered these artists, and it was an obvious conspiracy. A reading of the details behind the murder of Wallace in particular reads like a classic case of a gangland hit.

One can theorize all day long and conceivably come close to the truth, but without verifiable proof, it is no more valid than someone writing a story or movie script "ripped from today's headlines". In the Times case, this at least was more like a rip off in the day's headlines. It's one thing to offer what may or may not be a valid theory and identify it as such. It is something else yet again to write fiction and pass it off as fact in a newspaper.

Maybe the LA Times should adopt a new header. I would suggest something along the lines of "all resemblance to any persons living or dead is coincidental."

Some Things Never Change-SOme Things Never Should

Here's a good one. According to some Buddhist monks who decided to crash a press conference in Lhasa, Tibet, all is not as well as the occupying Chinese would want the world to believe. In fact, if you read or saw a recent interview with a Buddhist monk claiming that all was well and good in Tibet between the Tibetans and the Chinese, chances are what you were reading/watching/listening to was, in actuality, a Chinese fake, an agent just pretending to be a Buddhist monk.

China needs to get the fuck out of Tibet and, for that matter, so does everybody else. Tibet is best served by allowing them to remain as they will always be anyway-a window to the past. They are not cut out for either Chinese style communism or for Western style Democracy or capitalism. They do not have the resources that would make them a vital part of any world economy, and are better off as insulated as possible. The Chinese interests in Tibet is mainly strategic, couple with a sense of national pride at the prospect of being the major Asian military and, potentially, economic power. They want hegemony over all of Asia, including little neighboring Tibet.

To this end, they have arranged for the Olympic torch to be carried through Tibet, presumably through the streets of Lhasa. In the meantime, they accuse the Dalai lama of inciting violence in the course of the recent protests.

The Dalai lama denies this. Ironically enough, he claims that most of the beleaguered monks of Tibet are probably communists themselves. He expresses no desire for the Chinese to leave the region. He wants simple autonomy. The idea that he is a threat to the Chinese is as laughable as the idea among westerners that he is some beacon of hope. He is neither.

The major villains here are quite simply the western powers, those nations who have kowtowed to China for the last thirty years, beginning with the shameful removal from the UN General Assembly of the delegation from Taiwan, at China's insistence. Rarely since that time have the Chinese been faced with more than token criticism or opposition.

The UN Olympic Committee should never have awarded the Chinese the honor of hosting the Olympics. Nevertheless, this is far from a surprise. The UN Olympic Committee are hardly bastions of freedom and human rights. Neither are the Western nations, when you get right down to it.

China will never be anything other than what it ever was, a country ruled by a brutal and totalitarian regime, by whatever stripe it portrays itself. One billion, three hundred million people is a lot of mouths to feed, and requires strict control over the means of production, especially agrarian production. China will always be an agrarian based culture and economy. They have no other option with such a large population. Any technological advances will be limited, as will increases in affluence. There will indeed be a growing but limited middle class. However, you will never see a large movement away from the farm to the cities and factory jobs in China like you saw here sixty to eighty years ago. The controls needed to feed and sustain them preclude such mass migrations, and precludes as well the likelihood of any large scale social or political advancements.

Therefore, any ideas that China will advance politically is a big pipe dream. They are what they are, and that's the way they will stay, whether their economy is capitalist or communist or some vague fusion of the two. We should understand this, but not reward it, particularly when they cross the line as they have done in Tibet.

As for Tibet, again, they should be left alone. I have an idea that if you gave your average Tibetan the means and opportunity to change things for the better, the most he would do is migrate to another country. Over some extended period of time, he would either return, or he would stay and (a) stay mired in his Tibetan culture, or (b) adopt the culture of his new adopted homeland. If he stayed here, he would in time conceivably marry and then have children, who would take a good long look at him and follow the completely opposite route. If his father was Americanized, he would eventually develop a deep longing for the ancient culture of his heritage. If his father stayed true to that culture, however, he wouldn't be able to get away from it or him quickly enough.

In any event, whatever changes our speculative Tibetan immigrant family went through, one thing would never change in a million years-Tibet. I've heard people explain they need to merely be educated. Well, the Chinese are trying that, it seems, in fact they do this through what is called "reeducation camps". The Western version is no different in overall intent, it just has more of a smiley face, touchy-feely vibe.

Why does anyone care enough to try to change them? Who are they hurting? What if they don't want input, from us or anybody else? What if they listened politely, and told us they aren't interested? Would that be good enough? Somehow I doubt it.

I am consistent in my views regarding Tibet. I am just as opposed to the prospect of Capitalists running roughshod over the country trying to coerce the people into Western style Democracy as I am opposed to the Communists doing what amounts in the long run to pretty much the exact same damn thing.

For any country or politician to insist that it matters what political system a geopolitically insignificant country like Tibet has is nothing but grandstanding at best. It matters to no one but them, so they should be left alone. For that matter, so should everybody else.
yuzp3z

Kentucky-No Chaos Allowed

Kentucky has 9,000 new Democratic voters, formerly Republicans who re-registered. That equals 9,000 Democratic voters who will not be allowed to vote in Kentucky's Democratic presidential primary. Rush Limbaugh's Operation Chaos, therefore, will not be a factor here, but on the other hand, Hillary is expected to win the state anyway, so it doesn't matter.

Pennsylvania is a different story. Some polls have her leading Obama by someting like 49 to 39 percent of respondents. On the other hand, popular Democratic Senator Bob Casey is now touring Pennsylvania by bus, campaigning with and for Obama. This could make a big difference. It could at least result in a closer margin of victory for Hillary.

Operation Chaos is alleged to be responsible for Hillary's win in Texas, and possibly increased her margin of victory in Ohio. My question is, why? I thought Limbaugh was dead set against John McCain. Is he assuming Hillary would be easier to beat, or harder to beat?

One thing is for certain. In this crazed election year, the two major political parties are engaged in a game of political Hearts-the lower score wins.

It's a long-term consequence. If McCane wins, he is going to face a Democratic majority in both houses of Congress. By the time the next two years are over with, the voters are probably going to be so frustrated and angry, they will for the most part vote Democratic, thereby giving Democrats an even larger majority in both houses of Congress.

If either Hillary or Obama wins, the reverse holds true. After two years of Democratic style monopoly of power under the Democratic White House and Democratic controlled Congress, the people will in 2010 vote overwhelmingly Republican. The Republicans might conceivably take back one or both houses of Congress.

This is a tried and true trend that has rarely faltered. Bush was the first to buck the trend, in 2002-the first President to do so since FDR almost seventy years earlier. 2002, however, was a rare exception, not the rule. In almost all cases, the party of the President almost always loses seats in Congress during an off-year election.

In 2010, under even a best case scenario, you can look for this trend to continue. The people will have many and valid reasons to turn the rascals out. Higher than ever gas prices coupled with higher than ever gasoline taxes, an out-of-control border situation, and continuing chaos in the Middle East and murky at best overall foreign policy problems, all in the context of increased taxes and a troubled economy replete with yet more job losses, higher prices and interest rates, etc. These are all possible scenarios. You could see just some of this, or all of it.

The worse thing is, it doesn't really matter this year that much who wins the presidency. McCain has promised to lead like a Democrat in the worse possible ways. When he promises to lead like a Republican, it's just as bad. It's almost like he decided to pick the worse aspects of both parties and throw out what good is in either. The only fusion of the two parties comes with his stance on the Iraq War and the War on Terror. There, he seems intent on actually melding the worse of the two parties into one abominable whole.

Whether McCain wins, or the Democratic candidate, it will unfortunately only matter when it comes time for that 2010 mid-term election. Then, that Presidents party will be the one to pay the price. It will more than likely be a big one.

Operation Chaos might conceivably extend years into the future. The people playing this game now might well be the ones who will be the sorriest for it.

Get Taken For A Ride On TheThe Bullshit Express

I once worked out a story, though I never developed it, where a third party presidential candidate, running a satirical campaign, holds a lottery drawing. The winner will receive the rather dubious honor of becoming his vice-presidential running mate. Announcement of the raffle increases his poll numbers to the point that he is suddenly running neck-and-neck in the polls with the two major party candidates. The very unpopular incumbent president, who realizes the insurgent candidate is clinically insane, drops out of the race for the good of the country. The winning raffle ticket is held by a retired steel-worker and high school drop-out. The story ends with the president sitting alone in the Oval Office, watching the proceedings on national television, muttering for him to "play that flute now, you son-of-a-bitch". (the insurgent candidate spends most of the time during campaign appearances playing the flute and engaging in stream-of-consciousness monologues).

I never developed it because it struck me as too far-fetched in my opinion even for a satire. I once suggested the idea to Jonathon Sharkey, on the grounds it might actually be a good way to get free publicity for his own presidential run, and might even be able to help him pull one or two percent of the vote.

Even Jonathon Sharkey didn't take the idea seriously.

Now, over the course of the last two days I have learned:

*Barak Obama is holding a raffle. The winner gets a free diner with the candidate.

*John McCain is holding a raffle. The winner gets a free ride and chance to converse with McCain on the "Straight Talk Express".

*Hillary Clinton is holding a raffle. The winner gets a free seat in the VIP section of Madison Square Garden for an Elton John concert. John is apparently holding a fund-raising concert for Clinton.

Of course, the raffles require a campaign contribution. In at least two cases, the contribution must come before the 31st of March. One of these, McCain's, requires a contribution of at least fifty-dollars.

Don't be surprised if Bill ends up on stage at the Elton John concert, playing the sax. John might well be tempted to try his hand at the upright organ.

We are all getting fucked.

Senor Boooosh Ees Probably Peesed Off

Hooray for the Supremes. Fuck George W. Bush. Screw the International Court of "Justice". To hell with People For The American Way. You have to love their reasoning. They worry that this ruling might further erode our standing in the world and, to beat it all, our "individual rights". (Evidently our rights to sit back and watch our 14-16 year old daughters raped, tortured for an hour, and ultimately murdered by criminal thugs like Jose E. Medellin).

Medellin, the 33 year old Mexican national convicted of this crime, was not afforded the advice of the Mexican consulate, so Mexico appealed to the ICW (known by most of us as the World Court) and Bush directed the Texas courts to take another look at the case. This was appealed, resulting in the ruling against Bush.

The ICW would have decided as it did due to their objection to the death penalty, regardless of the facts of the case. Luckily, so far they don't get a vote in our internal affairs, and hopefully never will. Evidently, the so-called Vienna convention is not binding on US law, though it might be in federal cases, assuming the US government is a signatory.

Luckily, this was not a federal case, so it seems Texas is not bound by the treaty, nor is any other state. Ah, the joys of Federalism. I think we should keep it.

Even John Paul Stevens voted with the 6-3 majority opinion on this one, which should be enough to tell you the internationalists didn't have a leg to stand on-not even a peg leg. He kind of watered it down by strongly urging Texas to re-open the case on it's own initiative, but stressed that Bush had no authority to make them do so, which was the major reason for the appeal before the court.

The arrogance of the Mexican government is beyond belief. As unpopular as they are here you would think they would steer clear of this one and let justice take it's course. If they had a clue they would offer to send the rope to hang the bastard with.

As for Bush, my question is, did he mistakenly think Medellin was one of his old friends from his coke snorting days? Hey dumbass, I think that was a different set of Medellins!

Twisted Titty Toddlers

There are certain aspects to human life that serve as valuable reminders that we are, after all, animals. Sleeping, urinating, defecating, having sex-even eating is an animalistic act. We try to pretty them up and attach rules and regulations to these things in order to spiritualize or “civilize” them. We are taught from an early age to observe the proper “table manners”, and in some cases these can be quite extravagant, from certain ways to hold silverware, to what kind of silverware to use for what dish, on down to the proper side of the plates or bowls the silverware should be placed, and even certain rules regarding posture at the table. We say grace before meals, and rules of polite conversation are also observed.

Despite all this, we engage in the same acts all animals engage in. This is why we consider bad table manners boorish, we look upon the excreting of bodily waste as “nasty”. Even expelling gases, from whichever end, we look upon as an embarrassment.

The entire cycle of human life, beginning with actual birth, on through death, consists of various acts of animal behavior. We humans pretty it up, or hide it all together. Along come the Lactivists-women who insist on engaging in the animal act of nursing their young animals in public. Other examples of such women can be found here, as well as here. It embarrasses many, who frown upon it, in reality not due to any sexual connotation, as many suppose, but deep down, we view it negatively as further potential proof that Darwin may have been right after all.

Generally, I don’t have a problem with this, but many more radical Lactivists are determined to manufacture controversy. They might insist, for example, that department store dressing rooms be available for those who would prefer to nurse their babies in private. They might even go so far as to complain to company or corporate headquarters if their requests are not granted, regardless of whether the dressing rooms are needed at the time by-oh, say, actual shoppers wanting to use them to try on clothing?

Suddenly, when they see an excuse and an opportunity to make waves, it becomes important to nurse their baby animals in private, where ordinarily they seem to delight, in some cases, in sticking their breasts out while sitting next to you on a public bus. From their general demeanor, you might not know whether they are daring you to look at them or away from them. Sometimes I wonder if they've actually decided.

They also tend to be advocates of natural childbirth, and staunchly oppose any use of pain relief. The real kicker to me, however, is the insistence by many that they should never wean their children. The child should wean itself-or, put more succinctly, let him stop on his own initiative, when he's damn good and ready, and not one second before. Therefore, you have the potential of school-age children still attached to its mother’s milk. WTF?

Earth to Lactivist mothers. If you believe in engaging in natural child-rearing, then you should get it, that weaning is as much a part of natural child-raising as breast feeding itself it. The individual mother will know when the time is right, just like any other animal will know. For an activist group to disparage a mother who decides that time is right, and now, is just more human pretension, no better or worse than looking upon sex as a “sin”, or upon belching as “impolite”.

Besides, the whole idea that all this is healthy for your little animals is a dubious proposition at best. Part of being a human animal is learning self-control and discipline. It’s hard to impart that lesson when your three year old insists on sucking on your boobs in a booth at the local Arby’s, right then and right there-and you let him. It’s hard to draw boundaries and expect your child to adhere to them when you and he act in this manner-particularly when you allow and even encourage it on up to the age of conceivably eight or nine.

Now, if you want to let your little ones suck your breast in front of me, I don’t care that much. It’s nothing I particularly care to watch, but at the same time, viewing the act itself doesn’t necessarily offend me. But if you do decide to draw the line somewhere at some point, I can pretty much promise you your little beast will be no more maladjusted by your weaning him than your average house cat.

Dexter

As aggravated as I got over the television writer’s strike a few months ago, it had some positive impact. In order to have more to offer viewers than game and reality shows, one network, CBS, took the unprecedented move lately of filling its Sunday night time slot with reruns of the first season of the critically acclaimed Showtime series Dexter.

WOW!! So this is why people pay extra for Showtime and HBO. And to think, on CBS you are watching an edited version. Even so, some television watchdog groups, such as the so-called Parents Television Council, are upset over the move, complaining that Dexter is not the type of show that should air over commercial network television. They have even threatened boycotts of advertisers. I hope they shriek a little bit louder, so more people will watch the show and I can watch a few more seasons.

Their complaints are understandable, viewed strictly from their perspective. The main character, Dexter Morgan (Michael C. Hall), is a serial killer-quite a prolific one. Yet, he is the, shall we say, anti-hero of the show. He works for the police, as a blood spatter specialist. His sister also works as a detective, though she doesn’t have a clue that Dexter is responsible for many of the murders he is supposedly helping to investigate.

Dexter’s victims are not good people. Many of them are also serial killers. Some of them are worse than others. Dexter’s first victim, a priest, was a child killer. Another one was an alcoholic guilty of multiple counts of vehicular homicide. Yet another was a nurse who conducted mercy killings of deathbed patients.

Why does he do it? What makes him tick? Well, at the age of three, he witnessed the brutal murder of his own mother, and he and his sister was taken in and adopted by a veteran police officer. This cop realized Dexter had severe problems, but instead of arranging for therapy, he trained him to redirect his murderous impulses to target those who deserved to die.

Make no mistake, Dexter is not a conflicted individual. He has no guilt hang-ups as to the rightness or wrongness of his actions. He is as cold and calculating as any serial killer you might imagine. He is literally a man without a conscience, or for that matter, anything resembling normal human emotions or empathy. Yet, his adoptive father, the cop, trained him as well in how to portray human emotions, how to act like a “normal” human being, and how to pretend to relate to others.

He even has a girlfriend, though his feelings for her are also fake. He even set up her abusive boyfriend, resulting in a prison sentence for him, so he could move in with her and her two children. This idyllic setting provides Dexter with what he hopes is the perfect cover, but there are those who view him with a great deal of suspicion, among them one of the main detectives who work with him.

I won’t say anymore except, if you like gripping drama, you should watch this show. It’s almost made me appreciate the writer’s strike. Hell, maybe if we’re lucky they’ll have another one, then we all might get a chance to watch reruns of Deadwood, or The Wire.

It might even induce network television to start actually making more shows of this quality on their own initiative.

Speaking of which, my personal favorite, Prison Break, has just been renewed by Fox for a fourth season. Yay!

Queen Esther-The Goddess Of Purim

Preparing Herself to Meet King Ahasuerus (Theodore Chasseriau, 1841)
By now, anybody who has delved even superficially into the origins of Easter has probably come across explanations as to how Easter, the day Christ arose from the dead three days from the day of his crucifixion on Good Friday, came to be celebrated by the Catholic Church. Although on the surface the Christian holiday seems to coincide with the Jewish holy days of Passover, it would seem as though the Catholic Church incorporated a good many former pagan elements into their version, apparently on the grounds of phasing the population into acceptance of the new faith by adhering to customs with which they were familiar and comfortable, and to which they were attached by generations of tradition. Thus we have such things as Easter egg hunts and gifts of candy which would seem to hearken back to some ancient fertility festival. The name Easter, of course, is said to derive from an ancient goddess named Oestre-a pagan fertility goddess.

Many modern day pagan religions, especially WIcca, now recognized the day of Oestre as occurring on the day of the Vernal Equinox-the first day of Spring-and is considered one of the eight sacred Sabbats that make up the Wheel Of The Year.

On the day of Oestre, the Goddess presents herself to the young God, who is filled with passion and desire for the beautiful Goddess with whom he is destined to mate. This of course is a symbolic representation of the full blown and newly returned fertility of the earth at the onset of spring.

This would seem to have little to do with the resurrection of Christ, and for that matter, with the sacred Holy Day of the Jewish Passover. However, there is another sacred day of the Jewish calendar, which takes place in the month of Adar, which seems to amount to what is actually the original Jewish version of what must have at one time been a widespread fertility festival that crossed many cultures and regions.

The Jewish Festival of Purim may in fact have been that original Jewish version of that ancient pagan fertility festival. Just as the Jews had their versions of the Great Flood stories then current in Babylonian and various other ancient mythologies, so too did they have their own version of the Goddess of Fertility-a Queen they named Esther, whose story is to be found in the Old Testament Book of Esther, the book on which the festival of Purim is based.

In their version, the Persian King Ahasuerus rejects his former queen, Vashti, because she refuses to appear naked at a banquet in order to show off her beauty. Vashti, of late a heroine to some elements of the feminist movement, was divorced, and either killed or exiled, depending on which theological school of thought you choose to believe. The original Biblical account is unclear on the matter, which leads me to believe this was a slam at the original fertility goddess, a way of saying that she was unsatisfactory and disappointing. After a period of searching for a replacement, the King settled on Esther, who was, unknown to him, an orphaned Jewess whose cousin Mordecai was her adopted father.

It doesn't take much imagination to see the connection between the name Esther to Oestre, which in fact is probably a Western European, probably Celtic, form of the Babylonian Ishtar. Her cousin Mordecai is likewise a form of the Babylonian God Marduk. In this version, Marduk, or Mordecai, had previously informed the King of a plot against his life, whereupon the plotters were apprehended and executed. Later, Haman, an adviser to the King, is incensed when Mordecai fails to pay him due honors, and sets about a plot to kill all the Jews within Persia. Haman hates all the Jews anyway, and especially despises Mordecai who, as a Benjamite, is a descendant of King Saul, who was responsible for the murder of his own ancestor, Agag King of the Amalekites. King Ahasuerus agrees to Hamans request, and when Mordecai gets wind of the plot, in desperation he turns to Esther for help.

Yet, Esther has a problem. The King has not sent for her since their original wedding night, and she fears if she approaches him without being summonsed by him she will fall from favor as did Vashti earlier. Seeing no other recourse, she summons her courage and approaches the King, and requests a banquet. She requests a second banquet the following night, and during the course of that first night, Ahasuerus is unable to sleep, and calls for his attendants to read to him from his archives in order to help him sleep. During the reading, he is reminded of the promise of a reward he previously promised to Mordecai for the earlier help in defeating the plot against his life. The following day, at the second banquet, he asks Haman what he would suggest as a reward for his most honored subject. Thinking Ahasuerus referred to himself, he suggested parading the honored subject on horseback with public honors. When Haman learned Mordecai was to be the recipient he was incensed.

Ahasuerus then had Haman killed on the same gallows he originally intended for Mordecai. Unfortunately, a peculiarity of Persian law decreed that no royal edict could be reversed or overturned, even by the same king who issued the edict. Therefore, the Jews were still legally bound to be executed by the pogrom Ahasuerus had ordered at the instigation of Haman. However, Ahasuerus gave the Jews permission to arm themselves and thus defend themselves from any attack, which they did. The attempted genocide that Haman's vengeful sons attempted to carry out resulted in all their deaths and the deaths of most of their followers.

As a result, the events of this story are celebrated every year in the festival of Purim. The festival includes a period of fasting which is followed by feasting, the giving of charity to the poor, and gifts of food to friends and relatives. There is also a rather odd and unusual rule that strongly encourages a period of drunkenness for the men, though it is generally discouraged for the women. It is actually quite a festive holiday, much in keeping with what is usually to be found in a festival revolving around rites of fertility. It is possibly the most joyous of all the Jewish holy days, filed with much frivolity and merry-making. Even the traditional noisemaking to drown out the sounds of the name of Haman is conducted in an overall attitude of fun and general frivolity.

How much of it is historical? Probably little if any of it. There are many elements that point to this being a Jewish version of the old fertility rites current in the region at the time. When Vashti, the original fertility goddess of the old festival, falls out of favor, it takes how long for Ahasuerus to find a suitable replacement in the form of Esther? Exactly twelve months-just in time, it would seem, for the next annual festival.

And, although Esther is obviously favored in the eyes of the King-he chose her from among twelve other competing participants-he yet sends her to the harem where he keeps her isolated, and never calls for her until she seeks his aid in the matter of Mordecai and Haman-one might assume with some validity about the time of the next annual festival.

When she does approach him, it almost perfectly presents the image of the beautiful Goddess appearing before the love stricken King, vying for his favors. Only in the Jewish version of the fertility festival, there is more at stake here than an invocation to hasten the earth's renewed fertility. The survival of the whole Jewish nation is at stake. So therefore you have a fertility festival dedicated to invoking the continuing increased abundance and security of the Jewish people.

Of course, some might take issue with that interpretation, and with the identification of two Jewish heroes of antiquity being identified as in reality two pagan deities. Be that as it may, I am hardly the first to notice the similarity of the Book of Esther to pagan traditions. I will close here with the words of Martin Luther himself, pertaining to his observations of the Book of Esther, the Biblical book on which the festival of Purim is based-

"The book of Esther I toss into the Elbe. I am such an enemy to the book of Esther that I wish it did not exist, for it Judaizes too much and has in it a great deal of heathenish naughtiness".