This is my assessment as to what kind of President each of the current contenders for the office would be if they won. Some of these predictions might seem to be a bit “out there”, and admittedly, they require certain unforeseeable circumstances in a good many cases. One thing about it, I only have to worry about being proven wrong one time, so I just let myself go with this.
A general assessment is followed by a prediction as to how many terms each one would be liable to serve, followed by what I see as a probable caricature that would be the running theme in the editorial pages. Bear in mind, these caricatures I do not claim would necessarily be fair ones in all cases, just that they are probable and to a point even predictable.
Finally, I compare a potential presidency with one of the past. I should be clear on something especially with this assessment. Such a comparison should not be construed as meaning that a contender would be like that president in every detail. Perhaps most importantly, comparison with what is generally conceived as a good or successful presidency is no indication that the contender would be comparable in scope of success. There could in fact be negative connotations to such comparisons even under what might initially be seen as the best of comparisons. In some cases, the reverse might well be as true.
I list them here in order as to which, in my opinion, would be the best, on down to the ones I feel would be the absolute worse.
Fred Thompson-He will probably not win the Republican nomination, his chances of winning the presidency would be a fifty-fifty proposition if he did, and he would probably be a one-term president if he won. Despite this, I still hold that he would be the best of the entire batch of current contenders from both parties. The reason for this is-he gets it. He understands exactly how the country is supposed to work, ideally-as a union of fifty states. If that confuses you, simply look up the definition of the word “state”.
Anymore, most people seem to view states more as regions, or even as overgrown counties. Fred Thompson understands the truth, that they are actually, in a sense, semi-autonomous nations in their own right, bound together by a common economy and foreign policy, with specific constitutional rights granted to all its citizens, the most important of which are those outlined within the Bill of Rights.
If Fred Thompson wins, especially if he enjoyed a majority in Congress, it would be the biggest culture shock to the nation since FDR. If his party stayed in the minority, he would be hampered and hamstrung at every turn. In either case, I seriously doubt he would be re-elected, but even with all the problems he would face, he would still be an infinitely better president than any of the others. I have this strange idea, though, that if he won, he would be so disgusted with the process that he would step down after one term of office, especially if he did manage to appoint three judicial conservatives to the bench in place of three liberals.
That in fact may well end up being his one major accomplishment, and possibly his only one. He would appoint probably two, possibly even three, judges to the Supreme Court that would be more in line with the founder’s intentions as to judicial philosophy. That is probably the only reason he is running to begin with, because he is obviously so not taken with the political process-and who the fuck can blame him?
One term
Caricature-Exhausted, wrinkled old man
Most like-James Madison
Elliot Richardson-This guy has a lot going for him in the way of accomplishments and qualifications. He has been and done it all, in all branches of government, except the judiciary. He is more or less liberal, without being a far left loon about it. His foreign policy qualifications are second to none. His government experience is considerable as well.
I misspoke in an earlier post when I said Joe Biden was the most qualified Democratic candidate. On giving it further thought, this guy is the most experienced of all the candidates, possibly of both parties. It is a shame he does not have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting the Democratic Party nomination. The only problem I see with him is the potential for yet more left-wing judicial appointments, a demand for which he would be under intense pressure by the activist left wing of the Democratic Party.
In the unlikely event, however, that he is nominated (and I think he would win the general election if he was), he would almost certainly be a two term president. Hell, the guy even looks like Tom Bosley-how could you not like Richie Cunningham’s dad? He could work with an evenly divided Congress, or even a Republican majority, probably better than he would a Democratic majority. The long-term results would probably be better at least.
Two terms
Caricature-Overly relaxed dress and persona
Most like-Richard Nixon
3. Rudy Giuliani-Yeah, I know the conservatives consider this guy a leftist, and I know the liberals consider him a fascist thug. He is also controversial in his private life. I personally think he is going to go the way of Howard Dean, and will crash and burn by the time Super Tuesday comes along, which will unite the activist base of both parties with glee.
Too bad, because he would probably be, not a great president, but still a pretty damn good one, if for no other reason than I take him at his word when he promises he will appoint strict constructionists to the Supreme Court. I also think he will be a bit like Truman when it comes to politics, which would be a refreshing change.
Ask yourself this question. If you were given a hard choice, that you had no choice but to make, would you prefer to live in New York City three years prior to the Giuliani administration, or three years after his administration ended?
Yeah, me too-that’s why I like him. Of course, he has his faults. He has the mindset of a prosecutor, which can be troublesome. He might have to be reined in on matters of civil liberties from time to time. By the same token, however, some of the reiners-in-waiting need to be reined in from time to time themselves, and Giuliani is just the guy to do it.
He would have a troublesome presidency, but I think on balance he would be good, maybe very good. I can’t help but feel, however, he would be a one-termer. He would be renominated, though with difficulty, and a divided Republican party would all but insure a Democratic victory the next time around, as he would in the meantime lose a lot of the Democratic and independent support which might be responsible for his first term victory.
One term
Caricature-Exaggerated skull-like features
Most like-Harry Truman
Mike Huckabee-The Huckster would probably be a fairly good president, and a two termer, but not a lot would be accomplished, other than one very important thing. That is, he might well ease the tensions and blunt a great deal of the rhetoric that has divided the nation, and at the same time is a symptom of the poisonous nature of modern day politics. He would be more liberal than most liberals think he would be, and more conservative than most conservatives fear he would be.
In other words, he would be, more or less, a right-of-center moderate, which means he would please nobody. In the end though, I think most people would pull the lever for him a second time, for no other reason than times would be pretty good, and he would get credit for a new era of more civil political and cultural discourse.
Two terms
Caricature-Friendly but naive.
Most like-James Monroe
Mitt Romney-He would probably be a two-termer. He would probably be a pretty good president. Without any doubt, he would at least try his damndest to be a good one. He would not, however, be one of the great ones. He’s just too damn slick, and in trying to please everybody, he will end up pissing everybody off a great many times. Yet, he would probably win re-election handily, though not in a landslide. Why? Because most Americans would come to recognize, and pretty quickly, that this guy is never going to do anything that is too off the wall.
Have you ever wondered what you would have if you created a hybrid of George H. W. Bush and current president Bush? Look no further than Mitt Romney.
Two terms
Caricature-Appearance oriented, unaware of stains on clothes and face.
Most like-George H. W. Bush
Joe Biden-Probably a two-termer, and probably, on balance, a pretty good president, but his judicial appointments would probably insure yet three more decades of a seriously divided court. His major accomplishments would probably be in the realm of foreign affairs, which is his major area of expertise. He would be moderate in domestic affairs, and would actually come closer than anybody in dealing with such serious issues as health care, education, and the environment, in a manner that wouldn’t be too far out in the stratosphere. This is a guy that wouldn’t back away from a fight, including with factions in his own party. On balance, however, he would be a merely good president. However, in the event of an international or other emergency, he might well rise to the occasion and be one of the great ones.
Two terms.
Caricature-toothy grin with word balloons that trail off into apparent infinity.
Most like-Franklin Roosevelt
Chris Dodd-This is the guy that I have no doubt in my mind would come closer to using a nuke than any other of the current contenders. You can see it in his eyes if you look closely enough. If he wins, somebody somewhere is toast. I also have no doubt in my mind he would be the most likely to find an excuse to do so just under a year before his bid for re-election, which he would go on to win in a landslide.
He would also be the most likely man to capture Osama Bin Laden, which he would make one of his top presidential priorities.
Unfortunately, he would not rein in government spending (in fact it would increase), his judicial appointments would be troublesome at best, and his domestic policies, while they would not be horrible for working class Americans and the poor, yet would be geared toward corporate America at the expense of small business. There would be scandals galore in a Dodd administration.
Two terms
Caricature-Thick, bushy eyebrows barely hiding a malicious glare with insincere smile.
Most Like-Lyndon Johnson
Ron Paul-He would try to run the country the way it should be run, especially in terms of foreign affairs, but he would move too quickly and cause such a disruption in the economy that he would end up possibly the first president since John Tyler to be kicked out of his own party. He might be the first president to be both impeached and convicted in trial by Senate, more than likely for sheer incompetence. He is also the most likely to be assassinated. He would most definitely not be re-elected. His judicial appointments would be the only thing salvageable as to a positive legacy.
One term (if that).
Caricature-Threatening glare, wielding a kitchen knife against a mountain of pork barrel spending bills and bureaucratic red tape.
Most like-James Buchanan
John Edwards-He would possibly pass many laws, a great many of which would be overturned, others that would end up problematic in terms of tax increases and economic impact. In the foreign press, he would be caricatured as a young boy in various childish activities in the midst of serious minded grown-ups. By the time his first term was over, he would be roundly spanked in the next general election. Lebannon would probably erupt, while Iran would-well, be Iran.
One term
Caricature-Little boy.
Most like-Jimmy Carter.
Hillary Clinton-The Hildebeast would probably inspire more sighs of relief in her first term than an amusement park ride, and more cries of outrage and terror than a horror movie. What she would not do is accomplish a hell of a lot. One of her accomplishments would be a possible normalization of relations with Iran. This would be enough to insure her re-election. Otherwise, not a lot here. A few good bills, quite a few more problematic ones, etc., etc. Her major accomplishment, outside of the Iranian initiative I mentioned, would simply be that she would be the first female president.
By the time her second term is over, however, the downside to that is, it might be a long, long time before most people would consider voting for another one. She might do some good on health care, provided she takes a moderate stance, otherwise she will, by the time two terms is over, be in the end about what most people expect from Hillary Clinton.
Two terms
Caricature-Extremely thick, straight down from waist to ankles, and an equally thick and obviously practiced and insincere smile that barely masks a hidden rage.
Most like-Theodore Roosevelt
Duncan Hunter-Hunter would definitely have a hard time and in the end, his only accomplishment would be in the area of judicial appointments. For all his good intentions, I do not think he is equipped to deal with Washington politics or the international arena, and would tend to take the wrong advice from the wrong people, who would lead him around by the nose and possibly end up maneuvering him into a major war, one that would be unnecessary and ill advised. I am thinking here mainly about Venezuela. Now that would be another Vietnam, and would result in oil prices that would make a hundred dollars per barrel seem like the “good old days.”
One term.
Caricature-Cowboy on a pony.
Most like-Franklin Pierce
Tom Tancredo-He could possibly rally the nation behind a comprehensive immigration reform, which would not be as hard line as most people assume it would be. To illustrate what I am trying to say here, think in terms of Richard Nixon going to China. Aside from this, and judicial appointments, not a lot here. He would rein in excessive spending to a greater degree then even Paul or Thompson. Unfortunately, in doing so, he might cause a remarkable downturn in the economy resulting in a major recession, and could instigate a trade war with China. He would be one term due to this and due to increasing military activity, especially in the Middle East, which under him would not go well, to say the least.
One term.
Caricature-Unaware of racist nature of supporters and surroundings.
Most Like-Zachary Taylor
John McCain-It’s my honest opinion that, sooner or later, there is going to be a president that is going to do something, or have something done to him, that no other one has ever done or experienced, while he is in office. There will be a president whose wife will be the first to be a proven and current whore. There will be one who will turn out to be a pedophile. There will be a president who will be the first one assassinated on foreign soil. One will be murdered by his wife (that one might actually have already happened, with Harding), and there will be one that will end up committing suicide while in office.
And, there will eventually be one who will, in time, demonstrate for the nation and the world to see, in no uncertain terms, that he is certifiably insane. By the time his one term in office is over, John McCain will be seen as a nice and well-meaning man with absolutely no grip on reality. He will be seriously advised, in no uncertain terms, to not even think about running for re-election, and he will have no problem understanding this, if nothing else.
He will not bring spending under control, immigration policy will not be enforced, and nothing will be solved in the arena of international relations. Watching the McCain presidency will be like watching two things at the same time- a train wreck, and “You Are There”. He will be a placeholder president with nothing to say but a lot of pleasant sounding nonsense, and nothing to do but hope no one catches on that he does not have a clue. Unfortunately, in reality he will be the last one to catch on.
One term
Caricature-Wets his pants, puddle around ankles, confused.
Most like-John Adams
Barak Obama-He will have absolutely no accomplishments of which to speak, other than being the first black president. He is an inspiring speaker, and in fact is very much like a rock star. However, in order to be a great president-or for that matter, a fair to middling one-one is required to be much like the conductor of a huge symphony orchestra. Barak Obama would be more akin to the front man of an overly large, discordant garage band, and this would translate, in political terms, into a bureaucratic nightmare. Barak Obama would, I am afraid, be a one hit wonder.
One term
Caricature-Rock star running from mob of former fans.
Most like-John Kennedy
Mike Gravell-Mike Gravell is not insane, like John McCain. He is, however, something of a fucking nut. The bad thing here is, you cannot impeach somebody for being a nut. The really bad thing is, this guy would probably be re-elected, because he comes across as likeable, in a grandfatherly kind of way. It is Mike Gravell, not Dennis Kucinich, who is the Democratic version of Ron Paul. Under him, Homeland Security and the INS would be gutted, along with a lot of other agencies. Inflation would end up going through the roof, crime statistics would soar, and the population would increase by a full percentage point or more by the time of his first term due mainly to easing of immigration restrictions. Unfortunately, the more negative consequences of his actions would not be readily apparent until he was well into his second term.
Two terms
Caricature-Unaware of reality
Most like-Grover Cleveland
Dennis Kucinich-
The little Smurf from Cleveland is a lot tougher than he appears to be on the surface, and his major impact would be international affairs, where he would be controversial just due to the fact that he is not the sap a lot of international leaders would assume he is. This could lead to ruptures with some allies, though at least some of our more strident opponents would come to respect him. His major problem will be in domestic affairs, and his major failure would be his failure to establish a “Department of Peace”. By the time his second year in office was over, he would be faced with a veto proof Republican majority in the Senate, and even a greater Republican majority in the House of Representatives, while a number of tacitly blue states would gravitate firmly to the red column for years to come.
The more fanatical Republicans should get down on their knees and pray to God every night that Dennis Kucinich should by some miracle win the Democratic nomination, and they should willingly sacrifice their children to the fires of Moloch in hopes that he wins the presidential election. Because the simple fact is, if he did, Dennis Kucinich would probably single-handedly destroy the Democratic Party.
One term
Caricature-Ridiculously exaggerated short height.
Most like-Woodrow Wilson
As I end this exercise in candidate assessment, one thing should be kept in mind. Many times, and probably in fact more often than not, what makes or breaks a presidency is not any one or even groups of issues, or any national or international emergency, nor is it scandals, or the top people appointed to fill cabinet positions. All of these things are important, as is economic performance, international relations, or any of the divisive issues of any given day.
In the end, however, what makes or breaks a presidency are the people no one ever knows-the second, third, and fourth tier level of bureaucrats who actually run the day-to-day operations of government. These are the people who either get things done, for good or for bad, or bring things to a grinding halt. They are also responsible for the vast majority of the waste and inefficiency that is the United States government, as well as the unbreakable gridlock that is Washington politics today.
These second, third and fourth tier operatives are to be found not only in the ranks of government bureaucrats, but also in the so-called fourth estate of media, and in the PACS and other special interest groups. These are the people who operate behind the scenes, behind the shadows of those individuals who are the more well known public personas that we associate as the face of an issue, department, or organization. Politicians ignore their potential influence at their own peril. The rest of us rarely give them a thought.
Yet, they are the ones who grease the wheels and conduct the business of government under a labrynthine maze which few can rarely fathom, much beyond peering beneath the outer layer. They run the government, or influence it’s policies, or report on it’s inner workings, not for the benefit of the nation at large, but in furtherance of their own agendas.
A great lot of the reasons some of these candidates may not be ranked as high as some would like, is due to my assessment as to their adaptability, and in some cases even their awareness, to this very real fact.
Sunday, December 09, 2007
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Radu-Chapter XXVIII (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
Part Three
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Radu-Chapter XXVIII (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
7 pages approximate
Grady Desmond lit a cigar. He sat back in his office lounge chair, and he drew in a deep drag. It was getting better now-much, much better. He knew he should not flaunt the no-smoking policy of the paper, but on the other hand, he knew as well he should not sit here in his office and nurse a snifter of brandy during working hours. His proctologist would have a fit. So would his wife, and his children. His boss would lecture him about propriety. On the other hand, Desmond really could care less if his boss, the editor-in-chief of the Baltimore Sun, fired him-not that there was any danger of that. Desmond only worked from the sheer pleasure of the job, and if they fired him-which was not about to happen-he would easily land another job. His reputation was secure through three decades and change of first beat reporting, and then editorial work. He knew how to play the newspaper game. It was all about the office politics. Grady rose above that over a decade ago. Grady was one of those lucky few. Others catered to him.
He took a final sip of brandy, and then he took another long, leisurely drag of his cigar. He put it out. He was satisfied.
Few people in life had managed to accomplish the things Grady Desmond had in life. He had built, saved, and destroyed careers. In doing so, he took pains to insulate himself from any potential fallout. Finally, when everything came crashing down around him, he sat and watched it all from a position not only of security, but also of comfort. Randolph Morrison killed in a plane crash in India. His son Greg under investigation due to admitted involvement in a murderous pedophile ring. Lonnie Brock was also finally dead after a long, torturous bout with cancer. Even Jason Talbert was not immune, as he discovered the hard way. Insistent though he was that his battery of high-powered lawyers could weather any storm, he never seemed to get the point. Wealthy people never did. The ultra-wealthy were the worse. From their perspective, the world was always about them. Everything and everyone else that gravitated within their orbit existed only for their benefit. What Talbert could never grasp was the determination of others to avoid their own lives becoming casualties of the storm, while men like Talbert used them and disposed of them like plastic utensils. Talbert had to go. Grady had his obituary written two hours before he got word of his demise. It was amazingly accurate, right down to the reaction of the assembled family and friends. Grady even included the dinner menu-Peking Duck. Luckily, Talbert was as always predictable. It enabled Grady to humanize the event of his death ahead of time.
He seriously considered pouring another snifter of brandy when the intercom buzzed.
“Your appointment has arrived, Mr. Desmond,” came the perky voice of the receptionist. Desmond wondered if he might fuck her one more time before the month ended. Before he tried to have sex with his wife of thirty-seven years, for the first time in eleven, by way of a prescription of Viagra, he experimented with the drug on Alice. Having done so, he decided he would not mind making that a semi-regular event, and so he did. It was a once a month thing, but Grady would never allow it to become more regular than that. Women, like a fine brandy, were to be savored at leisure, but should not be overindulged.
“Mr. Desmond, are you there?” she repeated.
“Yeah, Alice, send them in,” he answered.
“I will be leaving now, sir,” she then said. “Will there be anything else you need before I go?”
“Yeah, remember our private meeting for next weekend,” he said. “I will certainly be looking forward to it, and there might be an extra special bonus coming your way.”
“I’ll be looking forward to it as always sir,” the secretary replied cheerily as the door to Grady’s office opened.
When the elderly couple entered Grady’s office, he was astounded at how healthy they seemed for a couple in their late seventies. The old woman could easily pass for her early sixties, and while there was no such miscalculation as to the age of the man, he seemed strong, healthy, and even had a twinkle in his somewhat olive green eyes.
“Please, come in and have a seat,” Grady said cordially. “I’m so happy you could make such a long trip on such short notice. I know you’ve both been through quite a lot over the last year.”
“Not at all, Mr. Desmond,” the old man replied. “It has been too long since we’ve been in Baltimore. We only wish it could be under more pleasant circumstances.”
“In a warmer season,” the old woman added. “Baltimore is horrid this time of the year.”
“Can I offer you something?” Grady asked. “Some brandy, perhaps. I also have some cigars from the finest tobacconist shop in Baltimore.”
“Oh, I’m afraid I will have to abstain from the cigar,” the old man said. “Unfortunately, that is one of the pleasures of life that, tempting though it is, I am afraid it would be liable to hasten my demise. Brandy would be nice, however.”
“As it always is, Martin,” the old woman said in good-natured teasing fashion. “Might I do the honors? Really, I do insist, Mr. Grady.”
“Well, by all means, Mrs. Krovell,” Brady replied. “Or do you prefer the name Krovelescu?”
“Krovell will be fine,” Martin said. “For a short time, I did toy with the idea of changing our name back to the original form, but Louise convinced me that would be seen as pretentious.”
Louise by this time had poured Grady’s brandy, and then began pouring one for her husband, as she let out a laugh.
“Our poor, dear Marlowe started all that,” she said. “He was so insistent that we become true to our heritage, and wear it like a badge of honor. I don’t think the poor boy ever quite got it through his head the Krovelescu family was really quite a common one of mere peasant stock.”
Martin kept his gaze peeled on Grady, and with a smile took the snifter of brandy Louise prepared for him as though it were a routine gesture.
“Yes, I think Marlowe was determined to discover we were descended from some ancient line of nobility, such as the Draculas, or from Radu the Black,” he said. “The sad truth was, our ancestors were never any more than serfs, at best. Our common ancestor Vlad, the one who immigrated here, managed to work his way up to groundskeeper for a Phenariot family. Interestingly, he was in charge of the family cemetery as well. He was their own private gravedigger, until he was discovered digging up already occupied graves and stealing the interred valuables-which is not the kind of heritage in which one would ordinarily take a lot of pride.
“Luckily for Vlad-or Lawrence, as he renamed himself-he managed to stash enough away from previous-er, undertakings-that he was able to leave the country in one piece, along with his wife and mother-in-law.”
“Yes, Magda the Gypsy,” Louise said as she now began sipping her own brandy. “Now she was indeed a character.”
“Actually, it is another ancestor of yours I am most interested in,” Grady said. “I am not sure ancestor would be an appropriate word, to tell you the truth. I hope you do not mind, but I took it on myself to do a bit of research. I know you for quite some time were interested in the whereabouts of your mother. I think I can finally put your questions to rest.”
Martins’ eyes got wide with surprise, and he almost bolted from his chair.
“Mr. Grady, are you serious?” he asked. “You found my mother?”
Grady handed Martin Krovell what appeared to be a set of documents bound by a paper clip. The old man took them eagerly as Louise looked on in obvious interest.
“What does it say, Martin?” she asked.
“Why, according to this she returned to Romania,” he replied. “She had her marriage to my father annulled by a priest of the church. Then, incredibly, she went on to marry that same priest less than a year later, a priest by the name of Mikhail Khoska, by whom she later had a son named-oh my God, Louise, Aleksandre Khoska is my half-brother.”
The old man was obviously distraught, as he sat down the snifter of brandy.
“Mr. Desmond, I hate to impose, but do you mind if I have another bit of this fine Brandy you have so kindly provided for us?”
“Why would he not have told you?” Louise asked, obviously with growing concern. “How cruel of him to keep this from you for all of these years! Why would he do such a thing?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Martin replied. “I think I shall certainly ask him, though.”
“Perhaps he was ashamed of his father’s actions,” Louise said. “It would certainly be understandable.”
“That might be true,” Martin replied. “Still, I came to understand long ago that my father was a jealous, possessive, uncaring, vindictive, abusive man, to the point where he could be mercilessly brutal. No, Father Khoska did not do the wrong thing. I would have liked to know, however. My mother died just a little over ten years ago, according to this document. Had I known, I would have made a trip to see her before she died. Now of course it is too late.
“Mr. Desmond, you have no idea how much you have helped me ease my mind. I have always suspected my father of having done away with my mother somehow. You have no idea how many times I have considered digging up the entire property, but dreaded discovering her remains. There are days it has been all I could think about. I owe you a tremendous debt, sir.”
Grady looked at the old couple now with an intensity that was almost striking in its ferocity. He had more news for the elderly couple.
“Actually, I can’t take credit for it,” he said. “I put one of my top reporters on the job, and she was more than diligent in uncovering the information. You may have heard of her. Her name is Grace Rodescu.”
For just a brief second, Martin and Louise Khoska shot each other a stunned look, as they regarded each other with a deadly silence. This did not go unnoticed by Grady Desmond, to whom they soon both returned their gaze, as they regarded him sternly.
“Why, Mr. Grady. You have surprised us, very much in fact,” the old man said as Louise suddenly smiled. “You are holding up quite well, though, much better than we would have expected, to be completely honest. You do look rather tired, though.”
“What-are you talking about?” Grant asked with a smile though filled now with suspicion. Louise held up her snifter of brandy as she indicated with a nod the one that sat beside Grady.
“You should really be careful whom you allow to prepare your drinks, Mr. Desmond,” she advised him with a suddenly girlish smile. “You never can tell when one might decide to ‘slip you a Mickey’, as they say.”
Grady looked down at his now empty snifter in horror, and then looked back at Louise, who met his gaze with what actually seemed to be a girlish anticipation, as she giggled.
"Now, Louise, you should not be so modest,” Martin said as he patted his wife on the arm. “After all, a 'Mickey Finn' consists of mere ‘knock-out drops’, not a deadly poison. Really, though, we should not tease Mr. Desmond. After all, he has been very cordial towards us, inviting us all this way to tell us all of this important information. Mr. Grady, you really must not mind my wife. She has always been noted as the practical joker of the family, after all. I think it is more than likely that gypsy blood of hers. I am indeed a lucky man, would you not say?”
Grady looked at the two of them, and suddenly started laughing, albeit uneasily, as they did likewise. Suddenly, Grady stopped and, clutching his chest, humped over his desk.
“Oh, my dear,” Martin now said. “Louise, I do believe you might have used a bit too much nightshade. It really isn’t supposed to have this sort of effect, you know.”
“Oh, I know dear,” Louise said apologetically. “I just can’t seem to get used to these more intense preparations. I always found the more old-fashioned extractions were far more reliable in their predictability.”
“Nightshade?” Grady now gasped, as he clutched his chest, his breathing now coming in gasps, as he doubled over. His eyes went back in his head, as he now tilted over in his chair.
“Would you kindly look outside and see if the girl has gone, Louise,” Martin now said as his wife walked toward the door. “I will place a call to our friend.”
Louise opened the door and peered outside, noting the desk outside was empty as Martin placed a call with his cell phone to someone whom he informed could feel secure in presenting herself. Within less than three minutes, an obviously disguised and visibly pregnant Grace Rodescu entered the office of a yet alive, though barely so, Grady Desmond.
“I guess I no longer have you to worry about, Grady,” she said. “I’m really sorry about this, but I can’t afford to take any more chances with you. Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Khoska.”
“Grace, my dear, it has been far too long,” Martin said. “What has it been now-sixteen years or so, I believe. What a pleasure to see you again. And to think-you are carrying our great-grandchild. How magnificent!”
“I am glad you approve,” Grace said.
“Out of all the girls from the old country that Phillip sponsored in that dreadful place, you were by far our favorite, Grace,” Louise now said. “You do know that, do you not?”
Louise then gave Grace a hug, after which Martin did likewise.
“So it was Phillip Khoska who was responsible for all of that,” Grace said. “Grady was telling the truth.”
“Yes, Grace, I’m afraid it was,” Martin said. “Now, come to find out, I and Phillip are related. I would be his uncle, I guess. I really hope you do not look askance on us, dear. What is troubling is he knew it all the time, him and Voroslav, and the old priest as well. I wonder why they would keep such a thing from us.”
Grady now groaned as he actually attempted to rise from his chair. Grace looked at him warily, and then picked up a heavy vase as she walked toward the fallen editor.
“That really wouldn’t be necessary, dear,” Martin advised her. “Should he survive, he will remember little, and what little he might remember, he will be helpless to communicate. Perhaps that would be a most fitting punishment for him, given his position, would you not say?”
“So, you are the chosen mother promised to give birth to The One Who Shall Renew,” Louise said, totally engrossed in the matter of Graces’ pregnancy. “Why, you look to be six months pregnant, yet it has been all of what-a month?”
Grace suddenly betrayed a look of deep worry that Louise found disconcerting.
“What is it my dear?”
“I had an ultra-sound performed, under an assumed name of course, and according to the physician, there is no fetus. There is nothing there, in fact, but a mass of blood and mucous, much like placenta, but no baby. According to the attending physician, the heartbeat seems to be the result of swirling gasses.
“Yet, it takes on the appearance of a human shape, and seems to act like an infant. It has the appearance of a head and appendages. It looks to be sucking its thumb, while curled in a fetal position. Does this sound natural?”
“Well, I am no expert in these matters, dear,” Martin replied. “Bear in mind, however, this is hardly an ordinary pregnancy, and most certainly not an ordinary infant.”
Suddenly, Louise stiffened, and looked gravely at Martin, and then at Grace.
“The old priest Aleksandre, he knows,” she said. “He has to go, Martin. All of them have to go. They are dangerous. We cannot take the chance they do not know. It would explain his silence to you all those years ago. It is the only thing that makes sense. Of course, he had to know you and he shared the same mother.”
“All of the Khoskas have to die, then?” Grace asked with no visible show of emotion, yet noticeably ill at ease.
“Let us worry about that, Grace,” Martin replied. “We will see to the dirty work, as they say. You worry about keeping healthy. We will put the Khoskas in their place. Their deaths may not be necessary. If they are, so be it. We will see to them over time. Indeed, it will not be the first time. I had to put an end to my own father when he proved too weak, as well as my brother, once it became obvious how untrustworthy he was. As hard as it was to do these things, our son George was the hardest. When I think of how he ended up, eaten by rats on the docks of Baltimore, it really saddens me.”
“Uh huh, see what I mean about not being stingy with things you execute people with-especially loved ones?” Louise said to Martin’s obvious dismay. “Too much is always far better than not enough. That is why I always tell you to let me handle these things. Martin can be such a skinflint.
“Nevertheless, this day has been five hundred years in the making,” she then added. “It is actually quite impossible to prevent it. That would be such a mockery.”
“Nevertheless, if it turns out to be essential,” Martin concluded, “or advisable in any way as a stopgap measure, we will certainly see to the Khoska family as well, regrettable though that will be in the case of the old priest. Phillip will be no problem whatsoever, other than technically, of course, due to his wealth and influence. Again, he will not be the first of that caliber either. As for his friend here, I suppose we had best make sure he is finished, Louise, would you not agree?”
Suddenly, Grady Desmond rose on one arm, and looked toward Grace.
“Grace,” he said in a hoarse whisper with great effort. “Please help me. I promise I won’t say a word.”
“Oh, dear, I suppose I should finish the poor fellow off quickly now,” Martin said. “I hate to see him lying there suffering, obviously feeling the fool. Honestly, Mr. Desmond, we do appreciate the great help you have been to us. We are not ungrateful, by any means.”
“You can trust me,” he said desperately. “I only wanted to help Grace. Please, don’t kill me.”
“What do you think?” Louise asked her.
“He sent a former FBI agent to follow me and kill me,” Grace replied. “He didn’t know I found out about that, but I did. He followed me all the way to a remote area of Virginia and would have killed me if someone else had not interfered.”
“I had nothing to do with that,” Grady said. “That was all Phillip Khoska’s doing. I just supplied you the car with the tracking device. I didn’t know he was”-
Suddenly, Grady clutched his chest in agony as his face become blood red, and he gasped in a tremendous amount of air. He then fell out of his chair as he simultaneously breathed his last breath.
“Huh-well, I guess that settles that,” Louise said. “Now, remember Grace dear. There will be four people arriving here shortly. One will be a man in a cheap business suit, acting nervously, his eyes darting around suspiciously. Yet another will be a woman in tears. A very angry man will follow her. Finally, a black man will arrive, wearing a clown suit and a gift of poisoned brandy and cigars.”
“What was this again-a black man wearing a clown suit?” Grace asked. “Why?”
“Louise just thought that would be a nice touch,” Martin said with a shrug. “You have to admit it will certainly give them something to talk about as well as providing an adequate disguise for who will be thought the probable killer. You do have your temporary workers card, don’t you, Louise?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Martin, for the thousandth time, yes,” the old woman replied with exasperation. “No one here will ask for it anyway, I’m sure, but yes I have it. Oh, but that does remind me-here, Grace.”
Louise reached inside her purse and handed Grace a card.
“Here is the number I promised you. He is waiting to hear from you. Really, that dilapidated old building is no place for you in your condition, not until we finish the repairs at any rate. He is more than happy to see to your welfare.”
“He has missed you almost as much as we have, if that were possible,” Martin added.
“Would you like to be alone, dear, to speak to him in private?” Louise asked.
“That would be good,” Grace replied.
“One more thing, Grace,” Martin replied. “You must really discourage Radu from these constant longings for these past attachments of Marlowe’s. He really should let them go. Otherwise, he may never come into his own, and that will never do, of course.
“I understand of course that was inevitable. However, you should stand firm with him. He really needs you. Remind him that Marlowe was never important, that in fact Marlowe was never more than a brief, though necessary, temporary incarnation period to provide his unconscious soul a period of rest and healing, until such time as he could awaken and take his place once more in the world-his true, rightful place.”
“I am trying, but it has not been easy,” Grace replied. “He will come around, I am sure.”
“That is why we wish to avoid him for the time being,” Louise added. “Our presence would only encourage him to hold these false, irrelevant memories. Make no mistake, though, we have the utmost faith in you, my dear.”
“Well, we should really be moving along, Louise,” he said. “Well, I should. You have a temporary secretary’s job to do for a few hours.”
The elderly couple then moved towards the door to the office, and as Louise exited, Martin turned once more toward Grace, as he regarded her in obvious fondness.
“After all he has been through, I see now you are the perfect one to guide him,” he said. “It is so amazing how his strength prevails as it has up until now, despite the influence of such weaklings as that despicable Uncle Brad of his, to say nothing of that worthless heroin addicted friend of his, Marty Evans. No offense, mind you, my dear, I understand that we all have our weaknesses. Of course, when he fell under the sway of that”- here Martin gazed toward the office door, where Louise had just now went out to assume her place at the secretary’s desk-
“That nigger,” he whispered. “Louise hates it when I use that word. You know, the Crenshaw fellow. Anyway, Marlowe-oh, there I go, I am as bad as he is-Radu, I mean, has seen his share of hardships, not the least from that abominable mother of his. Had I known how weak my own son was I would have ended his life as easily as I did my youngest son.
“You see, though, Grace, it turned out all for the best after all. As they say, what does not kill you only makes you stronger. Still, he needs you very much to keep him on the right course. And I know you will do that.”
“You sure seem to be taking your time in there, Martin,” Louise shouted from outside the office. “I hope you are not wasting Graces’ time and making a fool of yourself at your age.”
Martin rolled his eyes and grinned as he shook his head.
“It has been really good seeing you again, Grace,” he said. “Be sure you remember to lock the door when you leave, my dear. After all, the weekend is coming up. If we are lucky, they will not discover Mr. Desmond’s body until it starts to stink up the place. That would make it far more difficult to establish an exact time of death, you see.”
“You can count on me, Mr. Krovell,” Grace said, and then as Martin shook his finger with a teasing admonition, immediately made the correction. “Martin, I mean. And it has been really good seeing the two of you again, as well.”
After he left, Grace rummaged through Grady’s office until she found the hidden tape recorder, which she set on rewind. She then rummaged through his pockets until he found his cell phone. As she suspected, he had surreptitiously taken pictures of the two elderly Krovells, which she deleted.
“Nice try, Grady,” she said with grudging respect as she extracted from her purse her own cell phone, with which she phoned the number on the card earlier given her by Louise.
“Eddie, this is Grace,” she said. “I see you are out, so I’ll call later. I will be coming as soon as possible. I look forward to seeing you again. It’s been too long.”
She waited a few minutes longer, after which she returned to the tape recorder. She hit the record button, after which she placed on Grady’s desk another recorder. When the clock struck eight, she hit the play button on that one, which contained snippets of a previously recorded conversation earlier engaged with the now deceased editor of The Baltimore Sun. The clown would take this recorder with him after his visit, she reasoned.
“You forgot something, Grady,” she said in the way of a farewell. “You always taught me that most times, things are more often than not exactly what they seem to be on the surface. What you did not realize is-this was not one of those times.”
Grace walked casually toward the front door, her high heels clicking on the floor below her. She reached for the door. As she opened the door, she turned one last time. She glanced down toward the now dead body, crumpled on the floor. She smiled. She turned then and left, closing the door behind her.
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
Part Three
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Radu-Chapter XXVIII (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
7 pages approximate
Grady Desmond lit a cigar. He sat back in his office lounge chair, and he drew in a deep drag. It was getting better now-much, much better. He knew he should not flaunt the no-smoking policy of the paper, but on the other hand, he knew as well he should not sit here in his office and nurse a snifter of brandy during working hours. His proctologist would have a fit. So would his wife, and his children. His boss would lecture him about propriety. On the other hand, Desmond really could care less if his boss, the editor-in-chief of the Baltimore Sun, fired him-not that there was any danger of that. Desmond only worked from the sheer pleasure of the job, and if they fired him-which was not about to happen-he would easily land another job. His reputation was secure through three decades and change of first beat reporting, and then editorial work. He knew how to play the newspaper game. It was all about the office politics. Grady rose above that over a decade ago. Grady was one of those lucky few. Others catered to him.
He took a final sip of brandy, and then he took another long, leisurely drag of his cigar. He put it out. He was satisfied.
Few people in life had managed to accomplish the things Grady Desmond had in life. He had built, saved, and destroyed careers. In doing so, he took pains to insulate himself from any potential fallout. Finally, when everything came crashing down around him, he sat and watched it all from a position not only of security, but also of comfort. Randolph Morrison killed in a plane crash in India. His son Greg under investigation due to admitted involvement in a murderous pedophile ring. Lonnie Brock was also finally dead after a long, torturous bout with cancer. Even Jason Talbert was not immune, as he discovered the hard way. Insistent though he was that his battery of high-powered lawyers could weather any storm, he never seemed to get the point. Wealthy people never did. The ultra-wealthy were the worse. From their perspective, the world was always about them. Everything and everyone else that gravitated within their orbit existed only for their benefit. What Talbert could never grasp was the determination of others to avoid their own lives becoming casualties of the storm, while men like Talbert used them and disposed of them like plastic utensils. Talbert had to go. Grady had his obituary written two hours before he got word of his demise. It was amazingly accurate, right down to the reaction of the assembled family and friends. Grady even included the dinner menu-Peking Duck. Luckily, Talbert was as always predictable. It enabled Grady to humanize the event of his death ahead of time.
He seriously considered pouring another snifter of brandy when the intercom buzzed.
“Your appointment has arrived, Mr. Desmond,” came the perky voice of the receptionist. Desmond wondered if he might fuck her one more time before the month ended. Before he tried to have sex with his wife of thirty-seven years, for the first time in eleven, by way of a prescription of Viagra, he experimented with the drug on Alice. Having done so, he decided he would not mind making that a semi-regular event, and so he did. It was a once a month thing, but Grady would never allow it to become more regular than that. Women, like a fine brandy, were to be savored at leisure, but should not be overindulged.
“Mr. Desmond, are you there?” she repeated.
“Yeah, Alice, send them in,” he answered.
“I will be leaving now, sir,” she then said. “Will there be anything else you need before I go?”
“Yeah, remember our private meeting for next weekend,” he said. “I will certainly be looking forward to it, and there might be an extra special bonus coming your way.”
“I’ll be looking forward to it as always sir,” the secretary replied cheerily as the door to Grady’s office opened.
When the elderly couple entered Grady’s office, he was astounded at how healthy they seemed for a couple in their late seventies. The old woman could easily pass for her early sixties, and while there was no such miscalculation as to the age of the man, he seemed strong, healthy, and even had a twinkle in his somewhat olive green eyes.
“Please, come in and have a seat,” Grady said cordially. “I’m so happy you could make such a long trip on such short notice. I know you’ve both been through quite a lot over the last year.”
“Not at all, Mr. Desmond,” the old man replied. “It has been too long since we’ve been in Baltimore. We only wish it could be under more pleasant circumstances.”
“In a warmer season,” the old woman added. “Baltimore is horrid this time of the year.”
“Can I offer you something?” Grady asked. “Some brandy, perhaps. I also have some cigars from the finest tobacconist shop in Baltimore.”
“Oh, I’m afraid I will have to abstain from the cigar,” the old man said. “Unfortunately, that is one of the pleasures of life that, tempting though it is, I am afraid it would be liable to hasten my demise. Brandy would be nice, however.”
“As it always is, Martin,” the old woman said in good-natured teasing fashion. “Might I do the honors? Really, I do insist, Mr. Grady.”
“Well, by all means, Mrs. Krovell,” Brady replied. “Or do you prefer the name Krovelescu?”
“Krovell will be fine,” Martin said. “For a short time, I did toy with the idea of changing our name back to the original form, but Louise convinced me that would be seen as pretentious.”
Louise by this time had poured Grady’s brandy, and then began pouring one for her husband, as she let out a laugh.
“Our poor, dear Marlowe started all that,” she said. “He was so insistent that we become true to our heritage, and wear it like a badge of honor. I don’t think the poor boy ever quite got it through his head the Krovelescu family was really quite a common one of mere peasant stock.”
Martin kept his gaze peeled on Grady, and with a smile took the snifter of brandy Louise prepared for him as though it were a routine gesture.
“Yes, I think Marlowe was determined to discover we were descended from some ancient line of nobility, such as the Draculas, or from Radu the Black,” he said. “The sad truth was, our ancestors were never any more than serfs, at best. Our common ancestor Vlad, the one who immigrated here, managed to work his way up to groundskeeper for a Phenariot family. Interestingly, he was in charge of the family cemetery as well. He was their own private gravedigger, until he was discovered digging up already occupied graves and stealing the interred valuables-which is not the kind of heritage in which one would ordinarily take a lot of pride.
“Luckily for Vlad-or Lawrence, as he renamed himself-he managed to stash enough away from previous-er, undertakings-that he was able to leave the country in one piece, along with his wife and mother-in-law.”
“Yes, Magda the Gypsy,” Louise said as she now began sipping her own brandy. “Now she was indeed a character.”
“Actually, it is another ancestor of yours I am most interested in,” Grady said. “I am not sure ancestor would be an appropriate word, to tell you the truth. I hope you do not mind, but I took it on myself to do a bit of research. I know you for quite some time were interested in the whereabouts of your mother. I think I can finally put your questions to rest.”
Martins’ eyes got wide with surprise, and he almost bolted from his chair.
“Mr. Grady, are you serious?” he asked. “You found my mother?”
Grady handed Martin Krovell what appeared to be a set of documents bound by a paper clip. The old man took them eagerly as Louise looked on in obvious interest.
“What does it say, Martin?” she asked.
“Why, according to this she returned to Romania,” he replied. “She had her marriage to my father annulled by a priest of the church. Then, incredibly, she went on to marry that same priest less than a year later, a priest by the name of Mikhail Khoska, by whom she later had a son named-oh my God, Louise, Aleksandre Khoska is my half-brother.”
The old man was obviously distraught, as he sat down the snifter of brandy.
“Mr. Desmond, I hate to impose, but do you mind if I have another bit of this fine Brandy you have so kindly provided for us?”
“Why would he not have told you?” Louise asked, obviously with growing concern. “How cruel of him to keep this from you for all of these years! Why would he do such a thing?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Martin replied. “I think I shall certainly ask him, though.”
“Perhaps he was ashamed of his father’s actions,” Louise said. “It would certainly be understandable.”
“That might be true,” Martin replied. “Still, I came to understand long ago that my father was a jealous, possessive, uncaring, vindictive, abusive man, to the point where he could be mercilessly brutal. No, Father Khoska did not do the wrong thing. I would have liked to know, however. My mother died just a little over ten years ago, according to this document. Had I known, I would have made a trip to see her before she died. Now of course it is too late.
“Mr. Desmond, you have no idea how much you have helped me ease my mind. I have always suspected my father of having done away with my mother somehow. You have no idea how many times I have considered digging up the entire property, but dreaded discovering her remains. There are days it has been all I could think about. I owe you a tremendous debt, sir.”
Grady looked at the old couple now with an intensity that was almost striking in its ferocity. He had more news for the elderly couple.
“Actually, I can’t take credit for it,” he said. “I put one of my top reporters on the job, and she was more than diligent in uncovering the information. You may have heard of her. Her name is Grace Rodescu.”
For just a brief second, Martin and Louise Khoska shot each other a stunned look, as they regarded each other with a deadly silence. This did not go unnoticed by Grady Desmond, to whom they soon both returned their gaze, as they regarded him sternly.
“Why, Mr. Grady. You have surprised us, very much in fact,” the old man said as Louise suddenly smiled. “You are holding up quite well, though, much better than we would have expected, to be completely honest. You do look rather tired, though.”
“What-are you talking about?” Grant asked with a smile though filled now with suspicion. Louise held up her snifter of brandy as she indicated with a nod the one that sat beside Grady.
“You should really be careful whom you allow to prepare your drinks, Mr. Desmond,” she advised him with a suddenly girlish smile. “You never can tell when one might decide to ‘slip you a Mickey’, as they say.”
Grady looked down at his now empty snifter in horror, and then looked back at Louise, who met his gaze with what actually seemed to be a girlish anticipation, as she giggled.
"Now, Louise, you should not be so modest,” Martin said as he patted his wife on the arm. “After all, a 'Mickey Finn' consists of mere ‘knock-out drops’, not a deadly poison. Really, though, we should not tease Mr. Desmond. After all, he has been very cordial towards us, inviting us all this way to tell us all of this important information. Mr. Grady, you really must not mind my wife. She has always been noted as the practical joker of the family, after all. I think it is more than likely that gypsy blood of hers. I am indeed a lucky man, would you not say?”
Grady looked at the two of them, and suddenly started laughing, albeit uneasily, as they did likewise. Suddenly, Grady stopped and, clutching his chest, humped over his desk.
“Oh, my dear,” Martin now said. “Louise, I do believe you might have used a bit too much nightshade. It really isn’t supposed to have this sort of effect, you know.”
“Oh, I know dear,” Louise said apologetically. “I just can’t seem to get used to these more intense preparations. I always found the more old-fashioned extractions were far more reliable in their predictability.”
“Nightshade?” Grady now gasped, as he clutched his chest, his breathing now coming in gasps, as he doubled over. His eyes went back in his head, as he now tilted over in his chair.
“Would you kindly look outside and see if the girl has gone, Louise,” Martin now said as his wife walked toward the door. “I will place a call to our friend.”
Louise opened the door and peered outside, noting the desk outside was empty as Martin placed a call with his cell phone to someone whom he informed could feel secure in presenting herself. Within less than three minutes, an obviously disguised and visibly pregnant Grace Rodescu entered the office of a yet alive, though barely so, Grady Desmond.
“I guess I no longer have you to worry about, Grady,” she said. “I’m really sorry about this, but I can’t afford to take any more chances with you. Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Khoska.”
“Grace, my dear, it has been far too long,” Martin said. “What has it been now-sixteen years or so, I believe. What a pleasure to see you again. And to think-you are carrying our great-grandchild. How magnificent!”
“I am glad you approve,” Grace said.
“Out of all the girls from the old country that Phillip sponsored in that dreadful place, you were by far our favorite, Grace,” Louise now said. “You do know that, do you not?”
Louise then gave Grace a hug, after which Martin did likewise.
“So it was Phillip Khoska who was responsible for all of that,” Grace said. “Grady was telling the truth.”
“Yes, Grace, I’m afraid it was,” Martin said. “Now, come to find out, I and Phillip are related. I would be his uncle, I guess. I really hope you do not look askance on us, dear. What is troubling is he knew it all the time, him and Voroslav, and the old priest as well. I wonder why they would keep such a thing from us.”
Grady now groaned as he actually attempted to rise from his chair. Grace looked at him warily, and then picked up a heavy vase as she walked toward the fallen editor.
“That really wouldn’t be necessary, dear,” Martin advised her. “Should he survive, he will remember little, and what little he might remember, he will be helpless to communicate. Perhaps that would be a most fitting punishment for him, given his position, would you not say?”
“So, you are the chosen mother promised to give birth to The One Who Shall Renew,” Louise said, totally engrossed in the matter of Graces’ pregnancy. “Why, you look to be six months pregnant, yet it has been all of what-a month?”
Grace suddenly betrayed a look of deep worry that Louise found disconcerting.
“What is it my dear?”
“I had an ultra-sound performed, under an assumed name of course, and according to the physician, there is no fetus. There is nothing there, in fact, but a mass of blood and mucous, much like placenta, but no baby. According to the attending physician, the heartbeat seems to be the result of swirling gasses.
“Yet, it takes on the appearance of a human shape, and seems to act like an infant. It has the appearance of a head and appendages. It looks to be sucking its thumb, while curled in a fetal position. Does this sound natural?”
“Well, I am no expert in these matters, dear,” Martin replied. “Bear in mind, however, this is hardly an ordinary pregnancy, and most certainly not an ordinary infant.”
Suddenly, Louise stiffened, and looked gravely at Martin, and then at Grace.
“The old priest Aleksandre, he knows,” she said. “He has to go, Martin. All of them have to go. They are dangerous. We cannot take the chance they do not know. It would explain his silence to you all those years ago. It is the only thing that makes sense. Of course, he had to know you and he shared the same mother.”
“All of the Khoskas have to die, then?” Grace asked with no visible show of emotion, yet noticeably ill at ease.
“Let us worry about that, Grace,” Martin replied. “We will see to the dirty work, as they say. You worry about keeping healthy. We will put the Khoskas in their place. Their deaths may not be necessary. If they are, so be it. We will see to them over time. Indeed, it will not be the first time. I had to put an end to my own father when he proved too weak, as well as my brother, once it became obvious how untrustworthy he was. As hard as it was to do these things, our son George was the hardest. When I think of how he ended up, eaten by rats on the docks of Baltimore, it really saddens me.”
“Uh huh, see what I mean about not being stingy with things you execute people with-especially loved ones?” Louise said to Martin’s obvious dismay. “Too much is always far better than not enough. That is why I always tell you to let me handle these things. Martin can be such a skinflint.
“Nevertheless, this day has been five hundred years in the making,” she then added. “It is actually quite impossible to prevent it. That would be such a mockery.”
“Nevertheless, if it turns out to be essential,” Martin concluded, “or advisable in any way as a stopgap measure, we will certainly see to the Khoska family as well, regrettable though that will be in the case of the old priest. Phillip will be no problem whatsoever, other than technically, of course, due to his wealth and influence. Again, he will not be the first of that caliber either. As for his friend here, I suppose we had best make sure he is finished, Louise, would you not agree?”
Suddenly, Grady Desmond rose on one arm, and looked toward Grace.
“Grace,” he said in a hoarse whisper with great effort. “Please help me. I promise I won’t say a word.”
“Oh, dear, I suppose I should finish the poor fellow off quickly now,” Martin said. “I hate to see him lying there suffering, obviously feeling the fool. Honestly, Mr. Desmond, we do appreciate the great help you have been to us. We are not ungrateful, by any means.”
“You can trust me,” he said desperately. “I only wanted to help Grace. Please, don’t kill me.”
“What do you think?” Louise asked her.
“He sent a former FBI agent to follow me and kill me,” Grace replied. “He didn’t know I found out about that, but I did. He followed me all the way to a remote area of Virginia and would have killed me if someone else had not interfered.”
“I had nothing to do with that,” Grady said. “That was all Phillip Khoska’s doing. I just supplied you the car with the tracking device. I didn’t know he was”-
Suddenly, Grady clutched his chest in agony as his face become blood red, and he gasped in a tremendous amount of air. He then fell out of his chair as he simultaneously breathed his last breath.
“Huh-well, I guess that settles that,” Louise said. “Now, remember Grace dear. There will be four people arriving here shortly. One will be a man in a cheap business suit, acting nervously, his eyes darting around suspiciously. Yet another will be a woman in tears. A very angry man will follow her. Finally, a black man will arrive, wearing a clown suit and a gift of poisoned brandy and cigars.”
“What was this again-a black man wearing a clown suit?” Grace asked. “Why?”
“Louise just thought that would be a nice touch,” Martin said with a shrug. “You have to admit it will certainly give them something to talk about as well as providing an adequate disguise for who will be thought the probable killer. You do have your temporary workers card, don’t you, Louise?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Martin, for the thousandth time, yes,” the old woman replied with exasperation. “No one here will ask for it anyway, I’m sure, but yes I have it. Oh, but that does remind me-here, Grace.”
Louise reached inside her purse and handed Grace a card.
“Here is the number I promised you. He is waiting to hear from you. Really, that dilapidated old building is no place for you in your condition, not until we finish the repairs at any rate. He is more than happy to see to your welfare.”
“He has missed you almost as much as we have, if that were possible,” Martin added.
“Would you like to be alone, dear, to speak to him in private?” Louise asked.
“That would be good,” Grace replied.
“One more thing, Grace,” Martin replied. “You must really discourage Radu from these constant longings for these past attachments of Marlowe’s. He really should let them go. Otherwise, he may never come into his own, and that will never do, of course.
“I understand of course that was inevitable. However, you should stand firm with him. He really needs you. Remind him that Marlowe was never important, that in fact Marlowe was never more than a brief, though necessary, temporary incarnation period to provide his unconscious soul a period of rest and healing, until such time as he could awaken and take his place once more in the world-his true, rightful place.”
“I am trying, but it has not been easy,” Grace replied. “He will come around, I am sure.”
“That is why we wish to avoid him for the time being,” Louise added. “Our presence would only encourage him to hold these false, irrelevant memories. Make no mistake, though, we have the utmost faith in you, my dear.”
“Well, we should really be moving along, Louise,” he said. “Well, I should. You have a temporary secretary’s job to do for a few hours.”
The elderly couple then moved towards the door to the office, and as Louise exited, Martin turned once more toward Grace, as he regarded her in obvious fondness.
“After all he has been through, I see now you are the perfect one to guide him,” he said. “It is so amazing how his strength prevails as it has up until now, despite the influence of such weaklings as that despicable Uncle Brad of his, to say nothing of that worthless heroin addicted friend of his, Marty Evans. No offense, mind you, my dear, I understand that we all have our weaknesses. Of course, when he fell under the sway of that”- here Martin gazed toward the office door, where Louise had just now went out to assume her place at the secretary’s desk-
“That nigger,” he whispered. “Louise hates it when I use that word. You know, the Crenshaw fellow. Anyway, Marlowe-oh, there I go, I am as bad as he is-Radu, I mean, has seen his share of hardships, not the least from that abominable mother of his. Had I known how weak my own son was I would have ended his life as easily as I did my youngest son.
“You see, though, Grace, it turned out all for the best after all. As they say, what does not kill you only makes you stronger. Still, he needs you very much to keep him on the right course. And I know you will do that.”
“You sure seem to be taking your time in there, Martin,” Louise shouted from outside the office. “I hope you are not wasting Graces’ time and making a fool of yourself at your age.”
Martin rolled his eyes and grinned as he shook his head.
“It has been really good seeing you again, Grace,” he said. “Be sure you remember to lock the door when you leave, my dear. After all, the weekend is coming up. If we are lucky, they will not discover Mr. Desmond’s body until it starts to stink up the place. That would make it far more difficult to establish an exact time of death, you see.”
“You can count on me, Mr. Krovell,” Grace said, and then as Martin shook his finger with a teasing admonition, immediately made the correction. “Martin, I mean. And it has been really good seeing the two of you again, as well.”
After he left, Grace rummaged through Grady’s office until she found the hidden tape recorder, which she set on rewind. She then rummaged through his pockets until he found his cell phone. As she suspected, he had surreptitiously taken pictures of the two elderly Krovells, which she deleted.
“Nice try, Grady,” she said with grudging respect as she extracted from her purse her own cell phone, with which she phoned the number on the card earlier given her by Louise.
“Eddie, this is Grace,” she said. “I see you are out, so I’ll call later. I will be coming as soon as possible. I look forward to seeing you again. It’s been too long.”
She waited a few minutes longer, after which she returned to the tape recorder. She hit the record button, after which she placed on Grady’s desk another recorder. When the clock struck eight, she hit the play button on that one, which contained snippets of a previously recorded conversation earlier engaged with the now deceased editor of The Baltimore Sun. The clown would take this recorder with him after his visit, she reasoned.
“You forgot something, Grady,” she said in the way of a farewell. “You always taught me that most times, things are more often than not exactly what they seem to be on the surface. What you did not realize is-this was not one of those times.”
Grace walked casually toward the front door, her high heels clicking on the floor below her. She reached for the door. As she opened the door, she turned one last time. She glanced down toward the now dead body, crumpled on the floor. She smiled. She turned then and left, closing the door behind her.
A Gelding Named Don Imus
Don Imus is back, kind of sort of. He will no longer be on Clear Channel, nor will he be simulcast on MSNBC, and the radio deal he has now netted places him on considerably less stations than on which he formerly appeared. By virtue of this fact alone, he will command a considerably lesser audience than he previously enjoyed. Former sidekick Charles McCord evidently will not be returning, although former show producer Bernard Magurk, who also came under harsh criticism for supposedly racist and/or racially insensitive remarks, will return, along with two African American regulars.
In one of his initial appearances, taped in front of a studio audience, Imus declared that he would not make the young women of the Rutgers University basketball team (formerly known as “nappy headed hos”) feel like fools for accepting his apology. However, he has also assured his listeners that he would not be a “kinder, gentler” Imus.
Translation-Imus is going to limit his criticisms to the “institutionalized racist white power structure”, which he will probably mercilessly slice, gut, and filet as badly as was he himself by the race card drivers, notably the Reverend Al Sharpton, who promises that he will be listening.
I was of the hopes that Imus would land on his feet and get a contract with FX or with Sirius satellite, and would be as mercilessly brutal with all groups equally. Instead, Don Imus seems content to spend his twilight years all but not so much put out to pasture as a gelding-which would have been preferable-but to play at appeasing his hordes of detractors as the sad joke of a media cuckold that I very much fear he has now become.
Like Al Sharpton, I too will be listening, when and if possible, in the probably vain hope that Imus will, as they say, "grow a pair". However, I am not expecting much.
True, geldings have been known to do well in some races. They have been even known to win.
Unfortunately, the most obviously unavoidable aspect of geldings is that by their nature, and by definition, they leave no legacy to speak of. Such will be the case, I am afraid, with this latest incarnation of the late, once great Don Imus (g).
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Here Goes Another "Important" Hugo Chavez Puff Piece
To the relief of many and the consternation of others, the referendum of December 1st held in Venezuela that would have ended term limits, thus enabling President Hugo Chavez to run in perpetuity, failed by a margin of 51-49 percent. Chavez, who previously stated that any who voted against the measure would be a traitor, has now conceded defeat-“for now”.
To any who might be hopeful or overly sentimental in regards to this outwardly gracious appearing concession, I might remind you that Venezuela has been the scene of troubling unrest in regards the referendum, with opponents and protestors amassing in the streets in daily displays of opposition to the measure.
Had this not been the case, the chances are more than fair that the election could have easily been manipulated, with the results ending up vastly different. However, Chavez may have come to realize that he overplayed his hand in what many came to see as an unprecedented attempt at a power grab. He also knew that the eyes of the world were watching, and waiting. He wanted power, but not at the expense of riots, bloodshed, and outright carnage. I have a feeling he was sternly warned by his security forces that such a scenario might result in a loss of control that might not be so easily restored.
Remember that as well he has implied there will be another referendum at some unspecified date. Look for him to do so within the next few months to a year, two years at the most. When he tries it again, I look for there to be more emphasis placed on other aspects of the referendum that might not have even been a part of the last one. Chavez might well take a more moderate stance, guaranteeing civil, religious, and political liberties, while possibly guaranteeing limited though well defined property rights.
Hopefuly, though, this slap in the face has been a wake up call to him. He might come to realize that rhetoric and empty promises might make for pleasant dreams, but a morning without hope, for way too many of his citizens, could turn those dreams into nightmares for all concerned.
In the way of a disclaimer, I am not an avowed foe of Hugo Chavez, nor am I a fan of his. I personally do not give a shit what type of government a foreign, sovereign nation elects to have. In most cases, any problem they might give us can easily be solved in measurements of megatons. That fact, if exercised judiciously, would lead to as hearty and sincere a handshake with a communist leader as with a democratically elected one. Otherwise, it is really none of our business. If they elect not to trade with us, in the meantime, I look at it this way-their fucking loss, and in most cases, American workers gain. Who the fuck needs their cheap ass slave labor products?
Incidentally, as far as I’m concerned, this is the only thing our corporate executives and politicians really want with Latin American to begin with. To them, it’s just another cheap-ass trade zone for the manufacture and importation of cheap goods and cheaper workers, a path for whom would quickly be cleared to here. Politicians like Chavez, for all their rhetoric and all their flaws, stand in the way of potentially billions of dollars quarterly. Frankly, I hope they keep the guy. I think he could be reasoned with, provided we approach him from a reasonable position. As it is, while we are engaged in this cold war extension with this paper tiger, there is the further consequence that it is a further inducement for the price of oil to incline upwards, which is another reason for the current policy.
Understanding this simple fact, I never have or never will be a proponent of such idle and ill-advised foolishness as, for example, boycotts of Citgo. I will even go so far as to say that a lot of the current rhetoric can easily be considered to originate from the inside the beltway pundit and political classes who take their cue (and a great deal more from under the table) from the corporate executives of Shell and Halliburton, etc.
At the same time, I can read the writing on the wall, or in this case, the engraving on both sides of the coin. Somebody needs to rein in both sides, and that includes Chavez. Hopefully, this latest development will let a lot of the hot air out of both parties.
To any who might be hopeful or overly sentimental in regards to this outwardly gracious appearing concession, I might remind you that Venezuela has been the scene of troubling unrest in regards the referendum, with opponents and protestors amassing in the streets in daily displays of opposition to the measure.
Had this not been the case, the chances are more than fair that the election could have easily been manipulated, with the results ending up vastly different. However, Chavez may have come to realize that he overplayed his hand in what many came to see as an unprecedented attempt at a power grab. He also knew that the eyes of the world were watching, and waiting. He wanted power, but not at the expense of riots, bloodshed, and outright carnage. I have a feeling he was sternly warned by his security forces that such a scenario might result in a loss of control that might not be so easily restored.
Remember that as well he has implied there will be another referendum at some unspecified date. Look for him to do so within the next few months to a year, two years at the most. When he tries it again, I look for there to be more emphasis placed on other aspects of the referendum that might not have even been a part of the last one. Chavez might well take a more moderate stance, guaranteeing civil, religious, and political liberties, while possibly guaranteeing limited though well defined property rights.
Hopefuly, though, this slap in the face has been a wake up call to him. He might come to realize that rhetoric and empty promises might make for pleasant dreams, but a morning without hope, for way too many of his citizens, could turn those dreams into nightmares for all concerned.
In the way of a disclaimer, I am not an avowed foe of Hugo Chavez, nor am I a fan of his. I personally do not give a shit what type of government a foreign, sovereign nation elects to have. In most cases, any problem they might give us can easily be solved in measurements of megatons. That fact, if exercised judiciously, would lead to as hearty and sincere a handshake with a communist leader as with a democratically elected one. Otherwise, it is really none of our business. If they elect not to trade with us, in the meantime, I look at it this way-their fucking loss, and in most cases, American workers gain. Who the fuck needs their cheap ass slave labor products?
Incidentally, as far as I’m concerned, this is the only thing our corporate executives and politicians really want with Latin American to begin with. To them, it’s just another cheap-ass trade zone for the manufacture and importation of cheap goods and cheaper workers, a path for whom would quickly be cleared to here. Politicians like Chavez, for all their rhetoric and all their flaws, stand in the way of potentially billions of dollars quarterly. Frankly, I hope they keep the guy. I think he could be reasoned with, provided we approach him from a reasonable position. As it is, while we are engaged in this cold war extension with this paper tiger, there is the further consequence that it is a further inducement for the price of oil to incline upwards, which is another reason for the current policy.
Understanding this simple fact, I never have or never will be a proponent of such idle and ill-advised foolishness as, for example, boycotts of Citgo. I will even go so far as to say that a lot of the current rhetoric can easily be considered to originate from the inside the beltway pundit and political classes who take their cue (and a great deal more from under the table) from the corporate executives of Shell and Halliburton, etc.
At the same time, I can read the writing on the wall, or in this case, the engraving on both sides of the coin. Somebody needs to rein in both sides, and that includes Chavez. Hopefully, this latest development will let a lot of the hot air out of both parties.
Clinton's Comrades
This Grist article tells you all you need to know as to why Hillary Clinton is widely distrusted. This Liebermann-Warner proposal for which Clinton is working so hard to get passed calls for an eighty percent reduction in US global emissions by 2050. Eighty fucking percent? Her, Liebermann, and Bernie Sanders (author of the aforementioned eighty percent amendment) and all the rest of this bills proponents are fucking nuts. If they actually pass this measure, and really try to implement it, you might as well live in the jungles of Brazil, or the African savannah. Holy fucking shit.
No wonder people think Hillary Clinton is a hard core Stalinist. She fucking is one. Any cost of this of course will be passed down to the consumers, if it were ever passed, which hopefully there will be enough common sense senators from both parties to prevent that from ever occurring. If it does, hopefully it will be sent to a president who will veto it.
As it is, it may not make it out of committee. In that case, look for Hillary to make it a campaign issue, but don't look for her to advertise the more oppressive aspects of the bill, which she seems to support in total, working so hard for it's passage that the author of the article refers to her as a "real rock star."
Of course in the world of Hillary Clinton, any company that can't absorb the cost of such oppressive measures without passing it on to the consumer will probably be forced out of business, which in her perfect imaginary world is well and good. People wrongly assume the Democrats hate big business. Well, they are only half right. Take out the word big, and you've got it.
On the lighter side, note that Larry Craig, an opponent of the bill (and one of the Senators blocking it from being moved out of committee, to a floor vote, by way of procedural tactics) is mentioned in the article, along with the name of his hometown-Gayville. Now why the fuck didn't they just say Idaho? After all, isn't that how Senators are usually mentioned in public articles, by the name of the state they represent? Yeah, it's funny, but still, how obvious can you be?
At the end of the article, we are urged to pick up our phones and call our Senators to urge support. Yeah, that would be good for a laugh, but most Senators are too busy to put up with prank phone calls.
On the other hand, they might well take it seriously. After all, most people do seem to think Joe Liebermann is some kind of arch-conservative.
Now that is a fucking joke.
No wonder people think Hillary Clinton is a hard core Stalinist. She fucking is one. Any cost of this of course will be passed down to the consumers, if it were ever passed, which hopefully there will be enough common sense senators from both parties to prevent that from ever occurring. If it does, hopefully it will be sent to a president who will veto it.
As it is, it may not make it out of committee. In that case, look for Hillary to make it a campaign issue, but don't look for her to advertise the more oppressive aspects of the bill, which she seems to support in total, working so hard for it's passage that the author of the article refers to her as a "real rock star."
Of course in the world of Hillary Clinton, any company that can't absorb the cost of such oppressive measures without passing it on to the consumer will probably be forced out of business, which in her perfect imaginary world is well and good. People wrongly assume the Democrats hate big business. Well, they are only half right. Take out the word big, and you've got it.
On the lighter side, note that Larry Craig, an opponent of the bill (and one of the Senators blocking it from being moved out of committee, to a floor vote, by way of procedural tactics) is mentioned in the article, along with the name of his hometown-Gayville. Now why the fuck didn't they just say Idaho? After all, isn't that how Senators are usually mentioned in public articles, by the name of the state they represent? Yeah, it's funny, but still, how obvious can you be?
At the end of the article, we are urged to pick up our phones and call our Senators to urge support. Yeah, that would be good for a laugh, but most Senators are too busy to put up with prank phone calls.
On the other hand, they might well take it seriously. After all, most people do seem to think Joe Liebermann is some kind of arch-conservative.
Now that is a fucking joke.
The Prince Of Mardi Gras
Plans to demolish a large section of low rent apartments of new Orleans, and to replace them at a roughly 82% loss, are given a possible explanation in this Truthout article that unfortunately does indeed have the ring of truth to it.
You can sum it up concisely as, reduce the percentage of blacks in New Orleans with an eye toward increasing Republican votes statewide in the next election cycle.
In addition, it seems Democratic Senator Mary Landrieu has been targeted as the weakest Democrat up for re-election in the 2008 election. Denying her black voters, in addition to denying her any kind of victory on behalf of the poor residents, is increasing the odds of her defeat.
In the meantime, according to this article, tens of thousands of poor blacks in the area are still holed up in cheap FEMA trailors yet facing eviction, while others are camped out in tent cities from the inner city to under the I-10 bridge, while the area vacated is being utilized for the purposes of casinos and other kinds of businesses.
There is an insistence that any public housing built should be mixed race housing. Well, it would be wrong to encourage segregated housing, right?
Clever. The Republicans sure stick to their guns when they talk about family values.
Neitzche family values, that is.
You can sum it up concisely as, reduce the percentage of blacks in New Orleans with an eye toward increasing Republican votes statewide in the next election cycle.
In addition, it seems Democratic Senator Mary Landrieu has been targeted as the weakest Democrat up for re-election in the 2008 election. Denying her black voters, in addition to denying her any kind of victory on behalf of the poor residents, is increasing the odds of her defeat.
In the meantime, according to this article, tens of thousands of poor blacks in the area are still holed up in cheap FEMA trailors yet facing eviction, while others are camped out in tent cities from the inner city to under the I-10 bridge, while the area vacated is being utilized for the purposes of casinos and other kinds of businesses.
There is an insistence that any public housing built should be mixed race housing. Well, it would be wrong to encourage segregated housing, right?
Clever. The Republicans sure stick to their guns when they talk about family values.
Neitzche family values, that is.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Radu-Chapter XXVII (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
Part Three
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Radu-Chapter XXVII (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
8 pages approximate
Anytime Marty Evans knew he was going too far, he knew what he had to do to get well. He had to get sicker than hell for a few hours, sometimes for a few days. One time, the withdrawals were very bad, and he thought he would almost die. He might well have died if not for Mary, who looked after him and nursed him back to health as though she were a mother, instead of a younger sister.
Now, of course, Mary was gone, and Marty was having a hard time processing the brutal truth of what Marlowe told him. Debbie Leighton, who Marty always considered his and Mary’s friend, murdered Mary. Now, unfortunately, Debbie was herself dead, so Marty would never be able to achieve even the satisfaction of seeing her punished for the crime.
Milo was dead as well, murdered by Marlowe. Now, with Milo gone, and with Marshall Crenshaw likewise deceased, Marty realized he had no reliable source for heroin, which over the last few months he had become more dependent on than he previously would allow. Now, as he thought of how Mary used to look after him, how she would keep his addiction secret, he knew he was in a real bind. As he checked his syringe and his tourniquet, he remembered his and Mary’s other secret-the most important secret of all.
Moreover, as he prepared the heroin solution, he remembered how Marlowe appeared to him earlier in the night, smiling, giggling-cackling.
“Go ahead and kill me and get it over with,” he told him. “I don’t care anymore.”
Marlowe just looked at him strangely, cocking his head to one side as though pondering a dilemma.
“Why, Marty, you have always been my friend,” he said. “I could never do anything to harm you. Actually, I am here to help you. You might say, I am here to save you.”
Marty was shivering and sweating, and might any moment be going into convulsions. Still, he could not turn his eyes away from Marlowe’s gaze.
“Yeah, you’re here to put me out of my misery, ain’t you?” he asked.
Marlowe crouched down and drew closer to him.
“You really need the Lord, Marty,” he said. “You know-the precious Blood of The Lamb. The sacrifice of Christ, in payment of all your sins-that is what you need. Oh, I know, you are a Jew, your family is Jews. You have to admit, though, you have not exactly been a devout follower of the Law of Moses, have you? Why, just look at you.”
Suddenly, Marlowe turned, as he stiffened, and it occurred to Marty that Marlowe was trying to restrain himself from laughing aloud.
“Holy shit, you’re high, ain’t you?” Marty observed. “That’s it, you’re fucking spaced! Come on, Marlowe, where did you get it?”
Finally, Marlowe just went limp and collapsed on the floor, as he then spread his legs out and then reclined on his right elbow, with his hand under his head, as he looked toward Marty, who was obviously only in the beginning throws of misery. Then, he laughed.
“I would help you, Marty,” he said. “I’m sorry, though, I can’t. Did you know Joseph acquired salvation at the Church of The Blessed Sacrament? It was not an act. Really, it was not. The Blood of the Lamb saved him and sanctified him, through the power of the Holy Spirit. It was actually quite touching. He paid for his sins, of course, but he is in heaven now. I honestly, really believe that.”
“I know all about what happened to Joseph and Sierra at that church, and I have no doubt you were responsible for that,” Marty said, now speaking with great difficulty. “I saw with my own two eyes what you did to Milo. Go away, Marlowe. Leave me alone. If that’s what you call being saved, I can do without it.”
Marlowe looked at him sadly, to Marty’s surprise. Suddenly, he started heaving, drawing himself up on his knees, and then reaching for the plastic lined garbage can into which he tried to vomit. However, he had nothing in him to vomit up.
“Marty, I told you, you are my friend,” Marlowe said. “Joseph and the others were my enemies. I tried to warn you about them, didn’t I? Didn’t I try to tell you what kind of people they were? Didn’t I tell you that Milo, Debbie, and Sierra were no different from Joseph and the rest of them? People do not run around with people that much unlike them. You and me, Marty, we are alike. We have always been partners. That is why I want to help you now. You need to turn your life over to God, Marty. If you want to remain a practicing Jew, that is fine. Just purify yourself, Marty. Turn your soul over to God, and let him turn your life from the pitiful wreck it is now into what it should be. Damn, if he can save Joseph he can save you, or for that matter anybody”
Suddenly, Marty groaned, and then he cried out. The agony was becoming unbearable. Thank God, his parents were away, he thought. If they ever saw him in this state, that would be the end for sure. Of course, he did not believe in God. He suddenly heaved, and to his horror, he vomited up blood. He looked over toward Marlowe, who stared at it, transfixed with what actually seemed desire.
“Please, Marty,” he said, actually almost begging him. “Pray! God will help you right here, right now.”
“Marlowe, I don’t know what kind of trip you’re on, or what your angle is, but you know I never believed in that crap. What in the hell is the point of this? If you’re trying to torture me, fine, I get it. Just please get out of here now, or kill me, one of the two. My life is hell, so I’m used to hell. If Joseph is in heaven, I’m not sure I want to be there anyway. Of course, he’s not in heaven because there ain’t no heaven, and there ain’t no hell. So drop this shit, because I ain’t going for it.”
Marlowe shook his fist slightly and turned as he cursed under his breath.
“You always were stubborn, Marty,” he said, and then he threw a packet down at him. Marty looked at the grayish white powder in surprise.
“What the hell is this?” he demanded.
“What do you think it is?” Marlowe replied.
Marty reached out for the packet, but Marlowe grabbed it before he could get half way to it.
“There is a catch, though,” he said. “I want to prove something to you. There is just enough there to straighten you up for a little while. Then, I want you to clean yourself up. You don’t want Mary to see you in this shape, do you?”
“Marlowe, that’s not cool, and it sure ain’t funny,” he said. “Mary is dead. It’s bad enough your pervert of an uncle did what he did to her body, but for you now to talk about her like she is”-
“Do you want to talk to your sister or not?” Marlowe replied in obvious exasperation. “At least take the shit so you can think calmly about what I have to say. She’s waiting for you, Marty, and she wants to talk to you.”
“Well, Mary has seen me like this before,” Marty said, amazed he even encouraged the conversation to this extent. Of course, he really wanted that heroin.
“It’s not that simple Marty,” he said. “We have to go somewhere, and you damn sure can’t go like you are now. You would never make it that far, for one thing, but mainly you would never make it through the door if you did. The people there would send you away, if you were lucky. Now do it. Trust me, just this once.”
Marty was past arguing, and almost past caring. He wanted the drug, so he took it, and then he took the syringe proffered by Marlowe, and the tourniquet. At this stage, Marty did not even care if the syringe was a used one. He wrapped the tourniquet around his arm, he puffed up a vein, and by the time that he was finished, Marlowe already prepared the warm concoction.
“Good, you have a good vein there,” Marlowe observed. “You always managed to keep a good vein, didn’t you, Marty? Mine are worthless to me. Oh, the veins are good, but the blood just stays in one place, though it multiplies until il spreads, slowly, until it breaks down and dies. That is what Doctor Chou told me anyway. You do not know how lucky you are. Well, in a way you are lucky.”
Marty ignored Marlowe’s babblings as he injected the heroin. He could feel its effects almost instantaneously. Already, he felt calmer, more relaxed, and though he still was sick, the pains gradually ceased, until they were no more. Marlowe handed him a chocolate bar.
“Chocolate is kosher, of course,” Marlowe said, “or I assume it is. Oh, that is right, though, it does not matter to you anyway, at least not yet. Oh, but it will, my friend, it will. Now, go get yourself cleaned up. Put on some clean clothes. You smell like my last supper, and if you knew what that was, you would know that definitely is not good. Damn, but she sure was a feisty little thing.”
“Marlowe, what in the hell are you talking about?” Marty asked. “What in the hell has happened to you?”
“Just take a shower and put on some clean clothes,” Marlowe repeated. “I’ll go try to scrounge up something for you to eat. We don’t have a lot of time.”
After Marty was through bathing, he felt much better, though he still felt an overpowering urge for more of the drug, and knew Marlowe was his only chance of getting it. He dressed, and found his gun. He placed it in the pocket of his coat. Marlowe was going to give him what he wanted, or one of them was not going to survive the night, he decided. He made his way down the steps as casually as he could, to see Marlowe waiting with a grilled cheese sandwich and a Coca-Cola.
“Here, this should pep you right up,” Marlowe said as he turned, and then stared at the gun that Marty pointed straight at him.
“Oh, good, I see you have your gun,” Marlowe said. “You might well need it. Now, how did you know I was going to suggest you bring it?”
“Marlowe, shut the fuck up,” Marty said. “Give me the fucking heroin now, and then get the fuck out of here. These are hollow point bullets, so don’t fuck with me.”
Marlowe just looked at him curiously.
“Of course you know I would just come back and kill you while you were wasted, right? You do not seem to care though, strangely. Really, Marty, I would hate to see you waste a perfectly good bullet on me. You might need them, every single one of them. Otherwise, I would not mind. I rather enjoy the look on people’s faces when they shoot me. The last person that tried that, I just looked at her and said ‘Hey, that’s what she said!’ She did not seem to think it was funny, strangely. I guess she wasn’t an ‘Office’ fan.”
“Marlowe, just shut up and give me the fucking drug!” Marty demanded, now starting to tremble and once more perspire, while actually on the verge of tears.
“No,” Marlowe replied simply, whereupon Marty fired one into his chest. Marty could see the movement of the shattered bullet exiting through Marlowe’s back, as threads of the back of the shirt he wore flew out from behind him.
“Oh, damn you Marty-ugghhh! That hurt like hell!” Marlowe shouted loudly as he crumpled over.
“Oh, shit, Marlowe! I’m sorry, but god damn, I warned you to stop fucking with me. Give me that fucking drug now, and”-
Marty just then noticed, however, that only a little spot of blood gathered around Marlowe’s chest, no more than if he’d been pricked with a safety pen, though the entrance wound was considerably large. Then, the bleeding stopped. Marlowe then stood upright and looked at him. He smiled.
“Thank you, sir, may I have another?” he asked. Then, he laughed. He giggled. He cackled.
“Marlowe, I’m sorry,” Marty said with desperate pleading. “Are-are you all right?”
“No, I feel like hell,” Marlowe replied, as suddenly his features contorted, and began to transform in front of Marty’s eyes. His purplish black dyed hair was now almost as thick as it was long, and now was blonde instead of dark, and though at first his face looked to be merely that of an older man, it soon became dried and leathery, as the green eyes peered into Marty’s soul.
“That is where I am going to take you tonight, Marty,” he continued. “I am taking you to hell. After all, I made you a promise, and I intend to keep my word. I told you I wanted to let you talk to your sister. Well, she is waiting for you.”
The entire room was dark, but now filled with fog, and the room became stiflingly hot, as Marty could hear what sounded to be the crackling of flames, and in the distance, the rumbling as of an active volcano fed by streams of lava. He could hear the sounds of tortured screams. They cried and they begged piteously, but nothing prepared Marty for the sight he was about to see.
He looked in horror at the sight of Debbie Leighton standing before him, a bullet hole wide and bloody at the front of her skull, as her dead eyes pleaded for mercy from an eternity of torment.
“Marty, is that you? Please get me out of here. Please”-
Marty backed away from her as she began to remove her clothes.
“Fuck you-stay away from me Debbie,” he said as he backed away in desperate loathing, though mixed with a sense of overwhelming shock and terror. “I know what you did. You killed my little sister, you fucking cunt.”
“You remember how good I was, don’t you?” she pleaded while seemingly ignoring his accusations. “You remember how we used to fuck, don’t you? Don’t you want to fuck me again, Marty?”
Marty looked down at the pussy he had many times savored, but now he saw it infected, festering, and swollen. It was rotten, and it stank. Marty could see by the dim lights of distant flames that it swarmed with an infestation of maggots.
“It hurts so bad, Marty, please fuck me,” she pleaded. “I can’t go on like this. I have to be fucked. No one will fuck me here. They just laugh at me. Please, Marty”-
Marty backed away in horror, but Debbie advanced, becoming angry in the face of his repulsion.
“I’ll make you fuck me, Marty,” she warned.
“Marlowe, where the fuck are you?” he demanded. “Get me the hell out of here!”
He turned again, wanting to run but afraid to move, as the darkness afforded him no surety of his footing. The heat, along with the surrounding stench of death, was becoming unbearable. There were unimaginable cries of horror and agony. What were even worse were the howls of demonic laughter that surrounded him, piercing him like a thousand needles, as Debbie suddenly grabbed him in a desperate attempt to rip his jeans off as she grabbed for his crotch.
He pulled away from her and ran without thinking, but he suddenly slipped on the wet surface under him and fell to the cavernous, stony floor beneath him. There was a slimy, sticky substance under him, and he knew immediately it was blood and gore. Then, he felt the body of the person next to him. Even through the darkness, the features of someone began to take shape. He soon looked upon the despairing, pain-wracked eyes of Milo Richmond, unable to rise from the filth of his own rotting blood and the gore from his spilled intestines that covered him from head to toe, as he strained in agony to speak in what seemed an effort born of desperation.
“There is nothing but pain and suffering here, Marty, worse than you can ever imagine,” he said. “You’ve got to help me. I need a fix. Oh God, I need it so bad. I can’t take this pain. Please help me Marty.”
“Milo, I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do,” Marty said, now in the throes of despondency at the sight of his dead friend, begging him for the help that Marty understood he was completely helpless to give him.
“All of us are down here, except for Joseph,” Milo said as he cried in agony. “He should be here too, more than any of us, but because he turned to God at the last minute for forgiveness and trusted him, he got out of it. Jesus saved him. He is in heaven now while the rest of us have to suffer forever. It is not fair. Oh, God, it’s just not fair.”
Milo’s words pierced into Marty’s soul, formed as they were in the face of almost insurmountable pain and anguish. He looked away from his friend, as he rose. Debbie, still there, tried desperately to climb atop a protruding rock, as her legs spread open in a futile attempt to garner some sexual relief. Yet, though it was an effort that brought her only more pain, she could not stop. What horrified Marty more than anything did, however, was the sight of Sierra Lawson, screaming in agony though unable to stop continually plunging what appeared to be a sharp black handled blade deep inside her abdomen, repeatedly thrusting as she groaned in horrible pain.
“Well, do you get it now?” Marty heard Marlowe’s voice say to him, almost soothingly.
Marty was now somewhere else, out in the cold night air. He looked down around him. He was in his car. He had driven somewhere, but to where? Marlowe was beside him, looking as serious as Marty had ever seen him. To Marty’s consternation, Marlowe now busied himself with the act of putting on an overly thick layer of what looked and smelled to be sunscreen.
“Not a pretty picture at all, was it?” Marlowe asked, as he continued the application of the thick, pasty substance on his arms and his face, as though readying himself for a day at the beach, or a tanning salon. Yet, it was now the dead of night. It was well past midnight, in fact.
“Where are we?” Marty asked. “How did we get here?”
“I changed my mind,” he said. “I didn’t want you to see Mary in the state she’s in. Your reaction to the others was more than enough. If you saw what Mary was destined to go through for eternity, I am quite afraid it would drive you insane. This is better-much better.”
“Mary-is in that place?”
“For all eternity, I’m afraid,” Marlowe said plainly. “One good thing about it, though. At the rate you are going, you will be joining her soon enough. I doubt that you or her either one will take much solace from that, unfortunately. Come, let us do this thing and get it over with.”
They got out of the car, and as they walked toward the building in the distance, Marty realized, finally, where they were going.
“We’re going to the fucking morgue?” he asked. “Why?”
“Your sister has not yet been reburied”, Marlowe replied. “Your parents have been fighting tooth and nail to prevent any kind of autopsy from determining whether her corpse was abused by my late uncle, and so she yet is there, her body in cold storage until the matter is resolved one way or another.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he continued. “They are expecting you here. An appointment has been made for you.”
Marlowe told Marty what to say when they were ushered into the viewing area by the lone forensic examiner, a man named Peyton, who informed him that Detective Berry advised him of his, Marty’s arrival. Marty looked around to see Marlowe nowhere around. Every fiber of his being screamed out to him to get the hell away from there as fast as he could, but instead, the words just flooded out of his mouth.
“I’ve been getting these calls from this girl claiming to be my sister,” he explained. “It really sounds like her, and she knows things only me and Mary knows. I still think it is a sick joke, but I just want to look one last time, to satisfy myself. Otherwise, this crap is going to gnaw at me from now on.”
“That’s perfectly understandable,” Peyton said as they moved down the hallway past one lone guard, who seemed to be more interested in watching the clock that hung from the wall down the hallway than in the comings-and-goings of a person he saw almost every night.
“What has this person been saying to you anyway?” Peyton asked.
“Just that someone killed somebody else by mistake, and that she’s been in hiding, and it has something to do with some kind of drug ring,” Marty said. “There was some really crazy shit about the mafia and the government being out to get her. If it did not sound so much like her, I would not think anything about it. I guess a part of me is hoping she’s telling the truth, that it is really Mary, but like my friend Marlowe said, I shouldn’t get my hopes up.”
The man chatted with him casually as they made their way into a big room, where metal tables waited, some of them upon which some cadavers were lying, all of them covered. Marty noted that Peyton had no reaction to his mention of the name Marlowe. If this guy was involved in some scam of Marlowe’s, he certainly wasn’t letting it out. After what Marty saw tonight, however, nothing would surprise him. He was not at this point sure if he really was at the city morgue. He almost did not care. He was starting to feel the effects of withdrawal once more, and wanted to get out of here as quickly as possible. He wanted a real fix this time.
Peyton uncovered a cadaver, and Marty looked, and then quickly turned. It was Mary. He forced himself to look at her one more time.
“As soon as Detective Berry told me you were coming, I had her brought out here. I know this is difficult, so if you would like a little time, I can leave you alone for a while.”
“I would appreciate that,” Marty said weakly.
Peyton walked toward the door, where he pointed to a round metallic knob.
“When you’re ready to leave, just press this buzzer,” he said. He then left, as Marty turned once more toward the still easily recognizable face of his sister, dead now for over a year.
Marty tremblingly raised up the sheet which now covered Mary’s body, and saw plainly on her stomach and abdomen, as well as her thighs, the remnants of the rashes with which she for years was afflicted, and which brought her no small degree of embarrassment and unease.
“Mary, I’m so sorry,” he said. Suddenly, Mary opened her eyes, and stared out in pain and horror.
“They will never leave me alone,” she said. “The demons are always torturing me-raping me and tearing away at me, and biting me. Please, Marty. Listen to Marlowe. Get saved.”
“Mary,” he said in despair, but it was too late. She once more closed her eyes. He looked up and saw Marlowe Krovell.
“Now do you believe me?” he asked.
“Yes,” Marty said almost in a whisper. “I believe you.”
He looked down at his sister’s body and started to cry, quietly at first, and then loudly. He closed his eyes, and tried to block out the thoughts of Mary’s despair. Then he heard it.
“Our secret”, said a voice.
Marty almost shouted. It was Mary’s voice, but he looked at Mary’s body, her eyes yet closed.
“Remember our secret,” he heard her voice say yet again. He looked up and saw Marlowe, standing off in the distance, his back now to Marty, morosely looking down toward a body likewise covered on a separate table.
“Marlowe, I can’t be saved,” he said. “I can never get off drugs, and even if I could, I could never live a good Christian life or a good Jewish one either. It’s a waste of time.”
“As long as you have faith,” Marlowe said, yet looking down upon the yet covered body that rested before him, “God can accomplish anything. Even if you fail, as long as you try and have faith, God will forgive you.”
“So I can still go to heaven, regardless of how I live?” he asked.
“Of course,” Marlowe said.
Marty walked up to him, as Marlowe turned to face him.
“What is wrong, Marty?” he asked.
“You’re lying,” he said. “Mary ain’t in hell. She became a Christian, and was saved and baptized. She joined the Catholic Church, and took the Eucharist whenever she got the chance. Whenever she sinned, no matter how silly or insignificant I thought it was, she always went to confession. She prayed. She did that stupid fucking rosary bit every day, sometimes several times a day.
“I just remembered, the priest told her the same thing, that as long as she tried and had faith, her sins would be forgiven, whether she sinned or not. Well, she tried, Marlowe. She tried her hardest, and when she failed, she never lost her faith.
“It was our secret. She did not want mom and dad to find out, because she knew they would not approve of her turning from our Jewish faith. She was afraid they would disown her. Just two nights before she died, she finally broke down and told them. She was still upset over breaking up with that jackass from school. They told her it was not only all right, but they approved. It was her decision to make.”
Marlowe was silent. He said nothing, keeping his attention focused exclusively on the body under the sheet.
“You’re a real asshole, Marlowe,” he said. “I don’t know how in the hell you pulled all this stuff tonight, and I don’t really think I want to know. I’ll tell you this though-I never want to see you again. Whatever so-called friendship we might have had is over. Keep your drugs, you fucking creep!”
Marty walked off, and hit the buzzer at the door, but he heard no sound. He waited, as he heard Marlowe mumble something from behind him. He waited, until he realized no one was coming, and as he tried the buzzer again, he heard the sound of something moving. He ignored it for a while, but when the movement stopped, he turned. At that exact instant, the lights went out. He turned around, and shouted for Marlowe, but Marlowe gave no response. After an interminably long number of minutes, during which Marty felt the urge to shoot up growing ever more pronounced, be began to become fearful. He could see but very little, and heard no sign of Marlowe. Now growing more fearful by the minute, he reached for the buzzer, but heard no sound.
He drew his gun from his coat pocket at the sound of what seemed to be something dragged as from off a table, and then across the floor. It seemed to be something heavy, though muffled. Within a short number of minutes, as Marty stood transfixed in abject terror, the lights came back on. Marlowe was gone. Not only that, but the table by where Marlowe stood last now was absent the unknown, sheet-covered cadaver that previously laid upon it.
He tried the door, and to his surprise, it opened easily, as though never locked. He made his way out into and down the hallway. It was darkened, and as he made his way cautiously toward the exit, he walked in horror up to the desk guard, who sat there slumped over his desk, as though asleep.
“Oh my God,” he said. “Mr., are you all right?”
Marty shook the man, but he crumpled over, and Marty Evans saw then the grisly sight of the night guard, his throat slashed open in a horrendous wound. He cried as he made his way down the hallway to the left that lead to the exit door. To his horror, he then saw the body of Peyton, sprawled out on the floor, a pool of blood under his back and his head, his throat likewise ripped open, as his eyes stared out in what had to be one final moment of living hell.
He hurried past Peyton’s corpse to the exit door. He opened it and hurriedly made his way out. By the time he made it to where he parked his Subaru, he had to fumble for over a minute before he found his car keys. He got inside and hurriedly shut the door, but there was something in the passenger’s seat. It was a packet. It looked, in fact, to be a packet of heroin.
He started the car and drove hurriedly away. By the time he made it to his house, he remembered how Mary used to talk to him when he was hurting, when he was withdrawing from the heroin, during those times when he became a little more hooked than he intended. Most of the time, he knew the right time to quit. It was hard, it was painful, but most of the time he made it all right. He always survived, even the worse of times. There were times, however, when he went through sheer hell. All of those times, Mary was there for him, looking after him, talking to him, protecting him, consoling him, reading to him, joking with him-and, when he seemed to need it most, berating him.
“Promise me you will never do this again, Marty,” she would say. And so, he would promise her. He would intend to keep that promise, but he never would. Now, as he took out the packet left in the car, and eyed the syringe and the tourniquet that lay waiting for him, almost taunting him, he realized the truth. His whole life was a lie, and as he prepared the solution for the final time, he finally understood. He never intentionally lied to her-only to himself.
“I’m sorry, Mary,” he muttered, as he inserted the syringe into his veins. Within a matter of seconds, he was out.
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
Part Three
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Radu-Chapter XXVII (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
8 pages approximate
Anytime Marty Evans knew he was going too far, he knew what he had to do to get well. He had to get sicker than hell for a few hours, sometimes for a few days. One time, the withdrawals were very bad, and he thought he would almost die. He might well have died if not for Mary, who looked after him and nursed him back to health as though she were a mother, instead of a younger sister.
Now, of course, Mary was gone, and Marty was having a hard time processing the brutal truth of what Marlowe told him. Debbie Leighton, who Marty always considered his and Mary’s friend, murdered Mary. Now, unfortunately, Debbie was herself dead, so Marty would never be able to achieve even the satisfaction of seeing her punished for the crime.
Milo was dead as well, murdered by Marlowe. Now, with Milo gone, and with Marshall Crenshaw likewise deceased, Marty realized he had no reliable source for heroin, which over the last few months he had become more dependent on than he previously would allow. Now, as he thought of how Mary used to look after him, how she would keep his addiction secret, he knew he was in a real bind. As he checked his syringe and his tourniquet, he remembered his and Mary’s other secret-the most important secret of all.
Moreover, as he prepared the heroin solution, he remembered how Marlowe appeared to him earlier in the night, smiling, giggling-cackling.
“Go ahead and kill me and get it over with,” he told him. “I don’t care anymore.”
Marlowe just looked at him strangely, cocking his head to one side as though pondering a dilemma.
“Why, Marty, you have always been my friend,” he said. “I could never do anything to harm you. Actually, I am here to help you. You might say, I am here to save you.”
Marty was shivering and sweating, and might any moment be going into convulsions. Still, he could not turn his eyes away from Marlowe’s gaze.
“Yeah, you’re here to put me out of my misery, ain’t you?” he asked.
Marlowe crouched down and drew closer to him.
“You really need the Lord, Marty,” he said. “You know-the precious Blood of The Lamb. The sacrifice of Christ, in payment of all your sins-that is what you need. Oh, I know, you are a Jew, your family is Jews. You have to admit, though, you have not exactly been a devout follower of the Law of Moses, have you? Why, just look at you.”
Suddenly, Marlowe turned, as he stiffened, and it occurred to Marty that Marlowe was trying to restrain himself from laughing aloud.
“Holy shit, you’re high, ain’t you?” Marty observed. “That’s it, you’re fucking spaced! Come on, Marlowe, where did you get it?”
Finally, Marlowe just went limp and collapsed on the floor, as he then spread his legs out and then reclined on his right elbow, with his hand under his head, as he looked toward Marty, who was obviously only in the beginning throws of misery. Then, he laughed.
“I would help you, Marty,” he said. “I’m sorry, though, I can’t. Did you know Joseph acquired salvation at the Church of The Blessed Sacrament? It was not an act. Really, it was not. The Blood of the Lamb saved him and sanctified him, through the power of the Holy Spirit. It was actually quite touching. He paid for his sins, of course, but he is in heaven now. I honestly, really believe that.”
“I know all about what happened to Joseph and Sierra at that church, and I have no doubt you were responsible for that,” Marty said, now speaking with great difficulty. “I saw with my own two eyes what you did to Milo. Go away, Marlowe. Leave me alone. If that’s what you call being saved, I can do without it.”
Marlowe looked at him sadly, to Marty’s surprise. Suddenly, he started heaving, drawing himself up on his knees, and then reaching for the plastic lined garbage can into which he tried to vomit. However, he had nothing in him to vomit up.
“Marty, I told you, you are my friend,” Marlowe said. “Joseph and the others were my enemies. I tried to warn you about them, didn’t I? Didn’t I try to tell you what kind of people they were? Didn’t I tell you that Milo, Debbie, and Sierra were no different from Joseph and the rest of them? People do not run around with people that much unlike them. You and me, Marty, we are alike. We have always been partners. That is why I want to help you now. You need to turn your life over to God, Marty. If you want to remain a practicing Jew, that is fine. Just purify yourself, Marty. Turn your soul over to God, and let him turn your life from the pitiful wreck it is now into what it should be. Damn, if he can save Joseph he can save you, or for that matter anybody”
Suddenly, Marty groaned, and then he cried out. The agony was becoming unbearable. Thank God, his parents were away, he thought. If they ever saw him in this state, that would be the end for sure. Of course, he did not believe in God. He suddenly heaved, and to his horror, he vomited up blood. He looked over toward Marlowe, who stared at it, transfixed with what actually seemed desire.
“Please, Marty,” he said, actually almost begging him. “Pray! God will help you right here, right now.”
“Marlowe, I don’t know what kind of trip you’re on, or what your angle is, but you know I never believed in that crap. What in the hell is the point of this? If you’re trying to torture me, fine, I get it. Just please get out of here now, or kill me, one of the two. My life is hell, so I’m used to hell. If Joseph is in heaven, I’m not sure I want to be there anyway. Of course, he’s not in heaven because there ain’t no heaven, and there ain’t no hell. So drop this shit, because I ain’t going for it.”
Marlowe shook his fist slightly and turned as he cursed under his breath.
“You always were stubborn, Marty,” he said, and then he threw a packet down at him. Marty looked at the grayish white powder in surprise.
“What the hell is this?” he demanded.
“What do you think it is?” Marlowe replied.
Marty reached out for the packet, but Marlowe grabbed it before he could get half way to it.
“There is a catch, though,” he said. “I want to prove something to you. There is just enough there to straighten you up for a little while. Then, I want you to clean yourself up. You don’t want Mary to see you in this shape, do you?”
“Marlowe, that’s not cool, and it sure ain’t funny,” he said. “Mary is dead. It’s bad enough your pervert of an uncle did what he did to her body, but for you now to talk about her like she is”-
“Do you want to talk to your sister or not?” Marlowe replied in obvious exasperation. “At least take the shit so you can think calmly about what I have to say. She’s waiting for you, Marty, and she wants to talk to you.”
“Well, Mary has seen me like this before,” Marty said, amazed he even encouraged the conversation to this extent. Of course, he really wanted that heroin.
“It’s not that simple Marty,” he said. “We have to go somewhere, and you damn sure can’t go like you are now. You would never make it that far, for one thing, but mainly you would never make it through the door if you did. The people there would send you away, if you were lucky. Now do it. Trust me, just this once.”
Marty was past arguing, and almost past caring. He wanted the drug, so he took it, and then he took the syringe proffered by Marlowe, and the tourniquet. At this stage, Marty did not even care if the syringe was a used one. He wrapped the tourniquet around his arm, he puffed up a vein, and by the time that he was finished, Marlowe already prepared the warm concoction.
“Good, you have a good vein there,” Marlowe observed. “You always managed to keep a good vein, didn’t you, Marty? Mine are worthless to me. Oh, the veins are good, but the blood just stays in one place, though it multiplies until il spreads, slowly, until it breaks down and dies. That is what Doctor Chou told me anyway. You do not know how lucky you are. Well, in a way you are lucky.”
Marty ignored Marlowe’s babblings as he injected the heroin. He could feel its effects almost instantaneously. Already, he felt calmer, more relaxed, and though he still was sick, the pains gradually ceased, until they were no more. Marlowe handed him a chocolate bar.
“Chocolate is kosher, of course,” Marlowe said, “or I assume it is. Oh, that is right, though, it does not matter to you anyway, at least not yet. Oh, but it will, my friend, it will. Now, go get yourself cleaned up. Put on some clean clothes. You smell like my last supper, and if you knew what that was, you would know that definitely is not good. Damn, but she sure was a feisty little thing.”
“Marlowe, what in the hell are you talking about?” Marty asked. “What in the hell has happened to you?”
“Just take a shower and put on some clean clothes,” Marlowe repeated. “I’ll go try to scrounge up something for you to eat. We don’t have a lot of time.”
After Marty was through bathing, he felt much better, though he still felt an overpowering urge for more of the drug, and knew Marlowe was his only chance of getting it. He dressed, and found his gun. He placed it in the pocket of his coat. Marlowe was going to give him what he wanted, or one of them was not going to survive the night, he decided. He made his way down the steps as casually as he could, to see Marlowe waiting with a grilled cheese sandwich and a Coca-Cola.
“Here, this should pep you right up,” Marlowe said as he turned, and then stared at the gun that Marty pointed straight at him.
“Oh, good, I see you have your gun,” Marlowe said. “You might well need it. Now, how did you know I was going to suggest you bring it?”
“Marlowe, shut the fuck up,” Marty said. “Give me the fucking heroin now, and then get the fuck out of here. These are hollow point bullets, so don’t fuck with me.”
Marlowe just looked at him curiously.
“Of course you know I would just come back and kill you while you were wasted, right? You do not seem to care though, strangely. Really, Marty, I would hate to see you waste a perfectly good bullet on me. You might need them, every single one of them. Otherwise, I would not mind. I rather enjoy the look on people’s faces when they shoot me. The last person that tried that, I just looked at her and said ‘Hey, that’s what she said!’ She did not seem to think it was funny, strangely. I guess she wasn’t an ‘Office’ fan.”
“Marlowe, just shut up and give me the fucking drug!” Marty demanded, now starting to tremble and once more perspire, while actually on the verge of tears.
“No,” Marlowe replied simply, whereupon Marty fired one into his chest. Marty could see the movement of the shattered bullet exiting through Marlowe’s back, as threads of the back of the shirt he wore flew out from behind him.
“Oh, damn you Marty-ugghhh! That hurt like hell!” Marlowe shouted loudly as he crumpled over.
“Oh, shit, Marlowe! I’m sorry, but god damn, I warned you to stop fucking with me. Give me that fucking drug now, and”-
Marty just then noticed, however, that only a little spot of blood gathered around Marlowe’s chest, no more than if he’d been pricked with a safety pen, though the entrance wound was considerably large. Then, the bleeding stopped. Marlowe then stood upright and looked at him. He smiled.
“Thank you, sir, may I have another?” he asked. Then, he laughed. He giggled. He cackled.
“Marlowe, I’m sorry,” Marty said with desperate pleading. “Are-are you all right?”
“No, I feel like hell,” Marlowe replied, as suddenly his features contorted, and began to transform in front of Marty’s eyes. His purplish black dyed hair was now almost as thick as it was long, and now was blonde instead of dark, and though at first his face looked to be merely that of an older man, it soon became dried and leathery, as the green eyes peered into Marty’s soul.
“That is where I am going to take you tonight, Marty,” he continued. “I am taking you to hell. After all, I made you a promise, and I intend to keep my word. I told you I wanted to let you talk to your sister. Well, she is waiting for you.”
The entire room was dark, but now filled with fog, and the room became stiflingly hot, as Marty could hear what sounded to be the crackling of flames, and in the distance, the rumbling as of an active volcano fed by streams of lava. He could hear the sounds of tortured screams. They cried and they begged piteously, but nothing prepared Marty for the sight he was about to see.
He looked in horror at the sight of Debbie Leighton standing before him, a bullet hole wide and bloody at the front of her skull, as her dead eyes pleaded for mercy from an eternity of torment.
“Marty, is that you? Please get me out of here. Please”-
Marty backed away from her as she began to remove her clothes.
“Fuck you-stay away from me Debbie,” he said as he backed away in desperate loathing, though mixed with a sense of overwhelming shock and terror. “I know what you did. You killed my little sister, you fucking cunt.”
“You remember how good I was, don’t you?” she pleaded while seemingly ignoring his accusations. “You remember how we used to fuck, don’t you? Don’t you want to fuck me again, Marty?”
Marty looked down at the pussy he had many times savored, but now he saw it infected, festering, and swollen. It was rotten, and it stank. Marty could see by the dim lights of distant flames that it swarmed with an infestation of maggots.
“It hurts so bad, Marty, please fuck me,” she pleaded. “I can’t go on like this. I have to be fucked. No one will fuck me here. They just laugh at me. Please, Marty”-
Marty backed away in horror, but Debbie advanced, becoming angry in the face of his repulsion.
“I’ll make you fuck me, Marty,” she warned.
“Marlowe, where the fuck are you?” he demanded. “Get me the hell out of here!”
He turned again, wanting to run but afraid to move, as the darkness afforded him no surety of his footing. The heat, along with the surrounding stench of death, was becoming unbearable. There were unimaginable cries of horror and agony. What were even worse were the howls of demonic laughter that surrounded him, piercing him like a thousand needles, as Debbie suddenly grabbed him in a desperate attempt to rip his jeans off as she grabbed for his crotch.
He pulled away from her and ran without thinking, but he suddenly slipped on the wet surface under him and fell to the cavernous, stony floor beneath him. There was a slimy, sticky substance under him, and he knew immediately it was blood and gore. Then, he felt the body of the person next to him. Even through the darkness, the features of someone began to take shape. He soon looked upon the despairing, pain-wracked eyes of Milo Richmond, unable to rise from the filth of his own rotting blood and the gore from his spilled intestines that covered him from head to toe, as he strained in agony to speak in what seemed an effort born of desperation.
“There is nothing but pain and suffering here, Marty, worse than you can ever imagine,” he said. “You’ve got to help me. I need a fix. Oh God, I need it so bad. I can’t take this pain. Please help me Marty.”
“Milo, I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do,” Marty said, now in the throes of despondency at the sight of his dead friend, begging him for the help that Marty understood he was completely helpless to give him.
“All of us are down here, except for Joseph,” Milo said as he cried in agony. “He should be here too, more than any of us, but because he turned to God at the last minute for forgiveness and trusted him, he got out of it. Jesus saved him. He is in heaven now while the rest of us have to suffer forever. It is not fair. Oh, God, it’s just not fair.”
Milo’s words pierced into Marty’s soul, formed as they were in the face of almost insurmountable pain and anguish. He looked away from his friend, as he rose. Debbie, still there, tried desperately to climb atop a protruding rock, as her legs spread open in a futile attempt to garner some sexual relief. Yet, though it was an effort that brought her only more pain, she could not stop. What horrified Marty more than anything did, however, was the sight of Sierra Lawson, screaming in agony though unable to stop continually plunging what appeared to be a sharp black handled blade deep inside her abdomen, repeatedly thrusting as she groaned in horrible pain.
“Well, do you get it now?” Marty heard Marlowe’s voice say to him, almost soothingly.
Marty was now somewhere else, out in the cold night air. He looked down around him. He was in his car. He had driven somewhere, but to where? Marlowe was beside him, looking as serious as Marty had ever seen him. To Marty’s consternation, Marlowe now busied himself with the act of putting on an overly thick layer of what looked and smelled to be sunscreen.
“Not a pretty picture at all, was it?” Marlowe asked, as he continued the application of the thick, pasty substance on his arms and his face, as though readying himself for a day at the beach, or a tanning salon. Yet, it was now the dead of night. It was well past midnight, in fact.
“Where are we?” Marty asked. “How did we get here?”
“I changed my mind,” he said. “I didn’t want you to see Mary in the state she’s in. Your reaction to the others was more than enough. If you saw what Mary was destined to go through for eternity, I am quite afraid it would drive you insane. This is better-much better.”
“Mary-is in that place?”
“For all eternity, I’m afraid,” Marlowe said plainly. “One good thing about it, though. At the rate you are going, you will be joining her soon enough. I doubt that you or her either one will take much solace from that, unfortunately. Come, let us do this thing and get it over with.”
They got out of the car, and as they walked toward the building in the distance, Marty realized, finally, where they were going.
“We’re going to the fucking morgue?” he asked. “Why?”
“Your sister has not yet been reburied”, Marlowe replied. “Your parents have been fighting tooth and nail to prevent any kind of autopsy from determining whether her corpse was abused by my late uncle, and so she yet is there, her body in cold storage until the matter is resolved one way or another.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he continued. “They are expecting you here. An appointment has been made for you.”
Marlowe told Marty what to say when they were ushered into the viewing area by the lone forensic examiner, a man named Peyton, who informed him that Detective Berry advised him of his, Marty’s arrival. Marty looked around to see Marlowe nowhere around. Every fiber of his being screamed out to him to get the hell away from there as fast as he could, but instead, the words just flooded out of his mouth.
“I’ve been getting these calls from this girl claiming to be my sister,” he explained. “It really sounds like her, and she knows things only me and Mary knows. I still think it is a sick joke, but I just want to look one last time, to satisfy myself. Otherwise, this crap is going to gnaw at me from now on.”
“That’s perfectly understandable,” Peyton said as they moved down the hallway past one lone guard, who seemed to be more interested in watching the clock that hung from the wall down the hallway than in the comings-and-goings of a person he saw almost every night.
“What has this person been saying to you anyway?” Peyton asked.
“Just that someone killed somebody else by mistake, and that she’s been in hiding, and it has something to do with some kind of drug ring,” Marty said. “There was some really crazy shit about the mafia and the government being out to get her. If it did not sound so much like her, I would not think anything about it. I guess a part of me is hoping she’s telling the truth, that it is really Mary, but like my friend Marlowe said, I shouldn’t get my hopes up.”
The man chatted with him casually as they made their way into a big room, where metal tables waited, some of them upon which some cadavers were lying, all of them covered. Marty noted that Peyton had no reaction to his mention of the name Marlowe. If this guy was involved in some scam of Marlowe’s, he certainly wasn’t letting it out. After what Marty saw tonight, however, nothing would surprise him. He was not at this point sure if he really was at the city morgue. He almost did not care. He was starting to feel the effects of withdrawal once more, and wanted to get out of here as quickly as possible. He wanted a real fix this time.
Peyton uncovered a cadaver, and Marty looked, and then quickly turned. It was Mary. He forced himself to look at her one more time.
“As soon as Detective Berry told me you were coming, I had her brought out here. I know this is difficult, so if you would like a little time, I can leave you alone for a while.”
“I would appreciate that,” Marty said weakly.
Peyton walked toward the door, where he pointed to a round metallic knob.
“When you’re ready to leave, just press this buzzer,” he said. He then left, as Marty turned once more toward the still easily recognizable face of his sister, dead now for over a year.
Marty tremblingly raised up the sheet which now covered Mary’s body, and saw plainly on her stomach and abdomen, as well as her thighs, the remnants of the rashes with which she for years was afflicted, and which brought her no small degree of embarrassment and unease.
“Mary, I’m so sorry,” he said. Suddenly, Mary opened her eyes, and stared out in pain and horror.
“They will never leave me alone,” she said. “The demons are always torturing me-raping me and tearing away at me, and biting me. Please, Marty. Listen to Marlowe. Get saved.”
“Mary,” he said in despair, but it was too late. She once more closed her eyes. He looked up and saw Marlowe Krovell.
“Now do you believe me?” he asked.
“Yes,” Marty said almost in a whisper. “I believe you.”
He looked down at his sister’s body and started to cry, quietly at first, and then loudly. He closed his eyes, and tried to block out the thoughts of Mary’s despair. Then he heard it.
“Our secret”, said a voice.
Marty almost shouted. It was Mary’s voice, but he looked at Mary’s body, her eyes yet closed.
“Remember our secret,” he heard her voice say yet again. He looked up and saw Marlowe, standing off in the distance, his back now to Marty, morosely looking down toward a body likewise covered on a separate table.
“Marlowe, I can’t be saved,” he said. “I can never get off drugs, and even if I could, I could never live a good Christian life or a good Jewish one either. It’s a waste of time.”
“As long as you have faith,” Marlowe said, yet looking down upon the yet covered body that rested before him, “God can accomplish anything. Even if you fail, as long as you try and have faith, God will forgive you.”
“So I can still go to heaven, regardless of how I live?” he asked.
“Of course,” Marlowe said.
Marty walked up to him, as Marlowe turned to face him.
“What is wrong, Marty?” he asked.
“You’re lying,” he said. “Mary ain’t in hell. She became a Christian, and was saved and baptized. She joined the Catholic Church, and took the Eucharist whenever she got the chance. Whenever she sinned, no matter how silly or insignificant I thought it was, she always went to confession. She prayed. She did that stupid fucking rosary bit every day, sometimes several times a day.
“I just remembered, the priest told her the same thing, that as long as she tried and had faith, her sins would be forgiven, whether she sinned or not. Well, she tried, Marlowe. She tried her hardest, and when she failed, she never lost her faith.
“It was our secret. She did not want mom and dad to find out, because she knew they would not approve of her turning from our Jewish faith. She was afraid they would disown her. Just two nights before she died, she finally broke down and told them. She was still upset over breaking up with that jackass from school. They told her it was not only all right, but they approved. It was her decision to make.”
Marlowe was silent. He said nothing, keeping his attention focused exclusively on the body under the sheet.
“You’re a real asshole, Marlowe,” he said. “I don’t know how in the hell you pulled all this stuff tonight, and I don’t really think I want to know. I’ll tell you this though-I never want to see you again. Whatever so-called friendship we might have had is over. Keep your drugs, you fucking creep!”
Marty walked off, and hit the buzzer at the door, but he heard no sound. He waited, as he heard Marlowe mumble something from behind him. He waited, until he realized no one was coming, and as he tried the buzzer again, he heard the sound of something moving. He ignored it for a while, but when the movement stopped, he turned. At that exact instant, the lights went out. He turned around, and shouted for Marlowe, but Marlowe gave no response. After an interminably long number of minutes, during which Marty felt the urge to shoot up growing ever more pronounced, be began to become fearful. He could see but very little, and heard no sign of Marlowe. Now growing more fearful by the minute, he reached for the buzzer, but heard no sound.
He drew his gun from his coat pocket at the sound of what seemed to be something dragged as from off a table, and then across the floor. It seemed to be something heavy, though muffled. Within a short number of minutes, as Marty stood transfixed in abject terror, the lights came back on. Marlowe was gone. Not only that, but the table by where Marlowe stood last now was absent the unknown, sheet-covered cadaver that previously laid upon it.
He tried the door, and to his surprise, it opened easily, as though never locked. He made his way out into and down the hallway. It was darkened, and as he made his way cautiously toward the exit, he walked in horror up to the desk guard, who sat there slumped over his desk, as though asleep.
“Oh my God,” he said. “Mr., are you all right?”
Marty shook the man, but he crumpled over, and Marty Evans saw then the grisly sight of the night guard, his throat slashed open in a horrendous wound. He cried as he made his way down the hallway to the left that lead to the exit door. To his horror, he then saw the body of Peyton, sprawled out on the floor, a pool of blood under his back and his head, his throat likewise ripped open, as his eyes stared out in what had to be one final moment of living hell.
He hurried past Peyton’s corpse to the exit door. He opened it and hurriedly made his way out. By the time he made it to where he parked his Subaru, he had to fumble for over a minute before he found his car keys. He got inside and hurriedly shut the door, but there was something in the passenger’s seat. It was a packet. It looked, in fact, to be a packet of heroin.
He started the car and drove hurriedly away. By the time he made it to his house, he remembered how Mary used to talk to him when he was hurting, when he was withdrawing from the heroin, during those times when he became a little more hooked than he intended. Most of the time, he knew the right time to quit. It was hard, it was painful, but most of the time he made it all right. He always survived, even the worse of times. There were times, however, when he went through sheer hell. All of those times, Mary was there for him, looking after him, talking to him, protecting him, consoling him, reading to him, joking with him-and, when he seemed to need it most, berating him.
“Promise me you will never do this again, Marty,” she would say. And so, he would promise her. He would intend to keep that promise, but he never would. Now, as he took out the packet left in the car, and eyed the syringe and the tourniquet that lay waiting for him, almost taunting him, he realized the truth. His whole life was a lie, and as he prepared the solution for the final time, he finally understood. He never intentionally lied to her-only to himself.
“I’m sorry, Mary,” he muttered, as he inserted the syringe into his veins. Within a matter of seconds, he was out.
Fascism-It's Not Just For The Right Anymore
A scheduled debate at the Oxford Union had to be canceled in the face of violent protests by those determined to not allow a free speech forum for David Irving, author and Holocaust denier, and BNP leader Nick Griffin, who advocates the deportation from the UK of those he feels are not British.
So much for the left being such vociferous advocates of free speech. This kind of thing happens more and more at American universities as well. Mel Gibson was shouted down during an appearance at a California university by an assistant professor of humanities who insisted that he owed the Maya "an apology" for his portrayal of them in his last film Apocalypto. Never mind the fact that the portrayal was generally an accurate one in all but perhaps the time line portrayed in the movie. He just should have kept his mouth shut, presumably on the grounds of cultural sensitivity.
When this kind of stuff happens in Britain, or other places in Europe whose true history of legitimate democracy and equal protection under law is about as long as my dick, I just figure it's just another day in that fucking nursing home we've been subsidizing for the last sixty years.
When it happens here it pisses me the fuck off, and scares me at the same time. Look for it to become more and more commonplace, though-unfortunately.
So much for the left being such vociferous advocates of free speech. This kind of thing happens more and more at American universities as well. Mel Gibson was shouted down during an appearance at a California university by an assistant professor of humanities who insisted that he owed the Maya "an apology" for his portrayal of them in his last film Apocalypto. Never mind the fact that the portrayal was generally an accurate one in all but perhaps the time line portrayed in the movie. He just should have kept his mouth shut, presumably on the grounds of cultural sensitivity.
When this kind of stuff happens in Britain, or other places in Europe whose true history of legitimate democracy and equal protection under law is about as long as my dick, I just figure it's just another day in that fucking nursing home we've been subsidizing for the last sixty years.
When it happens here it pisses me the fuck off, and scares me at the same time. Look for it to become more and more commonplace, though-unfortunately.
Clinton Campaign Hostage Situation
According to this report from the BBC, a man claiming to have a bomb has entered the New Hampshire offices of Hillary Clinton and has taken hostages. He did release a woman with a child, but as of now still holds two volunteers as hostages.
Clinton herself is not present, but is currently appearing at a campaign function in Virginia. The Edwards and Obama campaign headquarters in New Hampshire have also been evacuated.
No doubt the Clinton campaign will play this for all it's worth, probably as yet more evidence of the "vast right-wing conspiracy". I have an idea though the guy might turn out to be some far-leftist Iraq war protester-a peace activist with a bomb.
Well, the bomb squad is there, as well as hostage negotiators. I wonder what the guy will demand. Since it is the Clinton headquarters he's taken over, I assume it won't be a piece of ass. On the other hand-well, the guy is obviously crazy as hell.
If on the other hand his demands are that Clinton withdraw from the race for whatever reason, I hope those volunteers get a chance to say one last goodbye to their loved ones. Well, everybody is expendable you know, and we sure can't be giving in to terrorists, can we?
Hey, what if he is a Muslim? Oops. I bet Hillary's speech writers are busy even as we speak. Don't look for cleavage.
I receive updates from a variety of news sources, and the BBC deserves kudos for being the first out with this.
Clinton herself is not present, but is currently appearing at a campaign function in Virginia. The Edwards and Obama campaign headquarters in New Hampshire have also been evacuated.
No doubt the Clinton campaign will play this for all it's worth, probably as yet more evidence of the "vast right-wing conspiracy". I have an idea though the guy might turn out to be some far-leftist Iraq war protester-a peace activist with a bomb.
Well, the bomb squad is there, as well as hostage negotiators. I wonder what the guy will demand. Since it is the Clinton headquarters he's taken over, I assume it won't be a piece of ass. On the other hand-well, the guy is obviously crazy as hell.
If on the other hand his demands are that Clinton withdraw from the race for whatever reason, I hope those volunteers get a chance to say one last goodbye to their loved ones. Well, everybody is expendable you know, and we sure can't be giving in to terrorists, can we?
Hey, what if he is a Muslim? Oops. I bet Hillary's speech writers are busy even as we speak. Don't look for cleavage.
I receive updates from a variety of news sources, and the BBC deserves kudos for being the first out with this.
Boxers Or Briefs Or Magic Underwear?
This article from Slate, Mitt The Mormon might well be one of the most important ones they have published, as it points out very serious potential aspects of a Mitt Romney presidency. It also asks very important questions that Romney seems not to want to answer. How will his religious beliefs affect his presidency?
It is easy to see parallels in Romney's political career with the history of the Church of Jesus Christ Of Latter Day Saints, as the Mormon Church is officially titled.
The church's marriage policy was originally polygamist. This was far more than a mere cultural or practical matter. This was in fact a very important article of faith, arguably perhaps the most important one of all. Yet, it was conveniently dropped in order to pave the way for Utah to become a state.
That's not all. Up until as relatively recently as 1978, the church was a virulently racist organization which claimed, according to divine revelation, that the dark skin of Africans and their descendants was a curse. Due to this factor, black Mormons were not permitted to hold any high office, or for that matter, any office at all. They could not even be a deacon of the church.
The change in 1978 seems to have coincided with certain civil rights laws having been confirmed in the courts.
If flip-flopping on issues then is a sign of Romney's character, you will at least have to say he has certainly been a faithful Mormon. But is that what we want for a President?
It's one thing to have silly, even arguably ridiculous beliefs about Missouri being the future center of power during the prophesied millennium, or that one should be obliged to always wear underwear inscribed with religious insignia-even in the bath or shower-in order to preserve health and spiritual strength.
It's quite another thing to believe that the laws and edicts of the religious organization of which you have been a member all your adult life (since before 1978 in his case, incidentally) are of greater transcendence and importance than the laws of the land, the top office for which you are aspiring.
The point is made that if John F, Kennedy can openly address questions concerning his catholic faith, and Robert Byrd can address questions as to his past memberhsip in the Ku Klux Klan, why can Mitt Romney not address these relevant similar questions about his Mormon faith? Why does he insist on playing the victim, claiming religious bigotry whenever the question is asked?
The point has even been made that he might have push-polled his own campaign in an effort to dissuade further questions about the matter. If this is true, it is very disturbing indeed.
On the other hand, given his past and recent somewhat Mormonesque flip-flops on important and/or controversial issues, as to his policies as governor of Massachusetts versus his current positions as candidate for President of the United States, an even more disturbing potential emerges.
If he answered the questions, could we believe a fucking word that came out of his mouth, or would he feel any deceptive answer would be justified by faith?
It is easy to see parallels in Romney's political career with the history of the Church of Jesus Christ Of Latter Day Saints, as the Mormon Church is officially titled.
The church's marriage policy was originally polygamist. This was far more than a mere cultural or practical matter. This was in fact a very important article of faith, arguably perhaps the most important one of all. Yet, it was conveniently dropped in order to pave the way for Utah to become a state.
That's not all. Up until as relatively recently as 1978, the church was a virulently racist organization which claimed, according to divine revelation, that the dark skin of Africans and their descendants was a curse. Due to this factor, black Mormons were not permitted to hold any high office, or for that matter, any office at all. They could not even be a deacon of the church.
The change in 1978 seems to have coincided with certain civil rights laws having been confirmed in the courts.
If flip-flopping on issues then is a sign of Romney's character, you will at least have to say he has certainly been a faithful Mormon. But is that what we want for a President?
It's one thing to have silly, even arguably ridiculous beliefs about Missouri being the future center of power during the prophesied millennium, or that one should be obliged to always wear underwear inscribed with religious insignia-even in the bath or shower-in order to preserve health and spiritual strength.
It's quite another thing to believe that the laws and edicts of the religious organization of which you have been a member all your adult life (since before 1978 in his case, incidentally) are of greater transcendence and importance than the laws of the land, the top office for which you are aspiring.
The point is made that if John F, Kennedy can openly address questions concerning his catholic faith, and Robert Byrd can address questions as to his past memberhsip in the Ku Klux Klan, why can Mitt Romney not address these relevant similar questions about his Mormon faith? Why does he insist on playing the victim, claiming religious bigotry whenever the question is asked?
The point has even been made that he might have push-polled his own campaign in an effort to dissuade further questions about the matter. If this is true, it is very disturbing indeed.
On the other hand, given his past and recent somewhat Mormonesque flip-flops on important and/or controversial issues, as to his policies as governor of Massachusetts versus his current positions as candidate for President of the United States, an even more disturbing potential emerges.
If he answered the questions, could we believe a fucking word that came out of his mouth, or would he feel any deceptive answer would be justified by faith?
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Garbage In Garbage Out
Sometimes I hate being right. I always said that if the death penalty was ever rescinded, outlawed, declared unconstitutional, or went into some kind of moratorium, it wouldn't stop there. The same people pushing for an end to it (many of whom currently like to brag about how they would be "tough on crime" by mandating life at hard labor) would waste precious little time moving into phase two-insisting on moving the prison system away from punishment and toward rehabilitation even toward, whenever possible, the most hard core and violent offenders.
Since a great many states have now moved toward a death penalty moratorium in the wake of federal and Supreme Court rulings that address concerns as to the constitutionality of certain forms of execution, especially the process of lethal injection, the next step is on the way.
Enter this report by Maya Schenwar, "Set in Steel:Prison Life Without Parole, a special report on Truthout.org. Why, she asks, are federal bans on parole still in place, despite burgeoning prison populations and, of all things, growing recidivism? (Uh, maybe because of the "growing" recidivism, perhaps?)
True, the article does make the point-and it is a good one-that a lot of the people stuck behind bars with no chance of parole are non-violent drug offenders. True, I myself think a lot of these so-called crimes should not only not be crimes, they should be legal and regulated commerce.
At the same time, I guarantee you this process would be just the first step in a return to the seventies and eighties mindset, which can best be summed up as-let's rehabilitate the criminal and put him back out to where he can contribute to society after at most a few years of controlled therapy.
One of the reasons I turned from the left, and from the Democratic Party who have been their staunchest enablers, is the simple fact they never seem to learn from past mistakes, and it is easy to see the potential for history repeating itself with just a brief scan of this article.
Since a great many states have now moved toward a death penalty moratorium in the wake of federal and Supreme Court rulings that address concerns as to the constitutionality of certain forms of execution, especially the process of lethal injection, the next step is on the way.
Enter this report by Maya Schenwar, "Set in Steel:Prison Life Without Parole, a special report on Truthout.org. Why, she asks, are federal bans on parole still in place, despite burgeoning prison populations and, of all things, growing recidivism? (Uh, maybe because of the "growing" recidivism, perhaps?)
True, the article does make the point-and it is a good one-that a lot of the people stuck behind bars with no chance of parole are non-violent drug offenders. True, I myself think a lot of these so-called crimes should not only not be crimes, they should be legal and regulated commerce.
At the same time, I guarantee you this process would be just the first step in a return to the seventies and eighties mindset, which can best be summed up as-let's rehabilitate the criminal and put him back out to where he can contribute to society after at most a few years of controlled therapy.
One of the reasons I turned from the left, and from the Democratic Party who have been their staunchest enablers, is the simple fact they never seem to learn from past mistakes, and it is easy to see the potential for history repeating itself with just a brief scan of this article.
CNN-Don't Ask, Don't Tell
"My name's Keith Kerr, from Santa Rosa, California. I'm a retired
brigadier general with 43 years of service,'' Kerr told the candidates
in the video that he submitted to the YouTube debate. "I'm a graduate
of the Special Forces Officer Course, the Commanding General Staff
Course and the Army War College. And I'm an openly gay man.
"I want to know why you think that American men and women in
uniform are not professional enough to serve with gays and lesbians.''
CNN decided not to tell a lot of things in the last CNN/YouTube Republican presidential debate. Well, except maybe a pack of lies. They claimed not to know that retired Brigadier General Keith Kerr, an openly gay man, once served on Hillary Clinton's campaign on her "lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender steering committee."
They claimed to take his word that he, as a Log Cabin Republican, was there representing himself and had contributed no money to any of the Democratic candidates.
I guess they forgot about the fact that they have actually interviewed this guy once before, when he was a member of a veterans group that supported John Kerry's 2004 election bid. Or maybe, just maybe, when they decided to fly Kerr on a special trip to the debate, they decided not to tell that, and hoped no one would think to ask.
Well, the general asked about the current US military policy towards gays, and boy was Mitt Romney ever sorry he did it. Ol' Flippy the Flopper II kinda reversed his position from the time he was all for allowing gays to openly serve in the military. Now, he seems to think "don't ask, don't tell" is a fine policy.
To quote that well-known gay former marine Gomer Pyle-"surprise, surprise, surprise!"
All the other candidates pretty much voiced support for the policy as well, but of course that has pretty much always been their positions, or relatively close enough to them they didn't look like complete schmucks.
Romney, not so much, and after the drubbing he took by Anderson Cooper, who wouldn't let the matter rest, I guess we can assume Romney must have been wearing his special magic Mormon underwear, as he seems to have pretty much shit on himself.
Now CNN is being accused of knowingly allowing the Clinton campaign to plant this obvious stooge in the debate as a means of tripping up one or more of the candidates. At the end, he expressed the view that none of the candidates answered his question satisfactorily.
Don't ask, don't tell? Some things are so obvious no words need be spoken. The only problem is, it's hard to see what either camp hoped to accomplish, other than to make Romney look like a greasy weasel. But hell, we already knew that.
Hat Tip-Wonkette
So Give The Bitch Forty Lashes
British school teacher Gillian Gibbons should have known better than to give a teddy bear that she presented to some students at Unity School in Sudan the name Mohammed. What kind of cultural sensitivity is that?
According to this post at Religion Clause, a Sudanese court, at the urging the Assembly of the Ulemas, might charge her with
*Insulting Islam
*Inciting religious hared
*Contempt for religious beliefs
British Foreign Secretary David Miliband is engaged now with talks with the Sudanese Ambassador in an attempt to mitigate the charges and potential punishment, but it doesn't look good, even though even the Muslim Council of Britain has gone on record in opposition to the Sudan's actions.
I could care less, and here is why. The school at which Gibbons teaches is described as "an exclusive British-run school favoured by the Sudanese elites".
In other words, she teaches the children of the very same motherfucking sand monkeys that are responsible for the on-going genocide of Darfur, which in my view makes her as well as the entire staff of the school culpable for the outrage. Fuck all of them.
No word as of yet as to what type or degree of punishment the Sand Monkeys of The Sudan intend to mete out to the teddy bear. I suggest tens of thousands of them waving placards while foaming at the mouth rip it to pieces. Hopefully the rabid motherfuckers will film it for posterity and distribute it to the world media.
According to this post at Religion Clause, a Sudanese court, at the urging the Assembly of the Ulemas, might charge her with
*Insulting Islam
*Inciting religious hared
*Contempt for religious beliefs
British Foreign Secretary David Miliband is engaged now with talks with the Sudanese Ambassador in an attempt to mitigate the charges and potential punishment, but it doesn't look good, even though even the Muslim Council of Britain has gone on record in opposition to the Sudan's actions.
I could care less, and here is why. The school at which Gibbons teaches is described as "an exclusive British-run school favoured by the Sudanese elites".
In other words, she teaches the children of the very same motherfucking sand monkeys that are responsible for the on-going genocide of Darfur, which in my view makes her as well as the entire staff of the school culpable for the outrage. Fuck all of them.
No word as of yet as to what type or degree of punishment the Sand Monkeys of The Sudan intend to mete out to the teddy bear. I suggest tens of thousands of them waving placards while foaming at the mouth rip it to pieces. Hopefully the rabid motherfuckers will film it for posterity and distribute it to the world media.
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