One of the things John McCain said in his recent speech to the NRA convention veered off the subject of gun control and over into other territory, including foreign policy and economics. His statement on the condition of the American economy was the most surprising. Lauding successive, uninterrupted quarters of what he termed as “explosive economic growth”, he made the statement that Americans were once more feeling optimistic about their economic situation and the economy of the nation.
Was he kidding? No, evidently he was serious, or seemed to be. With McCain, it is hard to tell for sure. It is almost as though he might have been trying to dissuade a potential NRA member-many who dislike and mistrust McCain-from possibly putting a bullet in his head. If he really believes that drivel there could not be a hell of a lot there worth shooting at.
Nevertheless, the Secret Service deemed it necessary to take no chances. They banned guns from the national convention of the country’s premiere guns rights advocate groups-at least in the area of proximity to the man the group has in the past roundly denounced as one of the nation’s premiere standard-bearers for incremental limitations on the right to bear arms. McCain was there supposedly to mend fences, of course, but the SS decided to take no chances. Some at the convention must have seen this as an omen of things to come.
Neither Barak Obama nor Hillary Clinton received an invitation to appear at the convention, but evidently, Mike Huckabee did not get the memo, and so jokingly derided a falling chair as Obama diving for cover. He has since apologized repeatedly for this off-the-cuff remark, each such expression of regret increasing his chances exponentially of acquiring the vice-presidential spot on McCain’s GOP ticket.
Others there denounced and ridiculed both Hillary and Obama for their alleged anti-gun beliefs, though Obama at least has stated he defends not only the rights of hunters and gun collectors, but also the rights of law-abiding citizens to have guns for self-defense.
My boy Mitch McConnell, Kentucky’s senior Senator and House Minority Leader-himself up for re-election this year-declared that a Democratic presidency would be bad for gun owners and the Second Amendment. I’m afraid on some levels he might be right. By the same token, I have to wonder how seriously he takes McCain’s promise to protect the Second Amendment and the rights of gun owners. McCain has promised to close the gun show loophole, which he claims is the major area of disagreement between himself and the NRA. Yet, he swears he will otherwise protect Second Amendment rights.
Despite these reassurances, I think Senator McConnell must to this day be steamed over the passage of McCain-Feingold, which he himself fought tooth and nail. He had to be biting his lip to keep from bringing that up to the attendees at the Louisville Kentucky convention for the NRA-one of the largest and most powerful lobbies in Washington.
McConnell sees this as a First Amendment issue-wrongly, in my view. I see it as limiting the ability of special interests to buy the loyalties of our elected representatives. McConnell and I do agree on one thing, however. McCain-Feingold is an awful piece of legislation that not only solves nothing, it in fact creates more problems. McCain is so far off the reservation on this and other matters, from a Republican Party perspective, I have to wonder how McConnell could possibly take him seriously. Party be damned, these two don’t like each other-at all.
Dr. Daniel Mongiardo, the current Lieutenant Governor of Kentucky, a Democrat, was there as well, and is an Obama supporter, yet made no mention of the upcoming national election. There were probably a few snickers at the memory of the last Kentucky governor’s race, an ad for which depicted Mongiardo and his then running mate and now Kentucky Governor, Steve Beshear, sitting in their camouflage with their hunting rifles, smiling at the cameras.
All of which brings me to my main point-the era of gun control activism is all but done for. Democrats have learned the hard way that any legislation intended to curtail the rights of gun owners, by applying a dubious at best interpretation of the Constitution as a “living document” that “grows and evolves” with the times, does not play well in Peoria, nor petty much anywhere else outside the West Coast and the Northeast. I have a pretty good idea, in fact, that it might be starting to wear thin in many of those areas. Any such malarkey will result, in most cases and in most places, in an electoral route.
This is important, because here is the reality-Democrats like to win elections as much as Republicans do, and, plainly speaking, they know this is a losing issue for them.
Oh, I’m sure that, given enough power and control, they would do their utmost to try to sneak in some gun control legislation, or add a few tweaks here and there-close the gun show loophole, ban first this or that specific type of firearm, etc. Be that as it may, I believe-at least I dearly hope-that they will not carry it too far. They simply cannot afford to.
The fact that Democrats feel obliged nowadays to run campaigns in which they depict themselves as avid hunters and sportsmen, showing off their guns in faux hunting scenes with big toothy grins and the like, tells you all you need to know.
McCain might well be a different story. A man who prides himself on his independence and his status as a maverick who is willing to “cross the aisle to get things done” can probably find a reason to institute draconian gun control laws as easily as he can support-well, cap and trade, for example.
Granted, this issue and national security are probably two of McCain’s strongest suits among a pretty limited wardrobe. I just don’t think either one of these fits him that well. In fact, I think he will bend too easily on these issues, as on so many others. When he does, I think there is a good chance that his ass will split wide open, and his party along with him. Since we are on the subject of “suits”, how likely is John McCain to support legislation to enable lawsuits against gun manufacturers? This is a major bone of contention, and is one of the issues whereby John McCain insists he is trustworthy and the Democratic candidates are not.
On the other hand, there have been recent spates of Democratic electoral victories involving conservative Democrats who support gun owners. One such election was in Illinois, for the seat once held by former Republican House Speaker Dennis Hastert. Another was in Mississippi, which President Bush won by nearly twenty-five percentage points. The Democratic victory here was hardly a squeaker. The Democrat challenger won the seat by a double-digit margin. The Democrats have won other such victories in Ohio and Louisiana, all with conservative candidates. One does not have to be a Nostradamus to see a trend emerging here.
This inspires in me a great deal of hope, that more and more conservative Democrats win elections up until that time that the Republican Party, conceivably under President McCain’s “guidance”, finally implodes.
The next few years could in fact see the biggest political realignment since that of the so-called “Reagan Democrats”, or Nixon’s “Silent Majority”.
This time around, like those and other previous occasions, might well amount to a political slaughter. You will know the winners, for the most part, by their hunting trophies, their trusty rifles, and their camouflage hunting jackets. The losers, from whichever party, will be unarmed and unprepared-clueless, as always.
The key to understanding the importance of this issue in the minds of voters and Second Amendment supporters is really quite simple. Issues such as the economy, education, health care, and foreign policy, can and probably will be tempered to suit the prevailing need and political climate-tweaked, improved, revised, and revisited countless times. In most instances, the effects are temporary and transitory in a general sense. Even a major war, as borne out by history, ends at some point.
A constitutional right, once trampled under any pretense, is likely forever lost, leaving nothing but the precedent for yet more loss of freedom, little by little, bit by bit, until soon, nothing remains but the meaningless facade of an archaic, whimsical historical document.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Mohammed-The Sacrilege Of Early Islamic Art
It seems there is actually a long tradition of Islamic artistic representations of the prophet Mohammed, as explained here by zombietime, which has on this page a large collection of such artwork. In fact, supposed Islamic injunctions against such displays actually go back no more than three or four centuries or so.
Granted, most of the images displayed on this page are of Shi’ite origin. Yet, evidently, there are Sunni examples as well.
The pictures are interesting. They depict various episodes of the life and myth of Mohammed, from his birth to his death, and everything (supposedly) in between. Most curious is his constant association with what is called a “buraq”-an animal with the body of a horse, the head of a woman, and the tail of a peacock.
There are also images of him visiting both heaven and hell-the latter in which he views various women tortured by demons for various sins, including inspiring lust in men by failing to cover their hair, bearing illegitimate children and falsely claiming they belong to their husbands, and for ridiculing their husbands and leaving home without permission. In heaven, he is seen viewing, and in at least one case cavorting with, the houris-those divine, heavenly virgins we are now so familiar with.
The one above is a portrayal of Mohammed receiving the Quran from the Archangel Gabriel.
One thing that is most striking about this collection is the marked similarity shared among most of these paintings of the Prophet. Evidently, not only was it at one time acceptable within Islamic culture and tradition to display the image of Mohammed in art, it seems to have been such a widespread endeavor that his image and features pretty much became as standardized among Muslim artists as the now more familiar images of Christ are among most Christians today.
The Newest Addition To The Environmentalist Enemies List
Another frequent target of Democratic Party favored activist groups has just joined the ranks of those accused of contributing to Global Warming. Along with the enemies and critics of cigarette smokers and cattle ranchers-who are apparently guilty of increasing the output of cow flatulence-fast food industry critics have now added to the fun.
You got it. Fat people are contributing to Global Warming
Well, what can you say? How could people possibly dispute this evidence? Yep-facts are all in. Ain't science fun?
Fortunately for the world environmental situation, there aren't a lot of black conservatives and Log Cabin Republicans. The world is teetering toward the brink of destruction fast enough as it is, thanks to those damn NASCAR drivers.
As long as we keep their numbers down then, I guess they are limited in the damage they can do-well, if we can ever get them away away from the damn golf courses, that is.
You got it. Fat people are contributing to Global Warming
Well, what can you say? How could people possibly dispute this evidence? Yep-facts are all in. Ain't science fun?
Fortunately for the world environmental situation, there aren't a lot of black conservatives and Log Cabin Republicans. The world is teetering toward the brink of destruction fast enough as it is, thanks to those damn NASCAR drivers.
As long as we keep their numbers down then, I guess they are limited in the damage they can do-well, if we can ever get them away away from the damn golf courses, that is.
We Should Choose Our Words Carefully
Farhad Manjoo of Salon gives us the following information about the MySpace mom case-
"In 2006, according to law enforcement officials, Lori Drew, a 49-year-old mother in O'Fallon, Mo., created a fake MySpace account under the name Josh Evans, whom she cooked up as a 16-year-old boy new to town. Prosecutors say Drew used the phony profile to set up an online relationship with Megan Meier, a 13-year-old classmate of Drew's daughter."
He goes on to say how "Evans" viciously dumped Meier, after telling her the world would be a better place without her. The distraught Megan Meier committed suicide.
Manjoo warns that the on-going drive to prosecute Lori Drew might be misguided, if understandable, and could constitute a slippery slope. Of course, anytime you log onto MySpace is a potential slippery slope, but that's a whole different story.
Here is a different take on the subject.
I have mixed feelings about it. I think the woman should certainly be punished severely, but at the same time, I fear the precedent it might set could potentially result in a lot of ill-founded, spurious, and even malicious lawsuits. Caution is advised.
Now if someone wants to get the bitch out and tar and feather her or boil her in oil, be my guest. Not that I am seriously advising anyone to do that, mind you. After all, that might well be construed as an internet cyber-threat and what-not. Therefore, let's just pretend I'm kidding to make a point.
Which is what I'm doing, of course.
"In 2006, according to law enforcement officials, Lori Drew, a 49-year-old mother in O'Fallon, Mo., created a fake MySpace account under the name Josh Evans, whom she cooked up as a 16-year-old boy new to town. Prosecutors say Drew used the phony profile to set up an online relationship with Megan Meier, a 13-year-old classmate of Drew's daughter."
He goes on to say how "Evans" viciously dumped Meier, after telling her the world would be a better place without her. The distraught Megan Meier committed suicide.
Manjoo warns that the on-going drive to prosecute Lori Drew might be misguided, if understandable, and could constitute a slippery slope. Of course, anytime you log onto MySpace is a potential slippery slope, but that's a whole different story.
Here is a different take on the subject.
I have mixed feelings about it. I think the woman should certainly be punished severely, but at the same time, I fear the precedent it might set could potentially result in a lot of ill-founded, spurious, and even malicious lawsuits. Caution is advised.
Now if someone wants to get the bitch out and tar and feather her or boil her in oil, be my guest. Not that I am seriously advising anyone to do that, mind you. After all, that might well be construed as an internet cyber-threat and what-not. Therefore, let's just pretend I'm kidding to make a point.
Which is what I'm doing, of course.
Special Announcement
The last chapter of Radu I expect to publish sometime early next week. Actually, I could have done so early this week, but since it is the final chapter I want to take special pains with it to insure that it is everything a last chapter should be, regardless of the fact it is a first draft. Well, also, I noticed I made a mistake regarding the time line of a certain event, involving when Marlowe met Cynthia the Vulture. I mistakenly have Marlowe musing about how she came to him after his escape from the hospital, when of course she actually helped him escape from Johns Hopkins, by feeding him the regurgitated remains of a human infant.
At any rate, for those of you have may have followed the various installments, I think I can safely promise you that you will be very much surprised at how certain things turn out. Hopefully I haven't given too much away, as I fear I might have done regarding the actual identity of Mircea. I intend to correct that in the rewrite, alone with other weaknesses of this first draft.
For those of you who have not read the novel, nor will read it, your torture is not quite yet over. Note that I said the last CHAPTER is upcoming.
Then comes the epilogue.
At any rate, for those of you have may have followed the various installments, I think I can safely promise you that you will be very much surprised at how certain things turn out. Hopefully I haven't given too much away, as I fear I might have done regarding the actual identity of Mircea. I intend to correct that in the rewrite, alone with other weaknesses of this first draft.
For those of you who have not read the novel, nor will read it, your torture is not quite yet over. Note that I said the last CHAPTER is upcoming.
Then comes the epilogue.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Gay Marriage Laws-Only During Election Years
They start this shit every election year, and NEVER any other time, in order to accomplish-what? I'm not sure. I only know it tends to favor Republicans, though it might not help them as much this year, especially since McCain has said he will not seize on it. Still, it will certainly rev up the conservative base to at least vote for conservative candidates, be they Democrat or (probably for the most part) Republicans. Then, of course, they will cry after they help get more Republicans elected, and then throw more money at the leaders of the BGLT coalition activist groups, the leaders of whom will laugh all the way to the bank. So much for that myth about gays being so much more intelligent than the rest of us. This issue is one of the main reasons a certain person didn't get the Republican nomination this year.
Now if he was the Republican nominee, it might encourage a different result. In other words, it wouldn't be an act of insanity. Of course the real irony is, they ain't trying to help the Democrats, they are just pissed off because the Democrats actually don't support them as much as they think they should, and as much as most people think they do. So, I guess this kind of makes sense when you stop to think about it.
If it helps Congressional Republicans in their individual races, I'm fine with it, though I don't quite get why they would want that. If it helps McCain, that's a different story.
Like I said, it only seems to come up during election years. Pay no attention to the man behind the lavender curtain-he's probably a Log Cabin Republican.
Now if he was the Republican nominee, it might encourage a different result. In other words, it wouldn't be an act of insanity. Of course the real irony is, they ain't trying to help the Democrats, they are just pissed off because the Democrats actually don't support them as much as they think they should, and as much as most people think they do. So, I guess this kind of makes sense when you stop to think about it.
If it helps Congressional Republicans in their individual races, I'm fine with it, though I don't quite get why they would want that. If it helps McCain, that's a different story.
Like I said, it only seems to come up during election years. Pay no attention to the man behind the lavender curtain-he's probably a Log Cabin Republican.
The People Versus Crooked Lawyers-A Case That Cries Out For Disbarment
A current court case in Covington Kentucky might hopefully sound the death knell for crooked attorneys enriching themselves at the expense of their naive clients. It involves three high-powered attorneys who conducted a class-action lawsuit against the makers of the once-popular diet drug Fen-Phen. The short version-they ripped off their clients.
Twenty-five million dollars each weren't enough for these scum bag attorneys, they had to steal an extra 65 million dollars from their dying clients. Part of this money went toward purchasing last years Preakness winner Curlin, a Porsche, a BMW, and courtside seats at Rupp Arena, home of the University of Kentucky Wildcats.
Now two of them-Shirley Cunningham and William Gallion (the two who brought the horse) could get up to 20 years in prison, along with a third conspirator, Melbourne Mills.
A fourth lawyer who has not been indicted, yet is a defendant in a civil suit, is Cincinnati lawyer Stanley Chesley, who negotiated the Fen-Phen settlement. He is also one of the movers and shakers in the tobacco lawsuits of the nineties, and a longtime Clinton supporter. He as well should be imprisoned and disbarred, but so far has squirmed out of the most serious charges.
Hopefully the money will eventually be recovered. This should go to the people who should have received but were conned out of it. The claims of Gallion that the clients were thrilled to give away excess funds to charity is more than just bullshit, as claimed by government expert Edward Brewer, a Northern Kentucky University law professor-it is low comedy.
The judge who approved the settlements was later accused of misconduct in the case, and resigned his office. In other words, nobody looks good here.
I hope they put them all in GenPop, the SHU would be too merciful.
Twenty-five million dollars each weren't enough for these scum bag attorneys, they had to steal an extra 65 million dollars from their dying clients. Part of this money went toward purchasing last years Preakness winner Curlin, a Porsche, a BMW, and courtside seats at Rupp Arena, home of the University of Kentucky Wildcats.
Now two of them-Shirley Cunningham and William Gallion (the two who brought the horse) could get up to 20 years in prison, along with a third conspirator, Melbourne Mills.
A fourth lawyer who has not been indicted, yet is a defendant in a civil suit, is Cincinnati lawyer Stanley Chesley, who negotiated the Fen-Phen settlement. He is also one of the movers and shakers in the tobacco lawsuits of the nineties, and a longtime Clinton supporter. He as well should be imprisoned and disbarred, but so far has squirmed out of the most serious charges.
Hopefully the money will eventually be recovered. This should go to the people who should have received but were conned out of it. The claims of Gallion that the clients were thrilled to give away excess funds to charity is more than just bullshit, as claimed by government expert Edward Brewer, a Northern Kentucky University law professor-it is low comedy.
The judge who approved the settlements was later accused of misconduct in the case, and resigned his office. In other words, nobody looks good here.
I hope they put them all in GenPop, the SHU would be too merciful.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Sean Penn Is A Fucking Prick
Who made this guy the President of the P'alm D'or jury? Who in the hell is he to decide that if a film doesn't deal with political issues it doesn't stand a chance of winning the award?
Bear in mind the little arrogant fucktard has made this decision even regarding films he has not even seen yet. Even if he intends to give an equal and fair chance to films that have a conservative point of view-yeah, right, as if-it just goes to show that Sean Penn is a self-absorbed and obsessed little douchebag.
This is the kind of guy the world can do without, a guy to whom film and the media is a tool with which to brainwash the ignorant masses. Really, that's what it is about. If you think guys like Sean Penn want people to see two or more opposing and contradictory points of view objectively and make up their own minds, I hate to break it to you, but you are fucking delusional.
And to him, there should be no breaks from political film at all. There should always be a constant fucking point to the entertainment industry. Music, movies, and television without some symbolic or direct social or political meaning-preferably either blatant or subliminal propaganda-is vulgar and not worthy of anything above condescension.
God, these guys just piss me the fuck off. I have no sympathy whatsoever for Leo Penn over his problems with McCarthey. Somebody hurry up and blacklist Sean as well.
Better yet, make another Iron Man movie, tie the fucker down and make him watch it about fifty times. If he has a stroke halfway through it, just keep going, he might be faking.
Bear in mind the little arrogant fucktard has made this decision even regarding films he has not even seen yet. Even if he intends to give an equal and fair chance to films that have a conservative point of view-yeah, right, as if-it just goes to show that Sean Penn is a self-absorbed and obsessed little douchebag.
This is the kind of guy the world can do without, a guy to whom film and the media is a tool with which to brainwash the ignorant masses. Really, that's what it is about. If you think guys like Sean Penn want people to see two or more opposing and contradictory points of view objectively and make up their own minds, I hate to break it to you, but you are fucking delusional.
And to him, there should be no breaks from political film at all. There should always be a constant fucking point to the entertainment industry. Music, movies, and television without some symbolic or direct social or political meaning-preferably either blatant or subliminal propaganda-is vulgar and not worthy of anything above condescension.
God, these guys just piss me the fuck off. I have no sympathy whatsoever for Leo Penn over his problems with McCarthey. Somebody hurry up and blacklist Sean as well.
Better yet, make another Iron Man movie, tie the fucker down and make him watch it about fifty times. If he has a stroke halfway through it, just keep going, he might be faking.
So Who Was Being Attacked?
In a speech earlier in front of the Israeli Knesset in honor of the 60th anniversary of the founding of the nation of Israel, President George W. Bush denounced those who would engage in appeasement of terrorists. Will Bunch, in the Philadelphia Inquirer, has in response accused President Bush of "political treason".
That's quite extreme. Bush could have simply been offering reassurances to the Israelis, who might be concerned as to what kind of future the next elections might bring, and how that might affect them. He could have simply been referring to appeasers within the political left of Israeli society.
More than likely,however, he was simply referring to all appeasers the world over, including within the United States.
Yet, bear in mind that Bush did not actually mention Barak Obama by name-he merely attacked the policy of appeasement and all those in general who would practice it.
Mr. Will and all others of a similar frame of mind need to calm down. Senator Obama has not become the standard bearer of the Democratic Party yet.
That's quite extreme. Bush could have simply been offering reassurances to the Israelis, who might be concerned as to what kind of future the next elections might bring, and how that might affect them. He could have simply been referring to appeasers within the political left of Israeli society.
More than likely,however, he was simply referring to all appeasers the world over, including within the United States.
Yet, bear in mind that Bush did not actually mention Barak Obama by name-he merely attacked the policy of appeasement and all those in general who would practice it.
Mr. Will and all others of a similar frame of mind need to calm down. Senator Obama has not become the standard bearer of the Democratic Party yet.
The Next Thing You Know They Will Only Let Us Vote Once
This is fucking outrageous. So because Florence Steen died before the date of the South Dakota primary, her absentee ballot, which she cast before her death, will not be counted? By God that is just unacceptable.
Dead people voting in elections is a time-honored Democratic Party tradition that goes back generations. First the Democratic Party habitually disregards their labor union base, and now they are starting to turn their backs on their very first, their original and by far their most loyal and dependable special interest group-dead voters. This just ain't right.
Dead people voting in elections is a time-honored Democratic Party tradition that goes back generations. First the Democratic Party habitually disregards their labor union base, and now they are starting to turn their backs on their very first, their original and by far their most loyal and dependable special interest group-dead voters. This just ain't right.
What You Can Find On A Muslim Dating Site
Well, this is just one picture in the photo gallery over at Muslima.com.
Yep, I registered. Hell, I'm game. Can't pass up a chance like that. My screen name is Patrick Camelhumper.
Yep, I registered. Hell, I'm game. Can't pass up a chance like that. My screen name is Patrick Camelhumper.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
The Twenty-Five Percenters
A lot of people are making a lot out of Hillary Clinton's mammoth win over Barak Obama in West Virginia, where she trounced him by something like 67 percent to 26 percent-a forty-one percent margin of victory. John Edwards, who is no longer in the race (and who earlier today endorsed Obama) got seven percent. According to many observers, this is a sure sign that Obama has a serious problem with white, rural, blue-collar voters.
Their reasoning is based on exit polls which show that roughly twenty-five percent of Clinton voters voted due to racial reasons.
I do not dispute this assessment, but at the same time, it is easy to blow something like this out of all proportion.
There is another twenty-five percent faction that is rarely mentioned-the twenty-five percent who are regularly voting against John McCain in the Republican primaries, despite the fact that McCain has his party's nomination all sewed up. That was the percentage of people that voted against him in West Virginia, and also in North Carolina, while twenty percent voted against him in Indiana.
Bear in mind, these are not Republican voters who are just saying "what the fuck is the use, he already has won the damn thing". No these are people that are actually still going to the polls to express their disapproval, despite the fact that McCain is already the Republican Party's presumptive nominee.
When you look at the two together, one fact emerges, and that is, Obama's problem, while certainly significant, may not be as profoundly dire as McCain's. Why? Well, bear in mind, just because a white, rural voter might prefer Clinton does not in every case mean they absolutely despise Obama.
So, what is the percentage of Hillary Clinton voters who dislike Obama due to race, or due to the perception of elitism, the Reverend Wright, etc.? We can safely assume that not all voters who voted for racist reasons will admit to this, but I think it is safe to say they are nevertheless in the minority. The majority probably consider Obama acceptable, he is just not their fist choice.
So, you might say, well, it's probably an even trade. Twenty-five percent (at least) of Republican voters hate McCain, but twenty-five percent of Democratic voters also hate Obama. But no, wait a minute, that is twenty-five percent of HILLARY CLINTON Democratic voters who hate Obama.
Assume for the moment we can legitimately divide Obama and Clinnon voters fifty-fifty. That twenty-five percent suddenly becomes twelve-and-a half percent of Democratic voters who either outright hate Barak Obama, or at least consider some aspect of him or his candidacy objectionable enough they would not vote for him under any circumstances. That, however, is roughly half the percentage of Republican voters who feel the same way about McCain, if we can once again assume, based on the last two elections, that the parties are split about fifty-fifty.
Also, do remember, this is just the Republican anti-McCain faction that bothers to go to the polls to vote at all. It is reasonable to assume there is a great many others who just didn't bother to go to the polls.
Anyway you look at it, McCain is in trouble, especially when you consider a few other facts.
1. Lately, McCain has been trailing Obama in the polls regarding the preference of independent voters.
2. Blacks will almost certainly vote in record numbers in this election year, in greater numbers than ever before, and they will vote for Obama by a wide margin. In fact, they will probably vote for Obama by an even greater percentage than they usually vote for the Democratic ticket.
This is not an accusation of racial prejudice either, this is just a simple fact that has already born out. Blacks are not voting for Barak Obama by a margin of ten to one over Hillary Clinton, the wife of the "first black president", because they are impressed with the nuances in the differences between his and Hillary's approach to health care. They are voting for him because they see him as one of them, as an inspiration, a manifestation of their own collective hopes and dreams. Voting for somebody because of their race might be a form of positive prejudice, but it is not a form of bigotry equatable to voting against a candidate for racial reasons.
When push comes to shove, increased support among blacks will probably balance out the defections from white rural Democratic voters, of whom I concede there will probably be some, perhaps a significant amount in some states-mainly those states that Republicans tend to win anyway.
Of course, even these states McCain can not afford to take entirely for granted in all cases, since the recent announcement by former Georgia Congressman Bob Barr that he will be seeking the presidency on the Libertarian Party ticket. If Bob Barr manages to pull five percent of the national vote, then you will know where roughly ten percent of disaffected Republicans have gone. Where will the other twenty percent of disaffected Republicans go? Well, another ten percent will probably stay home and not vote at all, as they have been doing in the primaries since McCain became the presumptive nominee.
The last ten pecent might well vote for Obama.
Add all this up with those independent voters currently preferring Obama over McCain, and you begin to get a clear picture that McCain might well be headed for a route, if all of this holds up.
In the meantime, Obama has some time to appeal to the white voters who might currently have misgivings about him. A great lot of their concerns probably have little to do with race and more to do with such things as the Reverend Wright, Bill Ayers, and the "bitter" comments. It is up to Obama to address such concerns.
The "bitter" comment I put down to typical political pandering on the part of Obama-in this case, pandering to the San Francisco liberal limousine elites who Obama realizes is essential insofar as monetary donations go. I didn't like it, and still don't, but by the same token, I have heard him, prior to this debacle, express his belief in the Second Amendment and the right of American citizens to own guns, so I take him at his word. Besides, I am fucking bitter over a lot of shit. If you doubt that, read over some of the archives on this blog.
On other matters, such as the Global Warming hysteria and the immigration controversy regarding illegal aliens and amnesty, he is at least no worse than McCain, who has recently made overtures to the most radical of immigrants rights groups, LaRaza, a group that claims the US "stole" the American Southwest from Mexico.
In fact, if any group at all could cost Obama the nomination, it is the Latinos, a great many of whom in fact, when it comes to blacks, to at least some extent make the Ku Klux Klan look like the poster children of racial tolerance. They could conceivably cost Obama the election by throwing states where their numbers are significant. This is, in fact, why John McCain recently declared that California is in play for this election. Due to this factor, it might well be.
So, there are a lot of factors at play here, and this election might really hinge on regional factors, and third party influences. The Latino vote could well be the joker in the deck, and they could conceivably throw the election to McCain, but I think they will do so only if the race is close to begin with. I don't think it will be that close. When a candidate pisses off one third of his own party over his beliefs-beliefs that contradict party orthodoxy in more than a few instances-that pretty much has to trounce misgivings based on skin color, or an unfortunate choice of words, or even association with a crazy preacher.
When Obama reaches out to heal divisions within his party, you get the feeling he is at least halfway sincere. When McCain reaches out to heal divisions in his party, you look for the hand-buzzer.
Their reasoning is based on exit polls which show that roughly twenty-five percent of Clinton voters voted due to racial reasons.
I do not dispute this assessment, but at the same time, it is easy to blow something like this out of all proportion.
There is another twenty-five percent faction that is rarely mentioned-the twenty-five percent who are regularly voting against John McCain in the Republican primaries, despite the fact that McCain has his party's nomination all sewed up. That was the percentage of people that voted against him in West Virginia, and also in North Carolina, while twenty percent voted against him in Indiana.
Bear in mind, these are not Republican voters who are just saying "what the fuck is the use, he already has won the damn thing". No these are people that are actually still going to the polls to express their disapproval, despite the fact that McCain is already the Republican Party's presumptive nominee.
When you look at the two together, one fact emerges, and that is, Obama's problem, while certainly significant, may not be as profoundly dire as McCain's. Why? Well, bear in mind, just because a white, rural voter might prefer Clinton does not in every case mean they absolutely despise Obama.
So, what is the percentage of Hillary Clinton voters who dislike Obama due to race, or due to the perception of elitism, the Reverend Wright, etc.? We can safely assume that not all voters who voted for racist reasons will admit to this, but I think it is safe to say they are nevertheless in the minority. The majority probably consider Obama acceptable, he is just not their fist choice.
So, you might say, well, it's probably an even trade. Twenty-five percent (at least) of Republican voters hate McCain, but twenty-five percent of Democratic voters also hate Obama. But no, wait a minute, that is twenty-five percent of HILLARY CLINTON Democratic voters who hate Obama.
Assume for the moment we can legitimately divide Obama and Clinnon voters fifty-fifty. That twenty-five percent suddenly becomes twelve-and-a half percent of Democratic voters who either outright hate Barak Obama, or at least consider some aspect of him or his candidacy objectionable enough they would not vote for him under any circumstances. That, however, is roughly half the percentage of Republican voters who feel the same way about McCain, if we can once again assume, based on the last two elections, that the parties are split about fifty-fifty.
Also, do remember, this is just the Republican anti-McCain faction that bothers to go to the polls to vote at all. It is reasonable to assume there is a great many others who just didn't bother to go to the polls.
Anyway you look at it, McCain is in trouble, especially when you consider a few other facts.
1. Lately, McCain has been trailing Obama in the polls regarding the preference of independent voters.
2. Blacks will almost certainly vote in record numbers in this election year, in greater numbers than ever before, and they will vote for Obama by a wide margin. In fact, they will probably vote for Obama by an even greater percentage than they usually vote for the Democratic ticket.
This is not an accusation of racial prejudice either, this is just a simple fact that has already born out. Blacks are not voting for Barak Obama by a margin of ten to one over Hillary Clinton, the wife of the "first black president", because they are impressed with the nuances in the differences between his and Hillary's approach to health care. They are voting for him because they see him as one of them, as an inspiration, a manifestation of their own collective hopes and dreams. Voting for somebody because of their race might be a form of positive prejudice, but it is not a form of bigotry equatable to voting against a candidate for racial reasons.
When push comes to shove, increased support among blacks will probably balance out the defections from white rural Democratic voters, of whom I concede there will probably be some, perhaps a significant amount in some states-mainly those states that Republicans tend to win anyway.
Of course, even these states McCain can not afford to take entirely for granted in all cases, since the recent announcement by former Georgia Congressman Bob Barr that he will be seeking the presidency on the Libertarian Party ticket. If Bob Barr manages to pull five percent of the national vote, then you will know where roughly ten percent of disaffected Republicans have gone. Where will the other twenty percent of disaffected Republicans go? Well, another ten percent will probably stay home and not vote at all, as they have been doing in the primaries since McCain became the presumptive nominee.
The last ten pecent might well vote for Obama.
Add all this up with those independent voters currently preferring Obama over McCain, and you begin to get a clear picture that McCain might well be headed for a route, if all of this holds up.
In the meantime, Obama has some time to appeal to the white voters who might currently have misgivings about him. A great lot of their concerns probably have little to do with race and more to do with such things as the Reverend Wright, Bill Ayers, and the "bitter" comments. It is up to Obama to address such concerns.
The "bitter" comment I put down to typical political pandering on the part of Obama-in this case, pandering to the San Francisco liberal limousine elites who Obama realizes is essential insofar as monetary donations go. I didn't like it, and still don't, but by the same token, I have heard him, prior to this debacle, express his belief in the Second Amendment and the right of American citizens to own guns, so I take him at his word. Besides, I am fucking bitter over a lot of shit. If you doubt that, read over some of the archives on this blog.
On other matters, such as the Global Warming hysteria and the immigration controversy regarding illegal aliens and amnesty, he is at least no worse than McCain, who has recently made overtures to the most radical of immigrants rights groups, LaRaza, a group that claims the US "stole" the American Southwest from Mexico.
In fact, if any group at all could cost Obama the nomination, it is the Latinos, a great many of whom in fact, when it comes to blacks, to at least some extent make the Ku Klux Klan look like the poster children of racial tolerance. They could conceivably cost Obama the election by throwing states where their numbers are significant. This is, in fact, why John McCain recently declared that California is in play for this election. Due to this factor, it might well be.
So, there are a lot of factors at play here, and this election might really hinge on regional factors, and third party influences. The Latino vote could well be the joker in the deck, and they could conceivably throw the election to McCain, but I think they will do so only if the race is close to begin with. I don't think it will be that close. When a candidate pisses off one third of his own party over his beliefs-beliefs that contradict party orthodoxy in more than a few instances-that pretty much has to trounce misgivings based on skin color, or an unfortunate choice of words, or even association with a crazy preacher.
When Obama reaches out to heal divisions within his party, you get the feeling he is at least halfway sincere. When McCain reaches out to heal divisions in his party, you look for the hand-buzzer.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Things To Say To Piss Off Bill Clinton
Bill Clinton has certainly been in a sour mood during the recent campaign season. He has a tendency to really lose his temper and go off, not only on smart-ass reporters, but also on average citizens. He has managed to insult a great portion of the Democratic electorate, and has even verbally assaulted people in campaign events, such as the recent outburst against an elderly woman in the audience who questioned Hillary’s work in the nineties with the Clinton Health Care plan that Bill placed her in charge of.
Some people have even gone so far as to say that Bill has done far more harm than good to Hillary’s presidential aspirations, with his temper tantrums and insults. What one person might intend to be an honest, innocent question, disagreement, or expression of legitimate concern, is liable to bring down the ire and wrath of the former president.
My feeling about this is-why the hell not make a game out of it?
First, dress appropriately, with a Lewinsky style beret. If you are a woman, wear a blue dress with an obvious stain. Then, wait your turn. Don’t give up. If you have to, make your presence known by interrupting his speech. That’s even better actually. One look at you and he’s already mad enough to spit nails, so you hit him with one of the following.
By the way, notice the scare quotes scattered throughout herein. In order to achieve the greatest effect, liberal use of finger quotes when mouthing these words are advisable when asking the following questions-
*Hey Bill-What’s with all this race baiting you’ve been doing lately? Have you always been a redneck racist piece of shit?
*Hey Bill-If Hillary wins do you reckon she might suck some fat slob’s dick?
*Hey Bill-I’m a medium with a message from the Great Beyond. Vince Foster says he’s waiting for you.
*Hey Bill-My sister is one of your biggest fans. She’s a fat cocksucker too.
*Hey Bill-Will you and Hillary be renting out the Lincoln Bedroom for the usual price or will you adjust for inflation?
*Hey Bill-I have one thing to say regarding Hillary’s problem with Obama- you do remember Ron Brown’s “accident”, don’t you?
*Hey Bill-I just realized, if Hillary wins that will make you the country’s first “first gentleman”. HaHaHaHa ain’t that ironic?
*Hey Bill, if Hillary wins are you going to sell us out to China again, or are you going to betray us with a different country this time?
*Hey Bill, if Hillary wins will she bomb aspirin factories like you did to show how “tough” she is?
*Hey Bill, can you account for your whereabouts on the night Deborah Jean Palfrey “committed suicide?” Well, come to think about it, I guess you paid somebody else to take care of that little problem, like you did with Vince Foster and Ron Brown and God only knows who else, huh?
*Hey Bill, are you still going to disaster areas, like when you visited New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina? You just can’t stay away from those fucking blow jobs can you, slimeball?
*Hey Bill, what’s the deal with this “partnership” you have going on with Rachael Ray? Hey, she kind of looks like Monica Lewinsky, huh?
*Hey Bill if Hilary wins will you pretend to be her “roving ambassador” so you can fuck every woman you can stick your dick in, or will you just spend your time bribing foreign leaders with American taxpayers money so you can basically just enrich yourself?
At some point, somebody should be sure to ask the following question, as it might be the most pertinent one of all-
Hey Bill, I understand why you have been so upset these days. Really, I do. After all, if Hillary loses how will you ever smooth things over with the people that have paid all those bribes-errr, I mean, “donated all that money” to that money laundering operation known as the “Clinton Presidential Library”?
Feel free to make up your own. Be creative. Don’t let those Secret Service guys intimidate you. The most they can do is escort you outside the building. On the other hand, when you start to make your way home later that night-be very, very careful.
Remember now, your basic accessory for any serious game of Clinton baiting-
Thursday, May 08, 2008
Lindsay Lohan-If Things Really Happen In Threes
Whatever will Lindsay Do Next?
First she shows us her fur burger-
Now, come to find out, she's a fur burglar
Both cases reveal that evidently Lindsay is suffering from a fur shortage. I don't really want to think about what might happen next, but hell, I just can't help myself.
First she shows us her fur burger-
Now, come to find out, she's a fur burglar
Both cases reveal that evidently Lindsay is suffering from a fur shortage. I don't really want to think about what might happen next, but hell, I just can't help myself.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Radu-Chapter XXXXV (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
All previous installments are listed at the end of this chapter
Radu-Chapter XXXXV (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
13 pages approximate
Phillip Khoska watched intently the replay of the Senate Select Committee on International Crime-for the third time, as though seeing it for the first time live, with no knowledge of what was about to happen. He knew, of course, that Greg Morrison would soon conclude his testimony. He realized that Morrison had completely absolved him of any wrongdoing perpetrated by employees and associates within his company, conducted supposedly without his knowledge or participation. His own family was unfortunately involved, including his ex-wife, now dead along with his children and grandchildren, all of them murdered along with her second husband-supposedly-in a gruesome Christmas Eve massacre.
Elaine Khoska, Morrison testified, had been a pivotal part of the operation headed by Phillip’s brother-in-law, Varoslav Moloku, along with his wife Dorothy and daughter Marnie-Phillips sister and niece, respectively. It was a conspiracy, said Morrison, that reached into the corridors of power, involving Morrison along with his late father Randall, from the time the disgraced Baltimore Assemblyman had been a mere minor.
The real mastermind, he testified, had been Jason Talbert, the Wall Street financier and international broker, whose sudden and unexpected death set off a power struggle within the cabal that had so surreptitiously infested Khoska’s legitimate company and financial holdings. They corrupted many, from Khoska’s own wife, to powerful politicians and journalists such as Grady Desmond, on down to decorated police officers such as Baltimore Police Department Lieutenant James Berry. Phillip Khoska, he asserted, despondent over the charges leveled against him in the aftermath of the brutal murder of his entire family, made an ultimately unsuccessful attempt on his own life.
At one point, Morrison began looking at his watch, then looking nervously all around him, as though in expectation of something that seemed destined to not come about. He became obviously annoyed and anxious, yet strangely relieved. One of the committee members was at this point in the process of inquiring as to whether Morrison knew of the current whereabouts of Marnie Moloku, or of James Berry, when he took note of Morrison’s strange behavior and inquired as to whether he was well.
Khoska could almost hear Morrison through the television wondering when the damn bombs were going to drop. As unfortunate as it was that this part of the plan failed, Khoska could not help but feel some amusement at his obviously bizarre reaction. Had he been aware, he would likely not have been so willing to follow the script as rehearsed. Morrison pulled himself together somewhat and replied that he was of the understanding that James Berry, whose whereabouts was currently unknown to him, as to everyone else, had murdered Marnie Moloku and disposed of her body. He then went on to murder her mother Doris, in addition to the federal agent assigned to watch over Marnie.
Unfortunately, Phillip came to understand all too well that no one had devised any contingency plan in the event of failure. That was the problem with dealing with religious fanatics. Their faith made failure unthinkable. Now, it would be a simple matter for the Senate Sub-committee members to pick apart Morrison’s testimony. Morrison was a simple-minded stooge unable to think on his feet. He needed coaching and rehearsing. Now, he was on his own. By the time they were finished with him, the whole tapestry of lies would unravel, and Khoska would be back to where he started from, suspected of complicity in all of the criminal activities of which, in fact, he had been a part from the beginning.
Fortunately, Phillip had devised a contingency plan, which his confederates, who were not all together unreasonable, thankfully adopted. Khoska continued watching as one of the other Senate inquisitors asked Morrison about his knowledge pertaining to the recent outbreak of the multi-epidemic, which was yet far from over though somewhat abated, if but temporarily. Of course, Morrison was completely unaware of any of this, which in truth few were. Khoska himself had been unaware of this matter, a secret shared by a very select few-two of who would be soon joining him, this very night.
Tonight would also be the night he would finally come face to face with the one they all reverentially referred to as “The Master”.
The Master, they claimed, very much looked forward to meeting with him, as he had been following and monitoring his progress for some time now. The Master, they assured him, would reward his faith. The bullet from the Derringer, with which Khoska shot himself immediately prior to the expected arrival of the tabloid photographer Phelps, could easily have killed him, and likely leave him disabled for the entirety of his life were he to survive.
The Master insured Khoska would receive the utmost care and treatment by way of the blood-derived compound developed under the auspices of the pharmaceutical laboratories, which were just one part of Phillip Khoska’s extensive holdings. The Master kept his word, as always. The compound proved to be a dramatic cure in his case, repairing all damage to his brain, even restoring the individually damaged cells, leaving no traces whatsoever of the self-inflicted wound.
Not only did he heal completely, he never felt better in his life. Now that he was all but cleared of any charges of wrongdoing, he had his entire life yet ahead of him. The sacrifice of his family was unfortunate, but necessary. Whatever happened next, Khoska’s life, his freedom, even his wealth, all were as secure as they ever were.
He almost pitied Greg Morrison, who noticeably grew increasingly more distraught by the second, as someone inquired, to the overall amusement of those in attendance within the Senate chambers, as to whether he expected company or if he had somewhere that he needed to be at any given time. Morrison obviously did not know how to answer the question. It was supposed to be over by now.
Suddenly he clutched his chest and began heaving, then going into convulsions. The crowded assembly watched in shock as Greg Morrison collapsed at the desk at which he sat beside his team of lawyers, none of whom had any idea of the extent of Morrison’s involvement with the plan that had come so close to forever changing the world.
The screen returned to the evening newscast on ABC Nightline, and to a roundtable interview with people discussing the strangeness of the day’s events. Morrison had died. An autopsy revealed that he had an artificial heart-a heart that had given out on him, and one that had some strange kind of tracking device that was easily misinterpreted as a monitor installed solely for health reasons. There were some, of course, who viewed Morrison’s death as suspicious under the circumstances, but had no clue as to the magnitude of the events of the day.
Khoska watched the television in the quiet solitude of his new though temporary home, the owners of which soon pulled into the driveway. He watched them through the window. They seemed so calm, so assured. It was hard to believe they realized the seriousness of what faced them. They had devoted their lives to their church, and to their faith, toiling in thankless obscurity behind the scenes, out of necessity, knowing that one careless move would lead to their own condemnation by the world, which would denounce them as evil cultists. They would be pariahs, doomed to a life worse than death, possibly executed for their crimes of necessity.
Khoska of course did not share their faith, but he did share their goal of transforming the world. His motivation was basic greed and drive for power, but he felt no shame at this realization, for he knew that he would leave the world a better place for his efforts-at least in the long run.
Yet, he could not help but admire the Krovell’s selfless dedication to their ideals, and to their religion. They possessed, in fact, a child-like faith that Phillip Khoska barely grasped even when a child his own self. His knowledge of their dedication, in combination with their obvious talents and abilities, made them perfect allies. He meant to turn what was at the time he joined it an international criminal cartel, of extensive wealth shielded by vast legitimate holdings, into what would soon become the foundation for a new government ascending from the ashes of the burnt out corpse of the old one, the death of which they would all be obligated to preside over.
They moved slowly up the sidewalk to the door, and then entered, for perhaps the last time, the newly repaired and refurnished former Krovell Funeral Home, now their own private residence.
“Ah, it is good to be home again,” old man Martin said. “After all of these years, of being away for so long, now at last I can feel some semblance of real peace.”
Louise rolled her eyes and chuckled.
“Really, Martin, you are such a complainer,” she said. “What was it you said to me not too long ago? I believe it was something along the lines of ‘wherever a man’s heart is, there is his true home, and if a man’s heart is with God, the entire world is his home.’”
“Oh, that is true, my dear, but at the same time, you must understand, this was after all the home of my childhood. There are so many happy memories here. I still remember the time we buried the old gypsy out in the back yard, with the trunk that contained Radu’s remains. I wanted to open it so badly, but I was told-in no uncertain terms, mind you-that this was not yet meant to be. Our dear Marlowe, God bless him, just doesn’t know how lucky he is to be chosen to be such an important vessel. Our Marlowe, chosen to carry the sins of the world to their ultimate destruction-who would have thought we would actually live to see it all begin to unfold?”
Louise Krovell cleared her throat then at the notice of Phillip Khoska standing in the doorway to the dining room, standing and listening intently to Martin’s reveries.
“Phillip, you are looking well,” Louise said.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’ve never felt better, just as you promised. What was this about Marlowe carrying the sins of the world?”
“Oh, you mustn’t mind Martin,” Louise replied as Martin approached their confederate. “He does tend to engage in a great deal of symbolic hyperbole. You should really hear him recite Hamlet’s monologue one of these days. You would think he had composed the stanzas the way he carries on sometimes.”
Martin reached out and shook Phillip’s hand heartily.
“That was how I won her, you know. I tell you, my friend, recite poetry to a woman, and if you can make it seem as though it comes from the heart-if you can make it your own, as they say nowadays-you will win her every time. A little blackberry wine used strategically in conjunction with it doesn’t hurt either, by the way.”
“He was quite original, I must say. Even my gypsy blood and wiles were unprepared for the prospect of being wooed by a recitation from The Tempest. Of course, our marriage was an arranged one, you know, but still, Martin had a way of making it seem like the blossoming of true love. I have no doubt that had we met as strangers, the end result would be much the same as it was.”
“So, when do I get to meet this mysterious Master, as you call him?” Phillip asked expectantly.
“Very soon, my friend, very soon indeed”, Martin answered. “He and his new bride should be here anytime now. He is more than delighted with your contribution to our cause. And now, of course, that your private holdings will soon be once again recognized as legitimate, as they once were, now that your legal status has been cleared up and your innocence proclaimed, we all know we can count on you to keep your word.”
“The orphanage, of course,” Phillip said. “That seems a small price to pay, actually. I will gladly see to their needs, and beyond that. They will want for nothing, I promise you. I likewise assure you that they will be raised in the true faith, as you require. In fact, the paperwork has already been prepared, as you requested.
“I am only sorry our original plans did not come to fruition. They would be among the top elites of the world had we succeeded. At any rate, their lives shall yet be one of privilege, tempered with knowledge, faith, and responsibility.”
“And you will keep the doors open to any other children that might be in need, and likewise raise them in the true faith of our Lord Jesus Christ?” Martin asked.
“Of course,” Khoska assured him. “Of what use is wealth and power if you don’t use it to leave the world a better place, to what extent you are able?”
“Oh, that is such a relief,” Louise declared. “We so much feared that you would renounce your earlier promise seeing as how we failed unfortunately to live up to our end of the bargain. You would certainly have every right to do so.”
“There is always tomorrow,” Khoska replied. Martin and Louise looked to each other with a knowing glance.
“That is very true, Phillip,” Martin replied. “Tomorrow is a promise that never fades. The children are indeed the future of the world. Their needs are of paramount importance. Not only their material needs, as important as these are, but their emotional and spiritual needs as well. Far too many children in this world live lives of deprivation. They know not the joys of art and music, of great literature, and as such, their souls starve every bit as much as the bodies of the materially destitute. The result, I am afraid, is a world famished of spirit and bereft of hope.
“You, Martin, can provide for their sustenance, and set an example for others to hopefully follow.”
“So,” Louise said, “I trust you are finding the guest room to your liking.”
“Of course,” Phillip said. “It used to be Marlowe’s, I think you said? It is actually quite comfortable.”
“If you would be a dear and go up there for just a while longer, we will let you know when the Master arrives. We do need to speak to him in private when he first gets here. It has been a good while since we have seen him and, to be frank, we are a bit selfish when it comes to what little time we get to have with him. I do hope you understand.”
“Of course,” Khoska replied. “If I by some chance fall asleep, please feel free to wake me.”
Martin turned to walk up the steps, but before he got halfway up, he stopped and turned.
“I guess you know all about Morrison,” he said. “It was really too bad in a way. At one time, he had such a brilliant career ahead of him. He might have been useful. It’s too bad they had to die, but I guess it’s like they always say-everybody is expendable.”
“They?” Martin asked. “What are you talking about?”
“Morrison’s father Randall, of course,” Khoska replied. “It’s ironic, in a way. He had hopes at one time of being Governor of Maryland, maybe a Senator. He even entertained dreams of possibly one day being President. He always had these dreams of political accomplishment. He always wanted Greg to follow in his footsteps. He told me once that the American people loved their political dynasties, and that it was a part of their European heritage they could never throw off. It was up to people like him to provide them the leadership they all inwardly craved.
“Instead, he and his youngest son end up killed in a plane crash in the Himalayas, and now Greg dies of heart failure in the middle of a Senate Sub-Committee investigation of his criminal activities. It’s almost sad. That’s saying something coming from me. I never considered myself the sentimental type.”
Martin and Louise looked at each other, as though neither was sure exactly how to respond and looked to the other for the answer. Finally, Louise cleared her throat.
“It is really understandable, Phillip, if you are experiencing regrets as to the fate of your wife and children, and of course your grandchildren. As we explained, it was an unfortunate necessity. All the same, we certainly understand your grief. Matters such as this are never easy.”
Phillip looked at them both, and then looked away briefly, and breathed deeply.
“It had to be done,” he replied at length. “My only regret is that it seems to have been for nothing. I don’t fault you for that, in that you tried your best. Still, sometimes I wonder if they could have been brought into the circle. Are you sure-“
“The Khoska bloodline has to perish from the earth, Phillip. That is true not just of your own children, but all of the Khoskas who are of childbearing age. At some point, they would revive the heresy that has cursed the world. After all, it was they who drove underground we who make up the true elect, the faithful followers of the Lord Jesus Christ. It is they who have been at the forefront of persecuting us throughout the centuries.”
“As for the Morrisons, they had to die due to their own greed for power-a fatal flaw in far too many of us. Yet, in death, there is a resurrection and a renewal. This will prove true of your own bloodline as well, my friend. Remember, we are all one within the universal whole. There is no death-truly, there is not. There are only varied modes of existence.”
“Of course,” Phillip replied as he turned once more to walk up the stairs. “Be sure and wake me when the Master arrives.”
They watched him walk up the steps towards Marlowe’s old room until he disappeared out of sight.
“I think he knows,” Louise said. “What do you think?”
“Perhaps he does, but even so, it shall do him precious little good,” Martin said as he turned off the television. “What do you say we break out the wine? It seems most appropriate for the occasion.”
“I will gladly do the honors,” Louise replied, and was soon off into the kitchen as Martin sat down upon the recliner. “Besides, this is a special occasion, and it would not be appropriate for you to hold back in miserly fashion as you are so often prone to do.”
“I would not dream of such a thing on a night such as tonight,” Martin replied defensively.
“Just the same, I am happy to do the honors,” Louise said as she made her way toward the kitchen. “You just sit back and relax.”
“Yes, it is good to be home,” he muttered once, as much to himself as to Louise, now in the kitchen, from where she asked him what he said.
Before he could respond, however, Martin felt the cold steel of the revolver up against the back of his head, and a steel-toned voice command him to “turn around real slow.”
Martin did as commanded, only to see the cold, determined glare of James Berry, his service revolver pointed at his head.
“Well, I see that you have recovered quite nicely,” he observed. “So, what brings you here James?”
“Can it, you old fart,” Berry replied. “I’ve recovered all right. What you didn’t realize, when I was infested with that spore from Marlowe, is that it tends to increase your susceptibility more towards diseases you are already prone to catch, which in my case happened to be allergies and influenza-things I’ve dealt with all my life. When Chou treated me for them, he drove the allergies back into remission and cured the flu that was kicking my ass.
“Unfortunately for you, when he did that, he also eradicated the damned spores from my system. Once they were gone, Marlowe’s influence went with them.”
“Ah, but you have been a bad, bad boy James,” Martin reminded him as Louise now re-entered the living room, carrying a tray upon which sat a bottle of wine, along with two chilled wineglasses.
“As you can see, Louise, we have an unexpected visitor.”
“So I see,” Louise said as she nonchalantly placed the tray on the coffee table in front of where Martin now took a seat on the sofa, and where Louise now joined him.
"Why, Lieutenant Berry, what is that foul odor emanating from you. If I didn't know better I would swear you must have just bathed in garlic?"
"Why, Louise, I think you are right," Martin concurred. "You will never attract a wife that way, Lieutenant. Well, of course, that might be all for the best after all, as we are all so unfortunately aware."
"Shut the fuck up," Berry hissed. "I'll do the talking here."
“You aren’t going to shoot us, are you, Lieutenant Berry?” Louise asked. “Surely you don’t think such drastic measures are necessary in the case of two old invalids such as me and Martin, do you?”
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to shoot two old rattlesnakes like you two, but no I hope that won’t be necessary,” Berry said. “I want answers, and I damn well better believe what I hear. Like for example, I want to know who is really behind all this shit. Marlowe obviously ain’t behind it, and you two are too hands-on to be the real ringleaders. Everybody else is either dead or no more than pawns, like Chou and me. So what in the hell is going on here, and why?”
“Very well, Lieutenant Berry, we will tell you, everything you want to know. We will leave nothing out. First, though, will you consider joining us in a bit of wine? This is a fine vintage, from Romania. It comes from the days of the Phenariots. It is really quite exquisite.”
“Do you really think that is wise, Louise?” Martin asked reservedly.
“Oh, gracious, Martin, you are so selfish,” she replied.
“As tempting as that sounds, I think I’ll pass,” Berry said with obvious sarcasm as Louise poured first one glass, and then another. Martin took a long, languorous sip and closed his eyes in obvious satisfaction.
“Now this was truly worth the wait,” he said as Louise sipped her glass in turn.
“Before I answer your questions, I really have to wonder if you are sure you really want to know,” Louise said. “The truth can be a harsh companion, Lieutenant, especially for those on whose hands are so much blood as yours.”
“You should be an expert on that,” Berry hissed. “Any blood I shed was while under the influence of”-
“Really now, are you sure?” Martin asked with his eyes now wide with skepticism. “I do wonder what your dear, departed wife might have to say about that. You are going to have to answer for her death one of these days, you know, in addition to so many other things-many of which you did well before we ever came into the picture, I might add.”
Berry bristled at this, and seemed ready to lash out, yet restrained himself.
“My wife’s death was an accident,” he protested.
“Oh, of course,” Louise replied with a cackle. “The two of you fought because she discovered your affair with our dear departed Marnie Moloku, which occurred while she was yet just a young, naive, love-struck teenage girl. Later, of course, you engaged in yet another series of liaisons with her mother Doris. Oh, and let us not forget your corrupt dealings with our good friend Voroslav.”
“Need I also remind you,” Martin added, “of your part in the murder of Jason Talbert, as per the orders of Phillip Khoska? Should it prove necessary, it would certainly be no problem for me to call Mr. Khoska downstairs here in order to refresh your memory.”
“Phillip Khoska-is here?” Berry asked.
“He most certainly is,” the old man replied with a sudden twinkle in his eyes. “He is here to meet the same person you are so interested in, and who shall be here momentarily. He is here to meet the Master. Who knows, James, maybe this is fate’s way of affording you an opportunity to acquire absolution for your many and varied sins-some of which are, as we have noted, of quite a heinous nature.”
“My absolution will come from making restitution for my crimes and doing whatever is necessary to gain forgiveness for my sins. I know full well that I have a hell of a lot to make up for. I intend to start by taking the two of you in and seeing that you are charged and convicted in a court of law. Whoever your master is, I’m sure somehow I can make sure he joins you.”
“Oh, really, James, and just what do you propose to charge us with?” Martin inquired. “Might I suggest you begin with the rather ingenious plan we hatched to resurrect the spirit of an ancient Romanian nobleman, and to insure that this vampire took possession of the body of our heroin-addicted grandson? I’m sure the jury will be on the edge of their seats.”
“Especially once they hear that the spirit in question is that of the brother of Dracula himself,” Louise added with a delighted chuckle.
“As far as any crimes that we might have committed, the only thing on which you have any real evidence, which is entirely circumstantial, is our presence at the Baltimore Sun immediately prior to the murder of Mr. Desmond. As it happens, our presence there was for a very legitimate reason. Mr. Desmond sought to inform us of the truth regarding our heritage. It seems that Father Khoska and I our half-brothers, though thankfully this is not on the Khoska side.”
“We’ll see what Grace has to say about all that,” Berry said. “She was there too. You two are up to your eyeballs in everything that has happened. I am past caring about what happens to me, and unlike David Chou, I know more than enough to put all of you people away for good. I intend to do just that.
“So go ahead and enjoy your wine. It might well be the last little bit of pleasure you ever know. Whatever happens, you sure as hell ain’t going to live out the rest of your lives here as though you are a couple of respectable old retirees living out your last days in comfort and serenity.”
To Berry’s amazement, Martin and Louise looked at each other lovingly, and then entwined their arms as they finished the last of their wine. They then looked with a gaze of contentment toward Berry.
“You misunderstand our intentions, Berry,” Martin said. “We didn’t come back to our home here to live. We came here to die.”
Before Berry could respond, the lights went out as a sudden onrush of wind blew throughout the house, bringing with it a foul, stifling odor that made Berry’s senses reel as the two elderly Krovells merely looked upward, as through addressing an unseen presence.
“Welcome back, old friend,” Martin said. “We have awaited your return. We are of the hopes that you and your beloved wife will find this place to your pleasure.”
“We trust that you will kindly see to our remains as we prepare to take our leave of this mortal veil of woe,” Louise added as the wind blew ever harsher throughout the house. It dislodged from the wall an old still life that had been in the family for three generations, in addition to a vase that sat precariously upon a ledge. Berry looked all around him in mounting terror as the Krovells, smiling, leaned back on the sofa and leaned against each other, Martin’s arm around Louise, who laid her head upon his chest.
Suddenly, Berry heard the sounds of someone knocking from an adjacent room, the one that had previously been the Funeral Home office. The sounds had a desperate tone to them, and as Berry approached it, he saw that it was bolt locked from the outside.
“Hold on just a minute,” Berry commanded, as he surveyed the lock and the doorknob. Bracing himself, he first kicked with as much force as he could muster against the door, then throwing the entirety of his body weight against the solid oak door. After the third such attempt, the door finally gave way. Berry entered cautiously, only to see the form of Phelps, the tabloid photographer, tied to a chair behind the desk of the recently refurbished room. He had somehow managed to free his mouth from the confines of a gag stuffed inside it, while yet tied securely to the chair.
“Please-you have to help me,” Phelps begged desperately.
“How long have you been here?” Berry asked as he hurriedly loosened the rope, then tearing at the knot that bound Phelps securely to the chair.
“What the hell is going on out there?” Phelps asked in terror while ignoring Berry’s question.
“You probably know more than I do,” Berry asked. “You’ve been sending photographs of Marlowe Krovell and other things to the Inquirer, from what I hear. So what happened, did they figure out you was spying on them, or what?”
“That wasn’t me,” Phelps swore. “That thing-that thing that wears the gray robe, he was the one that used my camera. My God, he took his hood off once and”-
Phelps was obviously in a state of shock and found it hard to continue.
“So they’ve been trying to set up Marlowe to take the fall for all this stuff, just like I figured. The only thing I can’t figure out is, why didn’t they just kill you?”
“Grace,” Phelps answered as the wind blew harder, it seemed, with each passing second. “She told them not to hurt me. They’ve been trying to convert me to their fucked up cult, though. Please, we have to get out of here. That thing is coming, and he ain’t human, he’s”-
By this time, though, the fury of the wind all but drowned out his words, and even though he shouted, it was difficult for Berry to hear him. Yet, as Berry looked outside, what struck him was how calm it seemed. The wind was entirely within the house. He motioned for Phelps to follow him. Phelps did so, and as they entered the living room, he looked over toward where Martin and Louise Krovell sat on the sofa, both of them obviously dead, staring out into space, both of them smiling contentedly.
Suddenly, the wind stopped, and everything became engulfed in a deadly silence, all within the space of less than a heartbeat. Then, from upstairs, a terrified scream pierced the atmosphere, followed by desperate pleading. Berry recognized the frantic cries of Phillip Khoska.
“I’m getting the hell out of here,” Phelps said. “If you’re smart you will too.”
With that, Phelps was out the door, but Berry approached the steps, determined he would make things right, even if it cost him his life. He trudged carefully up the stairs, until he approached the room from whence the desperate cries yet emanated-the former bedroom of Marlowe Krovell. He listened for but a few seconds, as he stood by the door. Finally, he swiftly threw open the door, and entered. At first, he saw nothing but the furniture tossed violently about the room. Soon, however, he heard desperate, mournful moaning.
“Khoska, is that you?” a terrified Berry demanded as he aimed his gun.
Suddenly, Berry saw a bloody hand reach for the edge of the far side of the bed. Then, a horror stricken Phillip Khoska pulled himself up over the edge, as he tried desperately and painfully to rise while looking straight at Berry with pleading, yet hopeless eyes.
“Please-help me,” he begged. At that moment, however, an unseen forced pulled him down to the floor and out of Berry’s sight as a different head appeared-a head of dark, raven black hair. Berry watched in horror as Khoska’s desperate screams finally stopped and Berry could hear his body ripped open.
“Who’s there?” he demanded. “Come out now.”
The head raised up above the edge of the bed, to reveal the now lunatic features of Lynnette Khoska, her eyes deranged with the satiated lust filled by the blood of her father, her grinning, cadaverous face caked with his blood and gore as her eyes shone with an intensity that was maddening to behold.
She looked at Berry and growled like a wild animal. Then, she laughed, as Berry backed up out of the room. He turned and fled desperately down the steps. Upon reaching the first landing, he jumped the rest of the way down, but caught his left heel on the second to the bottom step, from which he plunged head first to the floor. He rose painfully as he felt a presence hovering over him.
He looked up in agony and terror at the gray robed and hooded figure that towered over him. He raised his gun to aim at the creature, but he just stood there. Berry aimed, and pulled the trigger, but the gun jammed on him, would not fire. Desperately, Berry flung the gun at the rapidly approaching figure, but the gun seemed merely to bounce harmlessly off the thick, bulky robe. Berry lowered his head and cried. The figure stood over him and watched curiously, as Berry mumbled a frantic prayer as he repeatedly made the sign of the cross.
“What are you going to do to me?” Berry asked in a whining, defeated voice.
“Nothing,” the figure answered. “You have already done it to yourself.”
Berry looked up as the figure then began to remove the hood from his head. Berry found himself staring into the reddened eyes and fire-scarred face of Bradley Marlowe, who looked down upon him with a sneer.
“You are already a dead man,” he said. “You just don’t know it yet. Or, maybe you’ve just forgotten it. Maybe you are just a mere ghost of a man. Maybe everything you’ve done these last few years has been nothing but a dream that you need to wake up from. When you do, maybe you will forget all of that as well.”
Berry cried as Brad Marlowe’s eyes pierced inside him, burning into him with a laser-like intensity, as Berry cowered and attempted to hide. Brad Marlowe stood there over him and, producing Phelps’s camera from inside his robe, he pointed it at Berry, now crouched on the floor in a fetal position. The last thing Berry heard was the lens shutter snap as a light flashed. When he woke up, he felt a strong handclasp onto his shoulder as more camera flashes permeated the room as they assaulted his retinas, obliging him to throw up his hands in a futile defensive posture.
“Get up, James,” he heard someone say. “It’s over now.”
He looked up to see his former partner from the Baltimore Police Department, Lieutenant Frank Anderson, towering over him, as another detective approached. Yet another detective walked around the room, snapping pictures. Berry rose in confusion.
“They’re both dead,” the approaching detective informed Anderson. “It looks to me to be poisoning. I’m suspecting hemlock, probably in their wine. Might even be a case of a suicide pact, if not murder-suicide.”
“Who are you?” Berry asked the unknown detective, who looked at him strangely.
“Come on, James, you’ve known me for seven years now. I’m Frank’s new partner now, for going on four months.”
Berry looked at the man and at Anderson, as though what the man said just did not register in any kind of sensible manner, as another detective, a woman, came down from upstairs.
“I don’t know what went on up there but there’s blood all over the damned place,” the fourth detective said to the one taking the pictures. “You better go up there and get some pictures fast.
“All right James, what’s happened here?” Frank demanded.
Berry looked around as more detectives filed into what was obviously a crime scene. He did not understand any of this.
“I don’t even know what I’m doing here,” Berry said. “How did I get here? What is this place?”
“This is the Krovell Funeral Home,” Frank answered suspiciously. Berry looked at him as though he had never heard of such a place.
Frank helped Berry to his feet, but Berry had to lean on him. He had twisted his ankle, but did not even remember how he had done that. They made it outside the house, where Berry saw Phelps, shivering while wrapped in a blanket, drinking coffee as uniformed officers stood around him, along with yet another detective who seemed to be taking his statement.
“Who is that guy, is he a suspect?” Berry asked. “He looks like he’s in a bad way.”
Frank just looked at his old partner with a mixture of sadness and apprehension.
“James, what were you doing here? You don’t remember anything at all?”
Berry stopped suddenly, as though a veil lifted.
“Oh shit I forgot,” he said. “We were supposed to go to the game tonight weren’t we? Oh hell, Frank, I’m sorry. I’ve been looking forward to this game for two weeks. That new pitcher the Orioles got is something else. We might make the play-offs this year, huh?”
“What new pitcher?” Frank asked, aware that suddenly Berry seemed to have already forgotten the events of the last few minutes.”
“Oh, you know, Gordon Reynolds,” Berry replied. Frank wiped his brow and stifled a gasp. The Orioles traded Reynolds to the Twins after his rookie year, more than twenty years ago. He never worked out to expectations, but at the time, the Orioles had put many of their hopes for future seasons on the young firebrand fastball pitcher from Kansas.
Frank opened the back door to his car and helped Berry crawl inside the back seat area. He was not sure where he was going to take him. He obviously needed medical attention. He hated the prospect of taking his old partner in for questioning, but at the same time hated not to be there. He was obviously not faking. Frank had known Berry for far too long. Just as he had for some time been suspicious of his recent activities, he now knew something profound had happened to his old friend. As he got into the front seat, Berry knocked on the back window. Frank looked back towards him.
“I want to make it up to you,” Berry said. “Maybe we can take the girls out for dinner sometime next week. You know what they say about wives always worrying about their husbands with their partners on the job. It always helps to keep them a part of your life. You know, so they’ll know it ain’t all constant life-threatening danger and gunfire. What do you say?”
Frank looked inside Berry’s eyes. They were empty, devoid of reason. He was really in another era now.
“Yeah, James,” Frank said somberly as he started up the car. “I think I’d like that.”
Links To Previous Chapters
Part One
Prologue and Chapters I-X
Part Two
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
PartThree
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Chapter XXXIX
Chapter XXXX
Chapter XXXXI
Chapter XXXXII
Chapter XXXXIII
Chapter XXXXIV
Radu-Chapter XXXXV (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
13 pages approximate
Phillip Khoska watched intently the replay of the Senate Select Committee on International Crime-for the third time, as though seeing it for the first time live, with no knowledge of what was about to happen. He knew, of course, that Greg Morrison would soon conclude his testimony. He realized that Morrison had completely absolved him of any wrongdoing perpetrated by employees and associates within his company, conducted supposedly without his knowledge or participation. His own family was unfortunately involved, including his ex-wife, now dead along with his children and grandchildren, all of them murdered along with her second husband-supposedly-in a gruesome Christmas Eve massacre.
Elaine Khoska, Morrison testified, had been a pivotal part of the operation headed by Phillip’s brother-in-law, Varoslav Moloku, along with his wife Dorothy and daughter Marnie-Phillips sister and niece, respectively. It was a conspiracy, said Morrison, that reached into the corridors of power, involving Morrison along with his late father Randall, from the time the disgraced Baltimore Assemblyman had been a mere minor.
The real mastermind, he testified, had been Jason Talbert, the Wall Street financier and international broker, whose sudden and unexpected death set off a power struggle within the cabal that had so surreptitiously infested Khoska’s legitimate company and financial holdings. They corrupted many, from Khoska’s own wife, to powerful politicians and journalists such as Grady Desmond, on down to decorated police officers such as Baltimore Police Department Lieutenant James Berry. Phillip Khoska, he asserted, despondent over the charges leveled against him in the aftermath of the brutal murder of his entire family, made an ultimately unsuccessful attempt on his own life.
At one point, Morrison began looking at his watch, then looking nervously all around him, as though in expectation of something that seemed destined to not come about. He became obviously annoyed and anxious, yet strangely relieved. One of the committee members was at this point in the process of inquiring as to whether Morrison knew of the current whereabouts of Marnie Moloku, or of James Berry, when he took note of Morrison’s strange behavior and inquired as to whether he was well.
Khoska could almost hear Morrison through the television wondering when the damn bombs were going to drop. As unfortunate as it was that this part of the plan failed, Khoska could not help but feel some amusement at his obviously bizarre reaction. Had he been aware, he would likely not have been so willing to follow the script as rehearsed. Morrison pulled himself together somewhat and replied that he was of the understanding that James Berry, whose whereabouts was currently unknown to him, as to everyone else, had murdered Marnie Moloku and disposed of her body. He then went on to murder her mother Doris, in addition to the federal agent assigned to watch over Marnie.
Unfortunately, Phillip came to understand all too well that no one had devised any contingency plan in the event of failure. That was the problem with dealing with religious fanatics. Their faith made failure unthinkable. Now, it would be a simple matter for the Senate Sub-committee members to pick apart Morrison’s testimony. Morrison was a simple-minded stooge unable to think on his feet. He needed coaching and rehearsing. Now, he was on his own. By the time they were finished with him, the whole tapestry of lies would unravel, and Khoska would be back to where he started from, suspected of complicity in all of the criminal activities of which, in fact, he had been a part from the beginning.
Fortunately, Phillip had devised a contingency plan, which his confederates, who were not all together unreasonable, thankfully adopted. Khoska continued watching as one of the other Senate inquisitors asked Morrison about his knowledge pertaining to the recent outbreak of the multi-epidemic, which was yet far from over though somewhat abated, if but temporarily. Of course, Morrison was completely unaware of any of this, which in truth few were. Khoska himself had been unaware of this matter, a secret shared by a very select few-two of who would be soon joining him, this very night.
Tonight would also be the night he would finally come face to face with the one they all reverentially referred to as “The Master”.
The Master, they claimed, very much looked forward to meeting with him, as he had been following and monitoring his progress for some time now. The Master, they assured him, would reward his faith. The bullet from the Derringer, with which Khoska shot himself immediately prior to the expected arrival of the tabloid photographer Phelps, could easily have killed him, and likely leave him disabled for the entirety of his life were he to survive.
The Master insured Khoska would receive the utmost care and treatment by way of the blood-derived compound developed under the auspices of the pharmaceutical laboratories, which were just one part of Phillip Khoska’s extensive holdings. The Master kept his word, as always. The compound proved to be a dramatic cure in his case, repairing all damage to his brain, even restoring the individually damaged cells, leaving no traces whatsoever of the self-inflicted wound.
Not only did he heal completely, he never felt better in his life. Now that he was all but cleared of any charges of wrongdoing, he had his entire life yet ahead of him. The sacrifice of his family was unfortunate, but necessary. Whatever happened next, Khoska’s life, his freedom, even his wealth, all were as secure as they ever were.
He almost pitied Greg Morrison, who noticeably grew increasingly more distraught by the second, as someone inquired, to the overall amusement of those in attendance within the Senate chambers, as to whether he expected company or if he had somewhere that he needed to be at any given time. Morrison obviously did not know how to answer the question. It was supposed to be over by now.
Suddenly he clutched his chest and began heaving, then going into convulsions. The crowded assembly watched in shock as Greg Morrison collapsed at the desk at which he sat beside his team of lawyers, none of whom had any idea of the extent of Morrison’s involvement with the plan that had come so close to forever changing the world.
The screen returned to the evening newscast on ABC Nightline, and to a roundtable interview with people discussing the strangeness of the day’s events. Morrison had died. An autopsy revealed that he had an artificial heart-a heart that had given out on him, and one that had some strange kind of tracking device that was easily misinterpreted as a monitor installed solely for health reasons. There were some, of course, who viewed Morrison’s death as suspicious under the circumstances, but had no clue as to the magnitude of the events of the day.
Khoska watched the television in the quiet solitude of his new though temporary home, the owners of which soon pulled into the driveway. He watched them through the window. They seemed so calm, so assured. It was hard to believe they realized the seriousness of what faced them. They had devoted their lives to their church, and to their faith, toiling in thankless obscurity behind the scenes, out of necessity, knowing that one careless move would lead to their own condemnation by the world, which would denounce them as evil cultists. They would be pariahs, doomed to a life worse than death, possibly executed for their crimes of necessity.
Khoska of course did not share their faith, but he did share their goal of transforming the world. His motivation was basic greed and drive for power, but he felt no shame at this realization, for he knew that he would leave the world a better place for his efforts-at least in the long run.
Yet, he could not help but admire the Krovell’s selfless dedication to their ideals, and to their religion. They possessed, in fact, a child-like faith that Phillip Khoska barely grasped even when a child his own self. His knowledge of their dedication, in combination with their obvious talents and abilities, made them perfect allies. He meant to turn what was at the time he joined it an international criminal cartel, of extensive wealth shielded by vast legitimate holdings, into what would soon become the foundation for a new government ascending from the ashes of the burnt out corpse of the old one, the death of which they would all be obligated to preside over.
They moved slowly up the sidewalk to the door, and then entered, for perhaps the last time, the newly repaired and refurnished former Krovell Funeral Home, now their own private residence.
“Ah, it is good to be home again,” old man Martin said. “After all of these years, of being away for so long, now at last I can feel some semblance of real peace.”
Louise rolled her eyes and chuckled.
“Really, Martin, you are such a complainer,” she said. “What was it you said to me not too long ago? I believe it was something along the lines of ‘wherever a man’s heart is, there is his true home, and if a man’s heart is with God, the entire world is his home.’”
“Oh, that is true, my dear, but at the same time, you must understand, this was after all the home of my childhood. There are so many happy memories here. I still remember the time we buried the old gypsy out in the back yard, with the trunk that contained Radu’s remains. I wanted to open it so badly, but I was told-in no uncertain terms, mind you-that this was not yet meant to be. Our dear Marlowe, God bless him, just doesn’t know how lucky he is to be chosen to be such an important vessel. Our Marlowe, chosen to carry the sins of the world to their ultimate destruction-who would have thought we would actually live to see it all begin to unfold?”
Louise Krovell cleared her throat then at the notice of Phillip Khoska standing in the doorway to the dining room, standing and listening intently to Martin’s reveries.
“Phillip, you are looking well,” Louise said.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’ve never felt better, just as you promised. What was this about Marlowe carrying the sins of the world?”
“Oh, you mustn’t mind Martin,” Louise replied as Martin approached their confederate. “He does tend to engage in a great deal of symbolic hyperbole. You should really hear him recite Hamlet’s monologue one of these days. You would think he had composed the stanzas the way he carries on sometimes.”
Martin reached out and shook Phillip’s hand heartily.
“That was how I won her, you know. I tell you, my friend, recite poetry to a woman, and if you can make it seem as though it comes from the heart-if you can make it your own, as they say nowadays-you will win her every time. A little blackberry wine used strategically in conjunction with it doesn’t hurt either, by the way.”
“He was quite original, I must say. Even my gypsy blood and wiles were unprepared for the prospect of being wooed by a recitation from The Tempest. Of course, our marriage was an arranged one, you know, but still, Martin had a way of making it seem like the blossoming of true love. I have no doubt that had we met as strangers, the end result would be much the same as it was.”
“So, when do I get to meet this mysterious Master, as you call him?” Phillip asked expectantly.
“Very soon, my friend, very soon indeed”, Martin answered. “He and his new bride should be here anytime now. He is more than delighted with your contribution to our cause. And now, of course, that your private holdings will soon be once again recognized as legitimate, as they once were, now that your legal status has been cleared up and your innocence proclaimed, we all know we can count on you to keep your word.”
“The orphanage, of course,” Phillip said. “That seems a small price to pay, actually. I will gladly see to their needs, and beyond that. They will want for nothing, I promise you. I likewise assure you that they will be raised in the true faith, as you require. In fact, the paperwork has already been prepared, as you requested.
“I am only sorry our original plans did not come to fruition. They would be among the top elites of the world had we succeeded. At any rate, their lives shall yet be one of privilege, tempered with knowledge, faith, and responsibility.”
“And you will keep the doors open to any other children that might be in need, and likewise raise them in the true faith of our Lord Jesus Christ?” Martin asked.
“Of course,” Khoska assured him. “Of what use is wealth and power if you don’t use it to leave the world a better place, to what extent you are able?”
“Oh, that is such a relief,” Louise declared. “We so much feared that you would renounce your earlier promise seeing as how we failed unfortunately to live up to our end of the bargain. You would certainly have every right to do so.”
“There is always tomorrow,” Khoska replied. Martin and Louise looked to each other with a knowing glance.
“That is very true, Phillip,” Martin replied. “Tomorrow is a promise that never fades. The children are indeed the future of the world. Their needs are of paramount importance. Not only their material needs, as important as these are, but their emotional and spiritual needs as well. Far too many children in this world live lives of deprivation. They know not the joys of art and music, of great literature, and as such, their souls starve every bit as much as the bodies of the materially destitute. The result, I am afraid, is a world famished of spirit and bereft of hope.
“You, Martin, can provide for their sustenance, and set an example for others to hopefully follow.”
“So,” Louise said, “I trust you are finding the guest room to your liking.”
“Of course,” Phillip said. “It used to be Marlowe’s, I think you said? It is actually quite comfortable.”
“If you would be a dear and go up there for just a while longer, we will let you know when the Master arrives. We do need to speak to him in private when he first gets here. It has been a good while since we have seen him and, to be frank, we are a bit selfish when it comes to what little time we get to have with him. I do hope you understand.”
“Of course,” Khoska replied. “If I by some chance fall asleep, please feel free to wake me.”
Martin turned to walk up the steps, but before he got halfway up, he stopped and turned.
“I guess you know all about Morrison,” he said. “It was really too bad in a way. At one time, he had such a brilliant career ahead of him. He might have been useful. It’s too bad they had to die, but I guess it’s like they always say-everybody is expendable.”
“They?” Martin asked. “What are you talking about?”
“Morrison’s father Randall, of course,” Khoska replied. “It’s ironic, in a way. He had hopes at one time of being Governor of Maryland, maybe a Senator. He even entertained dreams of possibly one day being President. He always had these dreams of political accomplishment. He always wanted Greg to follow in his footsteps. He told me once that the American people loved their political dynasties, and that it was a part of their European heritage they could never throw off. It was up to people like him to provide them the leadership they all inwardly craved.
“Instead, he and his youngest son end up killed in a plane crash in the Himalayas, and now Greg dies of heart failure in the middle of a Senate Sub-Committee investigation of his criminal activities. It’s almost sad. That’s saying something coming from me. I never considered myself the sentimental type.”
Martin and Louise looked at each other, as though neither was sure exactly how to respond and looked to the other for the answer. Finally, Louise cleared her throat.
“It is really understandable, Phillip, if you are experiencing regrets as to the fate of your wife and children, and of course your grandchildren. As we explained, it was an unfortunate necessity. All the same, we certainly understand your grief. Matters such as this are never easy.”
Phillip looked at them both, and then looked away briefly, and breathed deeply.
“It had to be done,” he replied at length. “My only regret is that it seems to have been for nothing. I don’t fault you for that, in that you tried your best. Still, sometimes I wonder if they could have been brought into the circle. Are you sure-“
“The Khoska bloodline has to perish from the earth, Phillip. That is true not just of your own children, but all of the Khoskas who are of childbearing age. At some point, they would revive the heresy that has cursed the world. After all, it was they who drove underground we who make up the true elect, the faithful followers of the Lord Jesus Christ. It is they who have been at the forefront of persecuting us throughout the centuries.”
“As for the Morrisons, they had to die due to their own greed for power-a fatal flaw in far too many of us. Yet, in death, there is a resurrection and a renewal. This will prove true of your own bloodline as well, my friend. Remember, we are all one within the universal whole. There is no death-truly, there is not. There are only varied modes of existence.”
“Of course,” Phillip replied as he turned once more to walk up the stairs. “Be sure and wake me when the Master arrives.”
They watched him walk up the steps towards Marlowe’s old room until he disappeared out of sight.
“I think he knows,” Louise said. “What do you think?”
“Perhaps he does, but even so, it shall do him precious little good,” Martin said as he turned off the television. “What do you say we break out the wine? It seems most appropriate for the occasion.”
“I will gladly do the honors,” Louise replied, and was soon off into the kitchen as Martin sat down upon the recliner. “Besides, this is a special occasion, and it would not be appropriate for you to hold back in miserly fashion as you are so often prone to do.”
“I would not dream of such a thing on a night such as tonight,” Martin replied defensively.
“Just the same, I am happy to do the honors,” Louise said as she made her way toward the kitchen. “You just sit back and relax.”
“Yes, it is good to be home,” he muttered once, as much to himself as to Louise, now in the kitchen, from where she asked him what he said.
Before he could respond, however, Martin felt the cold steel of the revolver up against the back of his head, and a steel-toned voice command him to “turn around real slow.”
Martin did as commanded, only to see the cold, determined glare of James Berry, his service revolver pointed at his head.
“Well, I see that you have recovered quite nicely,” he observed. “So, what brings you here James?”
“Can it, you old fart,” Berry replied. “I’ve recovered all right. What you didn’t realize, when I was infested with that spore from Marlowe, is that it tends to increase your susceptibility more towards diseases you are already prone to catch, which in my case happened to be allergies and influenza-things I’ve dealt with all my life. When Chou treated me for them, he drove the allergies back into remission and cured the flu that was kicking my ass.
“Unfortunately for you, when he did that, he also eradicated the damned spores from my system. Once they were gone, Marlowe’s influence went with them.”
“Ah, but you have been a bad, bad boy James,” Martin reminded him as Louise now re-entered the living room, carrying a tray upon which sat a bottle of wine, along with two chilled wineglasses.
“As you can see, Louise, we have an unexpected visitor.”
“So I see,” Louise said as she nonchalantly placed the tray on the coffee table in front of where Martin now took a seat on the sofa, and where Louise now joined him.
"Why, Lieutenant Berry, what is that foul odor emanating from you. If I didn't know better I would swear you must have just bathed in garlic?"
"Why, Louise, I think you are right," Martin concurred. "You will never attract a wife that way, Lieutenant. Well, of course, that might be all for the best after all, as we are all so unfortunately aware."
"Shut the fuck up," Berry hissed. "I'll do the talking here."
“You aren’t going to shoot us, are you, Lieutenant Berry?” Louise asked. “Surely you don’t think such drastic measures are necessary in the case of two old invalids such as me and Martin, do you?”
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to shoot two old rattlesnakes like you two, but no I hope that won’t be necessary,” Berry said. “I want answers, and I damn well better believe what I hear. Like for example, I want to know who is really behind all this shit. Marlowe obviously ain’t behind it, and you two are too hands-on to be the real ringleaders. Everybody else is either dead or no more than pawns, like Chou and me. So what in the hell is going on here, and why?”
“Very well, Lieutenant Berry, we will tell you, everything you want to know. We will leave nothing out. First, though, will you consider joining us in a bit of wine? This is a fine vintage, from Romania. It comes from the days of the Phenariots. It is really quite exquisite.”
“Do you really think that is wise, Louise?” Martin asked reservedly.
“Oh, gracious, Martin, you are so selfish,” she replied.
“As tempting as that sounds, I think I’ll pass,” Berry said with obvious sarcasm as Louise poured first one glass, and then another. Martin took a long, languorous sip and closed his eyes in obvious satisfaction.
“Now this was truly worth the wait,” he said as Louise sipped her glass in turn.
“Before I answer your questions, I really have to wonder if you are sure you really want to know,” Louise said. “The truth can be a harsh companion, Lieutenant, especially for those on whose hands are so much blood as yours.”
“You should be an expert on that,” Berry hissed. “Any blood I shed was while under the influence of”-
“Really now, are you sure?” Martin asked with his eyes now wide with skepticism. “I do wonder what your dear, departed wife might have to say about that. You are going to have to answer for her death one of these days, you know, in addition to so many other things-many of which you did well before we ever came into the picture, I might add.”
Berry bristled at this, and seemed ready to lash out, yet restrained himself.
“My wife’s death was an accident,” he protested.
“Oh, of course,” Louise replied with a cackle. “The two of you fought because she discovered your affair with our dear departed Marnie Moloku, which occurred while she was yet just a young, naive, love-struck teenage girl. Later, of course, you engaged in yet another series of liaisons with her mother Doris. Oh, and let us not forget your corrupt dealings with our good friend Voroslav.”
“Need I also remind you,” Martin added, “of your part in the murder of Jason Talbert, as per the orders of Phillip Khoska? Should it prove necessary, it would certainly be no problem for me to call Mr. Khoska downstairs here in order to refresh your memory.”
“Phillip Khoska-is here?” Berry asked.
“He most certainly is,” the old man replied with a sudden twinkle in his eyes. “He is here to meet the same person you are so interested in, and who shall be here momentarily. He is here to meet the Master. Who knows, James, maybe this is fate’s way of affording you an opportunity to acquire absolution for your many and varied sins-some of which are, as we have noted, of quite a heinous nature.”
“My absolution will come from making restitution for my crimes and doing whatever is necessary to gain forgiveness for my sins. I know full well that I have a hell of a lot to make up for. I intend to start by taking the two of you in and seeing that you are charged and convicted in a court of law. Whoever your master is, I’m sure somehow I can make sure he joins you.”
“Oh, really, James, and just what do you propose to charge us with?” Martin inquired. “Might I suggest you begin with the rather ingenious plan we hatched to resurrect the spirit of an ancient Romanian nobleman, and to insure that this vampire took possession of the body of our heroin-addicted grandson? I’m sure the jury will be on the edge of their seats.”
“Especially once they hear that the spirit in question is that of the brother of Dracula himself,” Louise added with a delighted chuckle.
“As far as any crimes that we might have committed, the only thing on which you have any real evidence, which is entirely circumstantial, is our presence at the Baltimore Sun immediately prior to the murder of Mr. Desmond. As it happens, our presence there was for a very legitimate reason. Mr. Desmond sought to inform us of the truth regarding our heritage. It seems that Father Khoska and I our half-brothers, though thankfully this is not on the Khoska side.”
“We’ll see what Grace has to say about all that,” Berry said. “She was there too. You two are up to your eyeballs in everything that has happened. I am past caring about what happens to me, and unlike David Chou, I know more than enough to put all of you people away for good. I intend to do just that.
“So go ahead and enjoy your wine. It might well be the last little bit of pleasure you ever know. Whatever happens, you sure as hell ain’t going to live out the rest of your lives here as though you are a couple of respectable old retirees living out your last days in comfort and serenity.”
To Berry’s amazement, Martin and Louise looked at each other lovingly, and then entwined their arms as they finished the last of their wine. They then looked with a gaze of contentment toward Berry.
“You misunderstand our intentions, Berry,” Martin said. “We didn’t come back to our home here to live. We came here to die.”
Before Berry could respond, the lights went out as a sudden onrush of wind blew throughout the house, bringing with it a foul, stifling odor that made Berry’s senses reel as the two elderly Krovells merely looked upward, as through addressing an unseen presence.
“Welcome back, old friend,” Martin said. “We have awaited your return. We are of the hopes that you and your beloved wife will find this place to your pleasure.”
“We trust that you will kindly see to our remains as we prepare to take our leave of this mortal veil of woe,” Louise added as the wind blew ever harsher throughout the house. It dislodged from the wall an old still life that had been in the family for three generations, in addition to a vase that sat precariously upon a ledge. Berry looked all around him in mounting terror as the Krovells, smiling, leaned back on the sofa and leaned against each other, Martin’s arm around Louise, who laid her head upon his chest.
Suddenly, Berry heard the sounds of someone knocking from an adjacent room, the one that had previously been the Funeral Home office. The sounds had a desperate tone to them, and as Berry approached it, he saw that it was bolt locked from the outside.
“Hold on just a minute,” Berry commanded, as he surveyed the lock and the doorknob. Bracing himself, he first kicked with as much force as he could muster against the door, then throwing the entirety of his body weight against the solid oak door. After the third such attempt, the door finally gave way. Berry entered cautiously, only to see the form of Phelps, the tabloid photographer, tied to a chair behind the desk of the recently refurbished room. He had somehow managed to free his mouth from the confines of a gag stuffed inside it, while yet tied securely to the chair.
“Please-you have to help me,” Phelps begged desperately.
“How long have you been here?” Berry asked as he hurriedly loosened the rope, then tearing at the knot that bound Phelps securely to the chair.
“What the hell is going on out there?” Phelps asked in terror while ignoring Berry’s question.
“You probably know more than I do,” Berry asked. “You’ve been sending photographs of Marlowe Krovell and other things to the Inquirer, from what I hear. So what happened, did they figure out you was spying on them, or what?”
“That wasn’t me,” Phelps swore. “That thing-that thing that wears the gray robe, he was the one that used my camera. My God, he took his hood off once and”-
Phelps was obviously in a state of shock and found it hard to continue.
“So they’ve been trying to set up Marlowe to take the fall for all this stuff, just like I figured. The only thing I can’t figure out is, why didn’t they just kill you?”
“Grace,” Phelps answered as the wind blew harder, it seemed, with each passing second. “She told them not to hurt me. They’ve been trying to convert me to their fucked up cult, though. Please, we have to get out of here. That thing is coming, and he ain’t human, he’s”-
By this time, though, the fury of the wind all but drowned out his words, and even though he shouted, it was difficult for Berry to hear him. Yet, as Berry looked outside, what struck him was how calm it seemed. The wind was entirely within the house. He motioned for Phelps to follow him. Phelps did so, and as they entered the living room, he looked over toward where Martin and Louise Krovell sat on the sofa, both of them obviously dead, staring out into space, both of them smiling contentedly.
Suddenly, the wind stopped, and everything became engulfed in a deadly silence, all within the space of less than a heartbeat. Then, from upstairs, a terrified scream pierced the atmosphere, followed by desperate pleading. Berry recognized the frantic cries of Phillip Khoska.
“I’m getting the hell out of here,” Phelps said. “If you’re smart you will too.”
With that, Phelps was out the door, but Berry approached the steps, determined he would make things right, even if it cost him his life. He trudged carefully up the stairs, until he approached the room from whence the desperate cries yet emanated-the former bedroom of Marlowe Krovell. He listened for but a few seconds, as he stood by the door. Finally, he swiftly threw open the door, and entered. At first, he saw nothing but the furniture tossed violently about the room. Soon, however, he heard desperate, mournful moaning.
“Khoska, is that you?” a terrified Berry demanded as he aimed his gun.
Suddenly, Berry saw a bloody hand reach for the edge of the far side of the bed. Then, a horror stricken Phillip Khoska pulled himself up over the edge, as he tried desperately and painfully to rise while looking straight at Berry with pleading, yet hopeless eyes.
“Please-help me,” he begged. At that moment, however, an unseen forced pulled him down to the floor and out of Berry’s sight as a different head appeared-a head of dark, raven black hair. Berry watched in horror as Khoska’s desperate screams finally stopped and Berry could hear his body ripped open.
“Who’s there?” he demanded. “Come out now.”
The head raised up above the edge of the bed, to reveal the now lunatic features of Lynnette Khoska, her eyes deranged with the satiated lust filled by the blood of her father, her grinning, cadaverous face caked with his blood and gore as her eyes shone with an intensity that was maddening to behold.
She looked at Berry and growled like a wild animal. Then, she laughed, as Berry backed up out of the room. He turned and fled desperately down the steps. Upon reaching the first landing, he jumped the rest of the way down, but caught his left heel on the second to the bottom step, from which he plunged head first to the floor. He rose painfully as he felt a presence hovering over him.
He looked up in agony and terror at the gray robed and hooded figure that towered over him. He raised his gun to aim at the creature, but he just stood there. Berry aimed, and pulled the trigger, but the gun jammed on him, would not fire. Desperately, Berry flung the gun at the rapidly approaching figure, but the gun seemed merely to bounce harmlessly off the thick, bulky robe. Berry lowered his head and cried. The figure stood over him and watched curiously, as Berry mumbled a frantic prayer as he repeatedly made the sign of the cross.
“What are you going to do to me?” Berry asked in a whining, defeated voice.
“Nothing,” the figure answered. “You have already done it to yourself.”
Berry looked up as the figure then began to remove the hood from his head. Berry found himself staring into the reddened eyes and fire-scarred face of Bradley Marlowe, who looked down upon him with a sneer.
“You are already a dead man,” he said. “You just don’t know it yet. Or, maybe you’ve just forgotten it. Maybe you are just a mere ghost of a man. Maybe everything you’ve done these last few years has been nothing but a dream that you need to wake up from. When you do, maybe you will forget all of that as well.”
Berry cried as Brad Marlowe’s eyes pierced inside him, burning into him with a laser-like intensity, as Berry cowered and attempted to hide. Brad Marlowe stood there over him and, producing Phelps’s camera from inside his robe, he pointed it at Berry, now crouched on the floor in a fetal position. The last thing Berry heard was the lens shutter snap as a light flashed. When he woke up, he felt a strong handclasp onto his shoulder as more camera flashes permeated the room as they assaulted his retinas, obliging him to throw up his hands in a futile defensive posture.
“Get up, James,” he heard someone say. “It’s over now.”
He looked up to see his former partner from the Baltimore Police Department, Lieutenant Frank Anderson, towering over him, as another detective approached. Yet another detective walked around the room, snapping pictures. Berry rose in confusion.
“They’re both dead,” the approaching detective informed Anderson. “It looks to me to be poisoning. I’m suspecting hemlock, probably in their wine. Might even be a case of a suicide pact, if not murder-suicide.”
“Who are you?” Berry asked the unknown detective, who looked at him strangely.
“Come on, James, you’ve known me for seven years now. I’m Frank’s new partner now, for going on four months.”
Berry looked at the man and at Anderson, as though what the man said just did not register in any kind of sensible manner, as another detective, a woman, came down from upstairs.
“I don’t know what went on up there but there’s blood all over the damned place,” the fourth detective said to the one taking the pictures. “You better go up there and get some pictures fast.
“All right James, what’s happened here?” Frank demanded.
Berry looked around as more detectives filed into what was obviously a crime scene. He did not understand any of this.
“I don’t even know what I’m doing here,” Berry said. “How did I get here? What is this place?”
“This is the Krovell Funeral Home,” Frank answered suspiciously. Berry looked at him as though he had never heard of such a place.
Frank helped Berry to his feet, but Berry had to lean on him. He had twisted his ankle, but did not even remember how he had done that. They made it outside the house, where Berry saw Phelps, shivering while wrapped in a blanket, drinking coffee as uniformed officers stood around him, along with yet another detective who seemed to be taking his statement.
“Who is that guy, is he a suspect?” Berry asked. “He looks like he’s in a bad way.”
Frank just looked at his old partner with a mixture of sadness and apprehension.
“James, what were you doing here? You don’t remember anything at all?”
Berry stopped suddenly, as though a veil lifted.
“Oh shit I forgot,” he said. “We were supposed to go to the game tonight weren’t we? Oh hell, Frank, I’m sorry. I’ve been looking forward to this game for two weeks. That new pitcher the Orioles got is something else. We might make the play-offs this year, huh?”
“What new pitcher?” Frank asked, aware that suddenly Berry seemed to have already forgotten the events of the last few minutes.”
“Oh, you know, Gordon Reynolds,” Berry replied. Frank wiped his brow and stifled a gasp. The Orioles traded Reynolds to the Twins after his rookie year, more than twenty years ago. He never worked out to expectations, but at the time, the Orioles had put many of their hopes for future seasons on the young firebrand fastball pitcher from Kansas.
Frank opened the back door to his car and helped Berry crawl inside the back seat area. He was not sure where he was going to take him. He obviously needed medical attention. He hated the prospect of taking his old partner in for questioning, but at the same time hated not to be there. He was obviously not faking. Frank had known Berry for far too long. Just as he had for some time been suspicious of his recent activities, he now knew something profound had happened to his old friend. As he got into the front seat, Berry knocked on the back window. Frank looked back towards him.
“I want to make it up to you,” Berry said. “Maybe we can take the girls out for dinner sometime next week. You know what they say about wives always worrying about their husbands with their partners on the job. It always helps to keep them a part of your life. You know, so they’ll know it ain’t all constant life-threatening danger and gunfire. What do you say?”
Frank looked inside Berry’s eyes. They were empty, devoid of reason. He was really in another era now.
“Yeah, James,” Frank said somberly as he started up the car. “I think I’d like that.”
Links To Previous Chapters
Part One
Prologue and Chapters I-X
Part Two
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
PartThree
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Chapter XXXIX
Chapter XXXX
Chapter XXXXI
Chapter XXXXII
Chapter XXXXIII
Chapter XXXXIV
The Legacy Of Native Dancer
One of the greatest of all thoroughbred race horses, of all time, was Native Dancer, who won all his career races, with one exception. This, ironically, was the Kentucky Derby in the early nineteen fifties.
The irony to this is that Native Dancer was the ancestor of Eight Belles, the filly so tragically euthanised after her second-place showing in the last Derby resulted in both of her front ankles breaking.
Native Dancer was, in fact, an ancestor of every single horse that run in this year's Kentucky Derby, including winner Big Brown-a horse that, incidentally, was considered a potential problem horse regarding his legs.
Of course, all thoroughbred horses are potential problem horses due precisely to their particular breed, bred as they are for speed, at the expense of strong bone structure.
This is in fact the natural state for horses. Their speed was a natural defense against predators, like the eyes at the side of their heads. This made them perfectly suited for adaptation to some human needs involving speed. Their use as Pony Express horses is one later example of this.
Draft horses came later, and were actually purposely bred to carry heavy loads as "work horses", and "war horses". Thoroughbred breeding is, in effect, a return to the basics.
Of course, with this comes it's own set of problems. Unfortunately, two year old and three year old horses, while they might be faster and have "spirit" more conducive to such competitions as the Triple Crown, their bones, particularly in their legs, are not suited for the stress of long distance running. Add to this the fact that such heavy in-breeding as is plainly seen in the bloodline of Native Dancer-the ancestor in fact of roughly seventy-five percent of all modern thoroughbred race horses-magnifies the problem exponentially.
Leave it to Kentucky to come up with a sport where in-breeding becomes an issue.
That being said, let's not be too quick to dump on the sport. It obviously needs reform in many areas. Raising the age limit would be a big help. At four or five years old, a horses bones are better developed and thus better able to handle the stress of racing.
There should also be some kind of insurance fund to provide for the care of injured horses. Contrary to popular belief, horses don't necessarily always have to be euthanised if they break a leg. In many cases, they simply have to have exptended periods of treatment and therapy that requires them to refrain in some manner from putting weight on the broken leg. Since horses can't lie down for more than very short periods, this requires some kind of halter to keep them hoisted comfortably off the ground to the exend no weight is put on the break, or that extra weight is not shifted to a good leg, as happened to be the case with last year's Kentucky Derby winner Barbaro that led to his eventual euthanization after last year's Preakness.
It can be done, but it can take a year or two of extensive therapy. However, this is expensive, so most owners will opt for the quicker and less expensive euthanization.
An insurance fund is the way to go here.
There should also be some kind of method to strengthen the bloodline by decreasing the rate of inbreeding. Native Dancer was a great horse, but he doesn't need to be the ancestor of every hose on the track. That bloodline needs to be thinned out somehow before it is too late, if it is not already.
As for a lot of the other hue and cry about this issue, a lot of it is overblown. Most thoroughbreds are well cared for, even pampered to an extent. Plus, they do love to run. It is in their natures. There are undoubtedly cases where cruelty is exhibited, and this should be dealt with, but for people to go ballistic over most training methods and the use of riding crops is really inappropriate. Riding crops and whips do not hurt a horse. They are guidance and communication tools. The horse knows this. They would not stand for someone inflicting pain on them. Believe me, you do not want to piss off a horse. They are nervous animals that are easily agitated when unnecessarily or cruelly provoked.
It would probably also be a good idea if fillies were not run in the Derby. It is an unusual filly that can keep pace with a colt, and in fact only three fillies have won the Derby in its entire history. Yet, they will compete when put in that position because it is in their natures. Yes, they know they are in a race, and they want to win it. This puts more stress on their already weak bone structures. A prideful filly like Eight Belles just will not give up, and will keep on running until she drops, pain be damned.
All in all, there are a lot of changes that need to be made. Dirt tracks need to be abolished, for one thing, in addition to some other changes. Horses are by nature social animals, and should be allowed some level of interaction with each other. Often they are confined and isolated from others way too much than is good for them. Most of course do have stable mates, but not all of them do, nor are they often allowed the opportunity to run together openly, for fear of injury. This should be addressed in some way.
In-breeding is perhaps the worse problem though. Native Dancer was, by the way, a quarter horse, yet is the ancestor of horses that are run in races of one to two miles. How this problem might be addressed is of serious concern, and it will take some years to thin out that bloodline. By it's nature, in-breeding tends to magnify genetic deficiencies to an exponential degree. That is why in-bred humans tend to develop serious health problems of a genetic nature which can manifest mentally or in physical deformations, or both. In rare cases, it can result in individuals of inordinately high IQ or in other beneficial properties, but unfortunately, these are exceptions rather than the rule. Small wonder then that a process meant to tap into a positive aspect in thoroughbreds resulted in unforeseen problem areas.
Still, a call for reform in needed areas should not be considered tantamount to calling on a ban, as others have done, such as Peta. Bear in mind that if Peta had their way, animals would probably have voting rights and a monthly government stipend.
All kidding aside, it really hurt me to see that horse fall like she did. When they got around finally to showing her lying there in pain on the track right before they euthanized her, that was really painful to see, but at the same time, I couldn't make myself turn away. If it does cause people to make serious efforts at reform, I guess it will make it worthwhile on some level, but it's still a shame it had to come to that.
Sunday, May 04, 2008
Political And Religious Hypocrisy-The Greatest Of All Whores
Thanks goes out to Rufus from Grad Student Madness, who sent me the link to this article in the New York Times by Frank Rich. It points out a great many things I have said all the time. All of this hoopla about the Reverend Wright fails to take into account that Wright is but one of a long line of nutty ministers, many of whom say things that are on a par with him. Yet, strangely enough, most of the people screaming the loudest about Wright seem to ignore a good many of these others. That could be well because, in a great many cases, many of them are sitting right in the pews where and when they spew their own particular brand of venom and don't seem to mind when politicians seek their support, while knowing all about their histories.
Following is a few sample snippets from the Times article dealing with McCain’s endorsement by pastor Ted Hagee, an endorsement McCain sought and received, which is covered in this Washington Post article. Please now, don’t take them out of context, I think there’s been quite enough of that lately-
"Since then, Mr. McCain has been shocked to learn that his clerical ally has made many other outrageous statements. Mr. Hagee, it’s true, did not blame the American government for concocting AIDS. But he did say that God created Hurricane Katrina to punish New Orleans for its sins, particularly a scheduled “homosexual parade there on the Monday that Katrina came.”
Rich goes on to say that-
"None of this is to say that two wacky white preachers make a Wright right. It is entirely fair for any voter to weigh Mr. Obama’s long relationship with his pastor in assessing his fitness for office. It is also fair to weigh Mr. Obama’s judgment in handling this personal and political crisis as it has repeatedly boiled over. But whatever that verdict, it is disingenuous to pretend that there isn’t a double standard operating here. If we’re to judge black candidates on their most controversial associates — and how quickly, sternly and completely they disown them — we must judge white politicians by the same yardstick."
Rich points out to great effect, in my opinion, that not only did John McCain know about the rantings of the late Reverend Falwell, and his latest Christian man-crush, pastor Hagee, but he purposely sought out their endorsements and support despite this-one might even go so far as to infer he sought out their support because of it. Yet, here is a YouTube video in which Hagee denounces the Roman Catholic Church, which he calls the “Great Whore”.
Here is what you will see there, in Rich’s words-
"What you’ll find is a white televangelist, the Rev. John Hagee, lecturing in front of an enormous diorama. Wielding a pointer, he pokes at the image of a woman with Pamela Anderson-sized breasts, her hand raising a golden chalice. The woman is “the Great Whore,” Mr. Hagee explains, and she is drinking “the blood of the Jewish people.” That’s because the Great Whore represents “the Roman Church,” which, in his view, has thirsted for Jewish blood throughout history, from the Crusades to the Holocaust."
Of course, McCain has distanced himself from Hagee’s comments, as well he should, but by the same token, he still sought out his support, despite the fact that Hagee’s beliefs are a matter of record, and in fact was, until recently, much more well known than Wright. In fact, here we see him as a featured personality on the Christian cable channel TBN.
Nor is Hagee the only such minister McCain has sought out. You also have the CNP, a somewhat secretive group whose membership includes or included Falwell, Robertson, Hagee, and Tim LaHaye.
Among their collective greatest hits are-
*God sent Hurricane Katrina to destroy New Orleans as punishment for the city’s collective vices and sins, and possibly out of anger for a scheduled gay pride parade.
*The Catholic Church is the “Great Whore” of Babylon and has the blood of the saints on its hands. The Pope is, in fact, the Antichrist.
*God will damn America because of these and other sins, including but not limited to abortion rights and gays, feminists, pagans, etc.-the reason he allowed 9/11, by the way, according to Falwell.
Here are a few more examples, directly from the Nola site.
– LeHaye once said that Catholicism is a “false religion” and called popes “antichrists.
– Weyrich has claimed that CNP is a group of “radicals working to overturn the present power structure in this country.”
– A speaker received a standing ovation at one CNP meeting when he suggested that AIDS was a sign from God that homosexuality was an “abomination.”
Is it any wonder John McCain has distanced himself from some of the more vociferous attacks on Obama regarding his association with Wright? He knows full well he is opening himself up to the same kind of criticism due to his own associations.
And look, I want to make it plain, people and religious groups have the right to support who they want, within the confines of First Amendment restrictions (something both sides have traditionally played fast and loose with), and they most certainly have the right to believe what they want. They even have a right to be self-serving hypocrites about it if they want. What they do not have the right to do is to expect to spew their bile and not be called on it when they attack others for doing what they themselves have done.
I don’t agree with most of Reverend Wrights crazy ideas. For example, I don’t believe for one minute that the United States government purposely developed the AIDS virus in some secret laboratory for the express purpose of killing gays, or blacks, or both, or whatever, because whatever target group they aimed it at are seditious troublemakers they felt must be eliminated for the social dangers they pose. Because I do not believe that, I will openly criticize Wright for promoting such an idea, regardless of his reasonings regarding and based on the Tuskegee Experiment.
On the other hand, I also do not agree, and will just as roundly denounce, those who promote the idea that God himself purposely created the AIDS virus for the express purpose of killing gays, or blacks, or both, or whatever, because whatever target group he aimed it at are sinners whom he feels he must punish collectively for their transgressions. Because I do not believe that, I will openly criticize them for promoting such an idea.
But, by the same token, I think I should ask what might be seen as an impertinent question to some. That is, if one of those two theories was the truth, just which one is the most likely?
Here is the simple fact. If you are an adherent of any religious group, be it Christian, Muslim, Jewish, Hindu, Buddhist, or Pagan, of any sect or denomination, I have some bad news for you. Sooner or later, you are going to hear some stuff you might find objectionable. Sooner or later, you are going to find that you disagree to some extent with the views of your pastor or priest.
Sooner or later, to be blunt, you are going to hear some crazy fucking shit. That’s just the name of that tune. I call it the flip side of Amazing Grace. Most people that notice it at all, however, usually hum this particular tune to themselves. It usually starts out with something like “Do they really believe this fucking crazy crap?”
There is a pretty good chance that at least deep down you do not. Or, it is very possible that, perhaps, you do. Whatever the case, you are probably going to get up at the end of the sermon, shake the pastor’s hands as you file out the door, and go home without giving it much thought. The next Sunday, you will be standing outside the same church, maybe smoking a cigarette while standing out talking to your friends and neighbors about fishing, the next football or basketball game, work, family, etc., until you finally all file in for the latest installment.
You go through this ritual because, social animals that we are, it is a way to connect with our communities in a way that gives human life some kind of deeper meaning-or tries to. If you disavow every person that attends a church service where nuttiness is preached, I hate to tell you, but you are going to be staying home, or at least away from religious services, all the time.
I should know, because that’s generally what I do. Do you want to vote for me for President? Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought. Of course, I’m not exactly the most sociable person in the world. Most politicians, by contrast, tend to be so by both nature and necessity.
On the other hand, just in case you might have some oddball idea I might make a great President, perhaps you might want to rethink your position. After all, even though I have denounced some of the late Reverend Falwell’s more incendiary remarks, I did on balance speak quite fondly of him in this post.
I was obviously being very sincere in these remarks, so just what am I up to now? One might be led to wonder just exactly who I am. Perhaps I have some dangerous, radical secret agenda unfitting for the highest office in the land. Yeah, it’s easy for me to denounce Falwell now that its politically expedient, huh?
Or, it could just be a matter of human beings being much too complicated to lump into one category based solely on a handful of issues and factors. Perhaps this applies to both Falwell and Wright. Maybe you have to look at a variety of factors and weight everything in the balance, and still they might not fit neatly into any one “good” or “bad” category-at least not all of the time.
Maybe things not always appropriately viewed in pure, stark, simple terms of black and white.
Sometimes, unfortunately, maybe they are.
Following is a few sample snippets from the Times article dealing with McCain’s endorsement by pastor Ted Hagee, an endorsement McCain sought and received, which is covered in this Washington Post article. Please now, don’t take them out of context, I think there’s been quite enough of that lately-
"Since then, Mr. McCain has been shocked to learn that his clerical ally has made many other outrageous statements. Mr. Hagee, it’s true, did not blame the American government for concocting AIDS. But he did say that God created Hurricane Katrina to punish New Orleans for its sins, particularly a scheduled “homosexual parade there on the Monday that Katrina came.”
Rich goes on to say that-
"None of this is to say that two wacky white preachers make a Wright right. It is entirely fair for any voter to weigh Mr. Obama’s long relationship with his pastor in assessing his fitness for office. It is also fair to weigh Mr. Obama’s judgment in handling this personal and political crisis as it has repeatedly boiled over. But whatever that verdict, it is disingenuous to pretend that there isn’t a double standard operating here. If we’re to judge black candidates on their most controversial associates — and how quickly, sternly and completely they disown them — we must judge white politicians by the same yardstick."
Rich points out to great effect, in my opinion, that not only did John McCain know about the rantings of the late Reverend Falwell, and his latest Christian man-crush, pastor Hagee, but he purposely sought out their endorsements and support despite this-one might even go so far as to infer he sought out their support because of it. Yet, here is a YouTube video in which Hagee denounces the Roman Catholic Church, which he calls the “Great Whore”.
Here is what you will see there, in Rich’s words-
"What you’ll find is a white televangelist, the Rev. John Hagee, lecturing in front of an enormous diorama. Wielding a pointer, he pokes at the image of a woman with Pamela Anderson-sized breasts, her hand raising a golden chalice. The woman is “the Great Whore,” Mr. Hagee explains, and she is drinking “the blood of the Jewish people.” That’s because the Great Whore represents “the Roman Church,” which, in his view, has thirsted for Jewish blood throughout history, from the Crusades to the Holocaust."
Of course, McCain has distanced himself from Hagee’s comments, as well he should, but by the same token, he still sought out his support, despite the fact that Hagee’s beliefs are a matter of record, and in fact was, until recently, much more well known than Wright. In fact, here we see him as a featured personality on the Christian cable channel TBN.
Nor is Hagee the only such minister McCain has sought out. You also have the CNP, a somewhat secretive group whose membership includes or included Falwell, Robertson, Hagee, and Tim LaHaye.
Among their collective greatest hits are-
*God sent Hurricane Katrina to destroy New Orleans as punishment for the city’s collective vices and sins, and possibly out of anger for a scheduled gay pride parade.
*The Catholic Church is the “Great Whore” of Babylon and has the blood of the saints on its hands. The Pope is, in fact, the Antichrist.
*God will damn America because of these and other sins, including but not limited to abortion rights and gays, feminists, pagans, etc.-the reason he allowed 9/11, by the way, according to Falwell.
Here are a few more examples, directly from the Nola site.
– LeHaye once said that Catholicism is a “false religion” and called popes “antichrists.
– Weyrich has claimed that CNP is a group of “radicals working to overturn the present power structure in this country.”
– A speaker received a standing ovation at one CNP meeting when he suggested that AIDS was a sign from God that homosexuality was an “abomination.”
Is it any wonder John McCain has distanced himself from some of the more vociferous attacks on Obama regarding his association with Wright? He knows full well he is opening himself up to the same kind of criticism due to his own associations.
And look, I want to make it plain, people and religious groups have the right to support who they want, within the confines of First Amendment restrictions (something both sides have traditionally played fast and loose with), and they most certainly have the right to believe what they want. They even have a right to be self-serving hypocrites about it if they want. What they do not have the right to do is to expect to spew their bile and not be called on it when they attack others for doing what they themselves have done.
I don’t agree with most of Reverend Wrights crazy ideas. For example, I don’t believe for one minute that the United States government purposely developed the AIDS virus in some secret laboratory for the express purpose of killing gays, or blacks, or both, or whatever, because whatever target group they aimed it at are seditious troublemakers they felt must be eliminated for the social dangers they pose. Because I do not believe that, I will openly criticize Wright for promoting such an idea, regardless of his reasonings regarding and based on the Tuskegee Experiment.
On the other hand, I also do not agree, and will just as roundly denounce, those who promote the idea that God himself purposely created the AIDS virus for the express purpose of killing gays, or blacks, or both, or whatever, because whatever target group he aimed it at are sinners whom he feels he must punish collectively for their transgressions. Because I do not believe that, I will openly criticize them for promoting such an idea.
But, by the same token, I think I should ask what might be seen as an impertinent question to some. That is, if one of those two theories was the truth, just which one is the most likely?
Here is the simple fact. If you are an adherent of any religious group, be it Christian, Muslim, Jewish, Hindu, Buddhist, or Pagan, of any sect or denomination, I have some bad news for you. Sooner or later, you are going to hear some stuff you might find objectionable. Sooner or later, you are going to find that you disagree to some extent with the views of your pastor or priest.
Sooner or later, to be blunt, you are going to hear some crazy fucking shit. That’s just the name of that tune. I call it the flip side of Amazing Grace. Most people that notice it at all, however, usually hum this particular tune to themselves. It usually starts out with something like “Do they really believe this fucking crazy crap?”
There is a pretty good chance that at least deep down you do not. Or, it is very possible that, perhaps, you do. Whatever the case, you are probably going to get up at the end of the sermon, shake the pastor’s hands as you file out the door, and go home without giving it much thought. The next Sunday, you will be standing outside the same church, maybe smoking a cigarette while standing out talking to your friends and neighbors about fishing, the next football or basketball game, work, family, etc., until you finally all file in for the latest installment.
You go through this ritual because, social animals that we are, it is a way to connect with our communities in a way that gives human life some kind of deeper meaning-or tries to. If you disavow every person that attends a church service where nuttiness is preached, I hate to tell you, but you are going to be staying home, or at least away from religious services, all the time.
I should know, because that’s generally what I do. Do you want to vote for me for President? Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought. Of course, I’m not exactly the most sociable person in the world. Most politicians, by contrast, tend to be so by both nature and necessity.
On the other hand, just in case you might have some oddball idea I might make a great President, perhaps you might want to rethink your position. After all, even though I have denounced some of the late Reverend Falwell’s more incendiary remarks, I did on balance speak quite fondly of him in this post.
I was obviously being very sincere in these remarks, so just what am I up to now? One might be led to wonder just exactly who I am. Perhaps I have some dangerous, radical secret agenda unfitting for the highest office in the land. Yeah, it’s easy for me to denounce Falwell now that its politically expedient, huh?
Or, it could just be a matter of human beings being much too complicated to lump into one category based solely on a handful of issues and factors. Perhaps this applies to both Falwell and Wright. Maybe you have to look at a variety of factors and weight everything in the balance, and still they might not fit neatly into any one “good” or “bad” category-at least not all of the time.
Maybe things not always appropriately viewed in pure, stark, simple terms of black and white.
Sometimes, unfortunately, maybe they are.
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