The Fifth of November (Conclusion- Fiction)

The cell phone was the key element of the plan. It was the silent witness to all of it. Misdirection and illusion. Remember that. Always.

I walked out of the adult novelty store and cut a few blocks over to the targeted hotel, walked in the front door. I took off my coat and dropped it at the security station, then walked briskly out the front door despite the puzzled inquiry from the security drone, ducked down an alley.

Inside the security team and their government counterparts would be puzzling over the coat and it’s total contents. A well-made mock up of a ceramic gun which was really just a modified toy from Wal-Mart bought for ten dollars. A note that said, “BANG YOU DEAD. By the time you read this you’ve already been paying attention to the wrong plot for a week too long. Nice to meet ya. Srsly tho you fags suck.”

Moving through the alley I quickly jerked the wig and prosthetic makeup from my face and stuffed them in a black garbage bag along with my outer set of clothes. I tied it to my belt. Now dressed in jogging shorts and a plain Old Navy tee shirt I hopped up to a fire escape on the adjoining building and ascended to the third-floor vacant apartment that had been quietly rented out by a nonexistent tenant months in advance. The place was pretty nice, but I wouldn’t have time to enjoy the sparsely decorated vacant pad for more than a minute. I found the bug-out bag in the hall closet and dumped it’s contents. A wallet full of cash, passport, new documentation. Yet another set of casual clothes, all black, and a new wig and black ball cap. A black form-fitting latex mask. I’d only need those for five more minutes, then the next set of clothes which were a bit more refined and therefore less noticeable on this side of town. The change took me under three minutes, but the shave and haircut took a few more. I had plenty of practice buzzing my do in the Army in a hurry for inspections.

After securing all the old gear, hair, and trash in a metal trash bin in the kitchen I dumped a handy bottle of acid from the bag over all of it, thereby destroying all associated DNA. After checking my personal smartphone to be sure it had all the necessary encryption software installed and functioned properly, as well as being fully charged, I dumped the silent witness into the acid bin with the rest of the evidence. Sure, you can have it. Good luck getting anything out of it.

One more trip to the hall closet and I was set. I picked up the crossbow with an attached coil of nylon rope and cocked the lever. I walked to the north face window and found it open as planned. A cool breeze was welcome after all the sweat I’d built up in the last few minutes. I found my target one floor down and far left across the street and fired. Bullseye. After securing the handle to the zipline I checked the street to be sure I wouldn’t hurt anyone and tossed out about half a dozen smoke grenades. Smoke filled the avenue and horns began to blare and the sounds of shock and awe rose toward me, along with so much smoke that Cheech and Chong couldn’t have determined what the hell was going on. Perfect. I perched on the ledge, said a silent prayer to Ceiling Cat, and flew across to the next secure location, the apartment above a posh downtown eatery.

As soon as I flew into the window I quickly slashed the zipline and tossed it, along with the anchoring bolt, as far back to my left and across the street as I could. I heard it ping off the news stand pretty much below the apartment I’d just left. Good enough. I added the layer of designer clothes over my black ones and made my way to the bathroom. An exposed hole in the flooring revealed the wet wall that would allow me access into the bathroom of Chez Henri via the extensive network of sewage and vent pipes. Fortunately these looked to have all been changed out within the last few years to keep up with changing building codes. Fairly clean, and again, good enough. After dropping into the hole I pulled the red rope that pulled the missing tile on a pulley back across over my head and concealed, at least temporarily, my escape route. A similar secret door allowed me entrance to the handicapped stall in the restaurant where I repeated the same process.

I looked out beneath the stall doors and didn’t see any feet. That was a bonus. Checking my phone and feeds, it appeared everyone had perfectly performed their assigned tasks. I’m a cog in a big wheel, and we’re rolling over and through this bullshit society. A quick view in the bathroom mirror allowed me to fix my hair after ditching the ball cap and latex mask in the wastepaper bin on the wall by the hand dryer. I stuffed in extra wet ones on top just to be on the safe side. I pulled the lint roller from my pocket and got the wall insulation off my clothes. Rolled it in a paper towel with my latex fingerpads (complete with fake prints) and stuffed them in the bin. I’d been wearing the same one for months. Time for new ones. I walked out to a table of old friends waiting for me with a nice spread of food and wine on a white tablecloth.

“Hey kids. You’re looking good, but the food looks better. Sheila you’re more stunning in Barbie doll attire than I would have guessed. Darren, you look better without all the fake blood on you, ya fuckin chomo. No homo, man.”

“Well I must say,” Darren quickly replied, “you look better clean-cut and proper than as a hippie fucktard any day.”

“Just don’t ask me if you can smoke in here. I hate cigarettes, especially at dinner. I’m still not eating anything but the veggies. You guys eat carcass if you want. It’s your body, you live with it. Fags.” That’s my girl.

Alex looked around to be sure we were mostly alone, and raised his glass. The English accent was real, and always came in handy for phone ops even though he’d lived in the States most of his life. “All objectives were completed, we have identified the agent provocateurs and their associates. Our next cruise will be smoother sailing, but I get the feeling the rest of their lives in the undercover business are pretty much over. I hear they all have Facebook pages and Twitter accounts that proclaim their greatness in law enforcement skullfuckery as well as displaying their taste in illegal internet porn to the world. Their bosses may understand, but their wives might not. Tonight we dine with our extended family in France. Cheers!”

We toasted to Us. We toasted to being smarter, not harder. We toasted to the win. In the end, it was simply for the lulz. Next time…maybe not so much. C’est la vie.

Remembering The Fallen In Iraq and Afghanistan

Over 7,700 dead in the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. CNN has compiled a visual of those who have died, where they are from, etc. This Memorial Day keep them in mind.

HERE’S THE LINK.

Work Detail (Short Story-Fiction)

I woke at six to the sound of sirens. Breakfast. What’s on the menu today? The same thing as every other day. A hard boiled egg and a piece of moldy toast. My first vision was the stained and decaying ceiling tiles above my rack. I get used to the scenery just like anyone else would in this situation. I have no choice.

A month ago I was living the good life with my family in my hometown. I had a good job, I had a car and a home. I played video games and visited friends. Sometimes we’d get drunk or high together. Listen to music. Simple stuff. One morning I woke up to a loud knock on the door. I could hear the loudspeakers in the street saying something about remaining in our homes. I think mine was the first door they knocked on, coincidentally or not. I’d said some abrasive things about the current regime on the Internet.

These days I don’t have to wonder what’s going to happen. They made the choices so much easier. There really aren’t any. I get up and eat a quick bite, hopefully food that isn’t going to make me sick. After chow we will line up in the courtyard for health inspections and work detail assignment. It’s always the same for me. I failed my aptitude tests and got stuck on shovel detail. We’re building a new light rail system. Someday people will ride on it and won’t even remember how it was built. They won’t hear the gunshots that ring out when a worker falls from exhaustion. No, they’ll be happy to have affordable and quick transportation to their work assignments. Everyone gets an assignment now, no one has to make a choice. Choices lead to disorder.

Last week I think I popped something in my spine. I asked about a doctor, but they said they can’t afford to treat camp workers like real citizens. Real citizens have demonstrated the patriotism and service that keeps our amazing country firing on all cylinders. Real citiizens understand the importance of keeping the economy going. All I could do in my ‘free life’ was sit around and write silly songs and poetry. There was no place for me in an industrious society.

The guards are passing out work gloves and shovels. When we first got here we lost about fifty people to blisters and the bullets that soon followed. I’m glad it’s not like that anymore. Now all I have to do is hide my chronic pain from the overseers and keep leveling the ground that will keep people moving on those “light” rails.

We head across the courtyard after roll-call into the cattle cars. Guards are screaming, dogs are snapping at our heels. An old man stumbles on his way into the car and is trampled underfoot. If you slow down, you die. No one wants to be that guy. Today wasn’t his day, I guess.

As I stepped up onto the high side of the cattle car I felt something give a little in my spine. Shit. This day isn’t starting out well. They say we’re increasing our production goal. The rail system isn’t on schedule. We’ve worked hard every day, and workers keep coming in, but just as many fall due to exhaustion and sickness. Is today my day?

A two hour ride to the jobsite over the highway isn’t bad, but we’re not on the highway. We’re trailblazing, man. We’re going where only the natives have gone before. Society has never stretched to this point in this country before. The rough and rugged road isn’t doing much for my sense of well-being. Pain shoots up and down my back and I don’t know if I’ll make it or not. Glancing around I see several have already given up hope and are sleeping on the metal floor. Some kids, some elderly. They won’t live to see tomorrow. So it goes.

We finally arrive at our assignment and I brace myself for the worst. When the overseers come in they usually come in kicking ass. The door slides open. More dogs snapping. The bitch is in charge today, I see. Who’s the bitch? Glad you asked.

The bitch is about thirty years old, she has blonde hair and blue eyes. She’s our medical supervisor and makes the determination on who lives or dies. That’s the truth of the fucking matter. She’s supposed to be watching out for us or giving medical attention, but I think the only medical attention she really administers around here is the terminal kind. She doesn’t take care of that herself. Armed guards do that. She just holds the clipboard and makes the final call.

We rush for the exit. I feel the head of a child squish a bit beneath my work boots. Do I have time to care about that? No..it’s just about survival. Remember, choices lead to chaos.

As we pile out orders are barked. We head to our assigned positions. They give us certain quotas on work performed. Workers get ‘units’ for work completed. If you get enough units you get a lunch. If you get more credits you get an actual break to eat the lunch. Get more than that, and you make all the workers look bad and are likely to be strangled to death in your rack . Crazy, huh?

I observe that the terrain we’re working with is particularly rocky. A bad omen for me. I press hard on the shovel in the hopes of finding purchase, or leverage. The tip of the shovel penetrates but I’ve hit a hard stone and the shockwave sends blinding pain up and down my arms, which circuits up into my back and suddenly I can’t feel my hands. I’m stunned for a moment.

A moment is all it takes. I hear a whistle blow, and the bitch is walking toward me, clipboard in hand. She asks me if I’m in too much pain to continue. I shake my head vigorously, ‘no’, but my body has betrayed me one final time. My muscles are twitching all around the injury site. She can see it through my shirt which is already soaked through with sweat and stuck to me.

“Guards, we have a patient in need of treatment. WORK DETAIL!! SEE!!  This is what happens when you don’t take care of yourself! Haven’t you learned yet? You MUST take care of yourselves! If you had done this in your lives before you wouldn’t be here for re-education and extra duties. When this man falls he represents the worst of what you are. Your weakness, your inability to give your all to the whole. Prognosis…unfit to work.”

I bow my head. I hear the racking of a machine gun bolt behind me. The birds are singing and shovels continue clicking merrily along.

The Fifth of November Part 3 (Short Story-Fiction)

Standing in the half-lit shop I set the briefcase on the counter. Just a plain black case. The kind you’d probably find on sale at Office World for twenty bucks. The simple instruction to NOT open something makes a part of us nearly boil over with curiosity. Humans and cats are both like that. I wondered what I was supposed to do in the absence of further instruction. It almost seemed ridiculous that there would be clear-cut instructions regarding the briefcase and no mention of what to do with the suit. Put it on?

As I rolled that over in my mind a cell phone rang. I was instantly sure it wasn’t my phone, because my ringtone is not Metallica’s “The Four Horsemen.” The volume was all the way up and there was no doubt where it came from…the suit. I patted the coat pockets and found it after a couple skull-splitting riffs. Headbanger bullshit.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Reynolds, I see you’re right  on time. Are you enjoying your visit to New York? Have you fallen in love? Most people do, you know.”

I didn’t know what to say. The voice was the James Bond fellow from back out west, the limey terrorist.

“I can see you’re currently quite confused. Allow me to instruct you further. There is a dressing room to the right  of where you’re facing.”

They were watching me, even now. No real shocker there.

“Ok.” I didn’t have much else for the moment.

“Go into the dressing room and put the suit on. Don’t forget the socks and shoes, too. Don’t want you embarrassing yourself in corporate America wearing a pair of flame orange sandals, do we? Of course not.” He laughed and abruptly hung up.

I removed the suit pieces and the footwear and walked to the dressing room with the swinging door covered in random pieces of magazine slicks with scantily clad women in lingerie that probably wasn’t even available in this venue. Classier stuff. As I dressed I wondered if condemned men on death row felt much the same as they buttoned their final buttons and zipped their fly one last time, knowing those simple and mundane actions would never be taken again. My breathing was irregular and labored, as if I’d just finished two marathons. I know I’m only thirty, but is this a heart attack? No such luck.

The mirror on the inside of the door didn’t give me much to consider except the stark contrast between my appearance five minutes ago and now. I clean up pretty nice. Too bad no one will be impressed for long, not even my mother. The suit had weight beyond what I expected, physically and emotionally. I looked like I belonged in any corporate boardroom. The close-cropped haircut I was given against my will while still back on the West Coast which looked so out of sorts with my usual tie-dye or Rastafarian ensemble now fit the bill to a tee. I am corporate America.

I stepped back out into the shop and heard something thumping around in the back. Unable to resist any further, I gingerly crossed the sales floor and heard grunting sounds. The phone rang quickly. The four horsemen were calling again. I didn’t answer. I had to know.

A divider wall with a few more signs (these were probably part of the shop decor) which admonished customers not to do anything they would go to jail for in public corniced the regular shop area, and I realized exactly how deep and dark this place went. As I peaked around the wall my heart nearly stopped.  This was the video room. I didn’t have time or the inclination to check and see if there were titles I’d never browsed. It wasn’t the vast selection of smut that stopped me cold.

Blood was pooled around a bound and gagged middle-aged man. He was twitching and gurgling. A few flaps of skin on his neck were leaking the essence of his life on the floor. He was a goner.

This must have been the real store clerk. I’m not alone in here. Of course not…the nice man who gave Cajun homeless guy the dub spot was surely still here, and he was a vicious murderer. Oh my God. Why am I even surprised?

The phone stopped ringing, then rang again immediately.

“I’m sorry,” I answered, “I couldn’t help it.”

“OWEN. If you want to live five more minutes and don’t want to be held responsible for the deaths of your dear old mum and remaining siblings you will ABSOLUTELY DO WHAT THE FUCK I TELL YOU TO from this point forward!! When I call, YOU FUCKING ANSWER. Quit yanking about and leave us to clean up this unfortunate mess. He’s none of your concern. Furthermore, he was a pedobear. No great loss to the world.”

Obviously he wasn’t in the store with me or I would hear him off the phone as well as on it. Welcome to the network.

“A what? Ah..a what?” I was stammering and glancing nervously everywhere.

“A pedobear, a chomo, a child molesting kiddie porn swapping faggot. What kind of people do you think are drawn to his job? He deserved to die. We killed two birds with one stone, here, mate. We make the world a better place by all means necessary. Now, I want you to do something. Go back to the counter.”

“Ok.” It seemed ok except for the obvious fact that I was still locked in this horrible place with a bloody corpse and a hardened killer. I hate child molesters, and what if they were just lying? Hell, they probably were lying just to get me to calm down and go along with it but it didn’t really matter. I wasn’t holding any high cards.

“Take another look at the sexbot. Lift the back of her shirt. Your instrument is taped to her. This symphony requires your complete and utter cooperation and we expect to have it, unconditionally.”

I walked briskly back around the counter and lifted the camosole. Strapped to the realistically detailed doll was a pistol. It didn’t look like a real gun, though. Something was odd about it. As I pulled the duck tape away and held it in my hand I realized what was amiss. It was lighter than hell. Plastic or polymer of some sort. It wasn’t even the typical Tupperware combat piece that Glock was infamous for. Tapping my fingers along the barrel I couldn’t detect a single piece of metal.

“Yes, Owen..what you now hold is the pride and joy of Cer-tec industries. Only the most special, special folks get their hands on these beauties. It’s a composite carbon-fiber and ceramic handgun. Pop the clip out. Examine the craftsmanship of the weapon and the ammunition. Isn’t it fabulous?”

Unthrilled to participate a second further, but impressed nonetheless, I did as he asked. The entire affair was indeed completely metal free. Even the bullets and casings were made of the same strange looking stuff. It had an eerie greyish-blue hue, something like you’d see skinning a UFO or advanced stealth fighter. Immediately I understood the implication. They were going to make sure I made it past the metal detector. That left an important question.

“It’s amazing,” I murmured, “but if I’m going to use this to do your dirty work, what’s in the briefcase?”

“Life,” he replied, “is just full of surprises, my boy. Don’t ruin this one for yourself or for the city.”

Once again, the cat had my tongue and was raking it’s claws through my brain. Things were far more serious than they were before when I thought only the one percenters around the conference table were to be martyred to the will of these ultra-radicals. Now innocent people were going to die as well. Who knew how many? Then again, who says the bankers and politicians weren’t innocent to begin with? I’d always believed they were just sort of stuck in their mode and didn’t understand the full implications of their actions upon the world. Perhaps I was far more naive than I once thought.

I tucked the pistol into my waistband after familiarizing myself with the safety lever.

“Hold on there, Magnum P.I., you’ve been watching too much TV. Take off your suit coat and look at the liner in back. They may pat you down in addition to the metal detectors. We can’t be too careful, now, can we?”

I despised that he kept chatting me up like we were old pals, and worse yet he made it sound as if I was actually a willing part of the whole bloody affair. Stuck like Chuck, I did as he asked. I located the hidden pocket and velcro-ed seam and slipped the pistol inside a foamy compartment, along with the extra magazines my sadistic “Q” told me to fetch from under the doll’s armpits. Once packed in and on my back I realized it was specially made to meld together into something like a big, flat mushy spot which was nearly indistinguishable.

“Owen, I wouldn’t want you to run low of ammo. We’re going to be doing a LOT OF shooting today. Hahahahaahaaaa! Let’s get this party started!”

***-

The Fifth Of November, Pt. 2 (Short Story-Fiction)

The sky was grey, and it was graveyard cold that dreadful day. Sitting by the ice rink at Rockefeller Center had an equally chilling effect on me psychologically. I wasn’t really excited to be waiting for an as yet unknown contact to set me on the path to certain infamy – and probable death. I didn’t even know the specifics of the operation the terrorists had in mind, and to be honest I didn’t want to. If I had my way I would be listening to ‘Mountain Sprout’ or ‘The Black Crowes’ up in the high Sierra country. So much for that. I hadn’t even smoked any pot in the week since I had been abducted, and my anxiety was through the roof. I’m surprised I didn’t get stopped-and-frisked by the NYPD simply on account of my nervous and shaky appearance. Alas, I’m a Caucasian. No such bad luck.

Pigeons gathered around my feet. I wonder if they also got a kick out of the attire my abductors told me to wear to identify me to my New York contact. The orange Crocs in November, if nothing else, painted a picture of ridiculous fashion tragedy. I couldn’t help but curse myself for wearing socks with them, but it was terribly chilly. My mind was spinning triple overtime trying to figure out a way out of all of this. The more I thought, the less I knew. I was sure I was being followed at every turn. Newly familiar faces kept popping up around every corner. As a mental exercise I tried to make notes of who might be among my captors based on repeat encounters on the street, but then I realized that there was a good chance that I was also already marked and being watched by government agents who knew of my political activities. The world is watching, right Owen?

The upcoming banking conference had drawn a thousand or so protesters from the movement. I could see some of them hanging out and drawing up their signs with magic markers on scrap cardboard. The obvious became even more apparent. They would use me and my association to discredit the peaceful resistance movement. I was definitely linked in. My name was probably pretty high on the database in California due to organizing some recent port shutdowns with the labor unions, and I’d already had plenty of run-ins with the feds and their affiliates more than once back on the West Coast. Did they know me here? I glanced at the security camera mounted on the traffic light post with a white computer box flashing beneath it at regular intervals, probably doing the yeoman’s work of facial recognition. The two men on the park bench across the plaza with terminally square haircuts wearing beige trench coats, suits and shades didn’t even bother to hide their attention to me and the other protesters, rapidly taking notes on their smartphones and snapping pictures of everyone in sight. Of course they knew me here. Privacy died on 9/11.

I was on the verge of screaming out my plight to the world when a homeless guy walked up. I figured he was going to hit me up for some spare change, or worse yet want to use my phone ‘for just a minute.’ A chance to give charity one last time before dying, Lord? He had the standard issue homeless parka with burn holes down the front and obligatory mystery stains on his ragged trousers. A pair of mismatched boots completed the ensemble. Snot was crusted in his beard and he seemed insane, drunk, or more likely both. The shambling denizen swayed up the sidewalk toward me. His request was anything other than what I expected.

“You be Owen Reynolds, right,” he rasped, reeking of cheap whiskey and stale cigarettes, “The nice man give me twenty bucks, he say bring you with me. So you goin-ah come with me now, k cuz?” A drunken Cajun in Yankee land? Surely. My moment of mirth dissipated when he lifted his parka high enough for me to see a pistol tucked into his waistband.

“What the…ok then,” I sighed. The situation got weirder and more desperate with each passing minute.

I followed “random homeless guy” for a few blocks until we reached that infamous lineup of sex shows and adult novelty shops that the discerning American consumer can only find in the largest metropolises. Halfway up the block we approached the one called ‘Sheer Desire’ and my escort left me at the door to enter alone. The place was stocked with the usual array of sex toys and lingerie. A faded sign proclaimed, “‘Largest Selection of Vibrators In Manhattan.” (Do people really ‘comparison shop’ these joints? I doubt it.) As soon as I made my way to the counter I heard a lock pop on the front door, likely electronic, and the front of the store went incredibly dim. Approaching the counter in the half-light I didn’t even notice that the clerk was actually a heavily pierced mannequin. The thing was remarkably life-like. Perhaps a new top of the line sex doll. The frozen expression of “O” in the mouth sealed the deal.

“You’ll find everything you need in the box under my feet.”

The voice came from the mannequin. It didn’t have the rough or scratchy affect of most computer generated vox programs. It was pleasant. Nearly human. Techno wonders never cease, do they?

I pushed through the swinging door at the end of the counter and saw that the mannequin’s feet were indeed resting crossed upon a large black footlocker. There were notes attached to the side and back of the box. The one on the side simply said, “Pull.” These people left nothing to chance, and maybe that was a large part of their psychosis. Unable to accept the stark reality of the world, they were prepared to implement their will through massacre, using me (an avowed pacifist) as an instrument of death. The level of dysfunction that would drive people to such desperate lengths escapes me. I’m pretty easy-going, after all.

I pulled on the appropriate handle and the box slid from under the plastic feet smoothly toward me until I was able to read the note on what turned out to actually be the front of the footlocker. The note on this side said in similar simple instructions, “Open.” Somewhere in their dossier they must have found my college transcripts and mistakenly assumed I was a simpleton. It’s whatever.

I opened the footlocker gingerly, expecting to be vaporized by a bomb or shocked to death by a jack-in-the-box. Maybe this was still all just the world’s biggest practical joke, on me. No such luck. Still alive but wishing I wasn’t, I peered inside. The contents appeared fairly innocuous. A suit and a briefcase. Ok. The note on the briefcase was just as informative as the first two on the footlocker, yet chillingly different.

“DO NOT OPEN.”

***-

The Fifth Of November, Pt. 1 (Short Story–Fiction)

“What do you want from our collective?”

The teenage girl with purple and green hair asked me with the half-interest that Generation Y/Z has made infamous. I couldn’t tell if the hair was real or a wig, my vision still being blurry, but it was bobbed close and there were two long colored braids. She was probably still in high school. Sensory overload overwhelmed me after what seemed like hours without the benefit of sight or sound due to being hoodwinked with a modified balaclava mask. I vaguely recalled the ride across town in the trunk of a nondescript sedan that bore no badging or identifying characteristics of any kind. I’m pretty sure it was a hybrid of some kind because the motor cut in and out during the short journey through the city.

“I was told to contact you as soon as I got to Newark. I’m not even sure what group you represent. You could be with the assholes that kidnapped me back in Cali or even work for the government for all I know. I’m operating on nothing but blind faith here.”

I tried to get some kind of bearing on my current location. A cursory glance around didn’t provide me with much. Grey concrete walls with old rusty streaks that might have been blood complemented a cement floor with similar markings. It smelled dank but there was also an odor of recent disinfectant.

“Your caution is understandable, and we can appreciate that. You asked for this meeting, now what do you want with us?”

I sat a few moments without speaking, taking in the meaning and underlying meaning of everything she said. She didn’t seem to be the techno-punk type apart from the wild hair. She wore an expensive grey suit with a wide-collared blouse. A brand new laptop hummed quietly in front of her. A webcam on top was pointed across the table at me. Next to the computer and her purse was a small pistol. I’d guess a Walther PPK or something like that. My mom carried one just like it in her purse. Plenty deadly at close range, and since I was unarmed as agreed I wouldn’t be able to do much if she decided she didn’t trust me without ventilating me a few times first.

“Can I smoke in here?”

“Sure, go right ahead. Ash on the floor.”

I dug in my pockets and suddenly remembered having been thoroughly searched, groped in every unmentionable spot from shoulders to boots. My cigarettes and lighter were still in my right front pocket but I could feel the distinct absence of my cell phone in my left pocket and I was pretty sure they had taken my wallet. My ass met the chair a little harder than I was used to. A little padding never hurts, I learned that as a youngster in parochial school. My gym teacher swung a mean paddle, believe that. I pulled out the pack of Camels and popped my Zippo open with two fingers and in one smooth motion lit it by rolling the striker across the top of my thigh. An old habit. I’m a sucker for style, even at the cost of emphysema. Besides, in a few days I’d likely be deader than dirt.

I inhaled deeply, the rich smoke filling my lungs and chasing away the nicotine craving that the cigarette industry counts on for billions each year. I studied her reaction and her eyes. She never looked at the monitor even once to check her Facebook or email or whatever. They stayed fixed intently on me. The pistol on the table gave her a sense of security, but not enough for her to truly relax. Still yet, her air of professionalism outshone her obvious youth, and there was business to be done.

“I need your group to provide a distraction for the NYC cops in a few days. I’m not at liberty to discuss the operation, and have no details, so don’t bother asking.” I was pressed for time, and just wanted to get this over with.

“As if I care,” she retorted with an audible air of what seemed to be true apathy. Mercs are like that whether they fight battles for someone using a gun or computer code. It’s just a paycheck.

“I sense your trying to pull off the old ‘Swordfish’ routine, and while I honestly don’t give a fuck or not if it works out for you I damn sure hope that dead-drop you made was the only contact with our group you’ve attempted. We have no interest in swinging from the gallows with you, Mr. Reynolds, no matter how glorious you believe your cause to be.”

“No. You’ve got me wrong. I’m not even in this for my own sake or ‘glory’ or whatever. I’ve never seen you before and never want to see you again. I’ll be lucky if I don’t end up with a bullet in the back of my head by the time this is all over. This isn’t even my operation, I was pushed into it by…”

“Again, Mr. Reynolds, I truly DO NOT care. Tell us what you need us to do, and what your terms and method of payment will be.”

So I did.

***-

Remember, remember, the fifth of November…no problem there, buddy. Today is the fifth. I’m in New York City standing near Rockefeller Plaza watching people ice-skating and having the time of their lives. I will definitely die today.

I never imagined that I would get tangled up in a terrorist plot to overthrow the government. I’m not a fan of the rat bastards that screw us over on a daily basis but I’ve been a pacifist ever since I heard John Lennon’s epic masterpiece, “Imagine,” and watched the movie “Ghandi,” during an introduction to Political Science course my freshman year at Berkeley. I dropped out during my junior year and joined a nascent grassroots populist movement full-time. To hell with college, I didn’t need a degree to change the world. I’m the kind of guy that wears a lot of tie-dye and sandals, smokes a lot of pot, and likes to jump in the sack with as many hippie chicks as I can convince to do so at any given rave or music festival, preferably under the influence of mild or heavy psychedelics. Most days I hold a sign in front of a bank or lobby my local congressman.

It was during one of those music festivals that my life took a seriously unexpected turn just last week. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I know a lot of people are going to die due to my actions whether I want them to or not. They’ve got my whole family and all my friends in the crosshairs, and I know they’re serious. Yesterday they killed my fourteen-year old sister, Sarah Jean, just to prove a point. It was staged to look like a random hit-and-run. I know for a fact it wasn’t.

***-

The sign at the end of the pavement read, “Mushroom Mountain Harvest Jam” and I knew I was finally about to participate in the most epic folk-rock festival this side of the Rockies. On the calendar it fell upon a full moon weekend just before Halloween, and attendance was estimated to be upward of twenty thousand folks. I figured by the line of cars and graffitied VW buses and RV’s that it was probably a good estimate. I usually show up a day or two early to set up my campsite and help my usual group of social misfits set up our group kitchen and art displays, but a busted radiator on my old Galaxie 500 kept me stuck in Santa Cruz for an extra day or two, and now I was suffering the consequences. It’s funny how even when you go to society’s fringes you still can’t escape traffic. I figured if I was going to be waiting a while I might as well get high. I pulled out my trusty “chillum” and sparked a bowl of some serious green I scored at the dispensary while waiting for the car to be fixed. I have back issues and anxiety, you see. It’s all legal here in Cali and good medicine in general…not to mention it sure as hell beats sitting in a line of cars for hours while sober. Fuck that.

The car ahead of me, an old 80s model Grand Marquis with more rust coloration than paint stopped just before the curve ahead leading down the hill to the gathering spot in the valley below and to my right. Twilight was coming on and the Sun peaked through the Sycamores and mountain pines with an orange and pink hue. Crickets stirred. I had noticed the Asian girl in the back seat kept looking back at me, but I thought nothing of it because most folks like my car. It’s cream-puff white and has a big psychedelic peace sign on the hood. Maybe she thought I was hot? It didn’t even occur to me that anything was wrong when all four doors opened and all the passengers jumped out with what seemed like maniacal purpose. I guessed it to be a “Chinese fire drill,” no offense to the aforementioned Asian delight.

It wasn’t until I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw people jumping out of the black conversion van behind me that I began to get the distinct feeling that something was definitely amiss. The fact that they were all wearing bandannas, sunglasses, and ball caps drove it home. For the first time in my life I was truly afraid. Not edgy, not paranoid, but completely and utterly terrified.

“Keep your hands on the wheel and don’t move!!”

The voice was female, perhaps the Asian girl, but all I cared about was the submachine gun pointed at my head through my window. I’m pretty sure I pissed my pants. My hands couldn’t have moved of their own volition even if my life required it. My head started pounding and the cool buzz turned into justified paranoia and the surreality of it all grew as my door was yanked open and I was gagged and dragged back to the sliding cargo door of the black van. They pushed me against the door long enough to tie a blindfold over my eyes and bind my hands and feet with zip-ties. It seemed to take less than a minute, if that, and I was unceremoniously tossed headlong into the darkness. I’m pretty sure I passed out after hitting my head on the interior wall of the vehicle.

***-

“WAKE UP, you hippie fucktard!”

The voice in the darkness sounded gruff and I distinctly got the impression that not only were we not at the festival, but that my life was about to change forever, and not in a good way. I was sitting in a hardback chair and the temperature was warmer than a late Fall evening. We were indoors somewhere. I couldn’t smell the forest. I thought I could smell the distinct odor of cannabis drying, which in other circumstances would have been quite welcome. My face was still covered but I discovered that my hands and feet were unbound. Still, I was hesitant to try to make a break for it. I didn’t even know where the hell I was. There could be guns pointed at me ready to cut me down if I budged a muscle. The probability of that seemed high.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“You’re going to achieve your dream, Owen. You don’t have the guts to do it of your own free will, but we’ve found a way to motivate you.” The voice was female, and slightly more pleasant than the first. It almost sounded familiar.

“Mr. Reynolds, you were not chosen at random. You’re going to be an instrument of change for the betterment of the world. You will set free the oppressed masses from the bonds of oppression and tyranny under which you’ve suffered your whole life. Soon you’ll be famous. Dead, but quite famous, indeed.” Shed-dule. This one was British, undoubtedly. I began to wonder if it was all some kind of elaborate prank.

“I don’t want to be fa-..” I was cut off by the sudden impact of something very hard across my jaw. Perhaps a rifle butt?

“You don’t have a choice!” No game. “If you don’t do exactly as we say, when we say, we’re going to kill your whole fucking family, every person you’ve ever called a friend..we’ll straight up kill your goldfish, dude, just for fucking spite.” The first, harsher voice again.

They explained to me that they had picked me nearly at random from a group that recently protested against a large federal banking institution. They liked my fervor and they thought my looks and physique would make me a perfect posterboy for their cause. I was blonde and had blue eyes. I was good looking and well-liked among my peers. In short, I was the kind of person that people would copycat for years to come, so they hoped. While I was passed out they even cut my hair to make me more appealing to a larger demographic. Shit. man, I loved my long hair.

Their objective was a conference of bankers and politicians (surprise!) as well as some unfortunate media personalities and movie stars that would be convened at a certain posh hotel in New York City on November 5th of this year. Only a week or so away. I was not informed of the specifics of exactly how I was going to kill them, and that made it even scarier. I would be flown (first class!) to Newark International on November 4th. First I was to provide a distraction using a group of hackers in New Jersey. Arrangement protocols to meet a contact within that group were explained to me, and I was not to forget even one minute detail. Next, I was to meet my “handler” in NYC on the morning of the fifth at Rockefeller Center. I was to wear certain articles of clothing that would identify me, namely a plain black ball cap and a pair of bright orange Crocs.

“You’ll be reimbursed for the hat and the Crocs when it’s all over,” the female voice assured me, “not that you’ll ever need money again.”

Suddenly I realized I did recognize the voice, and I even knew where from. It was the girl who gifted me a last-minute ticket to the Mushroom Mountain festival in exchange for my promise to pay it forward to another person someday. An anonymous “friend” from Craigslist who I’d only spoken to once by phone, and I remembered her voice. It didn’t even matter if I knew what she looked like. Nothing mattered anymore. I was screwed.

“One thing more, mate…just so you know, we’ve tapped your cell phone and will be monitoring your progress all the way there. If you try to turn the phone off or deviate one smidge from the schedule, we’ll kill you and everyone you love. No funny business, my boy.”

Again with the James Bond voice. It was official. I was stuck in the middle of the world’s worst movie. No popcorn, no 3-D glasses…certain death, the price of admission.

***-

Occupying The Minds And Hearts Of The Police And Military

I believe in the cause of peace. I know many soldiers, police, and security industry workers who believe in it as well. For most of them it’s a cause worth fighting for, and they do it everyday with honor and respect. Why then isn’t massive, continued peaceful resistance sufficient to topple the plutocratic oligarchy which is sucking the life from our country? Why can’t mere words or chants or demonstrations reach the minds and hearts of the people who are sworn to uphold our rights as citizens? Worse still, why do they continue to defend these monsters and their policies on a daily basis and even go to extreme measures to bully the People? I believe it’s all very intentional. In fact, it seems to me that at every turn we are being goaded into armed resistance by those in authority who wish to use those with the guts to stand up and fight (on both sides of the equation) as pawns in a game of cat-and-mouse between the Government and the People. They understand and have heeded the admonition that without a peaceful forum there will be armed conflict. This is why the Occupy and Tea Party movements have both been ridiculed and marginalized by the mainstream media and have been roughly ignored by the heads of state. The People have outperformed the Authority when it comes to peaceful conduct 99 times out of 100, but the media only reports bricked windows and government manufactured bomb plots. Interesting, huh?

The major problems with our system such as taxation without representation and money in politics (aka CORRUPTION) continue unabated, and the police and military continue to support these obvious injustices because they are well-funded by the bullies. They get the first turn at the trough.When is the last time you heard a policeman or soldier complain about difficulty obtaining medical services for themselves or family? When was the last time you heard one say they didn’t make enough to pay their rent? While they are arguably underpaid for their service to the public and willingness to die for their country/community, they are far better off than the majority of the working stiffs if you consider the perks and benefits their jobs come with. It will be VERY difficult to erode these pillars of support for the regime by peaceful means of persuasion. It can (and should) be done, but it’s not going to be easy.

We must find a way to wake the guardians of the gilded gates to their true ideals, and we must find a way to embolden them to take to the streets in solidarity with the middle and lower classes. It happened two days ago in London. Police there marched to protest against their inability to strike as well as austerity measures against their departments in the UK. Until those same cuts manifest in the US, it will be very difficult to convince these guys to cross the lines and join the common folks. That time may well be coming, but if our government has learned anything from other dictatorships historically they will continue to toss their dogs a bone.

Through the use of social media it could become more clear to those civil servants that the People are FED UP. We must continue to push our voices directly to them in whatever way we can, and with increasing frequency…the mainstream media will not. Do you have friends in the military and law enforcement? TALK TO THEM. Tell the how bad things are for the rest of us! Tell them of your frustration and even disgust with their overbearing authoritarian resistance to positive change. Eventually they will “get it” and stand with us, or at least stand aside and allow us to do what needs to be done. (Whatever that may be.)

OCCUPY THE REVOLUTION!!!

It’s been a long time since we’ve last had a nice chat and visit, hasn’t it? Let’s talk about what we know so far. The worldwide economy is in the shitter, fascism is on the rise both home and abroad, and it’s 2012 and I STILL don’t have my flying car. Lying ass cartoons. I know it’s not an original joke but it does pretty well sum up the feeling I have when I see the myriad ways the world has not lived up to my expectations. Mankind was capable of anything, but his largest accomplishments to date are organized religions and sex droids. I’m not impressed.

For the last few years I’ve been moving quietly through both the ether and the physical realm. I kick up a little dust here and there but not enough to get imprisoned in a FEMA camp or killed by an unmanned drone..at least not yet.  I’ve been touring the Occupy sites around the country since the inception of the movement and I have some good news to report.

The Occupy movement has made several major accomplishments. It is waking people up worldwide, and the slumbering and apathetic masses have FINALLY begun to rise. As I’ve said for years, most people usually really only care about something when it affects them personally. My disdain for peoples’ willful ignorance aside, I’m quite proud of everyone who has taken to the streets or stormed the Internet in a show of solidarity for freedom and truth. Millions of people around the world are uniting to do what people were meant to do. People were never meant to be slaves. They were given choice from the beginning and from time to time they let some fat cats get the best of them but historically they can break free if they are willing to make some sacrifices.

Speaking of sacrifices, I’m living out of a medium-size ALICE pack and hitchhike around the country to different occupation sites to learn what I can from my compatriots and to spread whatever knowledge I can to help. I sleep outdoors usually but this American Spring has brought a more favorable climate for all our operations. I survive currently through the combined efforts of many, not just myself. We are all part of what it takes to make this happen. Occupy isn’t a paying job, and it must never become one. We have no leaders, we have no followers.

Every person is a sovereign individual free to make any choice they like. We largely prefer nonviolence in agreement with the mission statement of #OWS but understand that not everyone is able to maintain a stoic attitude in the face of direct oppression, brutality, and tyranny. That’s what we have seen across the movement. THE PEOPLE of Occupy are a class-act and have demonstrated time and time again, despite provocations and abuse, that we will not be pushed into ANY manner of action that hasn’t been reached by consensus.

Don’t get me wrong. I firmly believe there WILL BE a violent revolution in this country if things continue the way they are going, and I often wonder if that’s what the authorities really want. I would hate to see the nation I love ripped apart by bloody conflict, but I’d hate to see an oppressive fascist regime come to full fruition even worse. At some point we’ll have to make a choice. It won’t be long. JFK once said, “Those who make peaceful resistance impossible make violent revolution inevitable.” He was right on that one, at least.

A few important observations:

1. I would prefer a peaceful, political revolution to an armed conflict.

2. Armed revolution is ugly, bloody, and has numerous unknown outcomes including but not limited to: more tyranny and fascism (now “justified” in response), a government that is somehow worse, or even a foreign power taking control of our country if it were to be weakened too much by infighting.

3. Sometimes there is no other option left other than to fight. It’s difficult to reason with mass murderers, don’t ya think??

You’ll never have to second-guess what side I’m on. I love my country. I love our people and the freedoms we USED TO HAVE. Voting won’t get them back once they are lost. We must do more. Time is running out fast. Godspeed, and good night America.

Still the Same…

Unfortunately things have not improved much in the world since we last spoke. All my predictions and recommendations remain unchanged. Only a few pins left to pull before this ride flies apart. They’re working on it.

Stop The Bailout MADNESS!!

Isn’t it just so refreshing that the Congress can’t find a way to balance the budget, OR fix America’s broken healthcare or education or infrastructure systems, but they CAN AND WILL meet in the middle of the night to give away trillions of dollars…erm, uh, respond to this “new” crisis no one saw coming which has been MANUFACTURED to collapse just in time for some sweeping government ‘reforms and legislation’ and continued BORROWING from foreign bankers…to keep our “robust economy” (Der FuhrerBush’s words, not mine) afloat for another week or so. *roflmao*

The farce continued today as our “elected representatives” convened in a special (partially closed) evening session to romance the American people into a royal SCREWING through a revised Senate bill that promises that yes, Americans will be insured up to $250,000 of their soon-to-be-worthless fiat currency in the vastly insolvent banks of the country and yes, if you have a mental illness (possibly due to your retirement vaporizing and after considering your prospects competing for that greeter position at Wal-Mart) you will get equally shitty coverage under the failed insurance system just like you had any other disease they already “cover.”

Just enough sweetening to almost make that turd sandwich slide right down before you consider the implications of piling another couple trillion dollars (after interest, since we pay interest on our OWN MONEY) is thrown into the FIRE…to burn away with the rest of the toxic mess. The American people are being misled on this deal, and kept in the blind. I couldn’t even find any links to this 400-plus page clusterfuck from any major outlets, unlike they provide for most other legislation. OpenCongress was down in the time after the bill passed, possibly as millions of other “interested 3rd parties” were either searching it out or perhaps well-paid hacks were DOS‘ing the shit out of it to keep “interested 3rd parties” HOODWINKED.

Behold, the American taxpayer in his current condition, tied up, caged, hoodwinked and stressed the FUCK out. And who makes up the cast of characters leading us down the primrose path further into Hell THIS time? Oh look, every major political figure on both sides of the spectrum! Pelosi, Reid, Boehner, McCain, Bush, OBAMA, BIDEN, etc. etc. Yes it’s a BIPARTISAN screwing this time, an orgy of ignorance and corruption, or possibly a lot of BOTH. The fearmongering drips from every major media outlet, and each tale of woe “if we fail to pass this” gets scarier and SCARIER. (Unlike the ‘Saw’ series..)

Harry Reid, in a performance that Jigsaw himself couldn’t have made appear more menacing, threatens America with the failure of an “unnamed major insurance company” which could only mean AIG in the frightened minds of municipal bondholders and pensioners worldwide. OMG. Can’t you see it?? WAKE UP AMERICA. It’s a MERCILESS shakedown!!!

 “Give us the money, or we’ll shut down your state and local governments too!” Then the classic sales push, the TIME factor…we’re RUNNING out of TIME, OMFG we have to throw out the baby with the bathwater to put out this burning house! How quaint. These sons of bitches will stop at nothing to scare America into FALLING FOR THIS BULLSHIT. (AND YOU FALL FOR IT EVERY TIME)

This is our future we’re talking about people…do you want to use a wheelbarrow of money to buy a loaf of bread? If you support this thing, you obviously DO like the feel of a fat roll of WORTHLESS money in your pocket.

The saddest part…other than a few street protests most people will not take the time or make the effort to stop them. Most of you (if you even read this) will just sigh, shrug your shoulders and think to yourself that you didn’t have the ability to make any ‘real change’ anyhow, or you think (even worse) that your elected leadership has YOUR best interst at heart, the truly slumberous of you.

We’ve allowed them to do everything except anally rape our mothers while pouring sugar in our gas tank by this point. As disgusted as I am with the government, I’m THRICE as disgusted at the “CITIZENS.” Go back to sleep, sheep. Zzzzz.

-X

PS: For those of you doing your part, or WILLING to do your part…thank God for you, bless you, and let us march on together toward the common cause of Liberty, Justice, and Equality.

PPS: If you want to do something…right now…email these reps.

Marion Berry
AR-1 112 South First Street, Cabot, AR 72023
Ph: 501-843-3043
Fax: 501-843-4955 DC Ph: 202-225-4076
DC Fax: 202-225-5602
.house.gov/berry/ Voted for bailouthttp://www

Vic Snyder
AR-2 1501 North University, Suite 150, Little Rock, AR 72207
Ph: 501-324-5941
Fax: 501-324-6029 DC Ph: 202-225-2506
DC Fax: 202-225-5903
.house.gov/snyder/ Voted for bailouthttp://www

John Boozman
AR-3 4943 Old Greenwood Road, Suite 1, Fort Smith, AR 72903
Ph: 479-782-7787
Fax: 479-783-7662 DC Ph: 202-225-4301
DC Fax: 202-225-5713
.house.gov/writerep/ Voted for bailouthttp://www

Michael Ross
AR-4 Union County Court House, Suite 406, 101 North Washington Street, El Dorado, AR
Ph: 870-881-0681
Fax: 870-881-0683 DC Ph: 202-225-3772
DC Fax: 202-225-1314
.house.gov/ross/ Voted for bailouthttp://www