yustyoking

Sodden Death

[ My first Jack Reacher parody was “Cheap Shot”,

The Jack Reacher Parody

In this second adventure, our knight errant– who helps turn people’s lives into disaster– travels to South America, the Caribbean and Chechnya searching for questions, never mind answers. It’s the usual hopeless mixture of violence and sex.  Pazhalsta!  – Kevin ]

************** Chapter 1 – “Better Red Than Dead” **************

            I want outta here. I am a guest of Mr. Frank Clearwater at the Stolichnaya Indian Casino in South Dakota. Right away a disclaimer is in order: This casino has absolutely nothing to do with the Russian vodka of the same name. This Indian tribe— thirty-two members and counting— appropriated the name and incorporated themselves as an official Indian nation for the sole purpose of opening a casino thirty miles west of the Hartzen Mines. Everybody knows that. There isn’t a lot of hemming and hawing, but any discussion of Indian history finds a definite vagueness about tribal origins. Who knows what the name was before they changed it to Stolichnaya?!

Frank is an old Army buddy and obviously he means well, but nothing is quite as it seems. When I arrived in the afternoon of December 15, they told me the casino would open on the 17th. Now they say we’ll open on December 19. I’d be lying if I said we’re in a blizzard. The temp is a blustery, windy 40 degrees. I trudge across rock-hard prairie in store sample snowshoes from Arctic Winter Apparel. The snowshoes are made in Taiwan. I’m wearing thermal pants and a thermal, padded jacket, both in designer black. I have set up a tent guaranteed to – 40°, but we’re at the other end of the thermometer. I am out of doors playing games to avoid spending time in the casino.

The baize tables are set up for craps, the roulette wheels are polished, the chandeliers shine brightly with nary a burned-out bulb. Even the dining room occasionally serves food. However… The women in this tribe are only five feet tall. Wide in the hips, tiny breasts, stumpy-legged, their figures don’t correspond to anything in the Victoria’s Secret catalog. Decked out in beads and Santa’s elves costumes, they flounce around the main floor with nothing to preoccupy themselves but cat fights. The men are drunk. Once in awhile, one of the cooks will suddenly become inspired and prepare a feast. “Come quickly, paleface, there is turkey dinner!” a child astride a horse signals me. Hightailing it back to the main building, I too stuff myself to satiation. Then a day or two will go by where all we have to sustain ourselves are packets of oat meal and hot coffee.

Frank, meanwhile, is trying to educate me.

“Why do you live in concrete blockhouses?” I ask.

“We need to open the casino before January 1st,” he answers, a slightly different question. “Otherwise we miss out on the Indian grants for 2012. The government built the blockhouses, so that’s where we live.”

“Do you still know how to make teepees?”

Apparently I have insulted my host! Gathering a building party, he takes me out back, just beyond the concrete apron of the parking area, and directs construction right then and there of a teepee. When I start to apologize, Frank says, “No, no, kemo sabe. A teepee will look good for the tourists.”

Taking me down the road a full fifteen paces to a sky blue and white shack adorned with curlicues, Frank says “And this is our Wedding Chapel.”

“¿Qué? ”

“Why should Las Vegas get all the wedding business?” he asks rhetorically. We go inside. I can only admire the tidy rows of tiny pews.

“Do you only plan on marrying midgets?”

“We’ll expand later as business picks up,” he promises me. “Oh, here’s Pastor Daniel!”

Dressed in faux papal raiment, the pastor weaves his way down the aisle and vaults clean into the third row of pews.

“Ouch! That must have hurt,” I suspect.

“He does have a fondness for the grape,” admits Frank.

We get Pastor Daniel laid out on the floor, at which point he proceeds to shake the rafters with his sonorous snores. We decide to let him sleep it off, quietly closing the chapel door on our way out.

Frank also provides an explanation of Indian names. “Indian names,” he points out, “depend on what catches a father’s eye. The previous generation were a little irresponsible in that respect. They would go to the cantina to celebrate the birth of a new baby. Whatever caught a brave’s eye on the way back to his wigwam became fodder for naming.”

Frank’s Indian name is “Buffalo Turd Drying On Prairie.” And his is one of the better names.

One night the cooks include “buffalo taters” among the food selection. Just about to dig in, I find out that “buffalo taters” are the sexual organs of male buffalo. “Catch ya later,” I laugh, shoveling mine back onto the serving dish.

Writing this, I’m purposely avoiding one of those “Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee” laments. It’s already been done. I’ll settle for a cogent narrative.

In 1862, government surveyor John Hamilton spelled the demise of the Indian way of life in the Dakotas. Standing erect on the seat of a Conestoga covered wagon, he surveyed the miles of endless steppe. Not seeing anyone, he declared, “A land without people for a people in need of more land!” Legend has it, a prairie dog then spooked the oxen pulling the wagon, jostling Hamilton off his feet. Falling to the ground, the poor man hit his head on a rock. He spent the remainder of the journey laid out in the back of the wagon with a major concussion.

“Justice is swift,” say the Indians.

A wily chief of the previous generation canoodled a willowy blonde into being his wife— one of three, the other two coming from the indigenous clan. The result is the tallest member of the Stolichnaya, Swift Wind Mitchell. The first time I met him, I only got a partial view. It was when I went to the lavatory adjacent to the mezzanine. Crapper stalls proportioned for squat Indian braves, Swifty was using the stall at the end, the door wide open, his knees, shins and black leather boots sticking out for my inspection.

“Nice boots!” I commented.

“Him USAF fighter pilot,” Frank later informed me, reverting to tribal syntax. “Him 24 years old. Him originally called Breaking Wind, but name changed when he become pilot!” It made perfect sense that they would be proud of Swifty, he has a regular pay check.

Nice as he is, some of Frank’s idiosyncrasies get on my nerves. Every night, he counts all the silverware, not concerned that we have stolen any, but worried we have accidently thrown some silver plated fork in the trashcan. Three loaves of wheat bread lie on a shelf over the knife rack. Frank instructs us every morning which one we should be using for the day. To prevent any one loaf from getting staler than the other two. He keeps sending squaws to my room. But not for what you might think. They are there specifically and only to give me foot massage. Period.

Since we’re still vacuuming carpets and making beds in prep for the Grand Opening, Swifty and I get assigned mattress cover duty. “Drunks throw up,” Swifty explains laconically. “But not on our mattresses they don’t !” Before housekeeping comes in and makes the beds in each room, we pull a waterproof white latex cover over each jumbo-size mattress and zip it tight. “Very nice, but too small to use as a condom,” Swifty assures me.

“You must be a USAF fighter pilot,” I reckon.

Grinning, he doesn’t deny it.

I flew helos in the First Gulf War. Doesn’t help me pay the rent.

While wheelchair accessible, someone forgot to put a handrail in front of the casino for people with canes. In a mad rush, four Indians and I spend all day outside in windbreakers, jeans, work boots, gloves and baseball caps, using a blowtorch to soften up the soil and a posthole digger to make holes, a mountain of wooden posts awaiting plantation. “It doesn’t need to last,” I point out. “Next summer you can put in something permanent, with nice blocks of cement anchoring each post and all that good stuff. This is for now. Anything you sink into the ground ain’t goin’ nowhere!” My companions grunt in agreement.

How many Indians does it take to dig a posthole? How many you got?

Considering the size of our garbage, it shouldn’t surprise anyone that we attract feral cats and coyotes.

Prejudice hurts. Frank’s wife Sunflower is as emotionally scarred and neurotic as he is. “Mrs. Persecution Complex,” she is sure we are all ganging up on her. Since she spends more time at the kitchen door than anyone else, the cat population sees her as some kind of god. In homage, they leave her a prize catch: a nice big juicy rat carcass. “These cats are terrorizing me,” she complains, “leaving dead animals on my doorstep!”

“They’re sharing.”

“Let them go share with someone else!”

Listen, nothing surprises me. I lived two whole years with Veronica a k a “Mrs. Johnny Appleseed.” Holidays, birthdays, anniversaries and weddings, she gave each lucky recipient a plant. A growing, thriving green being in need of constant care and attention. The salespeople at Herman’s Plant Farm knew my Veronica well. Finally, our next door neighbor Tom said, “If your girlfriend gives us one more fucking plant, I’m going to get a rifle and shoot the bitch!”

“I’m sorry,” I told him. “When you say ‘the bitch,’ do you mean Veronica or the plant?”

Meanwhile, the sun beats down relentlessly on South Dakota. In the middle of trucking away dirt in a wheelbarrow, I am confronted by the first normal-looking person I’ve seen since I arrived here. Her name is Charlotte or “Charlie.” She’s the blond, 14-year-old daughter of the mural painter they have brought in from San Francisco. “What ya doin’?” she drawls, hands on hips.

“Why aren’t you in school?” I counter.

“Christmas break.”

“Oh goody!” I sneer. She laughs.

Your normal teenager, Charlie prances around the casino, flirting outrageously. Mostly with me. Dig it! An Indian casino needs an Indian mural. Native art. So they get a bearded hippie white guy high on marijuana and paint fumes to come paint it. “At what point does authenticity enter the picture?” I wonder.

“We own the casino,” Frank points out. “That makes it the real deal. This is the Indian way.”

Miss Bossypants, Charlie takes to shoving her left hand in my face, fingers splayed, barking commands like a Sergeant-Major: “Come to dinner!”

Or, later, “Frank says they need you in the office!”

Or, next morning, “The shower curtain in my room is stuck! Come unstick it!”

“Shaving your head only makes you look younger. It doesn’t change your actual age!” she insists. “Hey, mister, your fly’s open! Hee hee hee! ”

Raiding the children’s library, she sits in the lounge in the evening bouncing her foot, reading aloud children’s fairy tales with licentious innuendo in all the wrong places. “Jack and the Beanstalk ” she’ll say, giving me a knowing look. “Which grew very… large…

 “Little Miss Muffet sat on a… tuffet…

“Jack and Jill went… up… the… hill…” implying unspoken shenanigans of an unseemly nature.

Hey, we like each other! We also have the lounge completely to ourselves since her daddy Mark and all the Indian braves are crowded into the teepee out back smoking pipes of peace. “Come sit here,” says Charlie, scrunching up in her leather chair.

“Don’t be ridiculous! Do you have any idea how much I weigh? I would crush you.”

“I can sit in your lap, daddy!”

Her constant teasing has me noticeably engorged. This greatly amuses Charlie. Standing up and marching to my chair, she plops innocently into my lap, a giant grin splitting her rose-petal mouth. “Oops, what’s this?” she asks, brushing my crotch with her fingers. “Oops! Daddy, it’s alive! What’s in there?! ”

“What do you think is in there?” I grouse.

“Let’s look!”

“Let’s not!!!”

I mean, even South Dakota has laws.

Like flies on a cow pie, the casino begins attracting some very strange birds. First to arrive is Eduardo Ramirez, ostensibly from Cartagena. “If you’re from Colombia,” I ask him, “why is your accent East L.A.?”

Whatever his mumbled answer, I never get it. He does give me his card:  Spiritualist Van Gogh

Turning it over in my hands and examining the pristine back side, I ask, “What exactly does being a Spiritualist Van Gogh entail?”

“Coming to the Way of the Paint,” he exclaims, his left eye drifting disconcertingly off into space.

“Which you do how?”

“Such questions!… Mumble…”

“What’s that?”

“YOU SNIFF THE PAINT!” he shouts loud enough to disturb the coyotes in their dens. Piqued, he proceeds to unload a backpack full of aerosol spray cans.

“Okay, okay, I get it!”

Next comes Baroness Van Pelz, just in time for me to inform her “We’re not open.”

“Look me up online,” she suggests in a throaty baritone, her Boston Terrier peeing on the black rubber welcome mat, made in Brazil. Once I google her, I indicate to Frank, “Jesus! She’s worth so much money, we should rent her a room!”

“I’m leaving my entire estate to Fluffy,” says the Baroness, busy signing the hotel register at the front desk.

“Good for Fluffy,” I reply, handing her a magnetic keycard.

“Come, Fluffy,” she says, leading the Boston Terrier to the elevators.

Eduardo and I exchange glances. Hearing his dog whistle, Eduardo salivates visibly.

With Mark of San Francisco supine from an overdose of cannabis, it falls to me to find a replacement muralist. “I do it, I do it, I do it,” insists Eduardo, brandishing an entire suitcase of paint in spray cans, “if you put in a good word for me with the Baroness’s dog!”

“It’s a deal!” I lie, desperate.

“What should I paint?”

“Paint what Mark was painting,” I propose, showing him the sketches. “It’s Custer’s Last Stand. There’s Sitting Bull. There’s Custer…”

“He was gonna paint him like that? With an Indian brave slicing Custer’s throat with a Bowie knife?”

“It’s a representational depiction,” I explain lamely.

“Oh! Representational art!” enthuses Eduardo. “This I know! I can do this!”

“Please do!”

In a 16-hour methamphetamine rush of spray paint, Eduardo finishes the mural.

With more than a little trepidation, Frank, Sunflower and I unveil it before the rest of the tribe.

It’s good!!! White cotton fields as far as the eye can see. Indians picking baskets and bales of cotton. In the distance, on a hillock, General Custer ruminates, gazing toward the clouds. The entire left side of the painting is a single giant Texas longhorn steer, floating in a glorious cloud of white light.

“Is great!” comments Hare Running With Tail On Fire. “What it means?”

With bated breath, we turn to Eduardo. “Is representational,” he explains serenely, a successful artist at peace with the world. “Is the last thoughts of General Armstrong Custer at the Battle of Little Bighorn: ‘Holy cow, where did all these cotton-pickin’ Indians come from?’ ”

As Fluffy’s dog walker, I now make the formal introduction. Listen, she and Eduardo get along like a house on fire! Within a day, they’ve published the banns. Less happy is the Baroness. “How can anybody marry a dog?” she gripes uncomprehendingly, marching angrily into the Wedding Chapel.

“We-ell-l-l,” explains the sheriff, making it sound like a word of three syllables. “It’s this new Obama legislation, legalizing marriages between consenting adults in non-heterosexual relationships.”

“Yes?” asks the Baroness.

“I just told you,” says the sheriff. “They’ve legalized marriages between consenting adults in non-heterosexual relationships. It’s all legal. That don’t mean I like it none.”

“The dog is four years old,” babbles the pastor, drunk as usual, weaving before our eyes. Grabbing onto a pew to keep from falling, he adds “That’s way past the age of consent in dog years!”

“I don’t mind them getting married!” replies the Baroness shrilly. “Fluffy knows her own mind. What I object to is the two of them consummating the marriage! Who knows where this young man has thrust his ding-dong!?”

“I find that offensive…” complains Eduardo.

“Woof!” says the dog.

“Not my problem,” says the sheriff.

Needless to say, I lose my job as Fluffy’s dog walker.

The tribe knows they need to pipe in music. It says so right on page 3 of the “How To Run A Casino Handbook.” Unfamiliar with the nuances of elevator music, the Stolis have chosen Gustav Mahler as their auditory muse, providing some range in their choice of ambience:

Ponderous (molto bene) – Symphonies 1, 2 and 3

Boring (langsam) – Symphonies 4, 5 and 6

Screechy (purgatorio) – Symphonies 7, 8 and 9

Totally nuts (scherzo) – Symphony 10, conducted by Eugene Ormandy

What a difference four days make! Grab the skis and snowshoes, it’s a teeth-chattering 8° outside. And snowing!

Opening night! Under a strident moon, wolves howling, members of a dozen Indian nations from up and down the West Coast come east to check out the competition. We also have Islandic tennis pro Sigúr Isaksson and his stunning girlfriend as our guests, lending international élan to the gathering, even if they arrive flat broke and we must comp them both the room and free chips. Purgatorio Mahler groans quietly in the background. Charlie, my little minx, comes dressed in a tartan skirt and cashmere sweater, butterscotch-colored kneesocks and weejuns, her flaxen hair pulled back in a ponytail. Nose in the air, small hands clenched, she stalks the premises like a tigress. Our medical staff consists of Dr. Horatio McPherson, M.D., who proceeds to get falling down drunk, telling me, “Well, I’m bored and certified, so I guess you could say I’m board certified!”

For the sheriff, it’s a quiet night: Only one domestic dispute on the floor of the casino, as well as expelling an itinerant priest who calls himself Willie Graham. His schtick is performing a benediction over the slot machines in the name of Christ: “Hear ye, oh hear ye, in the name of Our Lord Jesus, may the beneficence of the multitudes bountifully fall ever upon thee, amen!” Unimpressed, the sheriff sends him sprawling into a snowdrift alongside the parking area.

Warrior braves stand two deep at the bar imbibing alcohol by the bottle. They then stumble to the gaming area and stare glassy-eyed at the spinning roulette wheels or the bouncing pairs of white dice. The croupiers and dealers are all Indian squaws. Every one of them either ignores this exhibition of boorish behavior or shuts down her table and leads the miscreant into a corner— or an available broom closet— for a quick bout of surreptitious lust.

What would Opening Night be at a casino without a mathematical genius from M.I.T.? Who, using superior algorithms, intends to break the bank. Spiky hair, an ill-fitting suit, way too much dandruff and eyeglasses like Coke bottle bottoms, ours is straight out of Central Casting. Name: Richard Robinson Claverhouse. “I’m putting everything I own on red,” he exclaims gleefully. As the roulette wheel clanks out a bright green zero, Poor Richard deflates like a toy balloon.

Then there are the four merry Jamaicans dressed in après-ski and knit caps, very tall, enormous pearly white teeth, huge hands, who swing their arms to warm up and cadge drinks off the trays of passing waitresses. They say things like, “Dis place be aw’reet. So glad t’ see you, mon! Is demon cold out. We passin’ by, we hear good things ’bout dis place. Yo’ got a car? You gi’ us a ride to Rapid City!”

Curious, I ask how they got here without wheels.

“We snag a ride, mon.”

“Do you work?” I ask, emboldened by their party-hard demeanor.

“Sho! Clear we work. We work for Bose, all of da highs an’ none of da lows!” they guffaw, punching each other. An in-joke, apparently. They seem pretty high already.

I tell the staff to keep them out of the hotel wing, visions of them rifling rooms, taking showers, squatting and generally raising Cain floating like sugar plums all through my head.

“Hi-i-i-i-i!”

Wherever I go, this happens. There’s some sexy, incredible, eligible lass who smiles, flirts and comes on to me JUST WHEN I’M TOTALLY ENGAGED IN OTHER BUSINESS. “Hi!” I say. I love this lady! Thirty years old, great brown eyes, gorgeous nose, high cheek bones, wide mouth, round little chin, a sweet figure in a cheap fake fur jacket, nice hands, pink gloves, bleached jeans, brown leather western boots. She sports sandy, windblown hair. Arching her blond eyebrows and laughing at me, she stands there waiting while I silently curse myself for pulling security. And, of course, I get called away to explain house rules to a group of 20-something frat boys. This always happens!

When white men in suits proceed to inspect every inch of the facility, I naturally assume they’re the Feds. It turns out they are lawyers representing the Oneida Indian Nation of New York, here to ensure that we in no way perpetrate the coinage “Redskin” in either our décor or our activities.

At precisely 10:32 p.m., with military precision, the front doors swing open and bearded young men in kaffiyehs, bearing AK-47’s, flood the casino, stamping their feet and shaking off snow. They smell of jasmine, sweat and hashish. They also seem momentarily bewildered by the scene. Gracious as always, our serving staff offers them hors d’oeuvres: pigs-in-a-blanket, bacon wrapped asparagus on a toothpick, pulled pork fritters. Our visitors, Muslims, are not amused. Their leaders quickly organize them into groups, instructing them in Arabic to put an end to this nest of Satanic, despotic idolatry. Even when the intruders physically intervene— grabbing the ball off the roulette wheel, seizing the dice— the Indians go right on drinking and carousing.

“We hereby declare this area as the Islamic Republic of South Dakota!” decree the insurgents, hoisting the yellow and green flag of Hezbollah atop the espresso machine. Even this outrage scarcely makes a dent in the bacchanalia. Only when they begin blowing up the Mercedes automobiles parked in the back lot, do the Indians go on the warpath.

“Come with me,” says Frank. Opening the door to the kitchen, he counts heads, then arms us with pig-stickers, butcher knives dipped in swine blood, sides of bacon and various dismemberment utensils. Our two most intrepid young warriors, Robin’s Egg Atop Coyote Poop and Plays With His Thingy, exit the larder wearing the heads of wild boar. Turning out the lights, the wily redmen stalk the heavily armed militants, slicing throats, stabbing and castrating with vehement determination. Many an Arab extremist is sent into the waiting arms of his 72 virgins in Paradise.

“Git some! ” enthuses Frank, the banzai call of soldiers since the reign of Alexander the Great. Rarely have I witnessed a more unequal battle.

Nary a shot is fired before an eerie silence descends on the premises, the air pungent, sticky with blood.

“Indian anger knows no bounds,” say the Stolichnaya.

Weary, I sit on a twisted barstool and drink coffee while the Stolis collect scalps. Charlie climbs out of a pantry and offers me a slice of lemon pie, but my mouth is so cottony, I find it impossible to eat.

“I’m not going to die without losing my virginity!” Charlie announces, obviously traumatized, clutching my hand. Since the elevators are out of service, we trudge up three flights to her room. Locking the door and putting on the chain, we undress. Henry, my trusty pig-poker— with his scimitar blade— stands achingly erect.

I do her. Therapeutically. To great acclaim, her rosebud mouth plastering me with kisses. “Can’t we move to a state where they let you get married at, like, thirteen?” she asks me conversationally.

“So now you want to marry me?”

“I’m just sayin’…”

Flying back east, momentarily B.B.E.— Befuddled By Events— I forget and try to pass through airport security with an honorary Indian tomahawk in my shoulder bag. This is seized by the TSA with a great deal of consternation.

 

************ Chapter 2 – “The Search For Xanadu” *************

            Varieties of hummus are spread around the table with care, in hopes that the Palestinian delegation will at least show up. Anno 2013 doesn’t promise to be a good year in the nation’s capital. Suffering illusions of competency, our dear president harbors the conviction that if he holds a grand gala for Israelis and Palestinians together, he can head off a right wing sweep in the upcoming Israeli elections. Where’s the big money riding? The ruling Likud party under Benjamin Netanyahu. Also, the Yisraeli Beiteinu party representing the Russian immigrants. A throwback to the Cold War, they are all Stalinist conservatives. Shas, under Eli Yishai, represents the Mizrachim, the Jews from Arab countries. Even the Sbarro pizza chain is threatening to run a candidate. Each more doubtful than the other about a two-state solution regarding the Palestinians. All poised to win many seats in the Israeli Knesset.

“It’s important that we sit down together,” explains Lickety Split, the White House Press Secretary. A total stooge, his is one thankless task. He’s, like, the fourth dude to hold the job in as many years. “That way, Israelis and Palestinians can freely converse,” proposes Lickety sincerely. They can converse. Not negotiate. Not, God forbid, hold peace talks!

Under Obama, nothing is ever quite what it seems.

“Why meet in person?” joked the Israeli ambassador during our planning session. “If the Obama White House wants us to chat, we and the Palestinians can choose between Skype, Facebook and Twitter. We can text each other!” Tonight, he doesn’t attend in person, but sends an attractive Israeli woman named Galit from the Public Affairs Division of the Israeli Embassy. She’s accompanied by two able-bodied non-entities.

“Don’t judge us too harshly,” Galit requests. “Israeli society still struggles with issues of inequality, but things are getting better!”

“Fine,” I tell her, “I believe you. I give you the benefit of the doubt.” Lord help me, at this shindig, I’m once again in charge of security!

“Relax,” laughs shaggy-haired Shlomo from Tel Aviv. “We Israelis always supply our own security. We’ve had years of practice.” He grins wolfishly.

As for the Palestinians, who can we expect? Maybe noisy negotiator Saeb Erekat who always has something to complain about. Or, for example, Prime Minister Mahmoud Abbas. Hey, they’re both no-shows! al-Qaeda in Occupied Palestine (not to be confused with al-Qaeda in Gaza, Jund Ansar Allah) tweets “Still again the Israeli aggressor uses the jackal America to fool the neutrals!”

An example of what Mark Cuban, owner of the Dallas Mavericks, calls “twitter courage.” When people unload piles of crap on Mark’s doorstep, he retweets, showing a million and a half followers what flamers those jerks are. Feisty, he gives back as good as he gets! Or so I’m told. I’m not exactly sure about “retweets.” Isn’t Twitter the same as Angry Birds?

On this side, ladies and gentlemen, for the Palestinians, intransigent but impeccably dressed, Messieurs Mahdi and Abu Saleh. On the Israeli side, juicing up at the bar, cranking up their Dutch courage by the mouthful, innumerable diplos led by top negotiator Yitzhak Roitman. “You know,” announces Roitman, “we have put everything on the table. Anything and everything is up for negotiation! Just don’t come up with that pre-conditions nonsense.”

“WITHOUT PRE-CONDITIONS,” rants Abu Saleh, “NEGOTIATIONS ARE MEANINGLESS!”

“This is like a sump pump in the Negev, it’s a non-starter,” Mr. Roitman jocularly informs the American reps.

BAM! My mouth is hanging open. Just like that, Mr. Mahdi has thrown a punch at one of the Israeli security detail! Who neatly folds him up like a used napkin.

“YOU SEE? YOU SEE!” screams Abu Saleh. “This is how we are treated! Always the Israeli aggressor uses superior force to obliterate the hopes and dreams of the Palestinian people.”

“Your guy threw the first punch,” I quietly intercede.

“WHO ARE YOU???” seethes Abu Saleh.

“Sergeant At Arms. Representing the hotel,” I explain.

“Palestinian anger knows no bounds! I shall not sit still for this provocation.”

“I don’t get it,” I admit. “We have security cameras. Everything is being video recorded. We’ll replay the tape.” Even as I speak, the Israelis are helping Mr. Mahdi to his feet, brushing off his tuxedo, yada yada yada.

“You, sir,” I am told by Mr. Abu Saleh, “are a provocateur! A colonial sock-puppet of the world-wide Zionist conspiracy. WE ARE LEAVING!”

Kind of makes for a short evening.

At this point, dressed in a nicer tuxedo than mine, the president’s Second Assistant Vice Deputy Chief of Staff Scott Smith marches up to me. Me. What did I do? Scott is wearing spit-shined shoes. He demonstratively exclaims in front of everybody, “Pack up your Glock 21, mister, and go home. You are so fired!”

“You can’t fire me,” I remind him. “I’m a contract employee!” One of the perks of working in the private sector. Since Smith looks like he’s about to hemorrhage, I get myself a drink at the wet bar, thank the Israelis for a fun evening and skedaddle.

It doesn’t help that only a week ago, I went to New York and saw the Off-Broadway play “Rich, Creamy, Delicious,” a laugh out loud musical based on the 1993 Oslo Accords and the 1994 Nobel Peace Prize. Some play! Yasser Arafat, Yitzhak Rabin and Shimon Peres solve the Middle East dilemma by getting totally stoned. “We should have done this a long time ago,” says Rabin, passing a doobie. “I see everything so clearly now!” Arafat uses his awards plaque to massage his genitals. Listen, when even J Street considers the Palestinians comical, something’s gotta give.

Driving to my meager lodging across the river in Arlington, Virginia, I am forced to pull over. Four text messages and a voice mail are making my cell phone scream bloody murder. I start with the voice mail:

“Hello, this is Sergei, calling on behalf of the Russian mafia. We have discovered, disturbingly, that owner of this cell phone is not paying Russian mafia for proteksia. We are hoping you will be wise and press ‘1’ now for protection against— among other things— annoying and threatening phone call. Like this one. Otherwise, who knows what might happen…?”

I press “5” for more options.

Three of the text messages are from an ex-girlfriend who suffers from obsessive compulsive disorder. The fourth is from Helmutt Security.

“Due 2 nonperformance,” texts my boss, “U R fired. H.”

Win some, lose some. Such is life at the uppermost pinnacle of power.

Beached, I figure I might as well go to Brazil. Local travel agents are offering cut-rate accommodations and Colfax is in Brazil, a punk banshee FBI agent with a steel-trap mind. My own Lisbeth Salander. I reminisce, remembering our azure night together by the side of a motel swimming pool. A dead body in a tuxedo floating face-up. [Publisher’s Note: Cheap Shot, 2013] Wild sex. Wild. Still thinking about her, I use a desktop with Internet connection at the local library (“Please Sign In Here!”) to google her. Too much information. I go to the White Pages website, always a source of useful trivia. There are two dozen Colfax’s listed in the U.S., but only one named Lisa. And she is 54 years old. “Do you want to see the telephone number and address?” Well, d’oh. No, I don’t want to see the telephone number and address! My Lisa isn’t 54 years old.

Last I knew, Colfax was transferred to the DEA, policing the border between Brazil and Bolivia. To stop the flood of cocaine. I google “DEA+Brazil.”

THIS IS A RESTRICTED WEBSITE. DRUG ENFORCEMENT PERSONNEL ARE DIRECTED TO IMMEDIATELY CONTACT… yada, yada, yada.

I google the Federales do Brasil instead.

From: JPreacher To: FdB Query: Do you know a Lisa Colfax with the DEA?

From: FdB To: JPreacher Resposta: Fuck you! Who asking?

From: JPreacher To: FdB Response: An old friend in criminal justice.

From: FdB To: JPreacher Resp: Fuck off!

From: JPreacher To: Fdb Resp: Her former fiancé.

From: FdB To: JPreacher Resp: Hey, amigo! She hot!

So although I’m not in touch with Colfax, I feel it worth my while to fly south. For the winter, if nothing else. I fly to Mexico and transfer to Aero Brasil. A prop jet, we take turns winding up the rubber band. These old de Havillands remind us what flying used to be like. At Sao Paulo, the pilot corkscrews into a perfect three-point landing. The stewardesses, tall and pretty as fashion models, crank open the doors. Heat like a furnace. Sitting on cracked, wicker seats in the rickety bus, riding across the pitted concrete from the airplane to the terminal, I look out the half-open window. A big black crow perches on a fence, cawing “¡Cojones! ” in Portuguese. I take a taxi into megalopolis Sao Paulo. Population, 12 million. Predicted to become the largest metropolitan area in all of the Americas. Counting the slums, it looks to me like it already has that distinction.

After the Kiss nightclub fire in Santa Maria, a university town, where over 230 college students died, street musicians have been quick to pay homage.

“Bola, bola to me! Bola, bola to you! /  Santa Maria, Brazilian town. / Burned up corpses, lying around…”  (A. C. Neiva)

they sing. One complaint was that the security guards wouldn’t let people leave the club, afraid they were running out on their tab. Of course, I can understand that bossa nova isn’t for everyone. Beats, lyrics, the music tends to be in-your-face jubilant. Not after-dinner fare. If I had taken Colfax ballroom dancing, I wouldn’t be in this mess!

I head for the fortress-like Federales do Brasil main office in S.P. Three blocks long. Gated. Sentry boxes. Latest electronics. I’m reduced to parlez-vous’ing with a squawk box. Eventually a thin, mustached gent named Antonio comes out, gazing at me resentfully. “I direct you to the zoo,” he suggests through the black metal bars. “We don’ take gorillas here!”

I’ve beaten up 11-year-olds for less!

“I’m looking for Lisa Colfax.”

“Ho ho ho,” he bursts out, holding his sides. “That was you, amigo? She hot!”

“What are the chances of me seeing her?”

“We already text her. She say ‘Anytime after Hell freeze over.’ Not so good, amigo. Hey, you wanna do a drug bust?” he asks, like he’s asking me if I want to go for a beer.

Sure! I live for this shit.

Coming off the assembly line in her drab blue overalls, Maria is the most sullen human being on Earth. Tan skin. A miniature Aztec goddess, her jet black hair frames a long, tapered face ending in a tiny round chin. Her nose is brown and sharp enough to cut cheese. Smoldering, volcanic mocha eyes. And the body of an 18-year-old, her hips and breasts almost non-existent.

“How old are you, Maria?” I ask.

“Eighteen.”

Antonio has been leaning on her for so long, resentment is the only emotion she has left.

Flashing dollars, I take Maria, Antonio and his crew of buccaneers to a casa de pasto for din-din. Dining on steak, everyone is in good spirit. Even Maria cracks a wan smile that seems to say “Girls never get a break.” We drink a funky Chilean malbec shiraz with aromatic notes of wild cherry, vanilla, baked apple, honey, cedar, monkey dung, pine and coconut. Complemented by a tangy, rather sweet aftertaste of cinnamon, drying walnuts, toasted toffee, wallpaper paste, root beer and licorice. Chilean wines have a bold presence somewhere between heartburn and coronary thrombosis. Our server assures us that this is the same wine once enjoyed by the military junta under Augusto Pinochet. 12% abv.

From Sao Paulo, Antonio drives us south down the coast. I thought nights were dark Stateside. Here, the blackness is as thick as tar. “This is a very dangerous situation for Maria,” explains my host. “We got her brother Guido in prison for cocaine smuggling. If we spring Guido, Maria deliver a boatload of cocaine to us Federales.” Antonio pulls onto a dirt track so forlorn, even I fear for my continued good health. “It’s a sea turtle habitat,” he explains, Duran Duran’s “Rio” blaring on the car radio. “Perfect place for smugglers. Nobody wants to disturb the turtles. While everyone is out west policing the border with Bolivia, these suckers sneak the stuff in by inflatable boat from Uruguay.” Seven hundred miles up the Atlantic coast by inflatable boat. Boy, some people do things the hard way! “Maria is their local contact. She guides the boat to shore.”

Breaking out the shovels, throwing sand, we dig our observation pit to specifications. No sooner do we hunker down with our binoculars, then we get joined by a 600-pound sea turtle. A she. They trudge up the beach at night to dig pits and lay their eggs. “Tell her to take a powder!” hisses Antonio. I make appropriate noises and gestures, but to no avail. Mrs. Turtle isn’t the least bit impressed, not even when we four rancheros try to lift her bodily out of the sand. Eyeing us crabbily with a look of “Is that the best you got?,” she doesn’t budge an inch. Stake-outs! We don’t want to hurt the sea turtle, we just want her to leave our observation post. I mean, how lazy can she get? Let her dig her own pit to lay her eggs! We take turns ejaculating in the she-turtle’s face. She finds this sufficiently irritating to waddle off and let us get on with our drug bust. See! Multi-culturalism wins every time!

As soon as the boat appears on the tide, we charge down the beach brandishing pistolos. Unhappy, bone-tired and seasick, the smugglers acquiesce quietly. A real caballero, Antonio walks across the sand and backhands raven-haired Maria, sending her sprawling into the surf. “Listen, amigos,” she proposes, climbing out of the foam like Aphrodite, “I give you quick fuck, you let me go!” Her black eyes flash in the darkness.

“Ah, no, Maria,” the three Federales burst out laughing. “You give us quick-fuck an’ then we gonna arrest you. The fucking got nothin’ t’ do with the arresting.”

An international observer, I watch closely, observing.

I get called back to Washington and issued a desk job at the Pentagon. Well, military liaison. Not actually in, you know, the building. But a Pentagon assignment. I try to avoid the big boys at the top, people like Gates, Panetta, Petraeus, Clinton. With them, everything is political. My desk is in the sub-basement parking garage of an office complex in Crystal City. Surveillance. In case any Arab terrorist sheiks show up in their Mercedes to plot the overthrow of our democratically elected government. Hallowed be thy name. Undercover, I sit in a glass-enclosed booth, stamping tickets and collecting parking fees. Even my dark blue uniform perpetuates this subterfuge, “Ace Parking LLC” embroidered on the breast pocket. That right there should tell anyone who is the least bit savvy, “Oh, this dude isn’t a lowly parking attendant! He’s really a government spy!” My contact is a toilet roll dispenser located in the second floor men’s room of The Spy Museum. Sitting on the toilet, I deliver oral reports on Tuesdays and Thursdays, carefully modulating my voice.

Vigilance can never be overstated.

Eventually, my Ace Parking LLC supervisor Harold lets me go. My X-ray vision freaked out the tenants.

In her Congressional testimony, Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton mentioned the dude who was out walking his dog one night in Benghazi and decided he’d go shoot some Americans. I have found him! We’ll call him “Mustafa.” He’s a real fanatic, unbendable in his convictions. Un-persuadable. Parochial, narrow-minded, he knows what he knows. He prefers Wendy’s to McDonald’s. Walmart to Target. For his hamburgers (which as a Muslim, yada, yada, yada… “all beef paddies”), he prefers Checker’s to Red Robin. T.G.I.F. to Olive Garden. Google to Yahoo and Bing. Scruffy, a very basic terrorist in a kaffiyeh, in need of a shave, he spends our time together spouting the Koran. He also happens to hate Americans. Go figure. This upsets me, until I encounter some Americans who hate Libyans! See, what goes around, comes around! It all evens out in the wash. Why should A-rabs be better haters than us Americans? We can hate, too, y’know!

Vigilant, I sit in the john at The Spy Museum, writing memos on the toilet paper and flushing them down the toilet. The Tea Party people have it right: government bureaucracy is a bitch. After two whole weeks, still nothing has happened! Finally, I call an old friend and arrange a secret meeting. Behind the 120-ton white marble statue of Abraham Lincoln inside the Lincoln Memorial.

“For God’s sake, Josh, what is it now?” FBI agent Eric Weiss asks testily, testing me. The sky is gray, the color of slate.

I know his game! Refusing to be put off, stamping my feet in the cold, I charge ahead, telling him “I know who masterminded the attack on Wendy’s in Benghazi!”

“You mean the consulate compound?” he asks, straightening the sleeves on his Eddie Bauer trench coat. Spies the world over know that looking good is half the battle.

“Sure! What else, but…?”

“You said— Never mind! Give me a name.”

“Ahmed bin Suleiman al-Tikriti.”

“You’ve got to be kidding!” insists Weiss, leading me down to the Reflecting Pool, out of earshot of a group of Soviet spies disguised as school children.

“So you know him!”

“Fine. Give me whatever documentation you have and then stop playing the Cold Warrior!” insists Eric. “Jesus Christ, Josh!”

I hand over my brown, manila envelope, wishing it was thicker. At least my report is typed on onion skin bond, mind you, not toilet paper.

One is never a prophet in one’s own homeland! In clandestine operations, there is always the risk of being misunderstood. As soon as the State Department tracks me visiting white supremacist websites, they blacklist me for foreign postings. I see the cable! My entreaties and explanations fall on deaf ears. Finally, my professor at the Military War College writes a letter clarifying that he has assigned me to monitor white supremacists as part of my research paper “Rush Limbaugh and Mahmoud Ahmadinejad Are Two Sides of the Same Coin.”

I served under General Mooseburger in the B-L-T War. Boynton and Lizard Town. The war spread as far south as the city of Boynton before everyone ran out of steam. Using a desktop PC at the local library (“SIGN IN HERE!!!”) to visit a military reunion website, I see that the general is back at the Pentagon. I telephone his office. We meet at a sidewalk café, the first harbingers of Spring peeking out from the bushes. Small green buds. Snow flurries blow by, both of us hunched deep in our winter coats. Shoppers hasten past carrying silver and red shopping bags from retail outlets. My suggestion of an indoor venue was, for security reasons, denied.

“Well, well, well! Josh Alan Preacher,” chuckles the General, munching on an unlit cigar. “Long time no see.”

This is a warmer greeting than I got from Mr. Weiss. “Sir! It was a pleasure serving under you, sir!”

“You understand, Preacher, you’re a Maverick. Not too many slots you can fill without upsetting the apple cart.”

“Sir! I understand, sir.”

“Calm down. I’ve got a position for you. On a taskforce. The real deal. Not a parking lot attendant.”

“Sir, that was military intelligence, ” I bark, feeling my face go red.

“The woman who heads it is a total firecracker. But good. Known my family for years. Years.” Discreetly, he slips me a business card and a laminated red, white and blue badge on a green lanyard. “The address is on the card,” he instructs. “You can go right now. They’re expecting you.”

I take the Metro to Farragut North and hike the two blocks to what appears to be a single impenetrable Hadrian’s Wall of red brick. Eventually, I find a doorway adorned with a brass plaque. Ways and Means Subcommittee. I push the button, aware of the long-nosed surveillance camera all but poking me in the eye. “Yes?” squawks the intercom.

“Josh Alan Preacher reporting for duty!”

The door flies open in my face. A florid, bewhiskered gentleman in brown riding breeches, calf-high black leather boots and a Tartan vest huffs at me and commands, “Get the Hell in here, Preacher! Stop making a spectacle of yourself on a public thoroughfare!” I march inside. “Name’s Hennessy. Yes, yes, like the cognac. Same family, different branch.” The interior furnishings look more like a dentist’s office than military liaison. “Our lady the commissar will see you now.” He shows me to a rich brown leather-padded door and retires to his desk in the anteroom. I shrug. Knocking on muffled leather, acutely aware of my role as James Bond, I go in.

“Hi, Joshy!” declares Jimmie Sue Cadillac, coming from behind her desk in a severe little number from Chloé. Cerulean blue. Jimmie Sue’s a buttery blond Gidget— 5′ 2″ tall, with startling blue eyes. A round Irish chin and a sweet pointy nose. Pale white skin, her rose petal mouth cries out to be kissed. The lady is built like a brick shithouse. Black leather boots seem to be in, emphasizing Jimmie Sue’s lovely dimpled knees and curvaceous thighs. No wonder everyone finds her a handful. “How’s tricks?” she asks, sashaying around the room, showing off her tight little derrière. “Yeah,” she admits forthrightly. “I had liposuction.”

“I’m going to be working for you?!” I stammer. One time, she turned me into a mass murderer, for cryin’ out loud. [ Publisher’s Note: Cheap Shot, 2013 ]

“It’s Washington, baby. It’s all a question of who you know and who is screwing whom. Right now, I’m dropping the dime on two Russian diplos, each unaware of the other!” Wrinkling her nose, she laughs, the sound of tinkling bells. “It’s so good to see you,” she breathes, marching up to me. She kisses me open-mouthed. I taste brandy, cigarettes and breath mints. “Welcome aboard! Henry, too.”

Stiff as a rod, Henry has come to full attention, ballooning my pants comically. Military etiquette. I feel like machine-gunning everything in sight. The chintz wallpaper, the knick-knacks and doodads on the marble mantels over the faux fireplaces. Failing that, I let Jimmie Sue lead me to a cubicle, seat me at a gun metal desk and load me down with a heap of files on the foreign diplomatic corps of Washington, DC.

“Find us some targets, Josh. Use that razor-sharp intuition of yours,” she twinkles, running a perfectly manicured red finger nail down the bridge of my nose. Twice. “Just like old times,” she giggles. “Not!”

Two days in, I begin to understand Hennessy. Having hacked into the files of a commercial school photog, he has thousands of color snaps of pre-pubescent girls on his hard drive. Sitting at his desk, slowly clicking through them, he fondles himself energetically. Like Obama, he’s a terrible poseur. Other than that, Hennessy is a good case officer.

Jimmie Sue lets me bunk with her in a ramshackle rental in Chevy Chase. Somebody let home maintenance get away from them. Her wheels consist of a red Saab from Zumbach’s in Manhattan. A blue bumper sticker announces “War Isn’t Working.” To mislead, she’s pasted an oval “GB” on the rear right bumper. When she runs the windshield washer, it sprays the road two cars back. “I want you to get a crew together and prepare to carry out a raid on the Russian Embassy,” she tells me.

“Huh? No way, José. That is so yesterday! What’s the target?”

“You don’t have a need to know, Wolfie,” she snaps in a business-like fashion. “Get your people together, Sherlock. Until then, I don’t want to talk about it.”

When Jimmie Sue gets her period, I know better than to argue. I make some calls, locating soldiers of fortune who are having as hard a time finding work as I am. With rebel forces running their own ops all over the map, it’s tough being a professional soldier. Amateur hour trumps battle-proven ability and a five star rating on amazon.com. My guys love the idea that we’re butting heads with the Russians. “Right-a-Rooney, that’s what I’ve trained for my whole life,” Jerry Nelson exclaims. My three other operatives are equally enthusiastic.

Five fellas and a girl, we dress up in fleece jackets and hoodies. Plastic badges on lanyards around our necks. In Washington, this screams “contractor drones” in spades. We blend blandly into the urban landscape. As long as people can categorize you, they remain unafraid. We carry name brand nylon sports bags over our shoulders. Either we’re into volleyball or basketball. “Swedish 9 mm machine pistols” lies way down the list. Bengt, our supplier, has given us stacks of green-painted wooden crates containing ammo. Neatly packed at the factory, 36 shots to a cardboard carton. Leave it to the Scandinavians, even armaments are handled in an orderly fashion. The guns themselves are painted green to forestall corrosion. Folding stock. They weigh, like, 10 pounds each, next to nothing. 36-shot magazines. Moderate firepower in a convenient package. I have read that the political activists “Purple Nation” seek the political center on gun control. That ain’t us! Swedish K’s. When you got it, flaunt it!

The downside is, no taking the Metro, no entering government buildings. Magnetometers don’t lie.

Jimmie Sue has dyed her hair cherry red for the occasion. Not a wig. The Russkie residentura is on Foxhall Road up by American University. A tony part of town. Whitebread. We drive two jet black SUV’s into the surprisingly large parking lot and hit the pavement running. Feels like the attack on bin Laden’s compound in Abbottabad. Hut! Hut! Hut! We charge headlong, all six of us, into the foyer. Deploy. Stunned white ladies in pearls and twinsets ask us in Midwestern accents if they can be of assistance. Trying not to panic over our black ski masks and heavy weapons.

Shit.

Wrong address. We’ve landed in the Kreeger Museum, a privately-owned high end art house. Still another discreet residence hidden behind a gray wooden palisade. I mean, fuck, all this classy architecture looks the same! Individual dwellings designed by pricey, name architects. We mumble our apologies and get the Hell out of there. Even now, the ladies are desperately scrabbling after their cell phones. Tough titty, bitches! Why do you think we hit the cell phone towers first? Huh? Welcome to my world! You wanna make a call, use a fucking landline.

Time is now of the essence. We hit the Soviet compound… sorry, Russian. My turn to play badger. Pulling the pin on an old-fashioned smoke canister, I lob it into the open doorway. Just as some schleppy tourist types are coming out clutching their precious passports. “Visa Section open Mon – Wed, 9 – 11 a.m.” it says on an enormous white sign by the door. In English and Russian. Entering the building, our boots drumming on the faux gray stonework— actually linoleum— we run down the hallway to the Consular Section and yank Dmitri from his office.

“What do you want?!” he shouts. “God help me, you’re not Syrian rebels???”

“We’re Americans,” whines Jimmie Sue from beneath her pink, knitted ski mask. Decorated with little bunny rabbits.

Recognizing her voice, Dmitri laughs with relief. Putting on a brave face and a lot of bravado for the clerks, he shouts in Russian, “Help! Help! I am being kidnapped!” Before throwing himself into our arms. We hustle out of the building in a mighty phalanx. Like the Cox Cable guy on TV, I run around like a madman. The security guards, two real gorillas, stop us dead on the grass. Staring down the barrels of their Makarovs.

“Let heem go,” commands the more fluent of the two. A blond Russian. The worst kind. I screw the muzzle of my Glock into Dmitri’s neck and grunt something unintelligible.

“He’ll shoot me!” shouts Dmitri in Russian, right on cue. “These are Chechen terrorists. Let’s avoid a bloodbath, shall we? Dagestan is one thing. This is Washington, DC. Why give the capitalists reason to gloat?!” This last argument gets us into our vehicles. We tear out of there. As soon as we hit Mass Avenue, Dmitri explodes in laughter. Overcome. Hugging and kissing Jimmie Sue through her ski mask, he says, “Chekhov would be proud. Such staging! Such theatrics! Such drama. Long live the Revolution!”

See. This way Dmitri doesn’t have to defect and have the Putin regime take out their anger and frustration on his family back in dear old Moskva.

 

*********** Chapter 3 – “What I Did On My Florida Vacation” *************

            The Law Enforcement Convention in Miami consists of too much speechifying and too many workshops, but the judo instruction is good. Firing all the newest hardware on a range is also exciting. I flash my green NRA Range Card. The proprietor eyes me over the counter and says, “Yeah? This is a private facility. That card won’t even get you coffee!” I have to stay mum about some of this new Israeli stuff, it’s so advanced. Suffice to say that when you come running out of a convenience store, your pockets stuffed with ill-gotten gains, you won’t know what hit you.

How can you tell it’s a police convention? Everyone is lined up ten deep at the coffee urns. Always on the lookout for pretty women, I can report: they ain’t here!

I stay at The Seawater, billed as the premier ecological hotel. Here in Miami, they consider a 20-story building mid-size. When you enter your room in the evening, you have 10 minutes of battery-powered illumination. During that time, you are expected to mount the exercycle and pump additional wattage to last you through the night. In practice, this means taking a break once an hour and riding the stationary bike another ten minutes. Go figure. The roof and awnings are all photo-voltaic cells, powering the TV and microwave in each suite. Even the leaves of toilet paper are half the normal width. These dudes think of everything. I suppose it’s better than the Soviet Union, where a hotel bathroom came equipped with an empty cardboard tube. You were expected to take this tube to the maid at the end of the hall. She had an industrial size roll of toilet paper and doled out two meters per hotel guest and 24-hour stay. Although half-size leaves of toilet paper take some getting used to.

The big deal is, of course, the water. Management is justly proud of using seawater in the toilets, showers and unheated outdoor pool. “Our biggest hurdle was salt corrosion,” assistant manager Dennis O’Neil tells me excitedly in a thick Brooklyn accent. His ubiquitous tan, snazzy duds, Panama hat, open-toed sandals and wraparound sunglasses belie his New Yawk heritage. “We got the pipes just right. We got filters in the system at precise intervals, in accessible locations, to combat salt build-up.” Hey, what do I know? I’m no hydraulic engineer. Showering in salt water is a tingly experience. “What’s the problem?” asks Dennis, always keeping the counter between him and the guests. “The Lapps in Swedish Norrland do it all the time! ‘Course, they only bathe once a year.” The single time I run into Dennis out in public, at a Publix grocery store, he almost has a heart attack. Unprotected. Out in the open.

Forget Starbucks, the eco coffee in foil packages provided with the room has the oily viscosity and gut-wrenching effect of Brazilian beans. Less authentic is the non-dairy creamer. Besides corn syrup, it contains hydrogenated soybean oil, sodium caseinate (milk derived, but not a source of lactose), dipotassium phosphate, mono and diglycerides, sodium silicoaluminate, sodium tripolyphosphate, diacetyl tartaric acid esters of mono and diglycerides, artificial flavor (no, really?), beta carotene, riboflavin and titanium dioxide (to make it nice and white). We’re ingesting this stuff??? I give it a pass and drink my Joe black. At least the Vertex black plastic coffee-maker is up to specifications. Even if half the equipment is manufactured in China, the further south you get, the more Latino the influence. Sure that it adds tropical panache, Dennis has calypso music blasting 24-7. It also gives him an excuse not to hear the complaints of his customers.

The ebony black cleaning staff are all from Dominica. They converse in a pidgin dialect. When I tip the lady $2 at the breakfast nook, she turns the bills over comically with her thumbs and mutters, “White mastah ain’ no plantation owner!”

She got that right. Sitting in the art deco lobby, I read an article in Fashion Quarterly, “Dressing bin Laden & Obama: Tall Men Rule!” Where are you now, oh great leader? The pundits are having a field day dissecting Oblama’s second term. It ain’t that hard. The guy is a wimpy poseur blabbermouth. Motivational speaker, my ass!

I recognize him because my dad was also a total coward and about as real as a $3 bill. When you’ve grown up with one, the smell is unmistakable.

Here at the hotel, shades of Hemingway, patrons sit at the Tiki Bar at one o’clock in the afternoon getting drunk. It is here that I finally find the tanned, oiled bodies of bodacious beauties, whose idle chatter focuses on which restaurant offers the best Early Bird Special. What is wrong with these people? They’re in Florida, that’s what.

Returning to the convention center, I’m in time to hear Johnson, Jonasson & Johansson announce their latest product. Showing us a power point presentation sans physical specimen, they tell us, “We are very excited about this innovation. We will be describing details, features, availability, quality, quantities, marketing strategy and price point at a later date. We’re also open for suggestions, especially regarding a name. Like us on Facebook!”

Like what on Facebook?

Ignoring big city crime and drug busts, Louie Louie, the featured speaker, takes us through the interesting case of 37-year-old rapper Rick Ross. He was driving a Rolls-Royce on Las Olas Boulevard in Ft. Lauderdale at 5 o’clock in the morning when assailants in another vehicle fired at least 18 bullets at him in a mad chase stretching three city blocks. Without once hitting the Rolls. No word on whether the rapper, a local resident, returned fire. The early morning incident ended with the Rolls— get ready for it! — crashing into an apartment building.

Although the attackers’ “suspect vehicle” remains at large, police recovered 18 shell casings in front of the Floridian restaurant . The rapper, whose real name is William L. Roberts, owns a $1 million property in a gated community in Davie. He has also been spotted at a $4.7 million property in Ft. Lauderdale’s Seven Isles. Ross is a Grammy Awards nominee in the category Best Rap Album. The Grammys are scheduled for Feb. 10. The rapper’s record “God Forgives, I Don’t” went gold, selling over 500,000 copies within six weeks of its release in the summer of 2012. Internet speculation centers on the rapper staging this event to garner publicity.

Las Olas Boulevard, we are told, isn’t just any street. With over 30 outdoor cafés, 10 international art galleries, two museums, a hotel and 65 shops, it’s the Broadway of Lauderdale. Bang, bang there affects business.

“Were the cartridges rim fire or center fire?” asks Sheriff Winfield Jeffries of Tacoma, Washington. Hey, everybody likes a sojourn in Miami.

“We’d rather not give out more forensic detail at this time,” Louie continues, adding, “The word from the Congressional gun control hearings is that the senior Republican on the panel, Chuck Grassley from Iowa, doesn’t want the Newtown tragedy to blow new life into, what he calls, ‘every gun control measure that has been floating around for years.’ Somebody’s gotta talk some sense into that guy’s thick skull.”

Since law enforcement is our business, we ain’t too happy when every Tom, Dick and Chuck Grassley can buy himself a cannon.

I take the other twelve members of the Modern Strike Force Workshop to dinner at Les Misérables. It’s actually an Italian restaurant in Little Havana. Every mouthful of the chicken parmagiana is so delicious, I chew endlessly, never wanting to swallow. Gloria, our foxy waitress, is also a surprise. I cannot believe my eyes and ears: An enthusiastic waitress! We soldiers are a total pushover for waitresses. It’s primeval. A beautiful woman brings me food. That fulfills two of my most basic needs, right there.

What’s not to love? Spying it on adjacent tables, we have Gloria bring us Tartufa for dessert, vanilla ice cream encased in a dark chocolate shell. A $5 portion of heaven. Already stuffed, we eat through the pain. When I try to make time with her, Gloria laughs in my face, turning her attention to the Japanese at the next table. Many possibilities there, even with the yen in free fall.

We go to see Miami filmmaker Billy Corben’s 2006 film “Cocaine Cowboys.” Not to be confused with the 1979 Andy Warhol / Ulli Lommel creation of the same name. The A/C in the theater sends shivers down our spines.

All day long, little green lizards slither into the palm fronds. Yellow lizards crawl across the window screens at night. At 6’5″ and 250 pounds with a two-day growth of beard, speaking colloquial Spanish, it doesn’t take me 15 minutes to get hugger-mugger with the local Cubanos. Like every minority under Obama, their disappointment knows no bounds. Fortunately, the construction and hotel trades continue at a boil. With so much legitimate business, the locals find it annoying to get busted for anything between an eight-pound bag and three tons of marijuana. “Times are hard,” José, a cabby and all-around fixer, tells me, ferrying me around in a classic Chevy hardtop. In a world of subtleties, he takes over like Robocop. The electronic pay pad in his cab shows the same travelogue every four minutes: City Hall in Stockholm, Sweden, the archipelago, cruise ships lined up in the harbor, The Globe sports arena (“Globen“), Old Town, prostitutes strutting their stuff on Government Street. I’m in Miami watching a video of Sweden, how fucked is that? José only goes through the motions of driving taxi. His real income derives from a diversity of other sources. “I got an ‘in’ supplying fresh linen to the condo trade,” he explains. “Even the smallest motels insist on laundering in-house, but the rich New York snowbirds who come down for the winter will pay you to drive up in a truck, bringing them a load of freshly-washed towels. Capitalismo, gracias a Dios, there are still people who put money before labor!” He seems happy.

“When I grew up,” I tell him, “it cost 10¢ to use the pay toilet in the bus station. We stood around with our legs pressed together, waiting for someone to show up with a dime.”

“Really?” he marvels. “You want a 13-year-old virgin?”

At 70°, it’s not exactly beach weather, so José takes me sightseeing instead. At the ritzy, exclusive (read: expensive) Bal Harbour Yacht Club, he points out which 30-foot yachts and three-story houseboats were bought with what kind of drug money. He takes me to Peacock Park in Coconut Grove, where— if you can read the signals— destitute señoritas in short black skirts and revealingly open blouses will service you in the backrooms of bistros, the bedrooms of shabby rooming houses or, worst case scenario, in the hibiscus bushes among the geckos. It reminds me of Thailand, where you can find bar girls in all of the best hotels. Five star ladies in five star accommodations. Unlike demanding American girls, Filipinas, señoritas and Thai prostitutes are perfectly satisfied just getting paid. Greenbacks, it’s wonderful what the dollar can buy! You don’t even have to take them to dinner. Multi-culturalism in a semi-tropical climate.

We also get our fill of traditional Miami, where coifed and bearded meso-American businessmen with million dollar tans and ivory death’s head rings on their fingers— who naturally won’t reveal their sources of income— drive their leggy Brazilian super-model girlfriends around in Lamborghinis. “¡Cabrón! ” scoffs José. “Anybody can drive a Lamborghini. $500 down and installments for 72 months.”

Bored, José makes some phone calls before taking me up I-95 North and U.S. 27 to the Everglades. Entering the Sawgrass Recreational Park, he rents a Jon boat and fishing tackle for two days.

“Ya can pay for two consecutive days,” says the clerk, looking about 13-years-old, “but you gotta return the boat to the rental facility overnight. Tha’s to discourage gator-baitin’.”

“What is gator-baiting?” I ask. José rolls his eyes.

“Poaching alligators. They’re active at night and some bad hombres like to steal the babies and nab adults for their skins. The entire Everglades is classified as a nature preserve. No poaching allowed.”

“Not even poached eggs?”

“We gonna go night fishing,” insists José. “I promise my amigo here to get him up close and personal with a Florida panther.”

“Well, I don’t know…” says the clerk, reaching for the phone. José heads him off with a $50 bill, discreetly folded and slid across the counter.

We get joined soon enough in the parking area by a sullen Greek named Stelios. Holding a cell phone. “You called me, José? We got work?” he asks.

“Yeah, we’re goin’ out on a Jon boat. Bring the gear.”

This consists of two bulging, black canvas bags of equipment, a fine-mesh net on a long aluminum pole, two poles with hooks on the end, bales of yellow and orange plastic rope and a large, topless wooden crate. We spend the day fishing, the smell of the swamp all-encompassing. By evening, we’re spraying one another with DEET every 15 minutes to ward off the mosquitos.

As soon as it gets dark, José and Stelios break out the searchlights. Eyes shining devilishly red, skin a mottled brown, an alligator glides menacingly close to the boat. José unveils his secret weapon: an uncooked chicken! He jams it onto a hooked pole. Swinging it before an alligator’s snout, he calls “Come get ya din-din, ya prehistoric motherflusher!” The female alligator opens her jaws, dumping six of her young, and rips the dripping chicken off the pole. Stelios, meanwhile, nets the youngsters, placing them in the wooden box. No sooner do they leave the water, they begin to cry. A high-pitched keening, heart-rending to hear. Even for mama alligator, who proceeds to gnaw at the prow of the aluminum boat with her massive teeth. Stelios, no slacker, pulls out a Glock 21 and expertly shoots the gator through its right eye. Using their hooked poles, shouting instructions quietly to me, we maneuver the dead alligator close enough to begin enmeshing it in plastic rope before it sinks out of reach. It’s a panicky five minutes’ work, but at last we have the body tethered to the boat and vice versa. Starting the outboard motor, we chug through the Everglades, the cawing, grunting and croaking of a thousand swamp critters filling the night air.

Reaching a secluded spot at the very edge of the park where a service road meets the water, José blinks his lantern several times. The headlights of two rusty old pickup trucks blink back, as six burly Latinos come to meet us. Stelios hands the crate of babies into a Latino’s waiting hands. As soon as we untruss the gator, the other five grab hold of it and drag her onto dry land. José holds the boat while the six Latinos, Stelios and I lift the dead reptile onto the bed of one of the pickups. Slamming shut the back panel and throwing a tarp over their catch, the Latinos wordlessly get in their vehicles and depart. We return the Jon boat to the marina at 4 a.m., drive to the middle of nowhere and sleep in José’s cab. To allay suspicions, we return the next morning to the rental facility and spend the entire next day innocently fishing.

Having murdered an 800-pound alligator and turned the carcass over to professional poachers, Stelios feels like celebrating. He takes José and me to a white Acropolis of a Greek taverna off N E 34th Street in Fort Lauderdale. Considering our attire, I actually ask the parking attendants if we’ll be served. This makes Stelios laugh, like the sound of an axe chopping wood. Totally high end, not only are all the servers Greek, so are 99% of the patrons. Anyone who has been to Greece can tell you that it isn’t easy being Greek, your glory days situated 3,000 years in the past. Tonight, forget eating, just smelling the Moussaka is a journey into bliss. I’ve noticed that servers at high end restaurants think they are doing you a favor when they come up with pricey suggestions that run up the bill. They assume we’re there to flash cash, Mr. Rich Bitch. Stelios tells our server in no uncertain Greek that a cheap red wine will suffice, sas efcharistó, thank you very much. Stelios and he seem to make a connection. When we order baklava for dessert, our server brings us two-pound chunks of the stuff. “See,” says Stelios. “I told you this would be an astounding experience!” What truly astounds is the temperament of the Greek community. Delighted to be in America and not over there suffering through the total collapse of their homeland’s economy, Greeks here are laughing and joking like no tomorrow. Pinch me, I must be dreaming! A laughing, happy Greek. Who woulda thunk it?

Mats, Anders and Jens, two Swedes and a Dane, offer to have me tag along on their chartered flight to Aruba. Since the U.S. government now allows cultural exchange with Cuba, however, I decide that nothing could be more cultural than asking Raúl Castro to release American Alan Gross. This Jewish gentleman, working for USAID, imported PC equipment to the island to connect the Cuban Jewish community with the Internet. Not exactly what you would call subterfuge. The Cuban government feels otherwise, sentencing Gross to 15 years behind bars.

A feature of cultural exchanges with a country 90 miles from Miami is that all the paperwork must go through Washington, DC. Go figure. I seek out the U.S. Passport Agency on Biscayne Boulevard. “You’re Cuban?” the young lady in the Visa Section asks incredulously. Living in Miami, perched behind a glass partition, she’s the palest gringo in Florida. It’s like talking to the vice principal of an elementary school.

“I didn’t say I was Cuban. I said I wanted a cultural visa to Havana.”

“You have in-laws who live on the island? Your wife’s family? They can’t get out, so you want to go pay them the courtesy of a visit?” she hypothesizes. “This would be a lot easier if you brought your wife here. Or at least someone who looks Cuban.”

“It’s not a familial reunion.”

“Then why do you want to go? And don’t say you’re a jazz musician! Everybody and his brother has vacationed in Cuba under the pretense of studying Afro-Cuban jazz. We’re no longer issuing musical visas,” she tells me resentfully.

“What if I’m Catholic and wish to confer with the head of the Cuban archdiocese?”

“I’m Catholic and I resent that,” she pouts. For some people, your very presence is an irritant! “You can go illegally. Just catch a fishing boat,” she mentions, distracted, looking at the Miami Herald. “Only don’t get caught coming back. The fine is currently $10,000.”

“No visa?”

“Well,” she sighs, looking honestly perplexed. “Unless you represent some political action committee or an international NGO, I frankly don’t see why you’re wasting both your time and mine?!”

America, sí, Cuba, no.

 

*************** Chapter 4 – “Pirate of the Caribbean” ***************

            José takes me to Port Everglades to see the cruise ships slated for the Caribbean. Since he’s the taxi and I’m the fare, security lets us through with only a perfunctory check of our I.D.’s. It’s not like I need a ticket to ride. The pneumatic ramps that press against the sides of the ships are manufactured by FMT of Trelleborg, Sweden. Everything is bathed in the smell of boiled hot dogs. I like hot dogs. The black shore crews, dressed in short sleeves, hustle in the heat of the afternoon. The security personnel are also black. Listen, if you want to be safe in America, take a cruise! “All the blacks live in Inverrary,” grunts José. “A brown man can’t go in there ‘cept maybe to do gardening. Jews out, blacks in. Times have changed.”

Looking across the channel, I see delicate white cranes roosting among the cypress trees. Whenever a ship leaves, horn blasting, the passengers stand on their balconies, madly waving.

“I’m the only driver you gonna find who’s not from Haiti,” José is telling me. “They got the lock on the cabs. Local government is in on the deal. And Haitians don’t suffer no competition.” José means well, but he’s becoming something of a complainer. “Half the time, I’m driving off the meter just to avoid the hassle. How’s an hombre supposed to earn his 40 Social Security credits for Medicare at age 65 if the system won’t let me make an honest living?!”

I walk over to converse with the crew of a white, two-masted schooner. I count a 10-man crew of college students in black dickeys. Coed. They act about as friendly as scorpions. “Can I help you?” asks their professor of nautical science, called from below deck. His name is Thord Bakken. He smokes a pipe, his hair styled into a pompadour. “Michael J. Fox is my cousin,” he claims grandly by way of introduction. Later, I’ll discover that when he strums guitar, he croaks out tunes by Elvis. “Come aboard. We’re takin’ her for a spin,” he suggests.

I pay José a wad of bills and we say our “goodbyes.” I can’t expect him to wait around all afternoon. He tells me to stay in touch.

We cast off. As we get underway, U.S. Coast Guard boat 125 in orange and black, three enormous outboard motors churning, puts on a show for us. Racing up and down the channel, a crewman in a black helmet mans the .50-caliber machine gun in the bow. America naval prowess.

“He shows wideo of himself on his smartphone in all the bars. With that giant piece of equipment sticking up between his legs,” Thord declares diffidently. “He gets more action than he can handle.”

I take his word for it. This is gonna be a long trip. We sail under overcast skies, bands of golden sunlight dancing on the water, always tantalizingly out of reach. The proud homeowner, Thord shows off the wheelhouse. I can’t help noticing the Cyrillic lettering on all the instruments. “Bought your gear in Russia?”

“Bulgaria! Eastern Europe’s finest. One of the best-kept secrets of the computer industry. Bulgaria rules! Of course, it helps having a Scandinavian passport. We Norwegian seafarers can travel anywhere.”

I don’t know about Norwegians, but I can tell you about Swedes: In the middle of the Baltic, halfway between Sweden and Russia, lies the Swedish island of Gotland. Basically agricultural, it’s a big tourist destination for the population of Stockholm every summer. A farmer on Gotland comes equipped with a reputation: If he grows potatoes, he makes vodka. Apples become brandy. Grapes become wine. Grain he turns into grain alcohol. Sugar beets he distills into pure alcohol. Barley and hops he uses to make mead or, if not that, beer. “There is nothing a Gotland farmer cannot turn into alcohol,” brag the Swedes.

Looking over Thord’s rig, I ask, “Software from Bulgaria, too?” That seems convenient.

“Of course not!” he huffs. “All our software is downloaded from BitTorrent.”

It takes practice to walk on a shifting deck. Evening, we glide under sail by tankers lit up like small cities. The two girls on board, both brunettes, treat me like a leper. One looks like Hillary Swank, the other CNN’s Monita Rajpal. “They’re radical feminists,” explains Thord, demonstrating how to use the ship’s toilet. “They just hate all men equally.”

“When do we head back to shore?” I ask, as the sun plummets into the west and we are enveloped in darkness.

“In awhile. Maybe a day or two.”

Huh? “Okay,” I say, realizing I’ve been shanghai’d.

Fishing for marlin the next day, Thord asks me, “You know the movie ‘Seven Years In Tibet’ with Brad Pitt? That was me! Then I went back to university and took a degree in nautical science. I prefer the sea to the mountains.”

“You spent seven years in Tibet?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Then why’d you bring it up?”

“The marlin is a fighting fish,” he explains, clumsily changing topic. “Of the family Istiophoridae, order Perciformes. They grow to be seven feet long. You’ll note the high-standing dorsal fins. Makaira nigricans is the kind we know best, the blue marlin.”

“I never caught the name of this ship.”

“The good ship Schicklgruber. It was Hitler’s family name.”

Huh?

“Force de frappe. When confronted by a mostly superior enemy force, find small ways to harass him, new ways to inflict damage. Dirigibles and U-boats confounded the Englishmen!”

“You’re a student of military history.”

“Of course, it wasn’t always called that,” Thord announces, ignoring my remark entirely. “When the ship came off the slip in Gdansk, its name was Mewa, Polish for ‘seagull.’ I am very proud that our schooner features WiFi. Not since Jonah and the whale have we offered such a complete home away from home on the sea.”

Black and white gulls race the ship, eyeing us for a handout. Failing that, they kamikazi into the water, then bob to the surface clutching silver fish in their beaks. They think we’re the intruders, although several deign to converse with us in what sounds like Japanese.

When I take a walk to stretch my legs, I get the once-over from a sulky redheaded kid named Ollie. He’s hosing down the deck. “Hey, man, what are you doin’ on our fuckin’ boat? You a narc or somethin’?” he asks.

“You’re going where I’m going,” I tell him. A generation gap as deep as the Grand Canyon, this doesn’t work at all.

Determined to do my share, I end up assisting the two ladies in the galley. My elbows are meat cleavers.

Din-din, the main meal of the day, is at 4 p.m. I forgot how mundane dinner table conversation can be. The boys argue basketball, baseball and football. They have hundreds of stats at their fingertips. The girls compare, endlessly, Beyoncé, Katy Perry, Ke$ha and, God help me, Kerli. I feel like I’m on the good ship ms / Numbbutts. Thord Baaken, the professor, ignores all this, steadfastly lecturing on the Wehrmacht, U-boat commanders he admires and the economic basis of Portuguese exploration of the New World. “Why name America after Amerigo Vespucci? All he ever did was invent the Vespa motor scooter. While Ponce de León found the Fountain of Youth in the Florida Everglades. Your country should, by rights, be named Leónville.”

“Whatever!” chorus the kids, unimpressed, lighting up after-dinner joints to the beat of Bob Marley. Skip, the first mate, demonstrates his claim to fame, giving us letter-perfect imitations of rapper Jay-Z. Catching him in the act, Thord has apoplexy.

“I think you’d better kiss my right foot,” Kelly announces that night, cornering me outside the toilet. She’s the Hillary Swank look-alike.

“Why would I want to do that?”

But she’s serious. Kelly and Margot have narrow bunks crowded into the fo’c’sle. Since there’s obviously not enough room for me to join them there, they take turns riding me with frenetic abandon under the red cover on one of the two lifeboats. Lying nude on my back on the bare planks in the bottom of the boat, my knees jammed under the center seat, their little sex slave, I begin to experience Jimmie Sue Cadillac’s dislike for bondage. [Publisher’s Note: Cheap Shot, 2013] Between the pitching of the schooner, the rocking of the lifeboat on its divots and the enthusiasm of my two college girlfriends, there are far too many moments when poor Henry feels as if he’s being torn out at the root. Win some, lose some. Such is life at the pinnacle of ecstasy. Not only do the girls use me as a boy-toy, they add insult to injury, expecting me to tip them $2 every time we complete a tryst. “I’m out of singles,” I claim.

“Oh. So give me a fiver,” suggests Margot, more than doubling the price of my mortification. She has a pix of the ubiquitous Justin Bieber printed on her smartphone case in startlingly gaudy colors. Kelly has many different uses for glycerin hand soap. Most of them painful. I can’t wait to reach land!

When I crawl into my bunk at night, the boys pal around by stuffing wet towels down my throat, college style. It’s like getting blackballed by a fraternity.

We start every morning with rubbery eggs and Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. A sailing vessel, the sea air has coated most metal surfaces with salt. We spend a lot of time scrubbing.

On the long wave radio, we hear a blow by blow of a golf tournament in Dubai. The three reminders of a Teutonic heritage are the rigid morning roll-call on deck, Thord’s daily harangues and the way the crew tightly winds the silverware inside the white linen napkins.

One afternoon, a boy named Larry puts on a show. The girls think he’s breakdancing, but we guys can see he’s going through the motions you use when wielding nunchucks.

When the others find out Kelly’s parents are Mormon farmers, they ask “Are they polygamous?”

“No,” she answers, “but their chickens are.”

I don’t know what religious affiliation Margot maintains. She tells me, “When I’ve finished sowing my wild oats, I’m going to open my heart to Jesus. He’ll cleanse it and polish it and give it back, so I can live as a good Christian.”

“Open heart surgery?”

Margot begins to cry.

“You’re a cruel man,” Kelly informs me angrily.

To amuse us, the boys hold mock performances of Wagnerian opera every evening. This always comes down to chopping up babies with a wooden axe. The evening repast consists of sea biscuit and French onion soup.

On the Sunday night of Super Bowl 47, we hold a tailgate party on deck, eating sliders and drinking beer. This is something of a joke, since the only thing we can pick up on the shipboard TV is Russia Today. Nevertheless, Ravens fans end up in fistfights with San Francisco 49ers fans. Many black eyes and bloody noses leave the crew resembling pirates. The girls take me to the lifeboat and seem irrational in their frenzy. I finally realize they are terrified.

Historians and weather forecasters may not speak of it as “The Storm of 2013,” but the squall that hits us on Day 4 turns the sky to lead, the sea to chop and dredges up a ton of brown algae. The kids get the sails down and we putter along, using the motor to keep us facing into the waves. Which grow higher and higher as the afternoon wends toward night. By evening, we’re getting pounded. Half the crew has taken to their bunks. Water slams into us from every side. The Seagull ain’t makin’ it. The biggest hulk on board, I take over the wheel. A life of its own, the thing kicks like a mule. “Don’t worry,” Captain Bakken assures me, looking as complacent as a troll, arms crossed, legs braced, shouting to be heard. Good old Thord, always with a ready answer.

“Tell mama I went down with the ship!” I shout back. By 3 a.m., I no longer care. Handing the wheel to Thord and his first mate Skip, I trudge down to my bunk and collapse. Hey, I’m just a free-loading passenger. Let these students of nautical science work it out. Within minutes, Kelly and Margot join me, whimpering softly. Embracing one with each arm, I’m out like a light.

Morning breaks fresh and pristine. The ocean is once again blue, the cloudbank heading toward Cuba. The island in the center of the Caribbean, everything heads to Cuba eventually. We’ve got a spit of land coming up to starboard and a following wind, which is good, considering that our Bulgarian hardware has fritzed. No one knows quite where we are. We pull into a key that looks like a goddam tourist brochure. Horseshoe-shaped with startling azure water and a tidy beach, it includes riderless horses standing at the headland, sniffing the wind.

“It’s inhabited,” I point out, drinking steaming black coffee in an enamel mug of World War Two vintage. Some things never go out of style.

“Ridiculous!” counters Thord. His hair looks like he slept upside down, hung from a yardarm. “Don’t jump to conclusions! Apply the scientific method. First gather your facts, then hypothesize.”

We drop anchor by the beach and wade ashore amidst thatched-roof cabanas. “See!” Thord declares professorially. “No one in sight. Clearly abandoned.”

Ready to punch him one, I bite my lip and keep my peace. We scout the entire island, mostly scrub, but with enough infrastructure to accommodate a battleship. Everywhere we go, the professor shakes his head knowingly and declares, “See! Clearly abandoned!”

A chintzy replica of a pirate ship lists in the sand, tattered flags rippling. An unusually large hand-lettered sign, black paint on white board, faces out to sea. it says:  “…….Paragliding $35……..Beer $3.00……. Water/Soda $2.00…….. Local Food………”

“This fucking burg ain’t abandoned,” I fume, affectionately slapping the flank of one of the sturdy dark brown horses. The girls have been busy herding them down the beach from the headland. “Somebody owns it and they’ll be back.”

Unheeding, the professor calls a gathering on the beach, clears his throat theatrically and declares, “In the long tradition of seafaring, many a brave explorer has been blown off course in a gale. Ours is an exalted past going back to the Pinto, the Panto and the Santa Maria. I christen this— our new home— Bakkenland.”

I expect the kids to raise a ruckus, but no, they’re too tired to complain. Shaking their heads resignedly, they mutter “Oh, yeah!” and “Straight at ya!” and “Fuck all!” We spend the next hour bringing supplies ashore in the lifeboats.

“What’s with the green boxes?” I ask.

“Oh,” says Skip. “Ballast.”

“Boxes full of stones?”

“No,” Skip insists. “Ballast.” Eventually, he and Thord begin prying them open with a crowbar, unwrapping AR-15’s in oil cloth. Everybody gets one, including Kelly and Margot. Everybody except me.

When I complain, Skip’s Number Two, Larry, answers with all the finesse of a truck driver. “We have a right to defend ourselves! Even the President of the United States has taken up skeet shooting at Camp David. Some people shoot off their mouths, some shoot with their dicks and some of us use semi-automatic weapons. As the surgeon told the patient after a reverse vasectomy, ‘You ain’t shootin’ blanks any longer, pardner.’ ”

Fuck.

“You all know how to use these,” Thord declares, his voice ringing hollowly across the water. “Rifle proficiency was a requirement for this voyage. You all had a B+ or better in Seamanship 101. Nevertheless, I want Skip and Larry to set up a rifle range and run drills to refresh you on the basics! You, passenger! Set up the camp stove and prepare breakfast.”

Me, passenger, I work alone to the volley of rifle shots. Not wanting to get another towel down my throat, I pull the professor aside and speak softly. “Look, Thord, with all due respect. We’ve got three huts in a row here in the main square, one labeled ‘Tiki Bar,’ another ‘Gift Shop” and a third ‘Post Office.’ There’s a men’s room and a ladies’ room. Running showers. There may not be anyone here at the moment— ”

“WE’LL DEAL WITH ANY CONTINGENCY!!!” shouts Thord. Looking in his eyes, I am confronted by a madman in the grip of some weird delusion.

“Is there a problem?” asks Skip. He and Larry proceed to batter me with the stocks of their rifles. At 6′ 5″ and 250 pounds of sheer muscle, I refuse to flinch.

Two motor launches pull into the channel at the eastern side of the key. Under orders, the girls hustle me at gunpoint out of range, but I see six black-skinned natives in dreadlocks, khaki work clothes and brown leather sandals arguing with Skip and the professor. Who march them down to the beach and call another gathering. Six laborers, angry, obstinate and uncertain. “Mon, you got to get yo’ head together!” shouts one. Larry knocks him to the sand with a rifle blow.

“My countrymen! Comrades! Fellow denizens of Bakkenland,” lectures Thord. “Throughout history, the stronger have conquered and subjugated the weaker. This is the law of Darwinian selection. Some races are simply superior in heritage, intelligence and ability. We cannot help our superiority. It is in our genes, the white man’s burden. When confronted by the barbarity of an inferior race, it is our responsibility to maintain discipline. To maintain racial purity. Therefore, I am declaring a Court of Reconciliation, judging the fate of these unlawful trespassers. Since they are clearly guilty— ”

“Hey, mon, we get paid, come work here, settin’ up de tables, unlockin’ de equipments, ” shouts the same dude as before. Having risen from the sand, he stares belligerently at the armed students in their white cotton ducks and black dickeys.

“Git you a life! ” shouts another.

“Attention! In line volley, march!” yells Skip in a shrill voice. I don’t know if they have the guts to shoot anyone, but the youngsters form a raggedy skirmish line along the beach, backs to the water. Not wanting to be left behind, both Skip and Larry don suicide vests rigged with canisters of C-4 explosive.

We killed so many A-habs in Iraq, it wasn’t even funny. But as soon as you line up a firing squad, I do get nervous. In Somalia, things came unstuck very fast. A number of warlords divided up the country. Driving around in Jeeps with .50-caliber machine guns on their turrets, so-called “Mechanicals,” they tore the place apart, fighting among themselves. Basic necessities like food, water and electricity became disrupted, turning half the population into refugees. Trying to bring order out of so much chaos rapidly became a “no-can-do.” Smartest thing we ever did was to leave. Things may not be that mad here on the island, but standing to one side, next to Thord the professor, I angrily intervene. “Hello-o! What the fuck are you doing?! These dudes here are straightening up and prepping the island for— ” But I get an old-fashion German Luger shoved in my mouth for my trouble. “Yo sho’ th’nk o’ wha’ yo’ doin’,” I say. Teeth clicking on gun metal. Good old Thord, always full of surprises!

“READY!” shouts Skip. The college kids raise their rifles and take aim at the laborers. I watch, amazed, as one after another, they release the safety on their weapons. What are they thinking? “AIM!” Leaning slightly forward to absorb the recoil, each young white kid takes a bead. This ain’t no fair ground. You don’t get a stuffed animal as—

BLA-A-A-A-A-AT! A ship’s horn shatters the tension, comically, as an entire enormous cruise ship holding 1,500 passengers sluggishly but unstoppably pulls into the key. “Tha’s whot I been tryin’ t’ tell you!” swears the only black man who seems inclined to argue. “This is a Bahamian island owned by a whoppin’ cruise line! Get used to it, mon.”

“NO RETREAT, NO SURRENDER!” roars the professor, waving his Luger. “Deutschland über Alles!!! ” Giving the Nazi salute, he clicks his heels together in the sand. Another unrepentant Nazi.

“Uh, stand down,” commands Skip, looking slightly sick. Slowly, he unhooks and peels off his explosive vest.

Beachcombers, young families with beach balls and aquatic camp counselors come ashore, making we buccaneers feel a little foolish with our automatic rifles and military discipline. A ship’s doctor comes in on a motor launch. He gives Thord a full sedative, since the man’s incessant railing about “Jewish betrayal of the Fatherland” is definitely starting to get on everyone’s nerves. The Bahamian authorities impound the rifles and explosives. They also impound the schooner for gun-running, which Skip admits was their actual occupation. Dupes, the other students are allowed to call home and arrange passage back to the mainland.

“Blame it on global warming,” Kelly suggests, wrapping an arm around my waist. Apparently, my two lady friends have decided “any port in a storm.”

“Are you guys gonna be all right?” I ask.

“You mean, like, headin’ for the funny farm?” suggests Margo. “Naw, we thought this gig sucked from the very beginning, we just couldn’t figure out how.”

Young people!

 

*************** Chapter 5 – “Chechnya On My Mind” ***************

            The Boston Marathon. April 15, superlative running weather, temps in the mid-50’s. Crystalline skies, this is what sporting events are supposed to be like! I’m here to cheer on Jessica Reed, a Kim Carnes look-alike with the body of a Marine Corps officer. Hooray! I am in a straight heterosexual relationship with someone who is neither a prostitute nor a weirdo. Jesse works as an executive V. P. at the Raytheon Company in Waltham, Massachusetts. Defense contracts. You can’t get straighter than that, unless you work for FedEx in Tennessee. Amazingly, Jesse actually finds me funny! In a good way. So there’s hope. She’s a good one. Walking around Boston, I am proud to be seen with her. I mean, finally somebody worth the candle.

When she runs, Jesse sports pro running shoes, tight black pants, blue tees and a green day-glo vest that says on the front “Move over, Rover!” On the back, it says “There I go again!” She wears an all-purpose armband that monitors her heart rate, gives pedometer readouts, GPS location and traffic updates. Jesse is one serious sportswoman.

Joining the crowd gaily waiting at the finish line, I— Ka-blam! An ear-splitting explosion and a shock wave that punches us like a fist in the face. What’s goin’ on??? I’m looking in seven different directions at once. People screaming. The crowd running. Onlookers stumbling around in a daze.

When others start sprinting like maniacs, I go into a low crouch and assess the situation. The first thing I notice is the number of injured spectators and participants. Next, the pedestrians vacating the shops and restaurants around the site of the detonation. Ka-blam! A second explosion! And now I really can’t hear anything but the ringing in my ears. Fuck! This place is starting to resemble a battlefield. I feel more determined than ever to ferry people out of the war zone. I rush out into the street and help a runner, whose legs are perforated with shrapnel, get to his feet. I march him over to the sidewalk farthest from the blast radius. I don’t know if this helps, but ferrying people out of harm’s way seems the right thing to do.

The official report will speak of “carnage.” Read: severed body parts. Streams of sticky red blood. Tatters of clothing, smelling of explosives. Shattered glass, crunch, crunch!

I can’t believe how hungry I am! Seeing abandoned luncheon plates under the parasols of sidewalk cafés, I march around among the tables, helping myself to a half-eaten hamburger and handfuls of fries. I bite into the USDA-approved 100% beef patty dripping in natural juices, char-broiled to perfection over an open grill. Luke-warm fries with ketchup. Fistfuls of lettuce with Bermuda onion. Rivulets of burger grease cascade from my chin. I wash it all down with sodas that are still cold and fizzy. Yum!

“What the fug are you doin’?” a police officer asks in a thick Boston accent. “Get the Hell away from there, ya fuggin’ scavenger! Let me see some I.D.”

“Waxworth Security,” I mumble, my mouth full of hamburger bun. Pulling out my wallet, I show him my credentials.

“Ya wanna be a help? Walk back along the marathon route and direct runners to get off Boylston and turn onto Newbury or Commonwealth. Tell ’em to go to Boston Common. Who knows what’s gonna blow up next? We gotta keep this area clear!”

So that’s how I first get involved in the so-called official end of the ensuing investigation.

A thousand runners, drop-dead tired, come pounding down the road. “Right! Go right! Take a right!” I instruct, pointing with my whole arm like a mechanical soldier.

“Hi-eye-eye-eye!” chants a chalk-white young lady. Oodles of blond hair held behind a sky-blue sweatband, blue eyes, high cheekbones, a fleshy nose, chapped lips over a dimpled chin. “Wassup?!” she breathes, sidling up to me, dripping sweat. I’m amazed at the whiteness of her skin. Most of her blood must have migrated to those bulging muscles of hers. She’s so short, I feel like I could lift her up and put her in my breast pocket. “Wassa matter?” she drawls, smiling, her arms snaking around my neck. What’s this? Her face comes looming up at me, tongue licking lips. An inch away, I can smell her minty breath. Hanging on like a pendulum, she locks lips with mine, her tongue thrashing around inside my cheeks. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, what’s with the libido?” I complain. “I thought runners got their endorphin fix from overcoming lactose acid cramps and were good to go…?”

“Ah’m jus’ celebrating mah victory,” she guffaws, still swinging from my neck merrily. “This was mah first marathon an’ I com…pleted it!”

We’re in the midst of another of her strange, dynamite, masher kisses when a familiar voice calls, “Josh? Hey, Josh! What’s goin’ on?”

“Oh, um… Jesus! I didn’t catch your name.”

“Lucy. Mah name’s Lucy.”

I keep trying to detach myself. Lucy, dear girl, won’t let go. “Oh, uh, hi, Jesse!” I stammer. “Listen, how was the race? Look, everybody has to turn right here onto Newbury after some kind of explosion up ahead on Boylston.”

“WHO’S YOUR FRIEND, JOSH?!” Jessica asks, barreling past me up Exeter without a backward glance.

Win some, lose some. Such is life at the uppermost pinnacle of… whatever! And Lucy, don’t you know, is bi-sexual and sharing a loft in Cambridge with her BFF Arlene. Both participated in the marathon and, together, they take me home to their place. Demanding equal time and attention in the shower, in bed and on the floor. In the kitchen, entirely naked, spread-eagle across the kitchen table, Lucy declares, “All right, Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up.” I eat her blond bush like it’s a cupcake. She falls asleep, as rung out as a ragdoll.

Oh, and did I mention how exciting the race was? The Ethiopians had it wrapped!

I stay a whole day. I admit it. Fucking my brains out, their pale young bodies a total turn-on. Even their sweat tastes good!

We watch late night cable TV: “It’s The Nacht und Nebel Show,” the announcer excitedly tells us. “With Friedrich’s special guest, Holocaust-denier David Irving!”

Only in America, right?

“Listen— ” I say.

“Wait,” Lucy warns me, leaning against me on the couch. “I want to hear this!”

Eventually, I clean myself up and get my sorry ass out of there, returning to the scene of the crime. The final tally is three dead and over 250 wounded. Spotting FBI agent Eric Weiss, I walk on over. “No! No! No! God dammit!” Eric exclaims upon seeing me. What a card!

“Available for duty, sir!”

Turning away, Eric tells the uniformed patrolmen, “You guys gotta deal with this. I can’t!”

That’s how I get teamed up with patrolman first class Raymond O’Donnell, walking the neighborhoods ringing doorbells, asking if anyone has seen or heard anything. Armed with Asus 7″ Jelly Bean tablets, we take notes and photograph everything even vaguely interesting. Officer O’Donnell keeps a stiff upper lip, but over coffee, it becomes blatantly obvious from his monologues that, given his druthers, he’d like to round up and corral the entire Asian population of Boston. “They’s no damn trustworthy,” he explains earnestly. “There’s no sense of the lahjer community. They’s on’y interested in ’emselves!” When we get into their part of town, I see what Ray means. The Asians turn us away brusquely, unwilling to share any details at all with the Boston Police Department. Very weird.

Aware that the entire world is watching, the coppers play their cards very close to their chests. The Internet is buzzing, accusing anything that moves:

“OMG! My cousin’s neighbor saw a strange man walking w/ black plastic garbage bag SECONDS B4 the SECOND explosion! He is #terrorist!”

Having learned from past disasters, the local authorities double-check everything, waiting three days before releasing both video and stills of the Tsarnaev brothers.

This pair of amateurs, using instructions from Al Qaeda’s Internet magazine Inspire, combine fireworks with pressure cookers, creating their very own homemade explosive devices. They transport these to the marathon in backpacks.

During the ensuing police manhunt, officers engage in a Gunfight at the O.K. Corral type shoot-out with the boys on Laurel Street in Watertown, Massachusetts. Driving a carjacked SUV, Dzhokhar accidently runs over his wounded brother Tamerlan. Dzhokhar then disappears. He’s discovered 12 hours later, through a local tip and some infrared photography, hiding inside a boat stored in a backyard in Watertown. Badly wounded, he surrenders.

His brother Tamerlan dies of gunshot wounds at Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center in Boston at 1:35 a.m. on April 19.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Officer O’Donnell tells me, sitting across from me at a local coffee bistro. “The Russians are not taking this investigation seriously enough! We’ve explained that the brothers are Chechens. They are kids, really. The parents are back in Chee-Chee Land. When we ask Ivan to check up on the parents, they say they have their hands full with their own home-grown terrorism. Apparently, as soon as anyone leaves Russia, he’s considered a traitor. Period. They expunge expatriates from the rolls. Nobody’s going to check up on the Tsarnaev parents.”

“I’ll go check.”

“Well, I don’t know,” O’Donnell answers nervously. “Maybe I’m talkin’ out of school here. So far, your participation and mine has been three steps below entry level.”

“If that’s your attitude,” I tell him, finishing my coffee and leaving him to pay the bill, “I’ll make my own arrangements.”

Eric Weiss at the FBI says “No.”

“No way,” says Sir Richard Waxworth at Waxworth Security. “We’d have to be crazy to get involved in the Bostonians’ investigation. We’d be stepping on people’s toes. Forget about it. Stop playing Sir Galahad! Get your sorry ass back to the office.”

“Is your passport up to date?” asks Jimmie Sue Cadillac.

Like retirement, it’s a hard job but somebody has to do it. I fly to Grozny. Right at the airport, the porters and taxi drivers start playing tricks and pulling punches. I mean, thank God I don’t have any checked luggage! Anything like that would disappear without a trace. I’m met at Customs by the rep for the FSB, the Russian Intelligence Service. Formerly the KGB. His name is Vladimir Kravchenko. Squat as a bulldog, a round face, bad teeth and a very Russian wart upside his nose. In the good old days, an entire delegation of agents would have been assigned to dog my every step. Vlad’s solitary status and bored demeanor indicate the government’s officially mundane view of my current mission.

“I got you the address where these Chechens lived,” he explains in ponderous English, visibly wincing.

I haven’t even said “hello” and Vlad is in pain! Seated next to him in an ancient Zhiguli sedan, I get a clearer profile: Kravchenko in his rumpled suit, ring-around-the-collar starched white shirt and Navy blue tie is apparently recovering from the effects of a monumental hangover.

I try not to judge people on physical beauty, but these Chechens are sure ugly. Even in Bulgaria, the unrelenting thugishness is periodically relieved by the appearance of a red-haired, green-eyed Greek goddess. Here in the Chechen crapital, no such luck.

We drive into Grozny. Bombed into rubble in 1999 by the newly-enthroned Vladimir Putin— even the cows were considered legitimate targets— the city is a contrast between old wreckage and new construction. The cement mixers never stop grinding, a sure sign of progress, if not recovery. The entire city resembles a junkyard. Mired in mud. Stray dogs trot through the streets, wheezing asthmatically. This is a place where even the tufted ear squirrels pack heat. Every few minutes, the wind shifts and I choke on the fumes of a day-old corpse. Discretion being the better part of valor, at the apartment house, Vlad sits resolutely in the car, leaving me to go it alone. “The door marked 3/C,” he advises. “If they shoot you, don’t bother coming back.”

“Ha, ha, ha,” I heartily agree. When Vlad looks confused, I realize that the man is serious! Good grief. If I get bitten by a rabid dog, my staunch companion is prepared to tut-tut all the way to the cemetery.

“Tsarnaev,” I ask, standing tiredly in the doorway of 3/C. My jet lag has finally caught up with me, cutting me off at the knees: I cannot feel my feet.

“Not here,” the squat woman tells me in local dialect. Her 10-year-old son, perched at my right elbow, happily translates. “Fuck you, Stallone!” he says. “I shoot you ’till I kill you! How you like them parakeets, motherfucker?”

What movies has this kid been watching?

“Where are the Tsarnaevs?” I ask him.

He confers with his mom. “Dagestan. They move to Dagestan! One move and I blow off you testicles, motherfucker!”

“Yeah, okay, I got it,” I tell him, laughing in spite of myself. Compulsively— I mean, they are so broke— I pull out my wallet and give him a $10 bill. “This is ten dollars,” I insist, pointing at the number on the bill. “Make sure you get your money’s worth.”

“Fuck you, Jack! Who you calling monkey?” asks the boy rhetorically.

I trudge back up the crumbling walkway to Vlad in his dented Zhiguli. “They’re in Dagestan,” I tell him, waves of blackness clouding my vision.

“Are you crazy?!” Vladimir complains. “I am not driving you to Dagestan!”

Sitting next to him, I pass out.

I sleep 24 hours straight in a one-star flophouse that passes for a hotel. The black Bakelite telephone weighs five pounds. It rings so shrilly, I’m sure they can hear it outside on the street. “Guess what?” says Kravchenko. “Somebody has been busy in the archives. As a favor to the Iranians [Publisher’s Note: Cheap Shot, 2013], your visa has been revoked!”

Returning Stateside, I am outraged over the turn of events! If ever I decide to fly an airplane into the World Trade Center of Stockholm, Sweden or blow up the New Boston Mini Mart located halfway between Detroit and Ann Arbor in Michigan, at least I hope to have the support of my aunts and uncles. Ruslan Tsarni, uncle of the Boston Marathon bombing suspects, holds an impromptu press conference outside his home in Montgomery Village, Maryland days after the bombing and declares both his nephews “losers.”

Ever helpful, at a memorial service for the MIT police officer slain by the Tsarnaevs, Veep Joe Biden labels them “perverted, cowardly knockoff jihadis.”

Knockoff jihadis? Ouch! That hurts!

The hospitalized Dzhokhar Tsarnaev is now talking. He tells us that he and his older bro’ Tamerlan became angry with America over the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Listen, Dzhokhar, you ain’t exactly alone! Lots of people are sore, yet we don’t all go around making bombs. Hey, Mr.G-man, there’s more to this than meets the eye! I say, law enforcement should focus on classic detective work à la Sam Spade: Cherchez la femme! What atavistic need to play tonsil hockey with giggling, young, blue-eyed blond American schoolgirls drove these two frustrated, swarthy immigrant boys from Chechnya to attack America in the name of radical Islam? Don’t forget, Marilyn Monroe was an American invention! (My YouTube playlist features pop videos by Lady Gaga, Kerli and Ke$ha, all young, all blond.) Young girls flirt. Rejection hurts. Life is a series of disappointments. Zero in on the Tsarnaev brothers’ lonely frustration.

When confronted by an in-your-face topless Ukrainian women’s rights protester at the Hanover Industrial Fair in Germany, Vladimir Putin didn’t get mad, he got even: Ogling the young lady lasciviously, he told fair officials, “You should be grateful to the girls, they are helping you make the fair more popular.” This is one of the perks of being dictator of Russia. Alas, not all of us can react with such aplomb. Dzhokhar and Tamerlan blew up the Boston Marathon.

Give the boys credit, unlike you or me, Dzhokhar and Tamerlan have left their mark in history! Their names will figure prominently in databases, which is more than you or I can brag about.

Payback is a bitch. Like rock-throwing Palestinians, Tamerlan and Dzhokhar probably saw detonating explosives as a form of personal expression. After all, we do have the First Amendment right to free speech. These boys are following a long, worldwide tradition of anarchist protest. The Kristallnacht pogrom was unleashed in Germany when Herschel Grynszpan assassinated diplomat Ernst von Rath over the plight of the Jews. Making IEDs and blowing up the Boston Marathon was a way for Tamerlan and Dzhokhar to express themselves. A day after the bombing, Dzhokhar told fellow classmate Zach Bettencourt at the University of Massachusetts at Dartmouth, “Tragedies like this happen all the time.” Two days later, the FBI released photos of the Tsarnaev brothers to the world. Class was over.

You wonder how the brothers could concentrate on making bombs amid the hustle and bustle of modern Bostonian life. It wasn’t easy. Tip: One advantage of the slower tempo in Moombahton dance music (108 beats per minute) is the extra time it gives you to gather your thoughts.

Chechens aren’t like the rest of us: Most of them come from Chechnya. Despite the pitfalls of generalizing, I’m willing to state that Chechens are an emotional people often prone to violence. Joseph Stalin deported the entire Chechen nation to Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan in 1944. Although allowed to return home after 1956, between a quarter and half the Chechen population perished. No wonder they have a chip on their shoulders! Tamerlan and Dzhokhar’s parents claim from their home in Dagestan that their boys were set up. They cannot believe their progeny would ever commit acts of violence. Of course, the parents no longer live in America, a land of 314 million personal agendas, road rage, the Tea Party, West Virginia snake handlers, asinine sci-fi television shows, zombie movies, vampire films, income inequality, Draconian state marital laws still on the books from two centuries ago and the proliferation of megachurches. The Mormon hymnbook ends with The Star-Spangled Banner and God Save the King. Where, may I ask, are Hatikvah and Allahu Akbar?

As always during an economic downturn, partisanship and extremism sound the death knell of civility. Perhaps in the panorama of Sufis, Salafist jihadists and adherents of Salvador Dali, these young men chose one from column A and another from column B. Whatever their nihilistic philosophy, armed struggle prevailed. Ask any chemist or political consultant: Free radicals in the body politic can result in a deadly outcome.

Ours is a violent nation. Think of Tamerlan and Dzhokhar as military humor, ha ha, laughing in the shambles. Django has been unchained: The NRA blocks any attempt at gun control while the U.S. Senate requires 60% to vote “aye” for any legislation to pass. Our prez is a feckless blabbermouth. When the institutions in power fail to rule, anarchy reigns.

I side with the National Rifle Association’s chief executive Wayne LaPierre: In a country of 314 million people, any attempt to run background checks on all purchasers of backpacks, pressure cookers and fireworks will prove totally unmanageable.

Are the bumbling Tsarnaev bros the Sacco and Vanzetti of our time? Some college students become terrorists. Are we going to run background checks on all college students? Better to put an armed police officer on every street corner. This solution will also eradicate unemployment.

To the jihadis of the world, I throw down the gauntlet of challenge: Blowing up people and buildings is easy! Anyone can do that. Lets see you hit America where it really hurts. Beat us in golf, ping pong or tennis! Becoming a pro golfer, ping pong or tennis player takes talent, stamina, an iron will, dedication and years of practice. Bomb-making is a short-term walk in the park, in comparison. Seriously, show us what you got! Be sportsmanlike about it. Allahu Akbar? Before declaring a worldwide caliphate, at least win gold at the Olympics!

 

************** Chapter 6 – “Muy grande” **************

            The United States Holocaust Memorial Museum is an odd institution housed in an architectural enigma. Kind of a Rubik’s cube. The purpose is to approach the lone topic of “genocide” from 19 different angles. The annihilation of six million Jews— plus five million socialists, gypsies, Seventh Day Adventists and gays— by the Nazis gets the full audiovisual treatment. In great detail. This catastrophe is presented through (1) the eyes of the liberators, through (2) literature, (3) propaganda films, (4) posters, (5) speeches, (6) shoes, (7) suitcases and (8) eyeglasses of the dead. The main exhibit includes (9) Nazi documents, (10) historical explanations, (11) a cattle car used at Auschwitz-Birkenau, (12) artifacts from the ghettos, (13) children’s games,(14) a list of decimated villages, (15) audio recordings of eye-witness testimony, (16) filmed interviews and (17) endless photographs. Traveling exhibits (18) and lectures (19) by Holocaust survivors round out the nineteen different ways.

Genocide is unpredictable: Since they are unable to swear allegiance to any mortal man, the Seventh Day Adventists got added to the list of undesirables by an incensed Adolf Hitler. Who demanded nothing less than an oath of allegiance from each and every member of the Third Reich. Boy, talk about insecurity!

Like Obama, Hitler made his mark as a stirring orator. Also like Obama, Hitler made his fortune by writing an autobiographical book, Mein Kampf, “My Struggle.” Both men are inveterate liars. Both men think they are infallible. That about exhausts the similarities. The contrasts are something else: While Obama was hanging with reefer-smoking surfer dudes, at that age Hitler joined the Kaiser’s army and was gassed during World War I. Obama is tall, married and heterosexual. Hitler was squat, monogamous and bisexual. Where Obama fears to commit himself, Hitler played mind games on the entire world:

In order to invade Poland, Hitler had some of his soldiers put on Polish uniforms and create an incident. “Poland has attacked us!” declared the Führer, immediately sending two divisions of the Wehrmacht over the border.

One reason the Jews were such easy targets for the Nazis was the kindness of the German Army toward the Jews during World War One. Jews served in the Kaiser’s army and were accepted there as patriotic Germans. When Germany conquered territory from the Russians, the Germans treated Jewish residents with a respect that contrasted sharply with the brutality of the Cossacks. Another link was the similarity between the two languages, German and Yiddish. Much of Yiddish is High German written with the Hebrew alphabet. Feeling a kinship, the Jews couldn’t fathom this total change in attitude between one generation and the next. Hitler squeezed the Jews slowly with racial laws and economic deprivation. Enough to cause pain, but never enough to foster open revolt. The German Jews found it especially hard to believe what was happening to them.

Even the burning of the Reichstag— the excuse for marshal law and a New Order— was carried out clandestinely and blamed on a halfwit.

It’s important to remember that Germany in the 1930’s suffered a triple whammy: Losing the First World War caused resentment, feelings of betrayal and a lust for revenge. The Great Depression, which Germans could not understand, left them starving. They blamed their situation on Jewish bankers and war profiteers. Thirdly, the Germans suffered an identity crisis over which people were the true Germans. An entire nation became paranoid, feeling threatened and fenced in. Hitler the magician promised to solve all that!

Two months before, in April 2013, the Holocaust Museum had a big do, celebrating their 20th anniversary. I missed that. I am here today to specifically track down the connection between UFO’s and the Third Reich. The Finn Timo Vuorensola has posited, in his 2012 film “Iron Sky,” the possibility of a Nazi base camp on the dark side of the moon. Hey, stranger things have happened! One man’s opinion is another man’s fact. Ask Bill O’Reilly. Equipped with this totally new perspective, I peruse the permanent exhibit with what Golda Meir would call “new eyes.”

Halfway through, I spot three teenage girls in an open corridor, bright with sunlight, on the second floor. Zeroing in on the blonde, I can’t believe how beautiful she is! Enormous blue eyes, thatched blond hair, tiny breasts, a gray jersey with a Guns ‘n’ Roses logo, baggy jeans, torn tennis shoes. Who cares that she and her friends are 16-year-old schoolgirls straight off a yellow bus? They are here. The two of us ogle each other, delighted. She likes me. My entire package, 250 lbs. of muscle and brawn. I like her. “Hi! Gad! Who are you?” I ask, clutching her girly little hand.

Squeezing me back for all she’s worth, she positively gushes good will. “Hi, ah’m from Macon, Georgia. Mah name’s Cindy,” my darling angel squeaks.

“You’re kidding!” I gasp.

“Why? Y’all know Macon?” she exclaims, leaning abruptly against me with a pelvic thrust like something out of a Jane Fonda workout video. She almost bowls me over! I’ve beaten up eleven-year-olds for less.

Everybody always talks big about Macon, Georgia, but you never actually meet anyone from there. I find that impressive. I don’t tell Cindy or her girlfriends that, of course. Teenage dreamboats, her friend Patty is clearly breathless over this turn of events. Her girlfriend Gail on the other hand, totally unimpressed with adults, gives me a crabby look. “We gotta go,” says she, “or we’re gonna get left behind.”

“Sure! I’m cool, let’s go,” I agree. We join the rest of the visitors wandering into a labyrinthine hall of darkness.

“Have ya ever,” Cindy breathes in my ear, “played Spin The Bottle?” When I turn to reply, our lips lock. We French kiss, long and deep. Giving me another pelvic thrust, Cindy pulls me around a corner, into some sort of maintenance doorway, out of public view. We make out like demons, slobbering merrily. Taking small, skipping steps, Cindy has us rejoin the general flow of tourists, only to tug me behind the cattle car. Pulling me against the wall, she gives me another pelvic thrust. And a mighty smooch. We clutch each other in both hands. I smother her neck with kisses. “Have ya ever… have ya ever played Pups and Kittens?” she giggles in my ear, licking me frothily. And this is how we “see” the exhibit, a series of passionate encounters whenever and wherever the opportunity presents itself! Patty is laughing, Gail is sullenly chiding us to behave. “Naw, we’re fine,” Cindy insists. “He’s such a nice man!”

Eventually, reaching the wide-open slate floor of the main hall, I start to explain to my young charges that mankind is hardwired to conquer. Homo sapiens wiped out the Neanderthals in competition for food and shelter. A propensity to kill the outsider, the “other,” is in our genes. Societies protect themselves and compete for resources through armed combat. Typical teenage girls, Cindy and her buds stand listening, blinking in the sunlight. “Genghis Khan, Hannibal, Tamerlane, Mussolini, Hitler,” I say, counting them off on my fingers. “A war-like species, all through history, mankind has built up and destroyed empires, slaughtering millions. Delenda est Carthago, ‘Carthage must be destroyed,’ we humans really aren’t very good at controlling our natural compulsion to kill. The sacking of Rome— ”

“Excuse me! ” a middle-aged man in a black suit, white shirt and striped tie interrupts. He must weigh 120 pounds soaking wet. Salt and pepper hair. Wire-rimmed glasses. God help me, a goatee! “I couldn’t help hearing what you are telling these young people.”

“I was just going to say that the sacking of Rome made room for the Cavalieri Waldorf Astoria.”

“I’m a docent here at the museum, a volunteer. I’m afraid that you, sir, will have to leave!”

“¿Qué? ”

“The whole point of the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum is ‘Never again!’ Let us put an end to genocide. Let mankind hammer its swords into ploughshares. What you are preaching, my good man, is totally unacceptable!”

“I’m not preaching anything! I don’t get it,” I tell him. I can feel myself blushing beet red. The girls, bless them, are glancing in several different directions, looking for an exit. “I thought we’re celebrating our hard-won freedoms!” I ask.

“Yes, yes, I understand that, sir,” he insists. “You are perfectly welcome to your opinion. Just not in this building. A warmonger, I’m afraid you’ll have to go outside.” Apparently by harnessing telepathic ill-will and a hysterical tone of voice, my interlocutor has gathered a sizable crowd of on-lookers. Which, in turn— without even using a walkie-talkie— has brought armed guards in uniform.

“I’m a taxpayer. This is a public building. First amendment rights to free speech, y’know?” I reason. “You can’t throw people out just because you disagree with them! What’s next? Burning books?”

“This is our museum,” the fellow brays angrily. “You didn’t lose family members in the Holocaust! How dare you attack our mission! You have no right to lecture the visitors. You aren’t a docent, a teaching fellow, a researcher or a scholar in residence. You, sir, have no credentials whatsoever. You have no standing here!”

“Uh, sir…” a burly, black guard says, closing in worriedly. His three confederates, hands poised above holsters, don’t look any friendlier. “Could you come with us, please?”

“You don’t own the Holocaust,” I point out to my antagonist. Poor little Cindy, Patty and Gail, totally freaked, have melted into the crowd.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” seethes the bearded gent. “Of course we own the Holocaust! This is our museum. If you don’t like our message, try the Air and Space Museum! Or open a Holocaust museum of your own.”

“Sir, we’re not going to ask you again,” explains the guard, all four of them closing in.

Which is how I get thrown out on my can from the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum.

Modern times. Record sales down, it’s Desperation City in the music biz, populated by oddities like seven-foot tall Taylor Swift who croons tunes about her sensitive heart but never met a smartphone she didn’t like. Or Katy Perry (formerly known as Christian rocker Katy Hudson) who entertains at Super Bowls and 4th of July events, America’s Top Icon. In the angry Age of Rap, these pop princesses go head to head in a Battle of the Divas with the likes of Nicki Minaj, Iggy Azalea and Charlie XCX, their lyrics becoming ever more explicit.

Among great synth hooks, Jody Jenks sings, “When your cock / Is rammed up against / The tender, willing walls / Of my vagina— /  You’re gonna hear / Me cheer!”

‘ Tis enough to make Madonna blush.

The house I share in Chevy Chase, Maryland with Jimmie Sue Cadillac sports a long backyard that runs downhill to Rock Creek Park, allowing surreptitious entry to our property by squirrels, deer, turtles, snakes, raccoons and foxes. Predatory, feral goldfish lurk spookily beneath the murky waters of the goldfish pond. On July 4th, Jimmie Sue announces that I should drive over and deliver a basket of goodies to a senator— we’ll call Senator X— whose East Coast residence lies in McLean, Virginia. All well and good. I’m sure there’s an envelope stuffed with cash stuck in there somewhere among the mason jars of cherry jam and peach preserves. An hour later, shaved and showered, I load this ethereal creation of bleached wood and assorted junk into Jimmie Sue’s campy red Saab. Rolling down the windows, I turn left on Jones Mill Road, heading south to East West Highway. The sun bathes everything in a blinding yellow light.

Where is everybody? Out of town for the holiday or sitting at home watching the parades on TV. There sure ain’t nobody here. Even from a block away, the only pedestrian stands out like a surrealist painting by Magritte. It’s a woman, walking up from the intersection, built like a top: Wide shoulders in a cheap pink halter, big boobs and wide hips tapering down to tiny feet in stiletto heels. Black hair in a pageboy cut, olive skin, a little upturned nose, a bow mouth, droplets of sweat on her upper lip. It’s amazing the details you can distinguish in bright sunlight!

Hey, I’m the only driver, she sees me, too. Arching her back, she stops and stares down at the pavement pensively. A civil engineer inspecting the sidewalk for cracks? I gotta pull over. In situations like this, I ask myself, “What would Jesus do?” It hasn’t stopped me yet. I swing a U-turn and jump out of the car. “Hi!” says I.

“Leave me alone or I’ll call the police,” she declares, reaching into her purse for— I suppose— her cell phone.

“Wow, I’m so sorry,” I babble. “You’re wonderful. I didn’t mean to bother you.” As I turn to go, she stops me dead with the simplest of questions:

“What’s your name?”

“I’m Josh.”

“Josh?” she chortles, flashing white teeth. She smiles enormously. “Ya gotta be joshin’ me!” Folding her arms across her chest, she shakes with mirth.

Hey, she had me at “Leave me alone.”

“Where are you goin’?” she drawls, walking up Jones Mill Road, dragging me in her wake.

I like this woman. She’s hotter than a cat on a tin roof. God knows how old she is. Twenty? Twenty-five? Seventeen? I can’t tell. I’m talking ghetto trash, someone stepping off a bus way beyond “uptown,” out here in the ‘burbs where we never even see professional women of her ilk. Ever. “My lady has me makin’ deliveries,” I tell her. “How’s your 4th?”

“Could be better,” she says, turning to stare me full in the face. Wow! Hazel eyes. Hickory and cognac. Cajun if a day. “Fourth of July ain’t no fun when yo’ flat broke! ” she declares.

“Are ya flat broke?” I tease.

“Sho’ nuff, honey,” she drawls, her heels drumming on the scorched pavement, marching along, nose in the air.

I have to run to keep up. “Geez, I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Yo’ got any… cash?” she asks me, giving me a sideways peek, a smile playing around her ruby lips. “I was on mah way t’ do a therapy session when yo’ interrupted me.” Her eyes flash in the summer heat.

Listen, my heart is doing flip-flops. My nether regions are getting so engorged, I’m light-headed. The lady turns, stares into my eyes and laughs. A goner, I pull out my wallet and pluck out all my cash.

This gets her full attention. Stopping and facing me, six inches away, she waits hungrily, hands stretched flat, palms up, while I count out the bills. “Twenty, thirty, five… thirty eight dollars.” Accepting this meager pittance, she folds the bills with fingers adorned with ruby-red nails sharp enough to puncture a set of radial tires. She sticks the money in her purse. “Thang kee-yu! ” she declares, Mississippi gulf dialect intersecting New Orleans.

“What’s you name?” I gasp, transfixed by the toothy smile on her young face. This is a lot of woman!

“Candy,” she murmurs.

I just manage to catch myself, so I don’t destroy the mood by shouting “You’re kidding!” We walk a couple of yards before I manage to say, “Wow, what a beautiful name.”

“Thang kee-yu! ”

First Cindy, now Candy? What is this? I feel like I’m caught in a fruit loop. Whatever happened to good, old-fashion names like Mabel and Martha?

“Y’know, why are we walkin’ when yo’ got a car?” she asks.

“I’ll get the car!”

“Sho, honey, y’all do that,” she smiles, right hand on hip, smirking, left leg forward like a fashion model.

Man! I jog back to my abandoned vehicle and drive to where Candy is standing. She pops the door and jumps in before I’ve even brought the car to a stop. “It’s a shame yo’ ain’t got no mo’ money,” she observes pensively.

“Well, I got another hundred something in my sock drawer. It’s the 4th of July, everything’s closed.”

“Tell me about it!” Candy pouts prettily.

I have an erection like nobody’s business.

“Let’s go get that money,” she suggests, cuddling in the seat, turning enormous eyes in my direction. I drive back to the house.

“You from DC.?”

“Hell, no,” she assures me. “I is from Chicago.”

“Shit-cago?” I marvel. “I’ve got a major bone to pick with that town. Too many fat-faced 49-year-old women who are full of themselves hail from Chicago!”

“That ain’t me, sugar!” Candy assures me, leaning over the center console to give my crotch a friendly squeeze.

Our rental property has a carport. It’s built of red brick, but the sides are wide open to the elements. I leave Candy sitting in the Saab while I hustle through the kitchen to my room and pull my stash— in its white envelope— from beneath my undershirts.

“Josh? Is that you?” shouts Jimmie Sue from the living room.

“Yeah, I’ll get back to you!” I reply.

“What’s goin’ on?”

“Nothin’. I’ll get back to you!” I swear, hustling back through the kitchen door.

Candy sits demurely curled up in the passenger seat, staring at me with huge hazel eyes, pouting. Stiletto nails poised to grab either my money or my body. “Didja git it?” she squeaks.

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Let’s see!” she sings, grabbing the envelope playfully. “Oh-h-h, twanty dollah bills! I like twanties! An’ tens! Looka all the tens! An’ fives! An’ ones! Ain’t yo’ sweet!” she remarks, folding the money quickly and stuffing it into her seemingly bottomless purse. “I ain’t told yo’ what I do! I’m a masseuse. I specialize in physical disorders,” she now informs me, her left hand migrating to my waist. Pulling the band on my sweatpants, her hand grabs my penis in a single mighty tug. I don’t wear underpants. She’s got me. “They’s two biggest prob’ems in men be erectile dysfunction an’ premature ejaculation,” she explains professionally, beginning to jerk me off rhythmically. “I can see that erectile dysfunction ain’t yo’ problem. Must be premature e-jac-u-la-tion,” she sings.

“Wait! Wait!” I plead. “Stop!” Any second I’m about to explode.

“Wassa matter?”

“At least let me get some tissue.”

“You wanna save it?”

“I wanna dispose of it!” I gasp.

“Oh, yo’ a neat freak,” Candy observes calmly, reaching into her purse and pulling out a packet of facial tissues. Plucking three, she now concentrates her complete attention on the act at hand. She whacks me off.

To quote the age-old slogan, “Here at General Electric, progress is our most important product.”

Collecting my semen in the facial tissue, Candy neatly rolls it into a ball. Opening the car door, she debonairly throws it on the concrete floor of the carport.

“I’ll clean it up later,” I suggest.

“Oh, yeah. I forgot, this is yo’ property,” she admits.

I mean, what goes on in that head of hers?

Now I notice— I mean, NOW I notice— that the lady next door is outside with her dog, cleaning up dog poop with a trowel. Naturally, she looks over at me. Sitting in the car with the windows wide open, a mulatto whore for company. My neighbor does not appear amused. “Why do you have a jiggaboo in your car?” she complains. I start the engine and get us out of there.

As soon as we hit East West Highway, Candy begins ragging on me: “Ah knows hotels downtown where yo’ can rent rooms by the hour, but they’s don’ allow that at Comfort Inn, Best Western, Day’s Inn, Travelodge, Motel 8…”

Jesus, such a nag! “What d’ya want me to do about it?!” I complain.

“We gotta book fo’ the night,” she explains.

“What? I’m so horrible, you can’t spend the night with me?”

“I told ya! I gotta do a therapy session! He expectin’ me!”

“I got it! I got it! Candy, what do you want me to do?” I sigh, stopping at the traffic light at Wisconsin Ave. I throw a left toward Friendship Heights.

“I’se hungry!”

It’s the 4th of July, most everything is closed. I try my compadre Eduardo. In a parking lot adjacent to a strip mall, he’s stretched a torn, painted bedsheet across the front of his taqueria, “Open On July 4!” Hooray! At least he’s glad to see me, perched in the window of his trailer. Eyeballing Candy and listening to her drawl, he’s salivating. He gives me a look that says “I’m impressed!” Eduardo provides us with tacos, burritos and South American fizzy soda to wash it all down. Candy and I convert the front seat of the Saab into a dining room.

Candy brings out the Edgar Allan Poe in me: “Once upon a time when evening wanes / I dreamt of erasers and pencil ends, / Since I’d discovered I have no friends / And writing poetry gives me the bends.”

When we’ve eaten, Candy makes that all-important telephone call: “Hi-i-i! I’m comin’ t’ yo’ now, sweet’ums!” she croons into her cell phone. Then she directs me back into the ‘burbs to a house not five blocks from my own.

“I can let you off and deliver my package,” I suggest, brain cells once again functioning.

“No! Uh uh! Yo’ sit here an’ wait! I ain’t gettin’ stuck wi’ standin’ outside ordering a cab. Once Peter finish wi’ me, he boot me outta his house. Happen every time! Yo’ sit,” she commands angrily, sweetly caressing my cheek. Talk about mixed signals! Just to be safe, Candy takes my car keys. Cute kid.

With the ignition off, I can’t even listen to teen heart-throb Blind Justice on the radio. I loved his close-up at the Rally the Troops Awards: Arrested for drunk and disorderly in a Thai brothel, he could still claim to his adolescent followers, “I’m so glad to be here! I’m a glamorous person. My skin is clear… as is my conscience!” I have yet to see either of his movies. Internet, what hath thou wrought??? So I sit, alternately daydreaming and stewing, while my love object services one of her johns. Happy Independence Day! Families walk by on the sidewalk in both directions. I ignore them. There’s no law against sitting in an automobile.

It seems like forever before Candy gets finished, the sun setting majestically in the west. Since she’s driving me crazy, I attempt to analyze the situation from a military perspective: Boots on the ground, if this maneuver is necessary in the Struggle for Freedom, so be it. Anything to stem the tide of insurgent tiger mosquitos and minimize the flow of refugee 17-year cicadas.

Observing how wasted and out of sorts Candy looks coming from Peter Whoever’s house, I take pity on my newfound friend. I don’t give her a hard time. In near silence, I drive us to a hot and muggy motel, sign us in and follow her inside. She puts the A/C on full and disappears into the bathroom. After taking a shower, draped only in a towel and mightily refreshed, she comes back to me on the double bed. “Hi-i-i!” she smiles, peeling away the towel, exhibiting brown and pink marathon breasts, fulsome hips, a round little stomach and a sweet bush. “I’se ready fo’ love!”

What a screw-up! Jimmie Sue is angry, Senator X is disappointed and Candy’s impatiently waiting for the banks to open on Monday morning. This is not the way I intended to spend the holiday!

 

************ Chapter 7 – “Dance of the Buttercups” ***************

               Jimmie Sue fired me! So I’m working security for a 35-year-old lady mover and shaker in New York City named Mandy.

Originally, Mandy made a name for herself as a koi collector, but she insists those days are in the past. Although an 18-inch koi can fetch as much as $2,000, among the titans of industry in Manhattan, koi collecting is considered strictly small beer. They have their own value system: Sotheby’s, yes. Koi collecting, not so much.

In The Big Apple, Mandy is known as The Kneecap Lady. Vicious, she connects the dots between the brokerage houses, the banks and several historically blue-chip corporations. Always on gargantuan projects, like the Nicaraguan bid to build a waterway rivaling the Panama Canal. Mandy is very involved in Venezuelan oil. The Russians at Gazprom hate her guts. She’s the only person I know who has access to the Vatican’s secret bank, the Institute of Religious Works. Try opening an account!

Naturally, Mandy supported Christine Quinn for the next mayor of NYC. Vote your conscience, not your pocketbook. Mandy’s ringtone is Kim Kardashian saying “Kiss me, Enriqué!”

She wants to see her cousin Stuart, his wife and his kids in southern New Jersey over the weekend. On Saturday, we drive down the Garden State Parkway. This is also the weekend of tropical storm Andrea. Days of sun interspersed with torrential rain. Eight inches of skyfall. Friday and Monday, flood warnings are in effect on the eastern seaboard from Florida to Maine. Crank out the ark! Thanks to global warming, monsoons are the New Normal. We get caught behind a Schmidt Baking Company truck. “Pretty Schmidty weather!” comments Mandy.

We arrive at the Rosenthal’s bucolic cul-de-sac in a fresh-faced suburban development. Cousin Stu comes out to greet us. Think Billy Bob Thornton in black motorcycle boots and leathers. His wife Jenny, orange hair, looks like Cyndi Lauper.

“We got tickets to our daughter Brianna’s modern dance recital,” Stu tells us, flashing the tickets and instructing me where to park. Eventually, a white, shiny 28-foot stretch limo pulls up. The black driver behind the wheel has a shaved noggin and the shoulders of a linebacker. Hmmm. We’re riding to a 7-year-old’s dance recital in a stretch limo?

We sit in the back, chugging a light, refreshing Polish ale called Tyskie. In brown bottles. Puttin’ on a buzz. The television, in a teak cabinet over the bar, features an infomercial suggesting what cosmetic surgery—”For both men and women!”— we should use to “feel better about yourself.” How about doing some hard work? A feeling of accomplishment might make people “feel better” about themselves. I grind my teeth in frustration. I feel like I’m on “iCarly.” Some people bring out the best in me, but I’m not so sure ’bout this crew.

What does Jenny say? “Oh, I’m so sorry we haven’t had time to see you, Mandy. Stuart and I were, of course, in France. Then on to Italy— and the alps— where we skied. The casino in Monaco was exciting. We used our winnings to visit Hong Kong. Busy is as busy does, dear.”

To quote Marcus Aurelius, “Our life is what our thoughts make it.”

She goes right on nattering: “You realize, of course, that it was at the 1972 Munich Olympics that Sweden’s King Carl Gustaf met his prospective bride Sylvia Vrethammar. Eleven Israeli athletes were held hostage and then murdered by Palestinian terrorists. While Carl Gustaf was busy flirting with an Olympic hostess. He later married her and she became Queen of Sweden. The King’s courtiers had great difficulty teaching her Swedish.”

I am lost for words.

“Is Samantha Power good for the Jews? Do we really want an American Ambassador to the United Nations who would pit the U.S. Army against the Israel Defense Forces to protect the Palestinians? What would Jesus do? Why did Condoleezza Rice’s little sister Susan become the new national security advisor? Nu, couldn’t they find anybody else?

“Was it Lady Sybil on Downton Abbey who died of eclampsia? Sometimes I think that’s me in a nutshell. Douse me with Valium, people! I’m already on three anti-depressants. Brianna’s performance is so exciting, I’ve been walking on eggs for weeks!”

“Don’t walk on eggs!” I suggest. “Walking on eggs is the last thing you want to do. Use the sidewalk. Call a taxi. Take the bus. Avoid walking on those little motherfucker eggs at all cost.”

Stu hands me a 24 oz. jar of Marky Ramone’s Marinara Pasta Sauce™.

“What’s this?”

“It came with the tickets. ‘A free gift with every purchase.’ ”
Ingredients: Imported Italian Plum Tomatoes, Olive Oil, Onions, Tomato Puree, Salt, Garlic, Basil, Black Peppers, Oregano. Drums not included.

I wanna be sedated.

“Why,” Stu asks, “is NASA collecting data regarding the phone records of millions of Americans? ‘Space, the final frontier’ and all that. But phone records?”

“You idiot!” I seethe. “That’s the NSA, the National Security Agency. NASA is the National Aeronautics and Space Administration. One flies people to the moon, the other snoops.”

“Oh,” Stu replies doubtfully.

“We now have enough digital storage capacity to archive every telephone conversation on earth,” I explain. “Including phone sex.”

As we pass a golf course, Stu informs me, “My wife kisses my balls to make my putz go straight.”

Okay-y-y.

Dividing her time between texting and yakking on her cellphone, Mandy says, “Pam, uptown, reports that everything’s trending light. It could be a consequence of the weather. Don’t worry, things’ll pick up by this afternoon. We live in exciting times! Some periods are more Orwellian than others. PRISM allows the NSA to read everyone’s emails, but who would want to?! The Israelis have developed a crowd-sourced app called Waze for gathering traffic data. It’s a voice navigation system that tracks members’ phones, indicating the flow of traffic. In addition, whenever a driver sees a jam-up, an accident or a road repair, he or she adds it to the mix. This is a very popular service in Israel. Google has purchased it, but now comes the tricky part: European Union officials are terrified that, if implemented, the location of drivers on the roads will fall into the hands of the American NSA. Talk about paranoid! Theoretically, if we use Waze, the NSA could trace the whereabouts of this very limo.”

“Shit!” complains Stu.

Mandy’s my boss and she pays me, but no one ever accused her of having a scintillating personality. “I never thought I was important enough to track,” I joke.

“Oh. I am,” Jenny insists. Presto! Instantly, silence reigns.

On some forested New Jersey back road, Stu picks up the gray hand mike on its curly black plastic cord, pushes the red button and tells the driver, “There are speed limits in New Jersey, dude!”

The limo pulls to the side of the road. “You insulted the driver,” crackles over the intercom. “Get outta the car.”

“Hey, dude!”

“We ain’t movin’. You a-pol-o-gize,” booms the black man’s voice.

Aristotle told us, “Anyone can become angry— that is easy, but to be angry with the right person and to the right degree and at the right time and for the right purpose, and in the right way— that is not within everybody’s power and is not easy.”

“Shit! I just meant— ” Stu stammers into the microphone.

“Yo’ apologizin’?”

“Geez, I’m sorry,” Stu sighs.

“Tha’s better!” says the driver as we get under way again. We continue to a local high school. Lots of people milling around in the sunshine. Talk about crossing a line! There must be 600 people in this crowd, yet I can’t find a black face among us. In fact, the high school is located on a flood plane, flat as a pancake, yet the only black person in sight is our limo driver, arms crossed, wraparound sunglasses, leaning against the side of the car.

It takes awhile for things to get organized. I end up reading the limo driver’s comic book cover to cover: The Amazing Adventures of Supperman! The Gourmet Superhero!

 

                        “Look! In that restaurant, that diner, that fast food joint.

                        As featured on The Food Network. It’s Supperman! Able

                        to polish off a seven-course din-din at a single sitting.

                        Able to single-handedly gulp down an entire six pack. Able

                        to rise to his feet afterwards! No doggie bag. Supperman!”

 

We march into the auditorium, where 86 young ladies of varying ages put on 24 dance routines in glittery costumes before the Intermission and another 23 acts afterwards. None of the girls is older than 18. They do jazz dance, hip hop, ballet, soft shoe and tap. Pedophile heaven! The only things missing are a little pole dancing and some lap dancing. Young girls in stage make-up! Bright red lipstick. Eye liner. Rouge. Sequins sprinkled in their hair. Bumpy little breasts. Round thighs. Curvy, muscular arms and legs. Young bodies writhing rhythmically. Help!!!

And they’re good. Some exhibit a technical proficiency that rates a 10 out of 10. The show-stoppers have not only mastered the technique, they flow with the rhythm. They are music brought to life. Arms and legs gyrating. Torsos swaying and twirling in total immersion. Enormous smiles on their cherry-red lips.

Rowr!

The younger generation lives life at 130 decibels. I tear up facial tissue and stuff it in my ears in lieu of earplugs.

Nor is this the land of the blondes. Brunettes, raven-haired beauties and redheads predominate.

The dance segments have titles like “Hit the Road, Jacques” and “Care of the Eye, I Care” and “Kinky Boots Are made For Walkin’.” The music doesn’t always match the label, but it’s hard to judge a misnomer, since I don’t know my Broadway musicals.

Even when the entire ensemble takes the stage, some little darlin’ stands out based on sheer physical beauty. Another girlie dances with such abandon, you have to give her extra points for spontaneity. No one, however, is keeping score. The audience consists of proud mommies, daddies, sisters, brothers, aunts and uncles. An enthusiastic crowd, we applaud madly after the biggest production numbers, hooting, stamping our feet and whistling. Cranking noise makers. Bellowing. Tooting compressed air bullhorns. Blat! Blat! Tossing empty plastic water bottles into the air. Firing starter pistols. Ka-blam! Waving lit sparklers in the darkened theater, acrid white smoke wafting toward the ceiling. Pummeling one another with plastic hammers. The shrieking grows so intense, you might imagine that Christians are being fed to the lions. What a crowd! Such enthusiasm.

The girls’ costumes are right up there with the Broadway stage. In fact, one of the reasons this dance studio has stayed in business over 30 years is location, location, location: Broadway lurks right across the river. These dancers have somewhere to go.

“I’m sorry to put you through all this,” comments Jenny during the Intermission.

“Not at all. I feel like Czar Nicholas II of Russia. With his Fabergé eggs. Where else can I see 4-year-olds dance ballet?”

“My dad believed that ‘Only through suffering can you become great,’ ” Jenny tells me. “So he made us all miserable.”

The wizened geezer sitting next to me, a face full of hair, explains that he moved from NYC to the Jersey Shore. “If I’d known I was going to outlive my savings,” says he, “I would have planned my life very differently. Who knows what Obamacare will do to our Medicare benefits?”

“Well,” I suggest, “Bloomberg News tells us Hillary Clinton is fading in the polls while Chris Christie surges ahead. What do the pollsters expect? Hillary is no longer in the public eye as Secretary of State, while Christie continues to govern New Jersey.”

“Thank God for that!”

Welcome to the Republican State of New Jersey.

Far from being a let-down, the second half features choreography that is ever more complex and compelling. Lots of 60’s rock. “For Your Love” by The Yardbirds. “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On” by Little Richard. Dion’s “Teenager in Love.” The Hollywood Argyles singing “Alley Oop.” Even “Dream On, Baby” by Wolfram und der jetzt. Plus lots of show tunes. When they throw in a techno recording, I feel for the girls. Stripped down to bare beats, the music becomes as challenging to dance to as a metronome. Not a lot of feeling to grab on to there.

The choreography is by Ms. Atomica Barstojani. From Tehran. Microphone in hand, she comes out on stage to take a bow. A portly blonde, she dresses like a suburban housewife. “Thank you!” she breathes. “Huh! What a fruit salad of emotions. We’re not portraying Blanche DuBois in A Streetcar Named Desire, children. The challenge is bringing out the rationality behind the gymnastics. Our dancers nailed it!!!”

We give her a thunderous ovation.

Afterwards, in a hallway full of admiring families proffering flowers to high school ballerinas, an older couple try to explain to their granddaughter that “Our dances didn’t shimmy like that!”

The young lady rolls her eyes.

On bridge tables, the staff is selling computer-generated photos of the dance troupe, “Dancing Bear Studio” T-shirts, autographed pillowcases (?!) and more dance-related tjochkes than you can shake a stick at.

“Great costumes,” I gush. “Great production numbers!”

“They should be,” the grandparents assure me. “A hundred thousand dollars in dance lessons, the quality should be top drawer!”

“Is that what it costs?”

“We have no idea, but knowing our daughter, it wouldn’t surprise us,” says Gramps.

Eyeing me crabbily, Grandma asks, “Are you waiting for a bus?” Great standup comedienne.

 

************ Chapter 8 – “White Boy Down” *************

                Under a shedding chestnut tree, Mandy raises a warm, sweaty hand and caresses my cheek. “I think you need to shave before our next meeting,” she says. Today, she’s a starchy brunette in a suit, a string of pearls around her neck. Crimson lipstick. Rapier green fingernails. Stiletto heels. We know we are adjacent to The National Mall in Washington, DC— in summer— because the droning traffic never lets up. The green, plastic sign under the tree says “American Chestnut, Castanea dentata.” The sun scorches us relentlessly. The humidity has reached 98%.

Your usual tourists are a family group. Two parents, two or three kids. Dressed in shorts, they sweat in the heat. They visit the Lincoln Memorial and the Reflecting Pool. The Smithsonian’s National Air and Space Museum. They walk along The Mall, an enormous grassy field, devoid of shade. They buy ice cream and diversify: Those with pretensions of culture visit the National Gallery of Art. Guilty consciences drive people to the Vietnam War Memorial, the Holocaust Museum and the statue of Martin Luther King. Capitalists visit the Bureau of Engraving and Printing to watch the manufacture of dollar bills. Historians bake in the heat at the mammoth World War Two Memorial. They search out the tiny FDR Memorial. They even cross the inland sea of the Tidal Basin to visit the Jefferson Memorial. Thomas Jefferson, America’s third president, founder of the University of Virginia.

Mandy and I are not your usual tourists. She has brought me here as her security detail, executive assistant and dog’s body. I trail her to staff conferences in Congressional offices. Interviews. Meetings. The summer of my discontent, I wait impatiently for Baz Luhrmann’s “The Great Gatsby” and Tom Cruise in “Oblivion” to come out on DVD. Ex-military, I like to think I combine brawn with… what? Stealth? Brains? Ability? Well, maybe… I give myself some credit: I am worldly. Been there, done that. To people in (alphabetical order) Afghanistan, Bosnia, Grenada, Iraq and Somalia. Man, there’s very little I have yet to see.

We are weighed down with negotiations. You wanna change federal government regulations, you gotta horse trade with Senate staffers. These young DC hotshots never know what hit ’em. They come away in shock. We’re in DC pushing for a resumption of Mimolette cheese imports. Louis XIV declared Mimolette the National Cheese of France, but the Food and Drug Administration has suddenly decided that they don’t like the mites who live atop the rinds. Sacre bleu! They’re cheese mites. Without them, no cheese. Nights on the Rhine, mites on the rind. Who cares?! You throw away the rinds, you idiots!

Mandy ain’t no lobbyist. A bizness woman, she does her own lobbying. “Why pay some jerk and only get 15% of his attention? I can cut to the chase and do it all myself,” she figures. Half of Congress has a BOLO warning out on her, as in “be on the lookout for…” BOLO. That’s my lady!

We’re also in the process of buying up— as scrap— war materiel in Afghanistan which the U.S. military deems surplus and unnecessary for future missions. Metric tons of war materiel.

Mandy cornered the frankfurter market in anticipation of July 4th and made a mint off the 150 million hot dogs consumed by patriotic Americans.

Her part of Wall Street is constantly afraid of getting blindsided by revolutions and other destabilizing events. I attempt to portray the “Arab Spring” as a business opportunity, in a new market, just waiting to be exploited. My entreaties fall on deaf ears! As Mandy’s No. 2, I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut.

So we don’t really care that the three-day Smithsonian Folklife Festival is in town. Crowds flood The Mall, children waving balloons. Day One features Copper Canyon Indian Traditions. Just like in real life, these Mexican natives weave reed baskets, steam tamales in brick ovens and panhandle. Day Two presents Memories of Vietnam. Big, black brothers grill hamburgers on outdoor ranges. Tinny 60’s rock music blares from boom boxes, a soundtrack that kicks butt.

“I don’t do oldies,” remarks Mandy. “I’m more into the L.A. experimental band Swahili Blonde.”

A Huey helicopter adorned with a Red Cross lands and takes off repeatedly, while Filipina, faux Vietnamese, “native girls” run tent brothels.

Day Three is Buddhist Monk Day. Wearing saffron robes, they chant prayers, burn incense, make sacrificial offerings and immolate themselves in protest over Chinese policy in Tibet. It’s not every day you witness monks burning themselves to death on The Mall. The police cordon off the area, waiting for the smoke to clear.

“Some limo,” I comment.

“That’s the presidential limo,” a clean-shaven Secret Service agent tells me, looking askance. Like, What are you, a moron?

Aha! I wipe the crud out of my eyes and see that FLOTUS, the wife of the president, is doing one of her periodic photo ops among school children on The Mall. In addition to the Secret Service, there’s Park Police and DC law enforcement. Everything but rent-a-cops. Even Police Chief Cathy Lanier is on hand. Must be a big occasion.

As Mandy and I amble down Constitution Avenue, wishing there were fewer people… danger! danger! danger!

My internal radar blows a gasket. Yes, I am looking, but I don’t understand what I see. There are soldiers in olive drab, wrinkled uniforms, looking like they slept in their clothes. They sport red stars centered on their caps. Yellow faces. Slanty eyes. Carrying Kalashnikov rifles. Wearing cheap, black leather boots. They are holding off the crowd at gunpoint. People are madly making cell phone calls and filming video. Looking upset. Where is Dzhokhar Tsarnaev now that we really need him? I cock an ear. Well, well! Shades of Pyongyang!

Three police cruisers roar up, disgorging officers. They unholster their handguns. Even the presidential limo screeches to a halt, empty except for the driver. Why in the world…?

Summing up the situation, I shout, “Those are North Koreans! They’ve occupied that abandoned gatehouse!”

I’m the one at PGA golf tournaments screaming after every putt, “Go in the hole!”

“That U.S. Capitol Gatehouse isn’t abandoned,” Chief of Police Lanier insists, climbing from the lead cruiser. “It’s an historic landmark !”

Oh, great! The whole building’s only 10 feet wide by 12 feet deep. This is the National Registry version of “Little House On the Prairie.” With North Koreans standing in for the children. I state my case: “To quote Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia, that sounds like ‘legalistic argle-bargle.’ They’re in there! We have to do something about this. And I mean now!”

“Well, hold your horses,” says Lanier judiciously. “So they’ve invaded a little stone gatehouse. It’s not the Capitol building or anything. I don’t want a lot of unnecessary bloodshed and mayhem. We’ll cordon off the area and wait them out!”

I look around at the disas-tourists lining the sidewalk. “Yeah, okay,” I agree.

“But Police Chief Lanier,” the officer on my left declares excitedly. “The North Koreans are stopping traffic on Constitution Avenue and collecting tolls. A dollar a car!”

“WHAT?!” she howls. “That’s ILLEGAL! Get the SWAT teams in here!” Clutching her neck, she keels over.

Huh?

It takes me a moment to get it, but then I see the tell-tale, waxy, green bamboo poison dart that has punctured her flesh. Looking up, I spot the nefarious barrels of bamboo blowguns, each one four feet long. Aimed in our direction! The darts travel at 150 feet a second— that’s 102 miles per hour! No way can we dodge ’em. Silently, two police officers on my right also collapse. Cripes! These North Koreans are good. Any square inch of exposed skin, and you’re a target. I crouch down lower behind the presidential limo. I follow the example set by Napoleon at Wagram. “Mandy!” I shout. In her low-cut Navy blue suit and pearls, she won’t last another ten seconds. “Quick! Jump into the bullet-proof limo!”

Smart and fast, she scrambles inside. Whew! I’m still trying to formulate a plan when I feel the hot, rancid breath of a policeman breathing down my neck. “What’s your plan?!” he demands. Kozlovsky it says on his silver-colored nameplate. I look at him and shrug. “Well, we got to do something until backup arrives,” he insists, donut crumbs caking his mouth, gun at the ready. “LOOK OUT! LOOK OUT! LOOK OUT!” he shrieks.

What to my wondering eyes should appear but a North Korean soldier stepping out of a black SUV behind the gatehouse, hefting a rocket launcher. He fires an anti-tank missile at the presidential limo.

“RUN! RUN! RUN!” screams Kozlovsky. He and I put as much distance between the limo and us as we possibly can. It goes up in a fireball of flying, molten metal.

Oh. Um. Yeah… Ah, fooey! Mandy was in the limo!

As the Swedes say (phonetically): Yevla wheat!

I witness a confrontation between a motorist in a white shirt and a North Korean soldier holding a rifle pointed at his head. “Listen, you chink!” swears the motorist, climbing out of his car, hot and bothered.

“No ‘chink.’ We not Chinese! Toll is one dollah!” insists the North Korean.

“Insufferable slope!”

“We not Vietnamese! We Korean!”

“Okay, dickwad. Here’s your dollar. Go take a hike!” the motorist decides, peeling a bill from his billfold. Handing it over, he jumps in his car and roars off in a cloud of oily white exhaust. See? You introduce capitalism into primitive cultures, you don’t always get what you bargained for.

An explosion draws everyone’s attention in that direction. Taking advantage of the distraction, I sprint across the sidewalk. Using MMA (mixed martial arts) moves, I knock a young soldier off his feet. “What are you doing here!?” I hiss. I press my Gerber knife against his neck. I always carry a razor-sharp Gerber knife to meetings and conferences.

Fortunately, he speaks some English. “We wanted to occupy the countryside of Greece,” he stammers, his perspiring oriental face inches from mine. “We intended to mine the gold there, but it is too thinly spread. After Kim Jong Un put the kibosh on Sino-North Korean development, invading the USA became Plan B. Our Great Leap Forward. We need to understand how best to market our brand internationally. ‘The Hermit Kingdom Brand…’ Like that: ‘Produce of the Hermit Kingdom.’ This could be very effective, depending on the products. Mushrooms, bamboo shoots, bean sprouts. Ladies’ toilet water. Basketball shoes. Hopefully, we can attract some big manufacturer like Nike to our Economic Development Zone sometime soon. Please consider this event as part of our outreach program. Would you like to buy a Rolex knock-off?”

Apparently, I’m speaking with a business school graduate.

“You should do like Croatia and join the European Union!” I growl threateningly. “How did you get here?”

“We snuck across the border from Mexico, posing as migrant workers. Passing through Bisbee proved impossible, but once we got clear of Arizona, bus companies take you everywhere in this country.”

I slit his throat and hightail it back to the police cruiser, amidst a hailstorm of poison darts and errant rifle shots. I try to revive my police cohort. He lays in a fetal position on the ground, softly moaning. Grabbing the lapels of his uniform, I roll him onto his back. I search for puncture wounds, shrapnel, bleeding. Not finding any, I gently slap his face. His eyelids flutter. I punch him on the arm. He groans. I kick him in the ribs. He seems to be waking up. I knee him in the groin. I’m in the process of sawing through the pinkie finger of his left hand with my trusty Swiss Army knife when he sits up, fully awake. “There you are!” I rejoice.

“Yeah…” he mumbles, rubbing his crotch and sucking his pinkie. “I feel like I’ve been put through a meat grinder.”

“Uh… remnants of the explosion. You must have gotten hit by the, uh, shock wave.”

“So far,” he ruminates, “those lousy North Koreans have gotten away with everything they want to do!”

“For what possible purpose do you let people carry around rocket launchers and anti-tank missiles in their SUV’s?” I grouse.

“Cool it!” counters the cop. “Congress has yet to put an effective weapons ban in place, outlawing assault rifles, 30-shot magazines and heavy armaments. Until then, it’s every man for himself. It’s a gray area.”

“Harummph!… Listen, man, why do bad things keep happening?” I ask, unable to stop myself from bellyaching in the sweltering heat and waterlogged humidity.

“What? Don’t you know?” he answers. “America’s lost its nerve. You go from Bill Clinton to George W. Bush. From John F. Kennedy to Barack Obama. Who’s the most trusted person in America? When you switch from Walter Cronkite to Oprah Winfrey, well… D’oh! According to Oprah, nobody has ever done anything wrong. We’re all victims! A nation of victims. What kind of country is that?”

Aha! Ask a cop named Kozlovsky… It’s nice of him to blame our troubles on the current generation, but the fact remains that ever since the British defeated us Americans on August 24, 1814 in Bladensburg, Maryland (which led to the torching of our nation’s capital), this country has simply never been the same!

Google “Francis Scott Key” or “Horatio Alger” for the details.

Kozlovsky gets busy on his shoulder-mounted walkie-talkie. A cute little boy, tears smearing his face, comes running into my arms. “What’s up, son?” I ask. “Where are your folks?”

“I’m lost!” he wails.

“No reason to worry,” I soothe. Unable to stand his suffering, I pull the sweet little tyke to me, gently wrap my arms around his shoulders and snap his neck in a single mighty heave. Listen, I chalk it up to collateral damage. Laying his lifeless body on the grass, I roar in anguish, more determined than ever to make the villains pay!

“Look at this!” says Kozlovsky. We peer at the screen on his smartphone. (In this modern age, even Palestinian President Mahmoud Abbas has a Twitter account!) Somewhere in Africa, the President of the United States approaches a podium. “My fellow Americans,” he says, addressing our nation. “And the 11 million illegal immigrants for whom we currently struggle with Congress to get you some form of legal status. Our country has been invaded by soldiers of North Korea. We do not yet know if this is an isolated incident or the beginning of a broader confrontation. We are monitoring the situation closely. I have instructed Secretary of State John Kerry— who is currently traveling in the Middle East— to lodge a formal protest with the government of North Korea— ”

Before I can protest, Kozlovsky has pushed the “like” button. I don’t say anything. Anyone criticizing the prez, of course, gets accused of displaying “Obama Derangement Syndrome.” Dislike him as we might, he be the president. He ain’t goin’ nowhere. There’s even a book out— entitled “Centerfold” or some such thing— which fantasizes about Obama sitting in the Oval Office and, you know, governing. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!

Suddenly, a Hummer H3 painted in green camouflage roars up behind us. “Quick!” shouts a peremptory voice. “Get yer sorry fannies in here!”

Gratefully, we clamber inside. Electronic music— gamer stuff called “chiptune”— blares from the four-way speakers, bass booster thumping. “Who are you?” I ask the burly driver.

“Bob Johnson, Special Forces. We got a Predator drone and helos from Quantico on the way, assault vehicles from the Pentagon, you name it. Those slant-eyed nincompoops are dead meat.”

“Call them Asians,” suggests Kozlovsky.

“Whassat, pardner?” asks Johnson.

“Call them Koreans. We’re not racists, after all.”

“Get real!” says Special Forces Johnson. “They got the intelligence level of cockroaches!”

“Some of those roaches can be pretty smart,” I suggest.

“Hooey! Whose side are you on, anyway? You one of those Likiwink traitors?!”

“Don’t condemn me,” Kozlovsky whines. “I was a liberal arts major. Just tryin’ to be helpful. We members of the Metropolitan Police Force have had sensitivity training.”

“Do tell!” mutters Johnson.

Assault helicopters clatter overhead. A Hellfire missile lights up the gatehouse. Even inside the Hummer, the shock wave feels awesome, rocking the vehicle from side to side.

“Git some! ” shouts Johnson.

“Death to North Korea,” I cheer. “Down with Kim Jong Un!”

“Hey! Hey! Hey!” says Kozlovsky. “Take it easy with that stuff. That’s John Kerry’s turf. State Department.”

“I’m based in New York,” I tell him. “Go tell it to the Yankees!”

“Susan Rice, then. American Ambassador to the United Nations.”

Johnson triumphantly hands me a white pastry box. “Try some Astro creme brulee squares,” he offers.

Wow! Who doesn’t like glazed donuts? “Um… why square-shaped?” I ask.

“Baker misplaced his drawing tools.”

“What are you doing, Kozlovsky?” I ask, seeing him standing on one foot with eyes closed.

“Practicing the meditative Chinese art of tai chi.”

“Okay,” I sigh. “Whatever.”

Tired of Kozlovsky’s nagging, Bob Johnson and I climb out of the Hummer and inspect the wreckage. Charred bodies are scattered in every direction. “Crispy critters,” remarks Johnson. “It’s enough to put a man off his feed. We had to destroy the gatehouse in order to save it.”

“That’s the price of democracy,” I remind him. I could definitely use some time off.

 

*************** Chapter 9 – “Season For Giving” ****************

December 23, 2013

Dear Mister, Missus, Miss or Ms.,

Ho ho ho! Santa’s on his way, ‘though I cannot find where I parked my sleigh!

Times are tough, but even if you have never heard of The Holy Mackerel of St. Regis Charity, I must say I am aghast at not receiving your contribution during this season of giving. Did your check get lost in the mail? For God’s sake, we are depending on you! I was just saying to Marjorie, my secretary, “The check musta got lost in the mail!” I mean, I know you want to contribute. Your $10 contribution will

• allow us to add a new wing to St. Regis Hospital in Muncie, Indiana
• save the followers of Baha’i in Hindu Goa
• protect the elephants of Kenya tusk by tusk
• open a gold mine in Brazil
• help prostitutes around the corner from our office make some money
• find a cure for vaginal herpes (¡¡¡muy importante, immediato!!!)

and, most importantly,

• improve the quality of my paycheck as president and CEO of The Holy Mackerel of St. Regis Charity

I’m not deeply religious, but God knows, I can use the money, honey!

Your contribution will be matched dollar for dollar in Argentine pesos. Yes, the floor has fallen out regarding the Argentine economy and the peso ain’t what it used to be, by any means. Which is why we say “Don’t cry for me, Argentina” and guarantee to match your donation in pesos.

We get a 4.0 out of 5 rating from the Bupkes Institute.

We are an Equal Opportunity Employer, including my neighbor Allan, his male friend Cyril, my landlord Sid and 28-year-old Tammy Glaser who is a hottie. ROWR! And thanks to your contributions, all are equally employed this holiday season.

Each time we count your money, we’ll say a prayer especially written for YOU!

So let me begin by saying Sala’am, Shalom, Slanté, Prosit, ’tis the season to be jolly and, above all, G E N E R O U S.

I’d do the same for you if the situation were reversed. This I can assure you. Although this is our first contact, ours is a meaningful personal relationship rich in nuances and curious undertones. As the cow said to the dairy farmer, “Thanks for a warm hand on a cold morning!” Did I tell you the one about the constipated reindeer? “NOT ON THE ROOF, RUDOLPH!” Funny!

Why is this man smiling? Why are you frowning? Happiness is a contribution to The Holy Mackerel of St. Regis Charity.

Only speak Russian? Payem parusskii? Ne problema. Telephone our multi-lingual hotline. Ask for Natasha! One sexy lady.

Special rates on phone sex!!!

We are listed in Checkbook. (Actually, we’re on their mailing list. Same thing!)

Bullets bounce off us.

So don’t make me ask twice. Things could get ugly. Let’s be friends and you send me that $10 contribution. Capiche?

I’d say “tax deductible,” but what d’ I know? I’m no tax expert! Call it a “maybe.”

Wow, I just peered out the window. Look at all that snow! A veritable Snowmageddon! Living in the shadow of a vindictive God, aren’t you glad you’re making a contribution to The Holy Mackerel of St. Regis Charity?

Of course U R!

Are you sitting??? For every $10 contribution, you will be sent, absolutely free, a complete, thoroughly dusted signed copy of the novel The Author’s Dolls from 1984. A wrenching characterization of author Kevin Feingold’s first marriage, this book was once banned (okay, some say panned ) by much of the publishing industry. In Sweden! Not available in stores! Just imagine! Författarens dockor, in the original Swedish. A $9.95 value, yours for the asking.

Don’t blush, I know you’re flush. / Words are tripe, but the time is ripe. / So what the heck, write that check!!!   —   Marjorie Santos

Or use our handy, enclosed, printed card. Give us your credit card number and the amount you’d like us to deduct. It’s safe and it’s easy! After all, we’d never abscond with your savings and settle on a sleek and elegant $160,000 SeaBreeze houseboat in a gorgeous deep water marina on the Pacific Ocean in beautiful Santiago, Chile. Of course not! Perish the thought!

Hurry hurry hurry! Make your donation within the next 24 hours and, as a first-time contributor, you will receive at no extra cost our exclusive Purity of Essence phone app. Using instant DNA analysis of your hand sweat, Purity of Essence senses if you are of Arab descent. If you are, Purity of Essence automatically notifies the NSA, the UJA, the FBI and Israeli Mossad regarding your current location. It’s harmless and it’s fun! Tested and subsidized by the U.S. Gov’t. Whaddya mean “Which agency?” Who wants to know?!

Still reading? Huh boy! You are a glutton for punishment! So far, I’ve only spoken of piddling $10 contributions. Should you choose to become one of our Lifetime Main Man Supporters ($100,000 and above), arrangements will be made for you to dine with the founder of our organization, tax accountant and Kevin Feingold’s mom, Mrs. Rose Feingold! Nu? Say you won the lottery and you’ve got money to burn. Good for you! The sky’s the limit at The Holy Mackerel of St. Regis Charity. We’ll even buy an ambulance in your name and ship it to Soweto! (NOTE: This requires a $500,000 minimum contribution. Used paramedical equipment don’t come cheap, y’know!)

And don’t forget, you can be the first on your block to own the decal, the secret decoder ring and know the recipe for my mom’s favorite sourdough dumplings. Mmmmm. Love them dumplings! All for a simple $25 contribution. Fantastik!

Bitcoin accepted.

If you’re worried that I’m some fly-by-night shyster, a quick list of my bona fides should dispel any such qualms: Knight errant. Helicopter pilot in Persian Gulf and Somali war zones. Patriot. Strong supporter of Second Amendment rights. Semper Fi. Tempus Fugit. Featured on 2005 Dutch Antilles postage stamp.

Don’t take my word for it, ask Jehova at a house of worship of your choosing!

Thank the Lord we’re an apolitical, non-partisan non-profit, because otherwise we’d have some pretty critical things to say about the startling lack of leadership not coming out of the White House. Hey, if we wanted cookbooks, Michelle, we would have elected Martha Stewart as president, for God’s sake! Obama doesn’t lead, Congress doesn’t listen and the world doesn’t follow us on Twitter. The American people have a right to know what their comandancia, their Commander-In-Chief, is thinking. The Supreme Court has ruled that corporations are people, the pharmaceutical industry owns Congress and the Koch brothers are throwing their billions behind backward-leaning Neanderthal tea bagger candidates. That’s why, in these perilous times, it’s so important YOU MAKE A STRONG FINANCIAL CONTRIBUTION! You’ll be glad you did!

Why contribute to us rather than some niggling, greedy, onerous, pushy charity that telephones you in the middle of dinner for a donation? Why? BECAUSE WE DON’T DO THAT! Listen, half the time I can’t even find my cell phone charger. But enough about me… Unlike Phil Robertson of Duck Dynasty, we support gay marriage! I find lesbians strangely attractive.

On those occasions when we purchase office furniture manufactured in China (please, we’re only human), I nevertheless can assure you that not one pfennig of that money goes to financing al-Qaeda affiliates in Syria and Iraq. Others may do so. Not us!

As my secretary Marjorie says, “Push ’em back, push ’em back, way-y-y back!”

To minimize overhead, we only use OblOnsky ™ computers from Bulgaria. Exclusively. Our office bathroom sink and toilet are hand-sculpted by local artisans at Parthenon Ceramics.

Visit us online or at specially marked locations of Stolid Gold Cadillac Groceries. We’re over by the drug department. Where else? See store coupon for details.

Ask about our Big Spender’s Club ! You supply the moolah, we supply ideas how you should spend it! Or book a trip with Genocidal Travels to educational flashpoints like Darfur, Rwanda, Holocaust Poland, Bosnia or Tenerife. This month’s special! Visit real poverty in Moldova!

How about them Mets?

Wait! There’s more! Send in your contribution right now and, for a limited time only, we are not responsible for misuse of our products or services, malfeasance, malpractice or claims of ownership by others than ourselves in both domestic and foreign markets. This disclaimer applies specifically to all activities in the Continental United States as well as American territories. Sorry, but there it is! No one in this office is a satirist worthy of a Pulitzer. That’s why. This letter contains unrated, copyrighted material which may be inappropriate for young readers. Printed on recycled trash. Marca registrada.

And don’t forget this holiday season, everybody, das Aufnehmen auf Tonträger von Willy Brandt im das deutsches Reichstag haben ich nicht.

So… God bless! And thanks a mil!

Sincerely,

Josh Preacher

PS. Yes, it has come to this. Pls put yr traytables in the upright position. Thank you!

****** a 301 (c) 401 (k) 9/11, 4 X 5, 8 X 10 & 34 D-cup size organization *****

 

************* Chapter 10 – “Roxie Music” ************

           I’m a mean MOFO.

Fresh out of better ideas, I have decided to found Rehcaerp Security. Rehcaerp is Preacher spelled backwards. I’m Josh Preacher. Security spelled backwards is ytiruces. But unless you’re Greek and drunk, who’s going to dial the phone number for Ytiruces Rehcaerp? People, I suspect, have better things to do with their lives. Maybe, maybe not.

Farting around in Washington, DC, you’d have to be insane to go anywhere else to start a security outfit. Nobody is as needy of security as the federal gov. I’m sitting on a goldmine, here! Actually, where I’m sitting is one of those newbie professional plazas Mayor What’s-His-Face is busy allowing Congress to authorize. Who pays for these things?

YOU DO, you taxpaying fool!!!

This half-acre of concrete has a cute little fountain in the center, surrounded by a two-foot high adobe wall. A metal flower sculpture gushes H₂O in enormous, silvery waves while droplets of water daintily dimple the surface.

If I sound caustic, fountains aren’t my thing. Too feminine, thank you. I’m only sitting here on a bench eating lunch because one of the food trucks belongs to my old buddy Eduardo. I still have yet to find a better taco.

You look worried. You’re probably wondering, “Gee, Josh honey, if you start your own business, where’s the start-up capital gonna come from? Venture capitalists? They’ll own you!”

Rest easy! I may dress in a T-shirt, chinos and worn-out boots. I may wear a baseball cap. But a couple of years back, I took a flier and joined Paul Singer’s vulture fund NML Capital, buying Argentine debt. At 6 cents on the dollar! Bea-u-tiful! Love them vultures! Sure, it was a risk. Those Argentines are your proverbial dreamers, caballeros who still believe they own the Falkland Islands. Pul-lease! Playing hardball, we intended to stampede the Argentine government into paying us the full face value on the bonds. When the Argentos came to the table and settled on a payment plan with 92.4% of their creditors, paying only 30 cents on the dollar, we saw our windfall profits going through the floor. Bigtime.

No worries! We’ve taken Argentina to court and in August 2013, we got U.S. District Judge Thomas Griesa of New York to rule in our favor, declaring Argentina to be in technical default. The U. S. Supreme Court has upheld that ruling. Gotcha! God sides with the big battalions, baby.

So I’m flush.

Fortunately, I am also a patriotic American. I’ve killed al-Qaedans. I’ve put a hurt on Somali pirates. I’ve whupped Jihadi ass. That makes whatever I do all right.

It’s a beautiful June day, marred only by the presence of redmen in American Indian regalia and headdresses who noisily beat on skin drums, declaring, “We dance to the right to summon our gods to punish the infidel Dan Snyder for calling his football team the Redskins. We can use the name, but not him! As Boris Pasternak could tell you, prejudice is a terrible thing. We dance to the left to summon the devils of war to punish the infidel Dan Snyder’s beloved Redskins football team on the field of battle, as the Indian gloriously did General Lance Armstrong Custer at Little Bighorn. Next, we shall try to get Winnebago Industries to change its name, as we Indians find it demeaning to share our heritage with a common recreational vehicle!”

Kind of a lot of politics for lunchtime, y’ know?

Padding around in moccasins, they use smartphones to take selfies of one another on the warpath. Eventually, they move their road show elsewhere. Wrapped up in my burrito, I don’t really care about the statuesque babe in flats who is standing by the fountain, unbuttoning her white cotton blouse. Typical office worker, I assume. A southern beauty with curly black hair, enormous hazel eyes and a cute nose. Somebody’s secretary. I do fixate on the white plaster cast on her left arm, between wrist and elbow. The perfect location for a concealed, spring-loaded knife or gun. Very new, there isn’t a signature on it. See? Already, she’s making me nervous.

Considering all the doggie poop that has gone down previously in my life, I sit in the sun, determined to maintain a low profile.

“No war, no drugs, no sex, only rock ‘n’ roll!”

She takes off her blouse. No bra. Enormous breasts like torpedoes grab the undivided attention of every man jack one of us. And some of the ladies, too. Except for the gurgling fountain and the caw of a crow, it’s so silent, you could hear an anvil hitting the pavement. Leaning her right hand on the two-foot high retaining wall, she undoes her belt and lets her skirt slip to the ground. Some jokers start to applaud. She’s wearing pink panties. Which she slowly, luxuriously pulls down around her shapely ankles and daintily steps out of. Kicks off her shoes. Piling her garments on the adobe wall next to her carry-all, she climbs into the fountain buck naked. Lying face-up, she floats, holding only her plaster cast above water. As two police cruisers pull up from different directions, two black cops in one, two white cops in the other. The white policemen survey the scene and smirk. “We’ll handle it,” they offer. You can’t have black police officers dealing with white women, it looks bad. The white cops grab a gray blanket from the trunk of their cruiser, pull the lady from the water, wrap her in the blanket and hustle her into the back of their vehicle for questioning.

“She’s French,” insists a goggle-eyed stooge to my right. “Only a French woman would take such liberté with a public fountain.”

“Naw, I know that face. She’s Italian,” insists the dude to my left. “Buxom like Gina Lollobrigida.”

“Whatever,” I surmise. Irritated that the police have her cocooned in a dirty gray blanket, I pluck her panties, skirt, blouse and shoes from the wall and trot them over to the police car. Her carry-all feels as greasy as a rag mop.

“Jesus H. Christ, what the fuck are you doin’?!” demands the cop closest to me, rolling down his car window. “That is evidence! How dare you touch it! Now go put it back where you found it!” One cop is interrogating her, the other is scanning their computer. I’m talking with the dude on computer.

Abashed, I carry her things back to the fountain and arrange them on the wall. The cop gets out of their cruiser and uses a smartphone to take a picture of the fountain and a close-up of her neatly stacked clothes and bag. Scooping up the apparel, he takes them with him back to the car. “You! Goody Two-shoes!” he calls. “Yeah,

Mr. Volunteer! You put your fingerprints all over her clothes, come here and let me scan your prints.”

Constitutionally, I feel that my fingerprints are my personal property, even more so than my emails. I’ve only got ten fingers and each one belongs exclusively to me. My fingers, my prints. Yet, every effing snoop bureau— FBI, CIA, NSA, DEA, Homeland Security— plays fast and loose with fingerprinting. I’ve spent mucho effort AVOIDING having my fingerprints taken.

In for a penny, in for a pound, the cops have me press my digits directly onto their computer screen. New technology, they record both my pointer fingers and my thumbs. Left hand, right hand. Only to come up blank. “Who the fuck are you, anyway?” asks the one cop, surveying my 6′ 3″ hulk and 250 lbs. of pure muscle.

“John Doe,” I assure him. “Everyman… for himself!” Walking up to their vehicle, I push one of my business cards through the window, proffering it to the lady. Who looks a little wild-eyed and frightened.

“Ma’am, You don’t have to take that card!” cautions the second cop. “That guy is NOT a policeman.”

“Listen,” I tell her, sick of nobody ever calling me after I give them my card. “I am a lawyer…”

I am NOT a lawyer.

“If you’re incarcerated and need bale money to get out, call me! If you can’t pay your misdemeanor fine, call me!”

Speaking the jargon, I can actually see the policemen’s attitude changing. They go from being openly hostile to being frankly terrified. A lawyer! Another fuckin’ lawyer!

She takes my card.

“CALL ME!” I tell her. “Whatever happens, CALL ME!…” Watching her eyes widen, I suspect I might actually have gotten through to her. “She’s French, right?” I ask the cops, preparing in my mind for an evening en français, maybe a French movie VOD.

“Nope! Hate to disappoint ya. True, blue American!”

Behold, 23 minutes later, my cell phone rings. I’m still by the fountain where the plate hit the wall. Which is dumb! The very first rule of tradecraft is “Move! Don’t wait around to get caught or shot.”

So I have the honor of speaking with a beautiful stranger on my cell phone, an experience missing from my life for far too many moons. “It’s a misdemeanor,” she explains. “Somebody’s gotta pay the $250 fine and come get me.”

“THAT’S ME!” I assure her. As I approach the police station, a stack of bills from an ATM on the front seat of my jalopy, I figure the chances are pretty slim that I’ll ever even see this lady again. With her looks, with that dynamite body, all she needs to do is cry “Damsel in distress!” in front of a bail bondsman. He’s gonna cave. If she makes it as far as the highway, all she needs to do is wave her arms. She’ll get a lift immediately. Men are going to stop. By the carload. So I’m delighted and a little unnerved to find her waiting behind the door in lockup, arguing with her jailers, swearing and noisily banging her cast against the green metal lockers. When she sees me, her savior, she stops raising Hell and smiles sweetly, all kindness and light. “Hi-i-i-i,” she breathes, widening her eyes passionately. I am a knight errant, my joy comes from helping people. It also helps if the women are beautiful.

The black clerk takes my money and fills out the paperwork, a nasty smirk fighting to break free. “Wow, man!” says he. “Your lady sure do change her tune when you be around.” A statement which, if true, does not necessarily bring me comfort.

Outside and free, finally reaching the car, I bark excitedly, “Hi!”

“Hi-i-i! Whew! What an experience!”

“Why did you do that?” I ask.

“Why did I do what?” she replies in a soft, sweet Tennessee accent.

“Take all your clothes off.”

“To bathe in the fountain, of course,” she replies forthrightly.

I make no claims regarding Tennessee. People say “Memphis, ooh la la!” They say “Nashville! Grand Ole Opry.” I have no personal experience of either. So this girl Roxie is something brand new to me. I drive us across the river to my dickwad apartment on the wrong end of Arlington, Virginia. “We came into town on Jimmy’s Harley for Rolling Thunder and never left,” she explains, falling onto my bed as if exhausted. “I did most of the panhandling. Then Jimmy got mad when this gen’man offered to take the two of us to din-din,” she drawls. ” ‘He jus’ wants t’ fuck you! ‘ Jimmy swore. When he went to hit me with a wooden chair at the Day’s Inn, I put up my arm to protect myself and that’s how I broke two bones in my left arm. The doctors say they’re hairline fractures.”

I feel like James Bond tending to “a bird with a wing down.”

I don’t tell Roxie, but inside, I’m groaning. Horror stories! Everywhere you go, people roll out their horror stories: Investments that turned sour, uninsured possessions lost in transit, favorite pets that died, homes burned to the ground, favorite aunts withering away in cancer, boo hoo hoo! “Wait! Here’s another sad story.” I served in the Persian Gulf War and Somalia. Bigger suck-holes you’d be hard-pressed to find. So your sad stories don’t impress me much!

What does impress me is the revelation that Roxie and Jimmy are very physical, violent people. He’s out there cruising the streets looking for his lady, a .38 caliber pistol tucked in his boot. A battered woman with a loose cannon for a boyfriend? We’re not stepping outside my front door!

Winning is everything.

A philosophy adopted by the late William Taylor. (No relation to James Taylor, Taylor Swift or Zachary Scott.) A true American original, Old Will was something of a mentor to me, stiff-arming people outside the men’s room at football games, browbeating his subordinates and showing up stinking drunk and unshaven for Sunday morning church services, where he bellowed the hymns loud enough to reach heaven without artificial amplification or divine intervention.

As a military leader, Old Will combined two principles: (1) “They should bring back the code duello” and (2) “Full speed ahead.” A butter bar lieutenant in Vietnam, Old Will’s very first platoon got totally annihilated, although no one blamed him at the time. (I accompanied Will to reunions where not even the servers would speak to us. Even parking lot attendants shunned him.)

Blustery, red-faced and barrel-chested, as Irish as a leprechaun, an industrialist of the Old School and a proponent of conglomeration, Will made his career in the oil industry. He cut prices to starve his competitors, specialized in hostile takeovers, bribed— wherever possible— public officials, and generally made a name for himself as a hard-living, whisky-drinking real life J. R. Ewing-style impresario.

Kind to a fault, Old Will let me clean his stables (“Good exercise, shoveling shit!”), wax his cars, clear brush from his acreage and lay bricks for his patio. A joker, Old Will would come upon me sweating and swearing in the Texas heat, at which point he broke into a rousing chorus or two of the Marine Corps Anthem.

His disciple, I am blackballed from golf courses as far north as Maine and as far south as Florida. My game reflects all that Will taught me: I play golf the way we took the island of Grenada.

Brute force.

But I digress.

“Can I borrow your cell phone?” Roxie asks, kind of melting, hazel eyes staring innocently, enormously, into mine.

“Sure. Please. No biggie,” I decide, busy planning my shopping list. As I leave the apartment, she’s on the phone: Spread out all over my bed, bare naked, chewing on a pencil, her sweet pink butt sticking up in the air, a spiral notebook open in front of her. “Ronald?” she is saying. “Hi, it’s me, Roxie!… No, Jimmy’s not here. That’s why I’m callin’, honey. I’m kinda stranded and I sure could use some money…”

Summer radio, I get Rihanna, Ke$ha and Krewella. This season’s R & B rap sensation, Lady Arby— just left of Nicki Minaj on the dial— belts out a song entitled Mr. Coat Rack.

“Smooth Jive Jackson, where you been? /  You ain’t Michael! You ain’t him. / Tour the country, makin’ speeches. / Talk in diners, eatin’ peaches. / We hear you lecture, preach and shout, / But Russia and China, they win out. / Hey, Oreo, where’s the elevator? / What’s this bullsh-t ‘See ya later’?”

At the International Grocery on Route 50, I peer into the green algae-tinted water and count the number of lobsters, rubber bands on their claws to keep them from fighting. I ask the Vietnamese seafood chef to cook me up two. “Sho’ fing!” he insists. “Twanty minutes.” I buy us a bottle of Chablis, carrots, greens, tomatoes, an oil and vinegar salad dressing and a layer cake for dessert. I throw in some Tanzanian coffee. Checking the label, I find even the milk comes from a Mennonite dairy in Pennsylvania.

I pick up our lobsters, glowing red and gorgeous. The man wraps them in butcher paper. I pay for everything at the check-out counter, getting ambushed as usual by the Vietnamese girls working there, their hungry eyes eating me alive. Velly American, I decide.

I get back just in time to find Roxie still on the phone, “Hello, Jerry! Boy, it’s been awhile. Hi-i-i-i! Well, I miss you, too… Honeychild, the reason I’m callin’ is my boy Jimmy done left me… That’s right, stone cold! I’m a free woman…”

As paranoid as anyone, I open an envelope I found stuck in my door.

***   ***   Hello there, Happy Apartment Dweller!   ***   ***

Yes, it’s that time again! Just outside your bedroom window, everything is growing like mad. Whether it’s tending the flower pots on your balcony or power blowing the front entrance to your building, you need a gardening service provider you can trust. And one who can trust you! Trust you to

— pay your monthly invoice on time

— follow the watering instructions enclosed with every plant treatment

— stay off the lawn for 2 hours after each treatment

— stay off the phone during our peak business hours

— be courteous and kind

— recommend us to your friends!

If you fulfill the requirements listed above— and we just know you do!— GIVE US A CALL! TODAY!!!

Harry Houdini Lawn Care * “Watch your weeds (and money) disappear! ”

I fix us dinner, proud of my culinary expertise. I even place on the table the little forks and nutcrackers you need to do justice to lobster.

We sit down to eat. It finally dawns on me that I’m living with a nudist. Situated across from me, gorgeous breasts fully on display, pink skin, notebook open to another page, phone pressed against her ear, Roxie chirps, “Paul? Hi!… Sure, it’s me! Uh huh! Roxie. Uh huh! Uh huh! Listen…”

Diving into my lobster, I’m reminded of a visit I made to Eastern Germany just after the Wall came down. New money had flooded into Frankfurt an der Oder. Construction everywhere. Cement mixers, cranes, trucks. Dressed in a black leather jacket and slacks, I paused before the display window of a bakery shop, unsure whether to enter. When a Mercedes pulled up and a finely coifed and clothed gentleman got out and walked up to the entrance. His hat alone cost as much as some poor slob made in a month. Seeing my hesitation, he chuckled and thrust out his hand. “Guten Tag! Ich bin die Bürgermeister.” Bowing me into the shop, the Mayor was effusively greeted by the two plump salesladies in white aprons behind the counter. I stood there smiling shamelessly, implying “I’m with him.” Such a conversation ensued!

“Mr. Mayor, you must try the kugel.”

“Oh, that’s very refreshing! ”

“Mr. Mayor, a tart.”

“Mmmm, too sweet.”

“Mr. Mayor, a pastry, your honest opinion.”

“Hmmm hmmm hmmm, needs more butter.”

Those two ladies looked to my right, to my left, above my head and down at my feet. Everywhere but at me. They didn’t try to sell me anything. Not only did they provide zero service, as far as they were concerned, since I wasn’t a local and didn’t come from there, I didn’t exist. That’s how I feel, watching Roxie finally drop the cell phone on the table and dive into her lobster and salad. No polite conversation, “Oh, lobster! How delish!” No small talk, “Big city Washington isn’t so scary, after all.” Not even any gratitude, “Gosh, Josh, you’re an angel for rescuing me like this.” She eats a claw, eats the tail, wipes her hands on a napkin, downs a glass of Chablis and hits the phone again. “Hello, Greg? Shit, yes, it’s me! Uh huh. You’ll never guess… Washington, DC! Or Arlington, Virginia to be exact. Listen, honey, you got any money? Tee hee hee…”

I go to bed.

“Where am I supposed to sleep?” Roxie asks, waking me.

“Oh, yeah,” I yawn. “I remember you! You were that lady I helped earlier today.”

“Now don’t be that way,” she scolds. “I need your help.” Turning on the light, still totally nude, she drags a chair across the room and sits at the edge of the bed.

“I already gave you my cell phone, dinner, a roof over your head and toiletries. What else do you need?”

I mean, what do I know from Tennessee motorcycle mamas?

“You’re sore because I’ve been neglectin’ you,” she says in that soft purr of hers. “But I tried to warn ya! Either you loan me money— which you don’t want to do— or I’d have to make some calls and borrow it elsewhere. WAKE UP! It’s time fo’ us, honeychild.”

“I’m not sure I know what that entails,” I point out, amazed at the way she leans over the bed, breasts swinging, undoes my belt and unzips my fly. “Don’t be afraid,” she drawls. “Pull down your pants!”

I admit, that late at night, in the stark light of the overhead lamp, naked in my bedroom, her long black hair a Medusa’s head of coils, she looks exotically southern and attractive. “What’s the word?” I ask. “I don’t wear no undies.”

“Even mo’s the reason fo’ yo’ t’ pull down yer pants!” she cackles, giving me the start of an enormous boner. “Now what you got here?” she exclaims, clasping me with both hands. “In New Orleans, they say lobster be an aphrodisiac! But, I mean, d’ ya think that’s true, honey, or what?” Sitting back, she says, “Okay, you try.”

“Try what?” I ask, confused.

“Go for broke. Blow the pistol. Explode. Ejaculate. Whatever gets you through the night.”

“What are you saying? You want me to jack off?” I ask incredulously.

“What I’m sayin’,” she coos, stroking me with her fingertips, “is you gotta jack off. I’ll watch! ”

“I don’t think so.” Where’s my sense of fun? Where’s my sense of play? Where’s my sense of love? Check “None of the above.”

“Ah, Josh, honey, don’ be like that!” she admonishes me, sliding onto the bed next to me, all warm and tangy, gripping my penis and nuzzling my neck with her lips. I feel like Hugh Grant. The smallest tug and I’m gonna blow. But no, teasing me, she slides back off the bed— I’m going crazy here!— and sits back down in the chair, crossing her pretty legs and bouncing her left foot up and down, eyeing me like a crocodile. “You know what you need?” she asks.

“A psychiatrist? Spanish fly? A trip to Mallorca? Dental floss?”

“Toilet paper!” she announces and goes to get a monstrous amount. Jamming it under my cock, she strokes me once, gently, and I blow sky high. “Shee-it! ” chirps Roxie. “Holy shit !” Grinning from ear to ear, beginning to giggle, she gasps, “Oh my God, did I do that?”

“Yes, you did. And I’m glad you did,” I remark, getting up and carrying the TP to the toilet. By the time I take a leak and get myself put together, Roxie is lying flat across my bed, dead asleep. Sighing, irritated— to put it mildly— I give up, grab a blanket from the linen closet and go to sleep on the floor. A soldier, I’m used to sleeping on the hard, cold ground.

We spend half our days driving to post offices to cash money orders. We visit banks to cash wire transfers. Twenty dollars here, $50 from another beau, $150 from some Desperate Danny who seemingly can’t get Roxie off his mind. Mostly, it’s twenties and fifties that come trickling in. She sure knows a lot of dudes. “They’re my harem,” Roxie giggles, running a finger down my cheek. “They love me. You love me!”

Henry’s bird call, he comes to stiff, aching attention.

“Let’s get back t’ yer apartment,” Roxie coos, her hand busy feeling my crotch for bumps in the fabric. Once we get there, however, it’s nag, nag, nag. And not in a good way: “You have ants!” she insists. “You also have these tiny fuckin’ bugs on the window sills.”

“Springtails. Ignore them! What planet did you grow up on? You’re living in Virginia in the summer and you don’t want any bugs??? Well, d’oh!”

“We gotta clean this apartment,” she declares, and that’s the other big activity every day, cleaning the apartment.

Worst are the nights, when Roxie dances totally nude in front of me, by the bed. I lay on my back and try to resist her incessant teasing: “C’mon, big boy! Tech yerself! You know you want to! I dare you to tech yerself! Don’t look at my face, Josh. Look at my twat. Tech yerself! Rub a dub dub… oh, it feels so good! Ohhhh! Don’t look at my face! Look at my twat. You’re so big! Uh-h-h-h, so strong. Don’t look at my face, Joshy, look at my twat! My God, yer about t’ blow sky high. Grab it! Oooooh!” she groans, grinding away at thin air, her small, round stomach flashing at me, her dynamite buttocks dancing closer and farther away, her dark, curly bush ducking into and out of the shadows. Her cackling laughter fills the room, driving me into helpless ejaculation after helpless ejaculation. Every single night.

 

************ Chapter 11 – “… in My Ear” *************

              We gotta get out of Dodge. With Roxie telephoning to every Tom, Dick and Seymour with whom she and Jimmy are acquainted— begging for a handout and giving them my address— we’re sitting on a time bomb. Gourmet meals and a third floor apartment or no, burple, zurple, feel the purple, sooner or later, Jimmy the Fireball is gonna make an appearance. My next-door neighbor Alan is in a panic: “I was grilling the daintiest little lamb chops and fresh potatoes on the gas grill on my balcony when this ugly, rough mother pulled up in the parking lot on this oily, monster motorcycle and demanded to know which windows belong to your apartment. If my male friend hadn’t come outside and given him what-for, I just don’t know what would have happened. Any moment, I expected that beast to scale the building and grab us!” A choirboy, when Alan gets excited, his hair stands on end like Dagwood’s.

“How were the lamb chops and fresh potatoes?”

“What? Oh, we ate them with green mint jelly. Such a treat!”

I go online at the library and find some unremarkable motels in Ocean City, Maryland. Going out into the hall by the bathrooms, I call one of them on my cell phone. “Got any rooms available for this weekend?” I ask.

“Ho ho ho! ” chortles the clerk. “July 4th weekend. Yeah, right! We were fully booked months ago!”

It’s 2014, a year since I last screwed Candy, and it’s another damn Fourth of July! Where does the time go? What was I doing last winter? Who the fuck knows? I sure don’t! “Got any cancellations for a vet of the First Gulf War and Somalia?” I query.

“A vet, huh? Hold on, I’ll look… Yes, I have a room. The family in 104. Their kid got sick, some stomach problem. They bailed. You can have their room.”

Mayor Vincent C. Gray of Washington, DC is in a pissing match with Representative Andy Harris, the Congressman from the First Congressional District of Maryland. Which includes Ocean City. Mayor Gray and 80% of the electorate in DC want to reform the marijuana laws, eliminating the current year-long jail time. Too many blacks are going to jail while white boys only get a slap on the wrist. The new regulations will legally allow possession of up to two ounces of marijuana for personal use and to grow as many as three marijuana plants at home. Unlike the states, the District of Columbia is a ward of Congress. Congress decides what’s best for the District. Congressman Harris, a doctor representing Maryland’s Eastern Shore, opposes new, lenient drug laws for the District. “This is not about medical marijuana. This is about decriminalization and the effect of that on the youth of this country,” says he. Meanwhile, Mayor Gray, him be guh, street slang for angry, upset. Retaliating, the mayor has called for everyone to boycott Ocean City!

Ha! Nice thought. Never happen.

With hurricane Arthur lurking down the coast, the sky is a swirling palette of ragged gray and black fluff. It resembles a painting by Vincent van Gogh. “It looks like the cloud effect in Steven Spielberg’s Close Encounters of the Third Kind,” suggests Roxie.

Huh? I can’t believe she said that! I can’t believe she’s even seen that movie. I must be telegraphing my amazement, because she makes a face and says, “Jimmy’s hooked on old movies. On cable. AMC, TNT, TBS, TCM, IFC, HBO…”

We watch ten-foot swells march into shore, as regimented as gun metal landing craft. Surfers in black wet suits bob like seals, riding the crests. Further down the beach, members of MS-13 are having a stick fight with a gang of Vietnamese youth. Beyond them, a group of kite surfers have set up camp, taking to the water with their sissy boards and crescent sails, showing us landlubbers how it’s done.

Crossing the boardwalk, we dodge a group of Brighton Beach Russians marching along chanting “Long live the Donetsk People’s Republic and the Eastern Ukraine for which it stands!”

As RT, Russia Today, says, “Why are these people laughing?”

“Where is it?” Roxie asks, interested.

“Where’s what?”

“Their donut stand.”

This lady has a food fixation!!!

We make it to the beach.

A local lass, at most 16— barefoot— dressed in a tattered tee and cut-offs, walks her dog, an American Staffordshire Terrier, a strange black and brown bruiser with white paws and pointy ears. “What’s your dog’s name?” I ask, scratching him under the collar. She sighs dramatically, as if I’ve asked the most boring question imaginable.

“Arthur C. Ramsey IV,” she says. “We call him Art.”

When she’s wandered off, Roxie awakens from her torpor atop a brown and white striped beach blanket to ask who I was talking to.

“Myself. I’m so lonesome, I’ve taken to having conversations with myself!”

“Oh, sho’ nuff, sugar!” she remarks, nodding her head, her life a mystery behind her mirror-coated sunglasses. Pulling and straightening her bikini top, she lies down on her back to assure herself an even tan front and rear.

Even without sun, lying on the beach puts the two of us in a contemplative mood. Discreetly quaffing Grolsch in signature green bottles and munching on corn chips, it is here that Roxie and I have our first serious discussion.

“When Jimmy finds us, I don’t want any Gunfight At the O.K. Corral,” Roxie points out.

“How about Hogan’s Heroes?” I ask sourly. “What are we supposed to do, make nice like Beach Blanket Bingo while Jimmy beats the crap out of us?”

“No,” she drawls, “I just don’t want to have to relive The Longest Day, is all.”

“Well! Excuse me, Miss From Here to Eternity.”

Flushing angrily, fists clenched, Roxie storms down to the waterline and sticks in a big toe. Not to her liking, she sulks, returning to her brown and white striped beach blanket. “I’m no bimbo, y’know!” she insists.

“Honey, nobody ever said you was!” I soothe, taking her hand, lifting it to my lips and kissing her fingers.

“What are you doing?” Roxie coldly demands. “Women’s rights! I’ll tell you when you can physically touch me or not.”

“I am a knight errant,” I explain, “hell-bent on helping my fellow humans, with or without their permission.”

“Really?” comments Roxie. “Well, I’m a Type A personality whose life seems to consist of a series of dramatic meltdowns, most often coinciding with my time of the month. Although I consider myself free of prejudice, after we robbed the Oconee State Bank in Athens, Georgia, I found myself spread-eagle on the floor of our motel room, bawling my butt off when Jimmy wouldn’t split the loot with me fifty-fifty. ‘You male chauvinist pig! ‘ I screamed at him and, at that moment, Josh, I could identify with every sexually abused, disheartened, downtrodden woman tied to a shiftless skunk of a plain’s drifter. I — ”

“Does this end anywhere or does it just keep going on and on?” I feel compelled to ask.

Unperturbed, Roxie continues: “I realized that I had been suppressing my bisexuality in an effort to appease the testosterone-fueled needs of my voracious boyfriend. The first time I went down on the Spanish-speaking maid at the motel, I discovered to my great relief that far from feeling threatened, Jimmy found the entire lesbo scene a huge turn-on. As long as I let him watch— jacking off to his heart’s content— he and I could compensate for, shall we say, the lack of other mutual interests. I have absolutely no desire to repair motorcycles. Jimmy wouldn’t dream of anything as girly as a spa treatment.”

“Maybe we ought to go get some din-din…” I suggest.

“Having grown up in a family with lots of older brothers, of course, I know full-well that a girl’s best friend is her strong right hand. The enemy of any good jackoff artist is carpal tunnel syndrome— ”

“Hup! It’s getting chilly!” I declare, jumping to my feet and scooping up my gear. “Time to go indoors, dear!”

“But I prefer to think of it as a return to the innocence of childhood,” she explains, getting to her feet and shaking sand off her beach blanket. “Making men play with themselves— masturbate— takes us back to our school days. When we boys and girls lusted after one another, but our clumsy, young, immature bodies had no other way to express or fulfill our sexual needs. Young people whack off. Conversely, whacking off keeps us young. And the bonus is, we’re unburdened by STD’s, sexually transmitted diseases! Everybody wins!”

Dr. Kinsey she is not. Trudging up the beach to the boardwalk, I feel like murdering seagulls with my bare hands.

We examine a billboard for The Lunchbox Corporation. They sound like a rock music collective, but behind the slogan TO ACHIEVE A MORE SUITABLE LUNCH, these dudes have actually been manufacturing metal lunchboxes since the 1940’s. Quality never goes out of style.

Even on vacation, you stumble upon the more fortunate. A dumpy Russian pulls up on Talbot in some incredible machina. “What is he driving???” I wonder. It looks like a beach buggy, but it’s a canary yellow Plymouth Prowler from 2002. I mean, this is one beautiful, $60,000 car. “Nice!” I tell him. “Worth every penny.”

“They didn’t make very many of them,” he rumbles defensively.

“Good you got one, then.”

His accent is as thick as borscht, but it turns out he’s not really Russian. He hands me his card. Here we go again. I can’t get away from these people! Second Consul, The Donetsk People’s Donut Republik. All Hail the Hole. Which, I admit, reads better in Ukrainian.

“When is Putin going to invade?” I ask.

He gives me a sad look: Is that the best you can come up with? Grabbing my arm in a bear-like grip, he smiles with a mouth full of yellow teeth, his breath like an acetylene torch. “Inwade Tel Aviv?” he says. “Maybe never!”

Meanwhile, under the banner << Secession is always an option! >> the Amerusia Militia (Am-er-ru-cha) of New Hampshire has sent a ragtag delegation to Ocean City, Maryland to declare their annual insurrection. “The mosquitos are said to drive the citizenry mad,” explains a scrawny old crow in a moth-eaten majorette uniform. “Instead of sending troops to put down our rebellion— Hey, Israel, learn a lesson, dudes!— the U.S. Army has sent helos to spray DEET deep into the backwoods.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I assure her. I am also glad to return to our motel in one piece.

Roxie and I shower and freshen up. Nag, nag, nag, she wants grain alcohol with her fruit smoothie. I drive to a liquor store on Philadelphia Avenue. The dude behind the counter smiles regretfully and says, “You’re plain outta luck! July 1st, a new state law went into effect, prohibiting the sale of anything 190 proof and stronger. Y’know, we get these college kids. They’re so polluted, they stumble over their own two feet. Looks like Annapolis wants to curb their enthusiasm. I still have stock in the back of the shop, but I’ll go to jail if I sell you any.

“Can you believe this? Kids are INHALING alcohol through a vaporizer and getting it directly into their bloodstreams through their lungs. Will sniffing alcohol and Vaportinis be the products of the future?”

I settle for a bottle of vodka, 80 proof.

Carrying the brown paper bag to my car, I’m kicking myself. Returning to the shop, I ask the clerk, “What’ll you do with your stock on hand?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “I’m not the owner. He’ll probably sell it out of state. There’s still a market for grain alcohol, only not in Maryland.”

“I’ll bet you $50 we have a major thundershower in the next 30 seconds!”

Smirking at me like I’m an idiot, the clerk and I walk to the front window. We squint up at the cloudy sky. No rain. I peel him a fifty.

He pockets it knowingly. “I have to clean out some junk in the back,” he says.

” ‘Scuse me a minute.” Returning with another brown paper bag, he wishes me a happy holiday. “You know what Bill Clinton says: Don’t inhale!”

As easy as falling off a log. At least my fortuitous acquisition keeps Roxie off my case for the rest of the afternoon.

Summer on the Maryland shore, we hit the boardwalk for dinner. Every half block, we are brought to our knees by the smell of meat sizzling on outdoor grills: beef, lamb, chicken.

Behind pulled curtains, night passes in our motel room in the usual fashion: HBO, nudity, Sobieski vodka, frustration and masturbation. The ceiling fan twirls like the propeller on a biplane.

The last exam I had at the old Walter Reed— before they moved to modern facilities at NIH— was a rectoscopy. Two young, pretty female doctors in white lab coats literally shoved a greased metal tube up my ass. Crouched on all fours on the examination table, bathed in sweat, I listened to them discuss in detail the nature of my bowel movements. At first you think “Okay, I can do this. It’s only once in a lifetime.” You also begin to fathom the rigors of impalement. Halfway through, you think “It’s half over! I’ll survive this.” As they remove the tube, inch by painful inch, you are dying. You console yourself with the thought “HOORAY! It’s almost over! ”

Forget sex— that was the most intimate experience I’ve ever had with a woman. Those two ladies were as far up inside me as you can go without employing a scalpel.

The next morning, Roxie and I hang around the motel. There’s a heated indoor pool. Where she just manages to keep her boobs inside her bikini. “I always thought my ma and pa would sell the mineral rights to our land for a lot of money,” she drawls languidly, her incredible body perched on a beach chair. On display for all to see. “Then the wells on adjacent properties went dry. Hydrologists took soundings and said we were sitting on a mountain of granite. They’d have to drill down to the Earth’s mantle to get anything. The fracking company rescinded their bid and we were left with nothing. Oh well, water down the drain!

“Jimmy and his cohorts were going to run their own motorcycle delivery service, but FedEx and UPS have the market cornered. Oh well, water down the drain.” Roxie herself intended to train to be a nurse, join the U.S. Army and serve in Iraq or Afghanistan. By the time she got around to it, both wars were over. “Water down the drain,” she muses.

It takes me awhile to realize that “water down the drain” refers to what the rest of us call “pipe dreams.” Woulda, coulda, shoulda aspirations that don’t pan out.

The motel also has an outdoor pinewood deck facing the ocean. With two Jacuzzis pumping hot, sudsy water to ward off the chill of the wind. We jump into one of them, Roxie’s bathing apparel instantly floating to the surface. It doesn’t bother me, but after a lunch of pâté foie gras and pan-seared pork tenderloin with tarragon, the motel has hung a newly-minted sign on deck:

PLEASE WEAR APPROPRIATE SWIMWEAR AT ALL TIMES! THANK YOU. THE MANAGEMENT

That afternoon, we don wet suits, rent surfboards and paddle out to join the seals. I won’t say we’re great surfers, but we make a go of it. Rank amateurs, in paradise, Roxie and I spend a lot of time calmly sitting astride our boards, ostensibly waiting for the next big wave. One of which comes about every 120 seconds.

A bronzed Tarzan in a black rubber body suit and beard is racing a jet ski between us surfers and the shoreline, throwing outsized firecrackers at passers-by.

M-80’s, these tubular red mini-depth charges float on the surface, then go off with a sploosh! Shooting aloft a fountain of spray. SPLOOSH! … SPLOOSH! At first, I think the dude’s a World Cup fan shouting “Viva Argentina! ” Watching him circle in endless figure 8’s— and after numerous repetitions— I eventually realize he’s chanting, “Viva Palestina! Death to the Jews! Protest Israeli aggression!”

Confused, I reach in my fanny pack and pull out my waterproof tablet. I go to ask.com. “Does the Koran allow jet skiing during Ramadan?” I query.

A smiley face answer quickly materializes. “Yes. Although not in a class with fasting, prayer or good deeds, jet skiing contributes to good health which is a virtue according to the Koran,” I am told. This helpful message has been posted by   Marty_the_Martyr @ Megamadrassa_Mecca. If Marty’s on the Net, it must be after sundown in Saudi Arabia.

So now I know.

The 4th of July. A sound system set up on the grass plays the uncensored version of metal band Deuce’s hit America. Small children eating cotton candy strut to the beat.

Ah, Maryland! Here’s a sticker on a park bench: “Guns and children don’t mix! Who needs children?”

Devouring gelatos, we wander as far north as 32nd Street, stopping to admire the pyrotechnics among a crowd who must have spent half their travel budget at a fireworks stand in Virginia. Except for sparklers, fireworks are illegal in Maryland. You risk confiscation and fines up to $250, but still…Star bursts fill the night, as clouds of spooky gray smoke envelope us. “Just like Robert Redford in The Natural,” observes Roxie. “Same vibe as in the movie.”

A 30-something Marylander brandishing a can of beer in each hand marches up. “Hey, hey, hey!” he blurts.

“Sho’ nuff, sugar!” Roxie smiles.

“Great display!” I add. I point admiringly.

“Well, see, we bought these fireworks specifically for our famblies,” he exclaims blearily, weaving in front of us. “You wanna enjoy the show, maybe you reach in yer pocket an’ make a financial remuneration!”

¡Aj caramba!

Clucking her tongue like an angry rooster, a veteran of many a domestic dispute, Roxie seizes my arm and leads me away before there’s a major fistfight.

Heading back downtown, we join a crowd facing a small stage where a pale, blond, androgynous youth in a baggy Uncle Sam suit is singing: “No danger! But major trouble / With our telescope The Hubble. / Nothing but headaches with this baddie, / Buy me a new spy satellite, daddy! / The Hubble is expensive but makes no progress. / The same can be said about the U.S. Congress! / Three things are missing this 4th of July: / Leadership, peace and mom’s apple pie!”

I’m confused. But I’m in luck. Standing within 10 feet of me is a crusty old curmudgeon wearing a dusty carnation and a frilly name tag identifying him as “Mayor of the Boardwalk.” Shaking my hand, he introduces himself as Thadeus Cox. When I ask about the music, Thadeus breaks into a grin. “Recycled lyrics!” he chortles. “We have used that same song for over 20 years! Some things never go out of style! Is this a great country or what?!”

All night, people are out walking their dogs on the beach. The surf a foamy white froth. While troopers from the Maryland Army National Guard roar along the shoreline in dune buggies. A single, crazed soldier, convinced he’s seen a shark, stands in the water up to his knees, emptying a clip from his M-16 into the ocean: BRAP! BRAP! BRAP! “Gaaaa! ” he screams. “Git some! ” On the outdoor deck of the motel, the coconut smell of suntan lotion mixes with the reedy reek of marijuana. Individual firecrackers pop hollowly in the distance. If ever there was a time to cuddle, it’s now. Instead, you know where The Rock wants to go. Our room. And what she wants to do. Parade in the buff and munch on tacos while I fondle myself.

Happy 4th of July!

The 238th anniversary of American independence, over a million dollars in fireworks is set off on the East Coast alone. Without pacifying a single radical Muslim. We have a group of them at our motel, gaunt gentlemen dressed in off-white shawls and blue-and-white mottled beanies. They sport conspicuous beards, sandals on their feet. We sit around the pool, where I gorge on greasy slices of piping hot pizza. Bless the boardwalk’s concessionaires! The Muslims sip bottled water, fasting and meditating during the day in accordance with Ramadan. They can’t take their eyes off Roxie. Who sits in an aluminum beach chair and struggles to keep her boobs from jumping out of her polka dot D-cup bikini top.

“We are followers of Abdullah K’suck Muck. He’s half-blind and crazy, but a great spiritual leader.”

“Is he in America?”

“At a girls’ school in Baltimore. He feels he must at all times surround himself with 72 virgins.”

I google them on my tablet. Oh, boy! Not just any Shiites, they are angry Zaidi radicals. “What’s with all the anger?” I ask them. “You’re not Palestinians.”

“Yeminis,” they confirm. “From Sana’a. The actions of the Great Satan justify blowing up the Chesapeake Bay Bridge.”

“Come again?”

“We shall blow up the Chesapeake Bay Bridge.”

“Oprah would disagree!”

“Never-the-less, we shall blow up the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. Insha’Allah.”

“You’re just angry because of Justin Bieber!”

“We shall blow up the Chesapeake Bay Bridge.”

“Now I got ya! You’re angry because western girls are prettier than yours!”

“Say what you will, we shall blow up the Chesapeake Bay Bridge.”

“That’s a terrible idea! You cannot hop around the globe like grasshoppers, setting up caliphates wherever you go. Such an agenda leads invariably to a roach hotel.”

“Yes. We shall blow up the Chesapeake Bay Bridge!”

“C’mon! Historically, we Calvinists have a right to live under the Judeo-Christian tradition.”

“Which is why we shall blow up the Chesapeake Bay Bridge.”

“I give up.”

“You infidels spread your impure blasphemies throughout the Third World. Not until Kashmir is purged of impurity shall we cease our armed struggle.”

“I thought you were from, like, Yemen. Where coffee originated. Listen— ”

“This is true. Still, the plight of the Kashmiris cries out to us. Beckoning soldiers of Islam to fight. In Syria, Iraq, Libya, Nigeria, Palestine, Antarctica and Brazil!”

“Is that going to be all one big caliphate or a lot of little caliphates?”

“Your slander proves our point! You must be punished! Everyone but her, the D-cup lady. Soon, we shall blow up the Chesapeake Bay Bridge.”

“If you blow up the bridge, we’ll all be stuck here in Ocean City, Maryland, like, forever.”

They pause. So far, this is the only argument which seems to make a dent.

To paraphrase Bob Dylan:  You don’t need a weather balloon / To know it’s thunderstorming.

The next morning, driving back over the bridge, we get local news radio: “… Sue Mellon reporting from Ocean City, an ugly scene of cardboard cylinders and black burn marks. All left over from numerous illegal 4th of July fireworks displays along both the boardwalk and the beachfront. Compounded by vomit, beer cans and dog poo. A major clean-up is currently underway, as Mayor César Castellanos calls upon all upstanding citizens to join in this monumental, although miniscule, effort… ‘Blame must be shared equally,’ ” croaks the mayor. After which Sue Mellon reports on a mischievous band of Muslim radicals in wet suits arrested for clandestine, nocturnal photography and taking measurements of the… get ready for it! Chesapeake Bay Bridge.

Co-pilot and navigator, in charge of both the sound system and the climate control, Roxie switches to a rockabilly station broadcasting out of Havre de Grace.

A helo pilot in the First Gulf War, “Operation Desert Storm,” I get called into DC to give testimony in a Senate hearing of the DHS Oversight Committee, entitled “Who Lost Iraq?” Chaired by a volatile senator from California, I find myself sparring for pixilation over issues like the retail black market price of AK-47’s in Mexico. A $750 semi-automatic rifle Stateside fetches $5,000 south of the border. Or the political allegiance of Muqtada al-Sadr. “As far as I’ve been able to ascertain,” I testify, “that Shiite cleric has no political allegiance. He’s all me-me-me and I-I-I.”

Like a classroom full of Third Graders, photographers are curled at my feet. In the audience section, every seat is taken, although truth be told, a lot of those people are high school classes making their first pilgrimage to the Nation’s Capital.

Air conditioning was first invented in 1902 by W. H. Carrier of New York for cooling off a printing plant. Since cold air is cold air, he founded the Carrier Corporation and began installing A/C in offices and homes. The senators on this committee have taken Carrier’s lesson to heart: It must be 50° Fahrenheit in the hearing room. Even in seersucker suits, some of them look about ready to explode.

“Did you just say aye-aye-aye to this committee?” demands the chairman.

“No, your honor, I did not.”

“Who specified that the American compound in Baghdad should be designated ‘The Green Zone’? Was that you? Are you an Environmentalist, a member of the Green Party, by any chance?”

“No, your excellency.”

“Then why did you call it a ‘green zone’?”

I admit honestly that I just don’t know. “Ask L. Paul Bremer III, he was the appointed viceroy,” I request. “A staunch Republican, Bremer arrived knowing next to nothing about Iraq. Yet he proceeded to disband the Iraqi Army. He purged the bureaucracy of Baathists. And he forbade the Iraqis from forming an interim government. Unlike some people, sirs, I know what I do not know.”

“Are you trying to be cute? Is this a play for public sympathy?” demands the chairman.

Winners never lose and losers never quit, I strut like a peacock before the podium. I admit, I am cised, excited. There are teenage girls ogling me from five rows back. Creaming in their panties. Gotcha! “Like, a green traffic light,” I suggest. “You know, green light means safety. A safe area. A green zone. If we’d called it a Red Zone, you’d claim we were communists. If we called it ‘The Purple Zone,’ you’d say we’re all fags. Maybe we shoulda called it ‘The Gray Zone.’ Bureaucratic. ‘It’s a gray area.’ ”

“Are you trying to be funny? Are you aping for the cameras, young man?”

“I don’t think so. Sir.”

Giving testimony is really hard when the committee members don’t like you and are themselves geekin’. Unhappily excited.

Unappeased, the chairman accuses me of being “part of a great, rightwing conspiracy.” He also excuses me from making any further remarks.

“Your eminence!” I protest. “I would like to read from my prepared statement!”

“What in God’s name…” I hear them muttering up there on the dais. “What kind of statement is that?” asks the chair.

“A statement regarding America’s role in the demise of Iraq, sir.”

“Are you lunchin’, young man?” asks the only Democrat— and the only woman— on the committee, street slang for acting crazy or doing too much.

“I don’t think so, your highness.”

“Well, let’s not have a three-ring circus,” grumbles the chairman authoritatively. “What did you have in mind? Or nah.”

I read: “Just as in Afghanistan— where we Americans preferred the Americanized, English-speaking Hamid Karzai to someone more genuinely Afghan— in Iraq, America put all its marbles in one basket behind the English-speaking, westernized Shiite politician Nouri al-Maliki. Even when he alienated his opponents and frittered away the geopolitical gains of the Sunni-based Anbar Awakening, replacing competent leadership with his own Dawa Party lackeys, we Americans failed to realize that al-Maliki was a disaster in the making. Also, America foisted upon the Iraqis an unworkable constitution that says a lot about American democracy but entirely fails to come to grips with Iraqi reality. Stymied, unwilling or unable to recognize this sorry state of affairs, both Hillary Clinton’s State Department and Barack Obama’s White House never demanded the necessary improvements in al-Maliki’s governance. Today, those chickens have come home to roost!”

“HOW DARE YOU…!”

“Who is this fellow?!”

“What kind of partisan blame game are you playing here, young man?” demand the committee members.

Folding my papers, rising from the witness table and winking at the jont— the prettiest girl— in the room, I stride purposefully from the arena.

Mission accomplished!

Only to be physically detained by uniformed policemen and gruffly marched back into the committee room. Where the chairman brusquely informs me that I am in Contempt of Congress and will serve 30 days in jail. Pounding his gavel resoundingly, he watches with great interest as I am handcuffed and led through a heavy oak door.

“What the shit…?” I ask the Capitol police.

Uncuffing me, they say, “Leave quietly out the side entrance and we’ll pretend this sorry sequence of events befell someone else of similar physical description and name, but not necessarily you.”

That works for me! I skedaddle.

Crossing the street, I almost get bowled over by a long-haired vagrant in khaki work clothes. He carries a sign: “The beggar is proud to know he is not a thief.” This dude may smell like dead laundry, but he’s got my ear. “If Obama’s a lame duck,” he grouses, “why is he fundraising this week in Colorado and Texas? What’s he doing, raising money for his presidential library? That’s not his job! His job is running the country. Not ruining the country!”

Help the neediest. A free man, I put 25¢ in his mason jar.

The Law of Diminishing Returns, the more time I spend with Roxie, the harder it is for me to enjoy myself. Maybe it’s cultural. I’m not from Tennessee. Anyway, all good things must come to an end. Jimmy… remember Jimmy?… finally makes a grand entrance, roaring into the parking area behind our shabby abode one afternoon. Accompanied by five other bikers, each atop his own hog. “COME OUT, COME OUT, WHEREVER YOU ARE!” he bellows. And he’s just the sort of fat Viking pig I’d expect. Nothing smooth about that boy. The paunch, the leather motorcycle jacket, the torn jeans and black leather boots. The red beard, the ratty hair, the death’s head helmet. Pretty much, your standard issue jerk. Once upon a time, I might have asked what Roxie sees in him. Not now. Whatever it is, they’re what we call a matched set. They’re made for each other!

“I feel like we’re in the movie Arachnoquake,” comments Roxie worriedly.

“Is that anything like Sharknado?” I ask.

Finishing a meal of grilled bison hanger steak with plum ketchup and a perfectly chilled moscato, she and I tramp downstairs to see Jimmy and his gang.

“You deserve a punch upside the head!” Jimmy suggests, parking his bike and approaching me, pulling up his pants and tightening his belt.

“Aren’t you at least going to take off your helmet?” I wonder.

“Fuck the helmet,” he declares, taking a swing at me.

Spinning clockwise, I deliver a round kick, sweeping Jimmy’s feet out from under him. Turning, I rise to the occasion: Two quick steps and I’m airborne, slamming with both feet into Roxie’s shoulders, left side, right side. Sending her crashing backward into the dust as well.

With the two of them sprawled at my feet, I’m not sure what I am supposed to do with the other five bikers. I never get to solve this riddle. Two Arlington County police cars, sirens wailing, pull up on one side. Two State Police cars come prowling from the opposite direction. While a lonely brown cruiser from the Sheriff’s Office quietly joins the festivities. Surprisingly, as the police exit their vehicles en masse, it’s the dude from the Sheriff’s Office who does the talking. “Hey, numbnuts! ” he scolds, addressing us all. “Motorcyclists can’t drive in a phalanx up I-66 without awakening a certain degree of attention, y’know?! We do have traffic cameras monitoring I-66, the Beltway and I-95. So whatever your beef, you better keep it peaceable or YOU WILL BE ARRESTED! Have I made myself understood?”

“I just want my lady!” complains Jimmy. I feel for him. I really do! I even help him to his feet. We all stand around while Roxie gets her stuff, until it occurs to me that she’s probably upstairs in the apartment robbing me blind. A lady cop and I hightail it up there and go through Roxie’s pockets and her carry-all. Leaving Roxie livid. And me embarrassed. She hasn’t swiped a single thing!

“Listen, sugar,” I tell her by way of apology. “Thanks for the mammary!”

POW! She slaps me across the face.

What is wrong with this picture?

We parade down the fire stairs, Roxie silent and furious. The lady cop, her voice echoing in the stairwell, says “She’d have to be a real cupcake to try anything with half the police force waiting outside.”

Aha! “Truer words rarely spoken,” I agree. I watch everybody disperse, motorcycles disappearing into the distance, police cruisers driving into the sunset. Standing in the empty parking lot, I remember Hillel’s famous dictum. A Jewish scholar, he asked, “If I am not for myself, who will be for me? And if I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now, when?”

When, indeed.

 

************ Chapter 12 – “The Shalom War” *************

           In the midst of an otherwise uneventful afternoon— I’m washing the mud off my clothes after disposing of a dead body— joking! I get a mystery phone call from my old buddy Mike Greer. [ Publisher’s Note: Broken Record, 2007 ] “Josh,” he claims, “there’s a humanitarian crisis demanding our immediate participation in war-torn Palestine.”

Ugh! Like everyone else, I’ve seen the news clips of the bombs falling. The missile strikes. The Palestinian youths throwing rocks and burning perfectly usable, stolen radial tires. With more tread on them than I have on my Citroën. “What do you want, Mike?” I ask warily.

Paranoid plus, he won’t talk over the phone. So I have to mix him a bourbon and branch water and sit him down in my nicest chair in my living room to get anything out of him. His story: “In conjunction with the installation of a natural gas pipeline, excavations southwest of Jerusalem have uncovered a 2,300 year old farm. Currently in the hands of the Israel Antiquities Authority. With the war and all, some sticky-fingered volunteers at the dig have purloined ancient coins, stone tools and what is probably the world’s oldest ceramic dildo, anatomically correct in every detail. Our job will be to smuggle this blunt instrument and all the other stuff out of the country while everyone is preoccupied with war hysteria.”

“Sounds a little dicey,” I tell him.

“Each of us gets a grand.”

“I’m in!”

While America experiences a chilly taste of the polar vortex, Mike and I visit gay Paris. High summer, the weather is perfect. I telephone and then drop by the apartment of Sophie Kornblatt, one of the great loves of my life. Back in the day. [ Publisher’s Note: Diaper Rash, 2002 ] Mike and I loiter outside on the sidewalk for, like, hours waiting for someone to let us in the front door. Seeing we’re Americans, a little old French lady walking her fuzzy, fussy wire-haired mongrel does us the favor, pursing her lips and shaking her head disapprovingly. I’ve beaten up 11-year-olds for less! Sophie opens her door, but only just. “Wow!” I marvel. “Sophie! If you’re a relic of my past, you are one well-preserved piece of history!”

“Qu’est-ce que vous voulez, Josh?” she asks coldly.

“Sophie, you’re the greatest!” I coax. “How ya been? Let me take you out to dinner! Let me buy you some baubles at Harrod’s!”

“Harrod’s n’existe pas ici. Harrod’s est établi seulement que Londres,” she reminds me. Women can be difficult, asking what I want and then telling me that Harrod’s doesn’t even exist in Paris, only in London. Jesus Christ!

“Sophie!” I plead beseechingly. “Open the door! Let me in.” The oval face, the porcelain skin. The regal Louis XIV nose. The amazing blue eyes, shooting angry looks like a nail gun. Mammary protrusions that were the talk of the 12th Arrondisement. She slams the door in my face. I guess she’s going to get her coat.

“What’s the deal?” Mike asks impatiently, standing behind me on the marble landing.

“Womens,” I assure him. “They do take their time.” Twenty minutes later, as I incessantly ring the bell, I’m not so sure that Sophie is glad to see us.

“Let’s just go,” whines Mike.

We fly south on another “rubber band airline.” Everyone takes his turn winding up the rubber band to keep the propeller twirling. Joking! Equipped with modern gear, Europa Airways flies Airbus A320’s. Once airborne, Mike gets plastered, as is his wont, while I order things off the bottom of the drinks cart so I can admire the stewardess’s derrière as she bends over. Life’s small pleasures. Amazingly, the stewardesses seem to think my hard-drinking, hard-charging buddy— babbling obscenities and grabbing at them— is more virile than I am! Probably because he’s flaunting his cash. On the last round of drinks before landing, I order a ginger ale. “In fact, make it a double ginger ale,” I leer suggestively. To no avail. They keep plying Mike with napkins, the name and phone number of their overnight hotel scribbled in indelible ink on both sides.

Not standing on formality, the Israeli authorities arrest us straight off the plane. Even before we reach the terminal. They’re efficient, if nothing else. They sequester me in a beige interrogation room smelling of flop sweat and old cigarettes. “Take off your clothes!” a tall, redheaded woman Israeli intel officer commands.

“Now we’re getting somewhere!” I reply enthusiastically. Ugh! The full body cavity search she and her colleagues perform isn’t quite what I anticipated.

“Purpose of visit?” she barks as I put my clothes back on. Holding aloft my customs and immigration form, she is as sure as I am that it’s a pack of lies.

“Business,” I bark back. “We’re here to smuggle stolen antiquities out of the country!”

“Please don’t make bad jokes,” she admonishes me woodenly. “We have heard all of these stupid answers a thousand times before!”

“Yeah, that’s true, I’m sure,” I agree, feeling ashamed. “Nah, we’re here to bathe. In the Dead Sea. I understand the salinity makes you float.”

“Tourism. Vacation,” she notes, jotting it on my blue form. “There’s a war going on. We have our troubles. Please be careful and report any suspicious activity.”

Eventually, they reunite Mike and me, escorting us out front to the taxi stand. “How did you make out with your lady?” Mike asks, stifling a yawn. “Mine put a garden snake down my pants.”

“Really?” I ask.

“You wish!” he scoffs. Good old Mike.

The sun is brassy yellow, the sky a cloudless, pale blue. It’s like walking onto a movie set: Sirens are wailing, people are running for bomb shelters. While the taxi drivers talk, read their newspapers and smoke cigarettes. “Take you to Ashkelon?” asks a tough little guy who looks half Armenian.

“Why would I want to go to Ashkelon?” I ask incredulously.

“It’s near dinner time. I’m hungry. I live in Ashkelon,” he explains.

While Mike is on his cell phone to our contact “Izzy,” I stand bleary-eyed, examining a spindly, rusty metal sculpture of a mother deer and her fawn. Entitled “Dawn.”

“It’s by Tanaka Kyoti,” a passing Israeli explains. “A gift to the State of Israel. Cultural exchange. We give them oranges, they give us culture.” Although not my size, he looks beefy enough to go a few rounds with Hulk Hogan. “You’re American?” he guesses.

“What? Yes.”

“You wear Tommy Hilfiger, you’re American.”

“I only bought this shirt for the trip.”

“How do you like Israel?”

“I don’t know, we just arrived.”

“What?!” he bursts out argumentatively. “I’m not asking you to buy the place! You must have an opinion, man.”

“It’s very nice.”

“Sorry about the war. Every few years, we need to remind the Palestinians who’s in charge.”

“I can commiserate,” I assure him. “I’ve just seen some of your Palestinians. Ugly black skin, gobbledygook language, bad hair, shabby clothes.”

“Actually,” he tells me, “you’re describing the Falasha, the Ethiopian Jews of Gondor. They claim to be descended from Menilek the First, the son of the Queen of Sheba and King Solomon. Israel is extremely proud to have rescued that lost tribe.”

Oh… Uhhh! From his tone, I can hear how offended he is.

A chilly night on a hill outside the farming community of Netiv Ha’asara about

7 miles south of Ashkelon. Mike and I stand among the locals, looking across the border 800 yards away as the Israeli Air Force pounds the Gazans into submission. Or not, as the case seems to be. I feel like Napoleon at Borodino, surveying the battle from the heights. Geckos rustle in the underbrush. I intro myself to the man standing next to me. He’s wearing jeans and a gorgeous hand-knitted cardigan. His name is Shmuel. “How do you like Israel?” he demands.

“It’s very nice.”

“How long have you been here?”

“We just arrived.”

“Eh! What do you know? Everything is a mess!” he retorts angrily.

Like soldiers everywhere, we compare notes.

“The only Jews marching into the sea at this point are beachcombers and tourists bathing,” I suggest. “The Gazans must be sorely disappointed.”

“The contrast between Israel’s military efforts,” Shmuel replies, “and Hamas is all you need to know about the morality of our cause. We make phone calls and drop leaflets, endeavoring to prevent killing civilians in Gaza by warning them beforehand. Hamas endeavors to kill civilians in Israeli while using their own civilians as human shields. When anyone gets injured, they consider that a PR opportunity! You know where the Hamas leadership is currently headquartered? Inside al-Shifa Hospital in Gaza City! They fire rockets from the roof!”

Hmm. “Since surprise is half the battle in combat,” I opine, “this current Israeli op cannot even be classified as an attack. It’s a policing operation, a clean-up detail.”

“Yes, until we send in ground troops,” replies Shmuel. Dourly. Ending the discussion.

I’m a tourist. What do I know?

We return north the next day to a spookily empty Tel Aviv. Lt. Gen. Benny Gantz, Chief of Staff of the Israel Defense Forces, has mobilized 40,000 reservists, rotated active duty personnel south from the West Bank and the Golan Heights, and amassed three brigades along the border with Gaza.

Mike and I haven’t walked four blocks before two female security officers in brown khaki uniforms stop us to check our I.D.’s. “Americans? Journalists?” they ask, comparing my passport photo to my face. “You look better clean-shaven.”

“Thank you,” I reply. “I try to do my best here in your fine country.”

“Journalists?” they repeat, growing increasingly hostile.

“No, no,” Mike insists. “We’re just two tourists here to smuggle stolen antiquities out of the country while everyone is preoccupied with the war.”

Shaking their heads disapprovingly at our brand of American humor, they return our passports, saying curtly “Have a good stay.”

Ten minutes later, the screeching throb of air-raid sirens sends us scurrying in three different directions. Until it dawns on us that neither Mike nor I have a clue where to seek shelter. Standing in the middle of the street, we are impressed by the double boom of the Iron Dome anti-missile defense system taking out an incoming rocket. The first boom is louder than the second. Then an eerie silence descends on us all, quiet as the grave. Until, eventually, birds begin to chirp, people converse and traffic starts up. Like emissaries from behind a shroud.

Iron Dome was developed by Rafael Advanced Defense Systems. It is the only system in the world for intercepting and destroying incoming missiles that has this level of capability. Using algorithms, Iron Dome calculates the trajectories of incoming rockets, focusing firepower only on those destined to hit populated areas. Of the rockets it does target, Iron Dome boasts a whopping 90% kill ratio! Nice. In spite of similar looks, we’re not talking Katyushas from World War Two. Making our way to the nearest battery, the IDF personnel let us stand at a distance and admire the array. The detection and tracking radar is mounted on a truck a block away.

“Don’t kid yourself,” one soldier tells me, on a smoking break, his M-16 slung casually over his shoulder. But instantly available. “People in Israel are plenty angry over this rocket fire coming out of Gaza. This time, Hamas has overplayed its hand. Even the Egyptians are fed up with Hamas militancy. You need to travel far and wide to find anyone supporting Hamas nowadays. Only Qatar remains in their corner.”

Going online, I find weird shit, like 500 people at a Saturday, July 12th demonstration in Antwerp in Belgium. Where a featured orator shouts in Arabic, “Slaughter the Jews!” The chant is readily picked up by the crowd. Attending this fun event are politicians from the Flemish Socialist Party, the Flemish Green Party and Labor.

On Sunday, July 13th, in gay Paris, there’s an attempted lynching in the midst of a riot outside a local synagogue. While 200 Jews find themselves under siege inside, police and Jewish guards brawl openly up and down the street with dozens of angry, young, pro-Hamas toughs.

Social Media Manager Rene Smit of the African National Congress Western Cape— busy desecrating the legacy of Nelson Mandela— posts an image of Hitler on Facebook with the title “Yes, man, you were right…” Followed by the caption “I could have killed all the Jews, but I left some of them to let you know why I was killing them.” Cute. Eventually, after official protests, Facebook deletes Rene’s post.

On their podcast, The Jerome & Joanie O’Doyle Christian Crusade condemns the Israelis and Netanyahu, the Palestinians, the rebels in Eastern Ukraine, Russia and Putin, the Catholic Church (for apostasy), Silvio Berlusconi, and “the Jewish cabal in Washington.” Joanie’s litany of complaint goes on for so long, abetted by her yes-man husband, she reaches the point where it sounds like a joke. “The whole world is complaining! We’re in the End Times!” she assures us. “Jesus is coming! And I mean soon! ”

She sounds like an American version of Ylva Eggehorn.

I log off.

That evening, we take Izzy, our contact, to Sing Long, a hidden gem of a Chinese restaurant on Salame Street down by the Central Bus Station in Tel Aviv. A squirrely little weasel, Izzy asks “So how do you like Israel?” Mike and I look at each other, no longer willing to get ambushed. My first fortune cookie says Pick another fortune cookie. I try again. This one says The weather is wonderful.

Which seems totally irrelevant.

Egypt calls for a six hour humanitarian truce on both sides. Signing up, the Israelis cease bombing at 9 a.m. on Tuesday, July 15th. For the first time in over a week, Gazans are free to move about, restock their larders and make long-term preparations without fear of death from above. Hamas finds six different reasons why Egypt’s proposed ceasefire is totally unacceptable. Senior Hamas leader the baby-faced Sami Abu Zuhri announces that (1) Hamas was not consulted in advance. (2) The Egyptian proposal is a trap. (3) Hamas has been insulted! “We are holding in our hands a proposal we got off social media,” complains Zuhri. “We refuse to be dealt with in such a way.” (4) Gaza’s border crossing with Egypt must first be reopened. (5) Hundreds of prisoners jailed last month by the Israelis must be released. (6) Gaza’s financial assets must be unfrozen so Hamas can pay back wages to teachers, police officers and government workers who have gone unpaid for months.

Then they’ll consider a ceasefire!

Next Zuhri will be telling us Wernher von Braun was Palestinian. Hamas’s rockets continue to fall on Israel during the entire unilateral cessation of hostilities. So after six hours, the Israeli government has had enough and resumes their offensive.

Inured, the Israelis don’t close up shop just because there’s a war going on. Leaving my jet-lagged compadre asleep at the hotel, I go to the University of Tel Aviv library to study up on antiquities. I’m sitting at a desk among the stacks taking notes when I look up and see a strikingly handsome young woman with jet black hair and freckles staring at me. In shock. She wears a clingy blue dress, tight in all the right places. Widening her hazel eyes, she appears totally terrified. Not wanting to shout, I get up and quietly approach her. “Are you all right?” I ask.

“You… are… so… big,” she says in halting English. “You… frighten me. You are… a giant.”

“That’s me,” I joke, “I am a giant among men.”

“Laila,” she says, offering me her hand. Red painted fingernails as sharp as stilettos, long tapering fingers. Soft to the touch.

She jumps, as if jolted by an electrical charge. “You are busy? We go for coffee?” she asks, already drifting toward the exit. Following in her footsteps, unable to take my eyes off her bodacious body, it’s all I can do to go back and grab my stuff. Let somebody else re-shelve the damn books!

We walk across campus and plunk ourselves down in the Ma sh’lom’chem Café. We sit in a booth. Laila has a long, bantering conversation in Hebrew with the waitress.

“They know you here,” I surmise.

“Of course. I’m a student,” she tells me, her English fluency growing by the millisecond. “So what brings you to Israel, Mr. Englishman?”

“I’m American. Studying antiquities. We intend to smuggle some of them out of the country,” I joke.

Widening her eyes, Laila says “That’s illegal!”

“I’M JOKING!”

“Oh, in that case— ” she says primly, opening her purse and plucking out an e-cigarette. Going through the motions, she inhales a cloud of vapor, blowing two streams elegantly out through her pretty little nostrils.

“How old are you?” I ask.

“Why?” she demands suspiciously.

“You are a lot of woman!” I point out admiringly.

“Oh, goody!” she says brightly, reaching across the table and squeezing my hand. “We like each other! I’m an Israeli Arab. You take me with you to America!”

I have to laugh. “That,” I tell her, “is about the most complicated process humanly imaginable. You need a visa, you’re dealing with the State Department, there are quotas, waiting lists, applications, health exams, vaccinations and a vetting process that can take over a year.”

“I’m here,” she declares forthrightly. “I’ll never be anything but a second-class citizen in Israel. A year? I can wait. What’s a year!” she jeers, running her fingernails up and down my arm playfully, leaving marks. “We’ll go to your embassy. I’ve been there! It’s right here in Tel Aviv.”

Oh, boy! My very own Palestinian Barbie doll. To have and to hold.

Jumping to her feet, Laila comes around to my side of the booth and sits down next to me, pressing against me, one hand finding and massaging the bump on the back of my noggin. “I’m a lonely person,” she croons in my ear in a sultry voice. “I’m such a lovely person!”

The waitress brings the coffee, glaring furiously. She all but drops the cups on the table, hissing volubly in Hebrew. Laila answers right back, raising her chin defiantly. I start to get an erection, in spite of myself. “If we like each other, why shouldn’t we be together?” she asks innocently, her other hand discreetly squeezing my crotch under the table. She licks my ear for good measure.

I try to disengage. This girl is strong as an ox! Kissing my neck. Whispering “I love you, big boy!” Boring a hole in the back of my head with those fingernails. Her other hand deep inside the waistband of my trousers.

“Okay! Okay! Laila, stop!” I beseech her fiercely, squirming all over the booth like a Jack in the Box. “We’ll go to the embassy. For God’s sake, relax!”

Pulling away from me, she drinks some coffee, vapes on her e-cig and looks out the window distractedly. “I’m… upset… because… of… the war,” she stutters, a single glistening tear running down her cheek while that treacherous left hand caresses my nether regions absentmindedly. This is what life is going to be like with this girl, high drama interspersed with constant edginess. I wonder if she ever sleeps. I didn’t come to Israel for this. Already, she’s pawing through my spiral notebook, ostentatiously studying my notes. “It’s all about pottery!” she remarks, surprised.

“Most antiquities are pottery,” I explain. “Stone tablets. Bowls, flasks, statuettes, tools.”

“You’re not really going to smuggle things out of the country,” she decides. “You’re an exporter.”

It suddenly dawns on me that as an Israeli Arab, Laila is probably terrified of run-ins with the law. “I’m an exporter,” I assure her.

A genius with my cell phone, quick as a wink, Laila’s got us a taxi and we’re on our way to the American Embassy. On the ride over, she makes two more calls, also on my phone, which— mercifully— has international compatibility. She speaks fluent Arabic both times.

The plot thickens.

Of course, at six p.m. on a weekday, the embassy is closed… Closed, closed, closed, the windows dark, the sentry at the gate waving us away with his hand, his automatic rifle slung across his chest.

“Where are you staying?” asks Laila.

“The Golden Med. It faces the beach…”

Her busy little hands running through my hair and inside my jacket, she begins a long, complicated conversation in Hebrew with the driver. Laughing, she explains: “He’s just like me. We’re both Israeli Arabs. Yet we converse with each other in Hebrew. Funny, no?”

“A riot,” I gripe, wondering what I’m going to tell Mike. We arrive at the hotel. I pay the driver cash, in dollars— always welcome— and follow Laila through the lobby, her head held high, past the bellhops, to the elevators, her heels tapping a tattoo across the marble floor.

“What’s your room number?” she whispers, clutching me with both hands.

“804.”

We take the elevator up to the 8th floor and wander down the hall to my room. I let us in. Laila checks it out appreciatively, the foyer, the closet, the bedroom, the bathroom. “Who’s he?” she asks, kicking off her shoes and peeling off her dress, prior to taking a shower.

“That’s Mike, my traveling companion,” I reply, pointing to his comatose head peeking over the edge of the blanket.

“You’re not gay?!” Laila gasps, widening her eyes, arms all akimbo.

“Relax, honey, I’m not gay.”

She lays down on my bed in her undergarments, atop the Navy blue coverlet. Flat on her back, staring at the ceiling, she decides, “This bed is hard as concrete.”

“Eh! When have you ever slept on concrete?” I chide. Considering it’s my hotel room, I find her critique a little unfair, a little extreme.

“Have you ever lived in a concrete blockhouse in the Arab quarter?” she shoots back. “Have you ever slept on a stone floor with a blanket as thin as tissue paper?”

I have to admit I haven’t.

And don’t you know, our conversation awakens Sleeping Beauty, who is delighted to find a scantily clad woman lying on the bed adjacent to his own. Mike and Laila get along like gangbusters! Why not? Two crooks, they’re made for each other. She doesn’t even seem embarrassed to go from being my girlfriend to Mike’s fiancée.

Youth. Forever hopeful.

Of course, you can’t be involved in criminal activity without showing up on the radar screen of the Russian mafia. It wouldn’t be Israel otherwise. Two gorillas are waiting for us in the lobby of our hotel. “You!” they tell Laila. “Scram! ”

“I’ll talk to you later,” she calls desperately, as we’re led from the building. No one shows a gun. No one needs to! We are driven, unblindfolded mind you, to an office building downtown. Clearly, they want us to know who we’re dealing with. Mike and I are taken to the sub-sub-basement of a parking garage. Sure enough, there’s an office cum storeroom there, stacked to the ceiling with boxed computers and widescreen TV’s.

“Can I use my Best Buy gift card?” quips Mike.

“You have a sense of humor,” says our host, “Sergei,” approvingly. Ponderous, a Yul Bryner look-alike, he has a bald head and a huge paunch. “These dealings can get so boring otherwise.”

“I thought Russians in Israel were all thin and rakish,” I exclaim in a “hail fellow, well met” tone of voice, wishing to take the initiative.

“We sweated your stooge Izzy,” Sergei informs us stolidly, glowering. “He spilled the beans like a jam jar.”

“He what?” asks Mike.

“You,” Sergei explains, ignoring Mike’s interruption, “will share 50% of the profits on this one-time-only transaction taking place solely in our jurisdiction. You will not come back to Israel and you will not participate in the antiquities trade ever again.” He doesn’t even raise his voice, sipping borscht from a bowl with a tablespoon. Slurp! Slurp! The man dabs his purple lips with a napkin.

“Uh, listen, uh, look here, man! Wow! I mean…” Mike splutters like Dennis Hopper in the movie Easy Rider. “Sure!”

“That means you agree to our terms,” Sergei asks, each word like a slow punch to the kidneys. Mike and I look at each other and shake our heads timidly. We’ve heard about the Russian mafia. We want to get out of there with all our body parts.

“SPEAK!” Sergei roars, half jovial, half threatening.

“We agree to your terms,” I croak.

“Good! Now get the hell out of here! I have a lot of work to do!” he commands, a biznessman in the middle of his day, even if it’s 11 o’clock at night.

His goons hand each of us a business card. “Better not lose,” they mutter, sending chills down our spines.

Yikes!

Laila, bless her scheming little heart, requires a day or two alone with Mike to close their deal: She needs to intro him to her folks, drag him to the U.S. Embassy for paperwork, buy rings and win him over in her winsome, womanly way. An Arab, there’s no touchy-feely before marriage. Flirt, flirt, but no touch. This traditionally leaves the suitor in a state of high expectation and unrequited hysteria, turning him into clay in the fingers of any wily Palestinian damsel. Witness Samson and Delilah, for God’s sake!

Poor Mike!

With time on my hands, I take my pen and spiral notebook to the offices of The National Herald. They don’t know me there, of course, although I’ve haunted the fringes of both old and new media for years. [ Publisher’s Note: Cheap Shot, 2013 ]

At 6′ 2″ and 250 lbs., I definitely freak out the Arab boy photogs, sitting around on chairs in the courtyard smoking cigarettes, awaiting assignment. There’s a cool breeze in the shade, which is more than you can say about most of Israel in the summer. The screechy chirp of parakeets on adjacent balconies is deafening. “Anybody home?” I enquire.

“American?” they shrug, pointing to the inner sanctum. Going in, I find all the windows wide open, the ceiling fan thrumming, and two countrymen: Gene Pascoe, the half-bald bureau chief seated at his desk, and Lydia Lincoln, one of the two journos in Tel Aviv assigned to the Israeli-Palestinian story. The third member, Hank Nordmark, is currently a denizen of Gaza City and only in touch electronically.

“Josh Preacher!” I say forthrightly, extending my hand. “I freelance.”

“Oh?” asks Pascoe sardonically, eyebrows raised. “Everybody freelances. Got any creds?”

I list a few cable TV channels, the BBC, even drop a name or two on the editorial side at The National Herald. “Telex them,” I joke. “They’ll vouch for me.”

“Will they still vouch for you via satellite?” asks Pascoe, not amused.

“Yes.”

Surprised at my steely gaze, Pascoe swivels in his chair, looks out the window and asks, “What can we do for you?”

“Press credentials, of course.”

“No way! Not without permission from the home office!”

“Send a fax.”

Not entirely pleased, Pascoe and Lincoln find themselves saddled for the next two days with a stringer. “You tag along with Lydia. As far as I’m concerned, considering your bulk, you are nothing but a bodyguard,” insists Pascoe.

“Works for me!” I reply enthusiastically.

“You file here at my office or not at all. If you come up with any interesting angles, I’ll be mighty surprised and the first to congrats. Although I doubt it!”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Lydia adds as soon as we get outside where she nervously lights her fifth cigarette of the day. “Gene tells everyone that. Welcome to the Holy Land, by the by!” She actually reaches out a crabby hand and gives me a man-to-man handshake.

The Israelis treat us with a grudging forbearance, letting us attend press briefings, funerals, interviews with officials announced well in advance and “frontline tours” always ten clicks north of ha kadima, the action. I can see why Lydia has become cynical. The IDF girls assigned as our press monitors, guides, minders, babysitters and sheepherders are all of a type: Perky. Brittlely self-assured. Small-breasted. Noses in the air. They don’t take “no” for an answer and virtually all they ever say to us is “no.” Since only Hank Nordmark over in Gaza City can interview Gazans, we’re left trolling for Israeli news and public opinion. Seeking out the prettiest housewives I can find, I instruct Judas Abbas, my photog, to quietly take pix and “Try not to leer so openly, okay?!”

Best is the equipment: Black flak jackets with PRESS in huge yellow letters for everyone to see, blue Kevlar helmets and green foldable ear protectors like nobody’s business. The noise anywhere near the front is deafening, the dust suffocating.

And it’s fun!

“The Palestinians in Gaza have over 260 dead and 2,000 wounded. Their hospitals are charnel houses. Families hardly have time to bury their dead before the next bombardment. Hamas is hiding in the hospitals or in their own personal tunnel shelters and you are flirting with pretty ladies,” Lydia points out over Turkish coffee at an outdoor, French style café on Rehov Dizengoff. “Some people know how to live!” she marvels. “While I get to bang my head against the side of the tent interviewing military spokespeople or go purple with rage listening to prepared statements by cabinet ministers, you have all the laughs. Now I ask you, is that fair?!”

I apologize and pay for the coffee, which mollifies her. For the moment.

And, of course, beginner’s luck, I’m the one who lands an interview with Hamas leader Raed Abu Hashish, hiding out in Ramallah in the West Bank. Judas Abbas hails an Arab taxi which takes us right to Raed’s door. Some security. “Hebron would be safer,” he assures me straight off. “I can stay with the Qawasameh clan. Nobody hates the peace process like the Qawasameh! Even Hamas bows to their valor. Instead, I live in this rat-hole here in Ramallah. Which, after all, politically, is where the action is! Not only am I the Hamas liaison to Abu Mazen, I am also Hamas liaison to Allah.” Smoking like a chimney, bearded, bareheaded and smelling of old sweat and men’s cologne, he’s your typical grizzled warrior. “How do you like those Israelis?” he chides me. “They cross into Gaza and get their asses kicked. They never learn! Our warriors have fired the Russian Kornet anti-tank missile at their jeeps and tanks. They have many casualties! While we have none! None! We are invincible. Who is eyeless in Gaza now?

“We have unleashed a secret weapon we call The Army of Abdullah. We strap explosives to donkeys and explode them among the Israeli aggressors. Insha’Allah! Very effective. At least that’s what I am told. There’s no beating the Palestinian spirit.”

“You make tunnels,” I propose, as a starting point for the interview. “I can dig that. We have tunnels under some of America’s mightiest rivers. Enormous tunnels with many lanes of traffic in both directions. Baltimore’s Harbor Tunnel. The Holland Tunnel between New York and New Jersey. New York’s Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel. How about you build something above ground for a change, Raed? Anything!”

“Tell Obama! Tell el-Sisi. Tell Goodluck Jonathan of Nigeria and your pretty lady Katy Perry! A new generation of fedayeen has arisen. We are born warriors! We are victorious always! Even our exploding donkeys are victorious.”

“True, you are very brave,” I agree. “But it doesn’t lead anywhere. You cannot defeat the Israeli war machine. They cannot defeat you. Not militarily. Fine! But where do you go from here? When the fighting stops, do you use Israeli cement mixers to build up industry in Gaza or do you continue to pour $200 million into tunnel complexes and armaments?”

“That figure is wrong!” Raed swears vehemently. “It is only $180 million! The rest went toward medical supplies and helping the people. This no one can deny! Who told you $200 million? A typical Zionist fabrication!”

“If you keep this up,” I protest, “you’ll find yourselves tunneling to nowhere! ”

“Don’t cop an attitude with me, white boy! I majored in political science at UNC at Chapel Hill!” he insists, catching me totally off-guard.

“You— ”

“Hamas has tunneled itself into the hearts and minds of the people! George Lucas’s Star Wars is based on the glorious history of the Palestinian people. Everyone knows that Princess Leia was a Palestinian! Just look at her eyes. She has Palestinian eyes,” he points out morosely. “We are the sharks swimming in the sea of minnows. Chairman Mao said that.”

“Raed, you can’t tunnel your way to China! Give peace a chance,” I suggest. “There’s so much you guys could do together with the Israelis— ”

“Never!”

“Then what about the Crazy Water Aqua Fun Park built in 2010? Three swimming pools, a 100 meter long canal, water slides, ponds with pedal boats, a restaurant, a café, piped in music. The clerics called it a sacrilege and you guys burned it all down!”

“Islamists burned it down,” Raed insists balefully. “Hamas did not burn down the water park! That is a falsehood. As your Churchill said, ‘We shall fight them on the beaches!’ Men and women mingled. This park violated the Koran. The people rebelled. Hamas does not make war on amusement parks.”

“Well, you’re at war now!”

“We are constructing Tunnels of Love!”

“That may be so, but you’ve turned Gaza into one big military base. No civilian infrastructure to speak of.”

“What’s your point?” Raed asks, fidgeting visibly.

“What are your plans for the future?” I beseech him, hopeful that I am at least planting a seed just by asking.

Eyes glistening, Raed licks his lips and smiles mischievously. “A surprise,” he whispers. “Once Iran goes nuclear…” he laughs and, his hand to his throat, makes a cutting motion.

England, Spain, Poland and India announce the formation of a Coalition of the Willing, vowing to do whatever it takes to stop rocket attacks from Gaza, including

— Telephone terror, harassing Gazans by phone

— Protests at the United Nations

— TV advertising campaigns belittling Palestinian manhood

— Contracting the Gazans to build tunnels under the Great Wall of China

— An exploratory committee to investigate the feasibility of sending all 1.7 million Gazans to live on Mars by the year 2025.

Obama vacillates over joining this coalition. Despite pressure from Congress, he says he favors “American impartiality” over “agreements that would tie us down to any one course of action.”

A thousand dollars richer but no wiser, I return to Arlington, Virginia. Who started this fight? It seems to me the fuse was lit when three Israeli teenagers on their way home from school got kidnapped and murdered by Palestinian terrorists. Although you’ll never get the Palestinians to admit that it was them what did it!

Now that I’m home, I don’t exactly enjoy reading The National Herald and America’s other leading newspapers, not when their worldview portrays valiant Palestinian freedom fighters battling oppressive Israeli occupiers. What’s their context, the 1948 War of Independence? Palestinians call that the “naqba,” the catastrophe that gave their country to the Jews. Since most Americans abhor suicide bombers and missile attacks, Americans automatically side with the Israelis. Pearl Harbor and 9/11 have left their scars. A reader, no longer down there myself, I cannot help but notice that newspaper editors at America’s largest morning dailies apparently feel it is their job to counteract this public sympathy. They emphasize casualties and suffering among the Palestinians. All too often we see pictures of massive Palestinian funeral cortèges, while the Israelis are left to bury their dead in journalistic silence.

Even with a ratio of 1:100, are Israeli fatalities any less dead than Palestinian? I think not. As Shakespeare put it, “If you cut me, do I not bleed?”

For three generations, Palestinian refugees have sat in their camps, living on alms from the international community, gnashing their teeth in anger and bemoaning their fate. Their schools teach them that “Israel stole Palestine like a thief in the night,” as the Palestinians in East Jerusalem so eloquently put it. How do you make peace with someone who nurtures that mindset?

Probably, you don’t.

As the Israelis say, they are all k’tsat araveet, “a little Arabic.” Meaning untrustworthy and unpredictable.

Never-the-less, not even the Gazans know smuggling like the Palestinians of East Jerusalem! We presented them with our problem, “How do we get the goods out of the country?” They solved it with three international phone calls. Amazing!

The war drags on. Israel claims that it’s only in Gaza searching for illicit pita bread. Rockets are falling and you’re busy closing off tunnels? Hello-o! Get rid of the rawkits! Netanyahu goes on TV and declares, “Bread smuggling leads to food fights. Sheket, bevakasha! We want quiet on the border.” The Neil Young concert scheduled for outdoors in Tel Aviv’s Hayarkon Park, months in the planning, has been cancelled.

After watching John Kerry, our indomitable Secretary of State, make a fool of himself for the umpteenth time at a televised press conference, I get annoyed enough to talk with Jim Poindexter at the CIA. “It doesn’t help anyone, American, Israeli or Palestinian,” says Jim, “when American officials sound off in public. They should choose carefully what they say. I do.”

What possible credentials qualify a dork like John Kerry for Secretary of State? Swiftboat captain in the Vietnam War? Senator? Chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee? Failed presidential candidate? Married into the Heinz Ketchup fortune? Choose any of the above.

A recipient of the Mahatma Gandhi Peace Prize, I think I can call myself eligible to negotiate a ceasefire in Gaza. (You make a $100 charitable contribution to the Mumbai Peace Institute, Inc.— a diploma mill in India— and they send you a handsome, embossed certificate suitable for both résumé and framing.) Kerry’s in Cairo. I’m waiting, but my phone doesn’t ring.

Demonstrators from Al-Awda, the Palestinian Right to Return Coalition, parade noisily outside the White House, calling on Israel to cease and desist. Dressed in kaffiyehs, carrying mock headstones, they claim Israel’s attacks on Gaza are unprovoked.

By the rockets’ red glare… unprovoked??? UNPROVOKED???

I miss Laila terribly.

 

*********** Chapter 13 – “Sodden Death” *************

           It’s a dark and stormy afternoon, but the paid assassin is ready, dressed in killer jeans and a drop dead fawn leather jacket that retails at an exclusive $7,000. Members of the ruling caste, Farooq’s clan of Kashmiri Muslims feels that soldiers of Allah have the right to look good. As he hurriedly jogs around a corner, a puddle promptly empties itself into Farooq’s right foot Sperry Top-Sider brown leather casual boat shoe. Available at discerning retailers everywhere. Sighing, extremely irritated, Farooq controls his breathing, reminding himself that the price of fashion is always steep. Checking his gold Rolex, Farooq sees that he has time. His target never spends less than ten minutes sitting on the can.

Such is the life of an assassin: Farooq needs to know things like how long his intended victim takes to defecate.

Hip hop made Farooq Al-Qahar. While he was an exchange student in a suburban high school outside Baltimore, the entire hip hop / house dance fusion “Baltimore club” music scene exploded overnight. Taking everyone by surprise. A typical Al-Qahar, always mechanically adept, Farooq quickly established himself as an independent music producer. No one else could mix beats and lyrics like DJ Farooq. So when the phone call came from Kashmir and it was Farooq’s cousin Abdul Raheem, Farooq’s heart sank. “Yes, cousin!” Farooq declared loudly, since Kashmiri phone connections are notoriously bad.

“You will receive shortly in the mail,” Abdul Raheem tells him in the Kashmiri language Koshur, “materials related to a particularly profane infidel who has committed sacrilege and insulted our God. Your job, oh cousin: Find this individual, neutralize him and see that no one ever again mistakes his heinous crimes for stand-up comedy.”

Farooq quails. Having made it big in America, the last thing he wants to do is screw things up by murdering someone.

“What did he want?” asks Farooq’s young wife Kapila, an ethereally beautiful creature whose father owns half the marketplace in Kishtwar. Coming to America was no coincidence: Kapila wanted to escape the India-Pakistani conflict over Kashmir. Farooq’s clan simply wanted him to have the very best.

“They, the family, want me to kill somebody,” Farooq explains. “A heretic heathen enemy of Allah.”

“Ridiculous!” cries Kapila. “After all you have worked and slaved for! To commit a crime and go to jail? Never!”

“Assassination of non-believers is not a crime,” Farooq reminds her, preparing his evening hookah with prime Malawi tobacco which he arranges to have flown in by private jet. Even a paid assassin has a right to live a life of luxury. Although Farooq has to admit that he has gone soft in America. He’s not sure he can still torture Hindu Pandit opponents with a smoldering cigarette or gouge out their eyes. Is he still courageous enough to hang people in trees in the name of Allah? Unlike the Jihadis in the training camps in the Bekaa Valley of Lebanon, Farooq is no longer capable of 20 one-armed pull-ups in a row. Even working out once a week on the Nautilus at Gold’s Gym, those days are clearly behind him. The proud father of two young sons, Farooq leaves the acts of bravado to younger men. Kapila’s incessant need for sex has sapped his strength, replacing it with cocky self-assurance and a can-do attitude that helps Farooq to instantly fit in with his neighbors in the tony environs of Ellicott City outside Baltimore.

“Ah, young Farooq,” comments Dwayne Gibbons, the roly-poly car salesman who has sold Farooq the cherry red Fiat with the six-foot replica of a can of Zowie Energy Drink on the roof. “Another immigrant success story in America!”

The car comes with monthly gas money from the advertising department at Zowie Energy Drink.

“Only in America,” comments Kapila.

“Only in America,” swears Farooq, filled with self-loathing over this materialistic sell-out to the almighty dollar. Justifiably, Farooq feels like a whore. Although if anyone offered him a million dollars, he’d be hard-pressed to say “no.” (Hint, hint!) Falling back on the family tradition of assassination gives Farooq an opportunity to redeem himself in both his own eyes and the eyes of his family.

“In America, murder is a crime!” insists Kapila, angrily slapping his face. “You commit the crime, you do the time.”

A Kashmiri, Farooq punches his disrespectful wife full on the jaw. No Kashmiri wife disrespects her man, even if her father does own half the marketplace in Kishtwar. Besides, Farooq is a good provider. Even with Punjabi-class tastes, their home is a shrine to American splendor: Marimekko drapery, Arhaus couches, BoDesign chairs and tables, beds by Swedish Hästens, kitchen appliances from Bray & Scarff, bathroom fixtures by Latrec.

Modern warfare is fought on at least four different levels. No. 1 is the war on the battlefield. No. 2 is command and control, headquarters gaming the war for best results. No. 3 is political warfare, Clausewitz’s “War is politics by other means.” No. 4 is the war of words, the public media debate over who is right and who is the bad guy. In 2014, Israel shows a supreme mastery of this last facet of warfare. When describing their Palestinian enemy, Israel has nothing but praise for their abilities, their sophistication, their armaments. You really have to practice to push your emotions that far down into your boots when evaluating your enemy. The Israelis do it because it avoids the traditional incitement to riot in places like Paris— filled to bursting with North Africans— and Cairo— always ready to explode— as well as Morocco, Yemen, Somalia and the Sudan. All loose cannons hungering for battle. As long as someone else does the actual fighting. “You defeat the Israeli imperialists,” they shout, “and we will support you, oh brothers, from here on the sidelines!”

Not surprisingly, with the world under economic duress in 2014, with Libya and Syria and Iraq all on the verge of disintegrating as nation states, no saber rattling can be heard from Arabia. Leaving the poor Palestinians furious with their Arab brothers. Bad timing, guys! Maybe next year.

Once the Israeli Air Force’s Operation Protective Edge is replaced by a ground war, Israel plays the game with finesse and a poker face. Ostensibly, the IDF is in Gaza to locate and seal up Hamas’s tunnel network into Israel. Should they happen to stumble upon a cache of rockets, rocket components and assorted hardware, the soldiers will naturally destroy them as well. That seems only natural. But missile eradication is never the purpose of the mission. In the world of ideas, expressed in words, Israel can bluff itself into a straight flush every time.

The Palestinian game plan is to provoke Israeli attacks and then use the civilian population as human punching bags. In the resulting carnage, Palestinian spokesmen cry indignantly for a worldwide condemnation of Israel! Presto! For 60 years, this has been the Palestinian method: When outnumbered and dominated by a more powerful opponent, goad him into attacking. Then lie on the ground and bawl your head off. “Boo hoo hoo! Look at all my dead relatives! The Jews did this!” This perennial lament of the fedayeen works every time!

So the Israeli expressions of regret whenever there are civilian casualties in Gaza, the detached tone of their announcements, and the policy of warning neighborhoods with leaflets, telephone calls and roof knocking bombs (“This is a warning shot, a missile with a payload will be along in five minutes!”) are all carefully calculated to dissuade worldwide condemnation and save as many Israeli lives as possible. When talk is part of the package, the Israeli’s talk the talk and walk the walk.

Palestinian technique, while bombastic, is equally effective: You know the photos of the two young, pretty Palestinian girls crying in anguish at the U.N. safe school that got bombed? When you see the filmed footage, the kids are sitting against a wall looking as passive and unobtrusive as any children anywhere. Then a woman in a black hijab says to them in Arabic, “Cry out against the oppressor! Cry out in fear and anger against the enemy!” That’s when the two little girls begin weeping and wailing. Working themselves into a fine lather, they look around the room in abject terror. All this propaganda. Staged for the cameras.

The West eats it up!

Unfortunately, America’s dear President and Secretary of State haven’t progressed far enough along the road of life to identify methods that work. No matter how cogent your arguments, Mr. President, people are not going to act against their own best interests. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me! Fool me three times, I’m Secretary of State John Kerry and President Obama. Calling for a truce when there’s no reason. Pressuring Israel but not the Palestinians. Holding endless press conferences to pontificate, declaring “Victory! I, John Kerry, will bring peace to the Middle East! I will untie the Gordian knot!” All in advance of actually visiting the war zone. White noise, speechifying helps no one.

If you send a stupid man to an important region in the midst of a major upheaval, the professional politicians on site are going to ask why. When they discover that our man is a ninny, they lose all faith in America, all respect for our government. Hard workers themselves, they know the difference between a gem of a politician and a naive, worthless blowhard.

It’s not only America that is having difficulty navigating the cultures and the personalities. On Meet the Press on July 27, 2014, David Gregory interviews Netanyahu. Expecting the worst, I am deeply impressed by both his rationality and his resolve. I always wondered why he was so popular. Now I know! David Gregory later interviews Christopher Gunness, the spokesman of UNRWA, the United Nations Relief and Works Agency. Who have been housing Palestinian refugees in safe schools in Gaza. If anyone’s supposed to be impartial, it’s the U.N. I expect one of those lugubrious Scandinavian bureaucrats droning on about the need for more aid. Instead, Gunness is a sunburned ass-hole with a British accent. In a defensive crouch, blathering on about “the most appalling carnage.” Yada, yada, yada. Carnage??? Who knew?! Mr. Gunness starts arguing even before David Gregory has asked him anything controversial. A player with his own agenda, this man is no neutral. And he says things like the U.N. “has been accused of handing over weapons to Hamas.” Look, if you are the leader of UNRWA and you are accused of funneling arms to Hamas, you are obviously in way over your head. You need to be replaced.

Israel will eventually win this war, despite the Prez’s and the Secretary of State’s best efforts to sabotage the war effort. Israel will emerge victorious. Hamas, the Palestinian Authority and the United States will all come out losers.

Some good will come out of it, though: No more mulatto presidents for this republic!

I’m at a cocktail party at Sky House Apartments in southwest DC. I’m happily sounding off about individual freedom. “Intrinsically and culturally, we human beings are all hard-wired to lust after freedom. This makes every ethnic group a liberation movement in being. They may not be in open rebellion yet, but the latent potential is always there! Ethnic groups harbor a proclivity to seek their freedom. All through history, ethnic minorities have struggled against the nation state and mighty empires. Ask the Romans, the British, the Portuguese or the Dutch, every empire struggled with rebellion. It’s in our nature to rebel!”

I love Washington, DC. There are all these yummy yuppie females, be they Congressional aides, secretaries, lobbyists or interns. All dolled up and looking for a brilliant fuck. Of course I try to accommodate. Who wouldn’t?! It’s my patriotic duty. As I speak, I nail a pretty brunette. She stares back with melting brown eyes. She can hardly contain herself, she’s so steamed. Elaborating, I give examples: “The Palestinians desire statehood. The Scots want their independence from the United Kingdom. The Iraqi Kurds want Kurdistan, a country of their own. Indigenous Indian tribes in the Amazon. The Kashmiris want a nation of Kashmir. What’s next, the Kardashians demanding their own country, ‘The Kingdom of Kardashian’? Wait! I’ll draw you a map…”

The ladies laugh like tinkling bells, the men frown knowingly. As I sidle up to my target female, I feel a tug at my elbow. ¿Qué?

“You’re not serious about what you just said?” demands Tom Bartelli of the CIA. Man, is he angry!

“Just making polite conversation.”

“Come outside!” he growls furiously in my ear. We go out on the patio, nursing our drinks. We look down at the traffic on the Whitehurst Freeway. In the distance, night kayakers ply the Potomac. “If you believe that crap you were spouting,” exclaims Bartelli, “you’re an idiot!”

“I was just trying to impress the ladies,” I bleat. Nobody wants trouble with the CIA.

“Listen, Bozo, didn’t you see Senator Cavanaugh and those Congressional assistants eating up your every syllable? Do you have any idea how much damage you’ve done?”

“I — ”

“Those people are paranoid enough to begin with, you klutz! Now you’re saying exactly what they need to hear in order to cut off foreign aid to half the globe! How the fuck can you have done that???”

“I — ”

“Liberation movements don’t magically pop up when public resentment reaches a critical mass, you idiot. Individuals create movements, not the other way around. You sound like a goddam Marxist, imagining ‘engines of history’ driving social change. Fidel Castro, Che Guevara, Ho Chi Minh, Lech Walesa, Alexei Navalny… HUMAN BEINGS lead revolutions, ass-hole! The Kashmiri conflict never ends because the Al-Qahar clan won’t let it. Every time there’s the semblance of a peace accord, they perpetrate some new act of terrorism against the Pandits or the Indians. Or both. Shoot-outs at the border. Bombings. Kidnappings. PEOPLE conduct freedom movements! Get that through your thick skull.”

“What can I say?”

“Do us all a favor!” suggests Bartelli. “DON’T SAY ANYTHING!” Still cooking mad, he marches back into the party.

Shaken but not stirred, I too return inside.

“So I told my boss, ‘Let me go to the West Coast and interview Ron Bushy. He was the drummer in Iron Butterfly and I’ve always wanted to meet him.’ And my boss asks where Mr. Bushy lives and I say L.A. And my boss says, ‘Hell, I have two stringers in L.A. who I pay to sit on their duffs all day. One of them can go interview this drummer!’ I’m tellin’ ya, he broke my heart!”

I introduce myself.

“Yeah. Jerry Reese, XM Satellite Radio,” he replies, firmly shaking my hand and looking me up and down like I might be trying to sell him fish. “What can I do for you?”

“Me? Nothing. I did just figure out what’s up with Katy Perry.”

“Oh?” he asks, interested. “Let’s hear!”

“She’s the new Madonna. The lady wants to be a singer. First she sang gospel rock as Katy Hudson and now she’s gone mainstream as Katy Perry. She’ll do whatever it takes to get to sing,” I explain proudly. This time I’ve got it nailed.

“That’s what you think is behind Katy Perry?” Jerry Reese scoffs. Shaking his head, he pours salt in my wounds: “You have no idea what motivates Katy Perry,” he declares. Before I can even come up with a rejoinder, he drifts markedly away from me. Anybody watching— and this is Washington, DC, there are always people watching— would think I’d just let fly an immense fart.

I can assure you that this was not the case! When I go looking for my very own brown-eyed girl, there, too, I get shot down.

I think it was critic Irving Howe who said, “Laughter and trembling are so curiously intermingled that it is not easy to determine the relationship between the two.”

Tell me about it!

Twitter has issues with me and not the other way around. Seeking the widest possible audience, I go for what’s trending. I tweet things like

#CanadaDay Oh stalwart friend & neighbor, pls accept delivery parcel post of one Justin Blieber (Blieber with an L). More @ rehcaerpsecurity.com

Not meant to be an advertising medium, the algorithms at Twitter take exception to me referring readers to my commercial website. For a couple of weeks, whenever I try to log on, Twitter stops responding. I know, you’re saying “Open a new account under another name! Everyone else does.” Anyway, once I update my profile, Twitter eventually allows me back on. I tweet:

#ArmedForcesDay would be a lot smoother if we stopped the Al-Qahar clan from dropping the dime on Kashmir.

#LadyGaga supports efforts to suppress the wanton terrorist assassins of the Al-Qahar clan in Kashmir, right?

#SixMoreWeeksofSummer give the Obama admin time to do something about the murderous Kashmiri Al-Qahar terrorist clan!

Listen, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this sorry life, it’s this: If you’re not on TV, radio or in the movies, you might as well not exist. No newspaper will write about you. No TV coverage for you, babe. No one will follow you on Twitter. You’re invisible, lost in the multitudinous crowd. That’s my super power: I’m invisible! Miraculously, one of my innumerable anti Al-Qahar tweets gets retweeted. Twitter sends me an email telling me so. Next time I try to log on, however, Twitter stops responding! Like, totally.

I broke the rules! I made a personal attack on a family. Banished by Twitter! Now that’s something to brag about.

Paying Chinese hackers in bitcoins, Farooq’s cousins get the alleged address of one Josh Preacher. It’s in southern Arlington, Virginia. Off Columbia Pike. Taking I-95 south to the Beltway, Farooq veers off at Exit 46B onto the spur to I-66, getting to the address in the late afternoon. He stakes the place out, discreetly placing battery- powered webcams at each corner of the property. Dozing in his car, he surreptitiously watches as a family of husband, wife, two kids and a Rottweiler wash their car, eat dinner, play stickball in the gloom, catch fireflies and finally retire to bed. Checking the address again, Farooq realizes he is on the wrong block.

Driving a preposterous vehicle, Farooq has found no one takes him seriously. The next morning, he tails his quarry across the Potomac River into Prince Georges County, Maryland to a huge military installation. Andrews Air Force Base it says on the sign out front. Farooq drives past, parks across the street at a donut shop, hunches down behind the wheel with an iPod and binoculars and proceeds to wait.

Four hours later, he can’t believe it. The dude went in and still hasn’t come back out! Anxious— sure he’s screwed up— Farooq drives the entire circumference of the base, all the way around, looking for other exits. Finding two, he assumes his target snuck out the back way a long time ago. Returning to the donut shop, Farooq goes in and has a lunch of two donuts, an egg sandwich and a cup of coffee. On his way out, he’s flabbergasted to see his target driving into the donut shop parking lot!!! It’s gotta be him, no one else would drive such a shitty car. Forcing himself to breathe slowly through his nose, Farooq gets in his cherry red Fiat with its ridiculous roof ornament and slowly inches his way out onto the main highway. He feels bad for muffing the opportunity of eliminating the infidel right then and there, but with so many people in uniform around, Farooq is just glad to make a clean getaway.

The National Herald should rechristen itself The Daily Hamas, so jaundiced and one-sided is their coverage. I don’t mind the endless photographs of Palestinian civilians screaming in anguish as much as the absolute glee their reporters take in reporting Israeli deaths. In great detail.

Meanwhile, the Israelis are blowing up houses in the Shijaiyah neighborhood of Gaza City. “Boo hoo hoo, our homes are destroyed,” cry the Palestinians, but everyone in Shijaiyah knows about the enormous number of tunnels crisscrossing the entire area and the tons of armaments stored therein. Hamas has tunneled their way into our consciousness, all right! There’s a reason the Palestinians fought so ferociously for Shijaiyah, the place is a major weapons depot. I shed crocodile tears for the Gazans. Who dug the tunnels, anyway? Voles?

Self-righteous calls by Obama and the U.N. Security Council for a long-term humanitarian ceasefire don’t impress anybody. Hamas is so busy shelling Israel, they’re dropping short rounds that blow up and kill Gazan civilians. Whose relatives are shouting for Allah to take revenge on the Israelis. The Israelis??? What’s wrong with this picture?

As the baby-faced Hamas spokesman Sami Abu Zuhri announced regarding the bombed school, “Israel is the accused party, and they don’t have the right to investigate and to press charges.”

Says you, Sami Abu! Reality trumps fiction. You can’t make this stuff up! Television spelled backwards is noisivelet.

Sitting at my desk massaging myself into an erection, I am just nearing that ecstatic moment of ejaculation when BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! Rapid-fire projectiles from a Dragunov 7.62 mm sniper rifle perforate the wall facing the street. I can’t fuckin’ believe this! I know it’s a Dragunov, the racket they make is unmistakable. But this ain’t Chechnya, folks, this is Arlington, Virginia! Still, anything’s possible in South Arlington. When I telephone the police, I get a woman dispatcher who says, “You’re reporting gunfire?”

“Yes, ma’am. Three shots went through both walls, front and back.”

“Three shots were fired, perforating walls in both the front and back?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do you live in a shotgun house?”

The two bozo Arlington cops who come to investigate ask me, “Who did this?”

“You’re asking me?” I ask in turn.

“Don’t answer a question with a question. That seems evasive,” the younger of the two lectures me.

“Well, ex-cuse me! ”

“See! Now you’re being sarcastic. That doesn’t help at all! Let’s be civilized, shall we?” he asks, pulling out a pair of handcuffs.

“Now you’re gonna cuff me, for God’s sake?!”

“We need answers, not chickenshit,” he explains sonorously. Waiting.

So I tell them everything I know, which is basically nil. I am hated by people in far off places, but I don’t tell them that. I mean, Mike and I paid the Russian mafia in Tel Aviv, so I know it isn’t them. Chechens? That crazy sea captain? If it was a blast from a handgun, I’d write it off as neighborhood gangs. It’s summer. Am I witnessing a rerun of Roxie and her Wild One Harley MC gangster boyfriend Jimmy? Firstly, I didn’t hear a motorcycle and secondly, knowing them, they’d want a High Noon-style dramatic confrontation, not displaced masonry.

No, I don’t know who this is.

I know that if I can just find the right lady, the rest of my life will fall into place and I can complete this endless quest. A woman whose manual dexterity matches her room temperature IQ. But cute!

I can’t vouch for the first two points, but on the Metro, I definitely zoom in on the duchess sitting in the corner by the connecting door. With a matching boyfriend, she is blond and has a Dutch Amish rosiness to her cheeks, pale white skin, enormous blue eyes, cherry red lips and a perfect little button nose. Me like! At the very next stop, I throw her boyfriend off the train.

“Hey! Whoa! Wait! ” he howls, as I hold him stiff-armed from re-entering the car. “Are you insane, fellah?!”

“Stand clear of the doors,” chirps the recorded announcement. “Doors closing! ”

I give him a final, mighty shove that sends him sprawling. Once underway, I turn back to milady. “What is this?” she asks. “Is this a hostage situation?” She looks really worried.

“Love at first sight,” I shrug apologetically. “That’s just the effect you have on people!” I grin, holding aloft both hands helplessly. I’m already going nuts over her Pennsylvania Dutch accent. I have the distinct feeling that this girl has great potential. That’s the only reason for the “snatch & grab” protocol. I mean, she didn’t scream when I attacked her man. She didn’t even try to exit the train. And the look in her eyes now— a combo of fear and excitement— functions like an aphrodisiac. She also demonstrates some weird facial tics, like twitching her nose and grimacing with her mouth. “A woman like you,” I point out, “a man would do anything for.”

“Yes,” she confirms coldly, “that’s what Carl, my fiancé, says.”

“Well, Carl has exquisite taste,” I smile, laying it on thick. “I hope my uncouth display didn’t forever turn you against me.”

“I don’t even know you! ” the lady blurts, irritated and fidgeting.

“I’m a knight errant. Your knight in shining armor. Very rarely prone to violence,” I tell her in a hopelessly forlorn, little boy tone of voice.

In the summer of 1967, the Beatles held a worldwide TV broadcast, playing and singing live the song All You Need Is Love. I wasn’t even born then, but I’ve seen the kinescope.

Looking me over, this damsel says, “My daddy is a violent man.”

Bingo!

Her name is Jennifer and I take her in my Citroën jalopy to get ice cream cones at Westover Shopping Center. By now she’s living with me— she couldn’t very well go back to Carl— but so far, we’re nothing more than room-mates. So this is officially a “date.” We haven’t even gotten off Wakefield turning right on 6th Street, heading for George Mason Drive, when I look up and see a squat, swarthy dude in shorts and a hoodie aiming an RPG at us. He’s pretty built and has some facial hair going on. I mean, the local elementary school is right there, this is beyond bizarre. “Where are we, Beirut? ” I am thinking.

Foosh!

Shit, shit, shit, he’s fired at us! I’m swerving the car, a Citroën piece of French junk to begin with, but hip. It jumps the curb and wheeeee! We’re roaring up some family’s suburban lawn. I swerve again to avoid the gray longhaired dog chained to a spike on the front grass. Bonk! I plow the nose of my car into the hedge surrounding the house. As we jolt to a stop, poor Jennifer is wailing to beat the band. There’s a terrific explosion. As I pop the door and stumble to the ground, scuffing my shoes and getting grass stains on my kneecaps, I look to the corner. Having missed us by a hairbreadth, the rocket propelled grenade has taken out… the entire fire hydrant! Literally cut to pieces, there’s nothing left but a chewed metal stump. Crystal clear water fountains skyward like a geyser.

“What the fook are you doin’?” swears an angry black woman, materializing on the front stoop.

“Oh, hello!” I answer dumbly. “You must be an ABW.” = Angry Black Woman.

“I’ll give you ABW!” she swears, coming at me with a broom, swinging for my head. As I duck, she looks toward the corner and exclaims, “Lawd in Heaven, have mercy on our souls!” Turning to me, she demands, “Did you do that?”

“GOD HELP ME,” I plead, “I haven’t DONE anything!” I collapse on the lawn, where her dog bites me on the arm.

“Well, I’m certainly callin’ the police!” she swears adamantly, trooping back into the house.

Jennifer, who is in much better shape than I am, helps me to my feet and seats me in the open doorway of my car. She looks totally freaked. Sitting on the grass, she fondles the dog.

The Arlington County Police arrive. Two white policemen. “Boy,” they marvel, “you’re a really lousy driver! You hit the fire hydrant and the house?”

Finding myself in shock and tongue-tied, I let Jennifer and the homeowner hash it out with the cops, thank you very much. At least now I know somebody’s out to get me. Bigtime.

Keeping my eyes open, it doesn’t take me two days to realize that a stupid little red Fiat with a model drink can on the roof keeps turning up wherever I go. I never see a driver, just the car. I write down the license plate number. I try hanging around to confront whoever it is, but no one ever shows up.

Being in security, I know something regarding the law. Murder, for example, is a federal offense. I ring the FBI and, after awhile, I get to discuss my predicament with Payton Whitehead. “This guy is trying to kill me!” I complain.

“Yes?” responds Whitehead. “What’s your point?”

“What d’ya mean, what’s my point? He’s already made two attempts on my life.” Exasperated, I hastily review for Whitehead what has happened.

“Oh!” he exclaims. “I think your assailant suffers from sleep apnea.”

Huh? “Come again, my friend?”

“Our natural sleep cycle— our chronotype— seems to be programmed into our genes. Experiments have shown that your daily sleep pattern has a direct bearing on your ability to behave morally. Your attacker sounds like a morning person. As the day wears on, early birds get tired. Their ability to maintain a high moral standard degrades.

“We night people have a similar problem maintaining moral rectitude when we first arise and begin our working day.”

“Thank you for that info,” I grouse. “Any suggestion how I apply it to my current situation?”

‘Watch out what happens in the afternoon,” suggests Payton.

“What are you going to do to help me?” I demand.

“Me?” he replies, aghast. “The switchboard must have directed you to the wrong department. I’m in CSI. I only provide criminal analysis. What you want is ‘Operations.’ I’ll connect you.”

Listen, I don’t want to end up like Johnny Spann. A member of the CIA’s crack Special Activities Division, in November 2001 he became the first American killed in Afghanistan. Somebody has to be the next to cross the river Styx, I just don’t want it to be me!

I talk with Tug Ramsey in ‘Operations.’ He’s all business. Once he’s got my Social Security number, he declares his intention to pursue my case. “You’re a taxpayer, that means I’m authorized to help you. Gimme your address!” Forty minutes later, he shows up carrying two fancy aluminum attaché cases. He’s dressed in a $150 suit. I think he got that tie at Walgreens. “Let’s call this guy up and light a fire under his ass,” Tug suggests, putting a tap on my phone.

“Clever,” I agree, “but I don’t have his number.”

“Of course you do!” Tug tells me, feeding the license plate digits into his computer. It spits out a name, an address, home and cell phone numbers. “You know this guy Al-Qahar?” he asks. “Three out of four times, we find a personal feud lies behind threats of physical violence.” Chomping on a cigar, wearing a fedora, a throwback to the 1940’s, Tug makes me wonder what year I am living in.

“I never heard of him! He’s not threatening violence, he’s trying to snuff me!” I complain.

“Too bad it’s not Hamas or Hezbollah,” Tug commiserates. “Them we know how to deal with. We do a Salman Rushdie: We get an Iranian cleric to declare a fatwa on your sweet fanny and then we spirit you away to live in seclusion on the Isle of Man.”

“Sounds expensive.”

“Nah, we’re budgeted for these things.”

“Whatever,” I sigh.

Busy flicking a switchblade knife, Tug uses my landline to phone Al-Qahar. “Hello, Farooq?” he snarls. “Yeah. This is a friend of Josh Preacher. You know who I mean, the guy you’re trying to snuff. Whack. Liquidate. Put a hurt on. Waste. The dude whose candle you wish to extinguish. Know what I mean? Yeah! Well, if you don’t want trouble with me, see, you better just fuggin’ back off, see?! Fuhgeddaboudit! I represent the better angels of our nature and I want youse t’cease and desist. No more murderous assaults, which can only land your sorry ass in the hoosegow !” Leering at me meaningfully, Tug winks. “Yeah, well, the same to you, A-hab!” Hanging up the phone, he announces, “Mission accomplished! That bad hombre is scared to death of us now. You can rest easy. He won’t try nothin’.”

Let’s all give a big shout out for the FBI !!!

I have seen a painting at the National Portrait Gallery which experts say is either Swedish botanist Carl von Linné or a younger, crabbier self-portrait by Vincent van Gogh. People ask me why I write when I truly excel in so many other fields: archery, penmanship, hotdog eating, stamp collecting, karate, crime-fighting and warmongering in all its various incarnations. Since God [ Publisher’s Note: author Kevin Feingold aka Sultan Abu Hashish ] created me this way, years of experience have taught me to EMBRACE THE CARNAGE. I think it was President Obama who said, “Words matter.” Once I read that, man oh man, no way was I NOT going to write! President Kennedy called us to arms. President Obama called us to our laptops. So, dear hearts, I cruise this inhospitable planet— given the opportunity, tigers, alligators and mosquitos will eat you— in search of truth, justice and low-cost housing. I understand that there might be a place that’s renting cheap over on Melkin Street. Wish me luck!

What then is the meaning of my compelling, book length personal narrative? What hard choices have given me hope? Like the Palestinians, I too know demonic, blood-curdling levels of frustration, whether opening a pickle jar, awaiting customer service over the phone or standing on line at the post office. Like Oprah, I too am a victim of sexual abuse, my stalk as sore and battle-scarred as a sow’s behind. I have struggled, oh how I have struggled, to champion peace, goodwill, brotherhood and economic equality in this great country of ours and throughout the world. No man is an island in the stream of consciousness, my only consolation being to don Muslim garb, take myself to the local mosque, shed my smelly footwear and prostrate myself before Allah the All-Merciful.

The answer is: YOU! Yes, you, my reader. The one source of hope, support and understanding in a bleak, cruel and unforgiving world. We are soul mates, you and I — and I am a better man for it! Bless you and the $29.95 you have paid over the counter for this product in hard cover at a leading retailer or $10.95 in trade paperback. To my Swedish readers, I can only say: Om Ni har köpt den inbunden i Sverige, blev det nog 195:- SEK. Frenchies: Si tu as acheté ce roman en France, tu as payé presque 29.95 euros. You get the point. Pesetas come, pesetas go. More solid than brass, only the written word remains.

If you’re not reading me, I miss the squee outta ya!

Awake and aware, I admit my passion for women hasn’t always paid off. Marginalized by Margie, I went looking for greener pastures. My homeboy Barry Tina told me not to date his younger sister Palace, but who can resist a good Catholic girl named Palace Tina? Eighty-two million Germans and I have to get the one fraulein who doesn’t have a cell phone charger! [ Publisher’s Note: Dark Chocolate, 2009 ]

At the PETA demonstration downtown, there’s a stunningly luscious young lady serving tofu burgers who is dressed in— get ready for it! — a lettuce bikini. ROWR!

I want her. She’s blond and buxom and pretty and a TV personality and ONLY 19!!! Oh, yes, yes, God, yes! “Have you tried bok choy skin rub treatment?” she asks me, her enormous blue eyes staring innocently into mine. “We need to be kinder to animals. If you find, like, a wounded animal in the wild, you should contact the nearest animal shelter… I think asparagus is secretly a sex drug. I know I feel all tingly whenever I eat some.”

On second thought, only 19… No, maybe I was wrong. Forget it.

“We got him.” Tug shows up at my place and as if he’s dealing cards, he hands me one photograph after another, a whole series, obviously taken from a stationary vehicle with a 35mm SLR camera and a 400mm telephoto lens, using available light and 800 ASA film pushed two stops. Shutter speed 1/30th of a second, aperture f/2.8.

“Why are the photos in black and white?” I demand.

“What?”

“Black and white costs extra. You go to the drugstore, they charge more for downgrading to black and white.”

“Look at the photographs! Is that your assailant with the RPG or isn’t it?” asks Tug.

“Black and white photos make the deal look fishy.”

“IS IT HIM?” Tug blurts impatiently.

“It’s him! It’s him! Jeez! You don’t need to go all cray-cray.”

“Because you’re not the only target,” Tug explains, which gives me a rabid case of goosebumps. Not for me, mind you, but for Jennifer. I mean, I finally have somebody worthwhile in my life— chaste, supportive, kind, helpful— and I find I am putting her life in danger. Definitely not a good feeling. “Most of the time, this dude misses. We’ll let you know if anything comes up.”

“Can’t you just arrest him?”

“Most of the time, this guy misses. In civvie life, he’s a music producer. No law against that. His wife says he’s gone back to Pakistan. His homeboys tell us nobody knows where he is. We need more intel. I’ll keep you informed.”

“If I help you crack this case,” I propose, “will I be eligible for Obamacare? I hate to pay a fine just to remain uninsured.”

“Would you please focus?!” growls Tug. “Our mistake was failing to throw all the Muslims in America into internment camps right after 9/11. Talk about ‘the road less traveled.’ Talk about missed opportunities! We could have re-opened the camps we used in World War Two to incarcerate the Japs. Oh, no! Liberal, foolish America, we tricked ourselves into believing that bad things never happen to good people. Tell that to the victims maimed and killed by the Boston Marathon bombing.”

“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! What’s happening?” I ask.

“There’s a reason why they call it marshal law,” Tug broods ominously.

“This case sounds more complex than I originally construed,” I admit.

“Forget the 11 million illegals,” he declares. “Not wanting to be deported, they’re the most law-abiding folks around. Concentrate due diligence on the Muslims, the Hindus and the Sikhs.”

“Bitter, bitter,” I mutter consolingly.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

Until one day, my would-be killer doesn’t miss. Dressed in a shabby raincoat and a crushed hat like a modern-day Columbo, Tug takes me to I.D. a body in a dog park. A handsome young man with his head blown half away. Tug tells me he was a data programmer.

“Nobody I knew,” I say, feeling bad when I see how disappointed this makes Tug. Canvassing the dog owners, we draw a blank.

“No witnesses,” he comments dejectedly. “Somebody saw his stupid car, but nobody saw him. A Merlin, appearing and disappearing at will.”

“Of course there are witnesses,” I protest. “Just ask them!”

“Who?”

“The dogs! Look, there’s a German shepherd. Sprechen Sie Deutsch? I’d ask the Irish bulldog, but I don’t speak Gaelic.”

“Go away!” warns Tug threateningly. “I’m not talking to dogs!”

“You don’t talk, you whisper. Also sprach Zarathustra.”

Glaring, turning his back on me, Tug looks about ready to throw a punch. What a grump!

While seemingly a million tourists flood the streets of the nation’s capital, big money deal, I make my living taking depositions for the law firm of Kirby, Keller, Bostrom and Bosch. Regarding the unethical shenanigans of a certain governor and his wife. “This is very boring,” I bitch, but even I cannot deny that it pays well. Boredom abates the Wednesday morning when I get to depose a Venezuelan super model named Isabella. Extremely tall, a Shakira look-alike, she claims she can’t sing a nota.

            The conference room is clad in sumptuous leather, dyed gray, and watching Isabella arch her legs and bounce her tender feet bound in stiletto heels, I feel compelled to turn off the recording equipment and ask, “Can I get you anything?”

“I flew up on a killer red-eye,” she yawns. “You got any lemon daiquiri?”

“I don’t think they allow alcohol in the office, ” I point out apologetically.

“Who say we gotta stay in the office?” she asks throatily, rising like a giraffe and grabbing her purse.

K Street isn’t great for bars, so I hail a cab to Georgetown and park us at an outdoor table where we can get some sun. By her second drink, Isabella has a definite glow about her. “I don’ wan’ no trouble,” she murmurs humorously, arching her eyebrows. “I only meet him the governor ’cause his daughter need a wedding planner and my mama in that business.”

“I was worried you met him on the Appalachian Trail,” I tease.

“¿Qué? ”

“No, forget I said that. Bad joke.”

“I mean I no go to hotel with you,” she growls. “I don’ wan’ my picture took on no security camera!”

“You got that right,” I sigh. “In politics, electronics are not your friend.”

Washington, DC is subtle. The city is actually built on two levels. You find this out in surprising places. Water Street and the C & O canal in Georgetown. Rock Creek Park wending its way below street level for miles. Or 16th Street which has both an overpass and an underpass. It is here that trouble catches up with me. I think the driver of the funny little red car with the ridiculous soda can on top must have lost control, because he rams head on into your de rigeur big yellow school bus full of young children. Causing the bus to jump the median strip, slam into the guardrail and end up seesawing precariously over the expressway. Just like in that movie!

“Oh my God!” screams Jennifer, wearing a groovy white swimsuit by Karla Colletto which I have bought her. Enthusiastically, she completes a handjob that has me spurting hot lava all up the front of my khaki shirt.

“Jen-Jen! Christ!” I sigh. “What a sticky, smelly mess!” As I race to rescue the screaming, hysterical children, I peel off my shirt and throw it over the guardrail. Waves of regret sweep over me. “Life is so unfair!” I surmise. “Why don’t I ever get to wear Hugo Boss?” Reaching the bus, I wipe the rain from my face and inch my way hand over hand to the front door. This is the new paradigm: Drought in the west, rain here, rain there, rain effing everywhere! I wonder what Flash Gordon would have done?

The black driver pops open the door to the bus. Rushing up the three steps, I announce, “Stay in your seats, children! Help will be here shortly.”

Their screams reach a fever pitch, mixed with gasps and laughter.

“Uh, pardner!” suggests the bus driver over my shoulder, sotto voce. “Ya might consider tucking your junk back inside your trousers.”

Shirtless, bereft of a ready answer, I turn toward the front and do as he suggested. Through the windshield, I can see my resolute pursuer, his Glock pistol a black extension of his right hand. Weaving between stalled cars, he is quickly closing in on our location.

“You, little girl,” I call to a cutie pie redhead in a tartan blouse sitting in the seat nearest the driver. “Come let daddy take you for a walk!”

When she balks, looking to the driver, he asks “What ya got in mind, cap’n?”

“Is there a problem?”

“No shirt, your privates hangin’ out all over tarnation, I don’ rightly see how any young’un gonna wanna go anywhere wid you!”

“Point well taken!” I reply, manhandling him from his seat and marching him before me as a human shield. Clomping down the stairs, we edge our way between cars standing bumper to bumper in rush hour traffic.

BANG! A single shot rings out. My companion hops once like a marionette before sprawling lifelessly onto the pavement. A neat, bloody red wound has opened up dead center in the middle of his forehead. Poor fellow.

Crouching even lower, I peer over the hoods of autos, desperately seeking my adversary. Only to watch in astonishment as he shoulders an anti-tank missile which delivers more bang for the buck and fires it in my direction. Apparently even a paid assassin has the right to technically advanced weaponry. “Ha! Not even close! Say it with flowers! ” I am exulting, watching the live round sail past and explode in the side of the school bus. Which goes up in a classic fireball. I hightail it out of there, eventually sprinting into the underbrush down by the water’s edge. My pursuer hot on my heels. Crispy critters, the keening of the young children is but a distant memory. Rain washes in sheets across the highway, the trees, the river. Frantically, I search for a weapon or, failing that, something to cover my exposed upper torso. T-shirts have become so ubiquitous, you find lost and abandoned ones dotting the landscape. Although size XXL remains less common than most others, I grant you.

Considering his unstoppable progress, I am sure that my attacker is juiced to the gills on Zowie Energy Drink.

Looking death in the face, I can only hope that— if I buy the farm— they will dedicate a helo landing zone to me at Camp Victory, Baghdad International Airport. Others before me have received that honor.

In situations like this, I always ask myself, “What would Franklin Delano Roosevelt do?”

My hands are deadly weapons. As my opponent thrashes at the honeysuckle in frustration, I creep forward and get the drop on him. Brushing aside his weapon, I get both hands securely around his throat. And squeeze. “You are a blasphemer and deserve to die,” he squeaks.

“Speak only well of people and you need never whisper,” I tell him, a clever saying taken verbatim from a Chinese fortune cookie. Pretty smart, the Chinese. “What’s your beef with me anyway?”

“Al-Qahar,” he sputters, his eyes fluttering up into their sockets.

Jaså?! Swedish for “Oh yeah?!” Then I remember my tweets about his family. I put two and two and 34 together and get 38. The caliber of his Glock. “Don’t you think I know what’s going on in that so-called head of yours?!” I admonish him. “Let me just say that I have never had anything but the utmost respect for Indira Gandhi.”

Rain or no, a tiny, washed-out blond female kayaker comes paddling over in her bright green kayak. Wearing an orange life vest and a white plastic helmet, she asks “Are you guys kayaking?”

“No, we’re not kayaking!”

“Well, gosh. Then you oughta, like, leave, man. ‘Cause this part of the river is, like, reserved for kayakers,” she explains, clearly annoyed. “If you aren’t kayakers— ”

“Yeah, I know, we oughta leave!” I shout.

“Don’t get snotty, mister!” she bellows menacingly, back-paddling. To head upriver? To muster reinforcements?

“Okay, you’re right!” I sigh. “This dude is hurt. Do you know any CPR?”

Paddling to shore, she climbs out of her kayak, approaches my victim and asks, “Hey, man! How ya doin’?”

Reaching into the toolbox in her kayak, I bash her one on the head with the peen end of a ballpeen hammer. Good old Bethlehem Steel! Shards of white plastic fill the air. Somewhere sirens are wailing. Police? Ambulance? Somewhere the sun is shining, birds are singing, crowds are cheering. Young girls are complaining bitterly about their allowance. Here, the rain pours down in buckets. If I kill them, theirs will be a sodden death.

‘Nuff said.

*****************     The End     ******************