Ring Out The Old Ring In The New

I guess under the circumstances it's more practical than putting a bag over her head. On the other hand, this could be a worthwhile model for a Priapus or an Aphrodite type pagan cult confessional. If so, which one would be the devotee, and which one would be granting "absolution"?

Fuck it. Happy New Years.

WHAT Lickers?

You know this place gets a lot of business on New Years.

Trouble In So-Called Civilization

There might be a bit of trouble in the European Union faux paradise here in the near future, centered on a relatively recent addition-the Eastern European nation of Bulgaria. Some factions there in this Balkan nation have balked at what they see as the overly repressive demands for carbon emissions reduction. Many Bulgarians feel such restrictions might cause a reversal in the nation’s economy, perhaps throwing it into a recession. It does seem a bit draconian, in that the agreed target is to reduce to late 1990’s level emissions. As such, Bulgaria might challenge the ruling in court. Should they prevail, which in my opinion is unlikely, it would by necessity cause the entire agreement to be scrapped.

Of course, it is unlikely that any European nation will ever reach the announced target. There are multiple EU overseers ready and willing to take bribes to look the other way, of course, which is possibly the major function of the EU to begin with. The European Union is not really a union at all so much as it is a legitimized protection racket. I give it twenty years at the most before it either falls flat on it’s ass, or becomes so repressive by necessity in order to insure it’s survival that any pretense to democracy will be legitimately viewed as some archaic symbol, much like a modern European monarch.

Of course, Bulgaria could well decide to withdraw from the Union. The only problem is, if they do, they would probably end up suffering the fate of Serbia in the mid-nineteen nineties. First would come sanctions, and then, if worse came to worse, there would be a full scale NATO assault on some exaggerated or outright fictitious pretext, in which the US would be expected to provide the lead role.

I can almost even predict what that pretext might be-pollution of the Danube River.

I hope we do not carry their water for them this time. When you look at the laws and the flaws of the European Union as a whole, it does not look much different from the PRC, which might actually be a bit more advanced in some respects. At least China is not dependent on us continually propping them up. If anything, we are dependent on them. Without our influence, the European Union would dissolve back into dozens, possibly more than a hundred rival kingdoms and duchies slaughtering each other every bit as violently and bloodthirstily as any group of savage, rival tribes in Sub-Saharan Africa. Well, after all, that is pretty much their history, isn’t it? They are all pretty much cut from the same cloth. The Europeans just have more advanced technologies with which to slaughter each other. Repressive laws enacted under a pretense of consensus might in the end do little more than delay the inevitable while at the same time exacerbating it.

Geopolitical Jeopardy

Category-World Affairs

The Answer Is-Negotiations over this area have led to Russia supporting Iran’s efforts to acquire nuclear energy capabilities.

The Question Is-What is the Caspian Sea?

Yeah, the Caspian Sea, one of the most underreported stories in the last decade, is an area of vital strategic importance. The reason for this, of course, has nothing to do with fishing rights amongst the five neighboring nations of Russia, Iran, Azerbaijan, Turkmenistan, and Kazakhstan.

It’s all about the oil, reserves of which sit beneath the surface of the large body of water, which is actually a large inland lake comprising varying degrees of salinity owing to it’s lack of any outlets. The oil reserves are plentiful, and thus of vital strategic importance.

Russia plans to run a pipeline from its area of the sea through Europe, while Turkmenistan has recently began development of a multi-billion dollar beach resort area in order to encourage investment in its own share. Yes, a tentative agreement is within reach, and this is largely owing to Russia’s support for nuclear development within Iran. Still, it has not been an easy agreement to reach. After all, more Iranian oil in the market would mean a glut, which would of course mean a lowering of prices per barrel of oil. Suddenly, Russians’ holdings are not so lucrative. They are nevertheless considerable, and a huge leverage and bargaining chip.

Oil company executives have kept themselves up at night worrying about this situation. They must now contend with the possibility of a sudden glut of Iranian oil in addition to development of nuclear energy within the unstable region of the oil-producing Middle East, followed by vast oil reserve holdings within Russia, which will now exercise ever-greater controls of the market. The European Union does not like it any more than the energy executives and their political pawns here, though there is little it would seem that they can do about it. For a brief period there were whispers that since the Caspian is designated a sea, it falls under the auspices of international law-meaning the UN. Of course, Vladimir Putin has as much fear and respect for a UN division as Stalin did the theoretical one wielded by the Pope, and so that idea never gained much traction. Besides, as I said, the Caspian is a lake, and any attempts to designate it as being otherwise would meet with an obvious Russian veto that one would be hard-pressed to honestly say is illegitimate.

So now, you know the real major reason Europe is so determined to go green. It does not have anything to do with protecting the environment. That is nothing but a mirage. The real reason is their determination to protect themselves from domination, not only from the Middle East, but also and probably especially from Russia, the one nation on earth they seem to truly fear above all others.

Zeus Has Nothing To Do With It

Many might be inclined to blame God or Mother Nature for the recent drought in Georgia. As for me, I have in mind a more mundane set of perpetrators-Kentucky coal mining companies. They have continually raped the mountains and left them bare, refusing to restore the land to its original contours, while relying on some arcane legal inclusion in the law that allows for “community expansion”. This has recently been the case in Pikeville Kentucky. As a result, what we see is a lessening of those mountainous areas of the state that previously provided a bulwark against the approaches of Gulf based storms and hurricanes. Over the years, Kentucky has seen a drastic increase in the amount of tornadoes over the years. Where at one time a tornado was a rare once a year at most event, it now probably averages more like once a month at least.

Snowfall, which once was moderate in the winter, and sometimes though rarely severe, has tapered off to the extent it is now almost nonexistent in most years. More often than not, we have rain, not snow. In fact, it occurs to me-and it is becoming more and more obvious-Kentucky has stolen Georgia’s rain. In earlier years, Kentucky mountains prevented the majority of the Gulf based rain, what portions made it past the Smokey Mountains of Tennessee, from going further north than the Cumberland Gap. The vast majority of Kentucky’s rain came from the north and the west, mainly in the spring. In the winter, we got snow from the same directions. Now, of course, it usually melts into rain or condenses into sleet due to the now much more prevalent and warmer Gulf air incursions that add its own rain to the mix.

All of this so a relative handful of Kentucky mountain people can become nouveau riche, and the coal companies can rake in a hefty extra billion or two (like they wouldn’t still be filthy rich if they restored the land contours like they should).

All I can say is, if the water reservoirs and lakes of Atlanta dry completely up, do not blame me. I only live here, and if it is any consolation, I absolutely despise rain in the winter.

Nigerian Oil

While the world keeps its eyes peeled towards the Middle East and Western Asia, and to a lesser extent south of the border to Venezuela, another powder keg region of the world stands ready to explode on a moments notice. I am talking about the West African nation of Nigeria. Again, alas, the culprit is oil.

While the inhabitants of the Niger Delta are systematically looted and dispossessed of their land and livelihood, Shell Oil and other producers dole out royalty payments to Nigerian leaders and officials whose vision is limited to the tunnel type that seems to focus exclusively on the banks of Switzerland. The people get nothing. As a result, they are stirring to the point that armed militias are waging assaults on Nigerian naval vessels and corporate interests.

Possibly, this issue is not addressed because there is little that anyone can do about it. The oil companies are in a bind. If they do not play by the rules as is, the Nigerian overlords can find plenty of others who will do so gladly, including the Chinese, or possibly the Russians. Any American government attempts to ramrod any kind of guidelines intended to regulate how the oil companies do business in Nigeria, even if that were possible, would garner the same results. Of course, if Chinese companies replaced American companies, the people would not benefit one iota. The butchery of Darfur stands as testament to China’s hands-off approach to other nation’s internal affairs, which in ordinary cases would be commendable.

We could possibly buy off the Nigerian leaders of course, and subsidize investment in the country, but this would be ruinous in the long run, and frankly unconstitutional. To be sure, it would be inordinately expensive. While the supply of oil in the Niger Delta holds out, the power players in the country have a trump card they are playing not to the advantage of their nation, but themselves. They see no short-term or long-term gain by investing in the nation’s infrastructure, in such things as irrigation, education, health care, or modernization of rural villages with such things as electricity, and water and sewage treatment plants. Such investments would pay off long-term dividends in the nation’s future, but the people in charge of the country are interested solely in their own power and wealth.

In the meantime, more and more of the people of the Niger Delta are out for blood. Since a sizable portion, if not a majority, of the country’s population is Islamic, you have another factor that rears its ugly head from time to time and promotes instability, something the leaders can always rely on to discourage outside intervention.

What can we do about the situation? Well, to all practical purposes, there is not a damn thing, to be blunt. Sometimes, the sad, hard facts are what they are, and as they say, you have to play with the hand you are dealt. One thing should be abundantly clear, however. This is one situation you cannot or should not blame on the oil companies.

Of course, all it would take is the rise of a popular movement to focus in demagogic fashion the wrath of the beleaguered peoples of the Niger Delta on the oil companies, which are already a symbol to many of oppression, decadence and corruption. While government officials use royalty payments from oil companies to provide luxury cars and apartments for their girlfriends, a good many Nigerians trudge for miles to carry home a bucket of water filled with vicious parasites that tend to eat one’s guts from the inside out. Many poor families live in huts with no electricity, in villages surrounded by garbage and sewage. Many within the Delta find themselves driven from their homes and sources of livelihood. Too much farmland disappears, and fishing rights are worthless when the oil company leviathans swallow up traditional fishing areas.

Oil company executives of course would never countenance my suggestion. It would amount to them investing in the well-being of these people. Of course, there would be an expense, but they as well should consider the long-term dividends. I am not merely talking about the purchase of good will. That is a factor as well, but the more practical benefit would be the assurance of stability. They can do little, of course, in the way of health care and education. However, they are well situated to provide electrification and water and sewage treatment, at least, as well as irrigation.

Oil companies are noted for investing money in foundations the purposes of which in part is to conduct charitable activities. It would seem that such an effort in a nation where they derive a vast amount of profit would be more than justified to the stockholders. They just have to sell that idea to their board members. That is another problem. No CEO wants to make that kind of leap, and who can blame them? Of course, they can always point out that any such foundation investment would either provide yet another tax write-off, or yet another excuse to maintain oil prices at an artificially high level.

The cold hard truth is, those price levels are helped along now based on the instability, which they can easily do much to eradicate without harming their bottom line.

GOP Jeckyl And Hyde

I think something is very noteworthy about the present race for the Republican Party presidential nomination. That is, the Republican Party has fragmented into so many different personalities it is almost like watching a horror show. No one candidate seems to have a lock, because no one candidate seems to satisfy every different facet of the GOP’s fragmented personality split. Born again Christians seem to like Huckabee, but on the other hand, he is not really conservative enough (some would say not conservative at all) on economic and foreign policy issues.

Giuliani of course is conservative on economic and foreign policy matters, but many of the party faithful consider him far too liberal on social issues. As if that were not bad enough, he seems not only morally challenged in his personal life, but ethically challenged as well.

Then you have McCain, a conservative, but also a maverick whom many Republicans feel is a traitor-what they call a “RINO” (Republican In Name Only), due to his past stands on immigration and campaign finance reform, to name just a few examples. They also wonder about his mental stability.

Everybody seems to like Mitt Romney. The problem is, no one seems to trust him, though they want to. Yet, they view him as a northeastern elitist without core values, a man who will adopt any stand necessary to win elections, a man who for example once supported abortion rights as governor of Massachusetts, and now as candidate for President, is conveniently Pro-Life. Like fellow Massachusetts politician John Kerry, he is the penultimate flip-flopper.

Add to this the fact that a great many of the Christian conservatives view his affiliation with the Mormon religion with a suspicion eye, and you have yet more angst.

Then, let’s take a look at Ron Paul, who seems to represent what might well be the future Republican state of mind-pure insanity in the midst of hopelessness.

So, out of all these candidates, which one seems to most represent the values of the Republican Party in general? None of them that I have mentioned manages to do so, though there is yet one who does, and he is former Tennessee Senator and Hollywood actor Fred Thompson. He is the true face of the Republican Party past and present. Take a good, long, hard look at him, and you are looking into the face of profound clinical depression.

Yes, the Republican Party, the Grand Old Party of Lincoln, Taft, and Reagan, has fragmented, the sum total of its parts broken up, and broken down. If they don’t get their shit together, I have this idea there is no way they can hope to win against the merciless ruthlessness of Hillary Clinton, or the hopeful promise and enthusiasm of Barak Obama, or the populist appeal of John Edwards.

At the rate they are going, even Kucinich might give them a run for their money. All the Democratic Party has to do is gently take him off to the side and tell him the Klingon Empire is not interested in peace negotiations at this time.

Somalia-The Sequel

I fully expect George W. Bush in his last months in office to follow in his father’s footsteps regarding the nation of Somalia, with an eye to cleaning up the mess the elder Bush set up during his remaining weeks in office, for Clinton to leave behind during his first term. Bush probably feels that now he has a dependable ally in the region in the form of the nation of Ethiopia.

From the Neocon perspective, such an involvement would be justified. If Somalia could be placated, and pacified, it would provide a strategic harbor in the Red Sea, just a matter of a relative few nautical miles from the vast Arabian desert of the Saudi peninsula. It would insure relative tranquility for shipping in the area, which lately has become prone to provocations by Somali pirates (though this has eased somewhat lately due to increased US naval patrols).

Of course, the major problem is it would be next to impossible to pacify Somalia without engaging in an offensive campaign that would insure heavy civilian casualties. That of course would draw the ire of the UN, and would inflame the region. Therefore, it looks like the border war between Ethiopia and Eritrea is otherwise destined to go on for an extended period, with the Somalis taking advantage of the hostilities in order to stage their own incursions. We can provide aid and logistical support to the Ethiopians, but unfortunately, Somalia is a nation without a central government of which to speak. The only true hope at this stage for the nation to establish such a centralized governing body would be by the imposition by clerics of sharia law, which in fact is what is now in the process of transpiring. If that occurs, there is likely to be even less chance for negotiations.

For the time being, the clerics control the news that both goes into and out of the country. They recently forcibly closed a radio station in the north of the country. Meanwhile, since the aforementioned piracy has decreased in prospects for success and profitability, a series of kidnappings have occurred involving foreign aid workers. One such incident, involving staff members of the group Doctors Without Borders, ended with the victim’s release only after lengthy periods of negotiations.

Somalia is a perfect example of what happens when anarchy prevails. It results in a power vacuum, which eventually will be filled by one force or another, or in protracted power struggles by groups competing to fill the void. All the Ethiopians can hope to do is contain the spread of the chaos. Neither they nor the US can hope to enforce order.

Unfortunately, that might not prevent some from making what would amount to a foolhardy attempt-possibly based on the naive idea that we need to “get it right this time.” Well, the American people will not stand for it this time. The only way they will ever again sanction such an adventure is if leftist notions of insuring minimum civilian casualties, no matter the overall costs, are completely scrapped. In today’s world that is never going to happen.

Florida-The Quest For Black Gold

Oil, as always, is going to be an important factor and a vital aspect of economic vitality and national security concerns. The US is running out at a relatively fast clip, though there is yet probably enough to do for a few decades before we really feel the pinch in our domestic output. At the same time, we have vast areas of unexplored resources. I am only partially talking about Anwar. That would be an important source, but mainly, I am referring to the Florida coast. It is probably a good thing that development has stalled in this region, and for that matter in Anwar. Unfortunately, it is inevitable that all of these areas will eventually be exploited. They will eventually have to be. For the time being, the oil companies are more than happy to hold off on development. When oil tops one hundred dollars a barrel on a consistent basis, you will hear ever more demands to do so. The longer the wait, the more the profit margin increases when, not if, that time finally arrives.

Hopefully, by then oil will have become a supplementary form of our energy needs, though still the vital one it will always be, until such time as the last known gallon is finally extracted. There is truly no need for alarm when it comes to drilling for oil offshore. Environmental concerns are slight, if not petty. The North Sea has been exploited for more than three decades now, with little incident of environmental damage, or danger.

It should be a simple matter to drill for oil in an environmentally safe way, both in Anwar and in the Gulf, where the major cause for concern is the abundance of hurricane force winds. This is also manageable. Of course, this subject will be a topic for debate during the next election, especially with the voters of Florida, which once again will be a major battleground state.

Environmentalists of course will balk at such proposals and demand adherence to the stance of former Governor Jeb Bush. Whatever course it takes, it could well and even likely be the deciding factor in the Presidential race, at least in Florida, which could be the ultimate deciding factor for the nation at large.

Both parties could find themselves in a real bind. Republicans will be encouraged by their big business supporters and contributors to support exploration and drilling. Democrats will find themselves under equal pressure to oppose such proposals. It will be up to the voters in Florida, however, to make the decision. They will do so to at least some degree based on this factor.

The energy situation at the time, especially the price of gas and home heating fuel, might make it especially difficult for the Democrats to rationalize their position, and it could cause repercussions in other areas far removed from Florida as well. If prices are high, as I look for them to be, the people are not going to be impressed by arguments for energy independence and investment in alternative energy sources that will deliver no short-term relief, which in fact will not prove their viability for years into the future, provided they are ever implemented to begin with. That too, by the way, is a problematic prospect, and far from certain at this stage. Some will doubtless accuse the energy sector of manipulating prices in order to influence the election. Most will view this as an absurd charge, however.

At the same time, it is impossible to predict the likely outcome. Anger at the companies could well produce a backlash that draws Democratic voters to the polls, regardless of perception or lack of same regarding energy sector shenanigans. A Democratic voter need not vote based on belief in conspiracy theories. All that is required is a hope for change in direction regarding energy policy.

So will the voters demand short-term relief, or long-term change, or perhaps some rational combination of both? The candidate who can believably articulate such a promise, in a way that inspires trust, is the one that might well be positioned to win the election. It depends on two factors-one, whether such a candidate exists within one of the two major parties, and two, whether one exists at all.

They say that all politics is local. Well, you do not get much more “local” than your gas gauge and thermostat. For the time being, however, it will be extremely interesting to see the results of the up-and-coming Florida primary election, and how much of a factor this issue is at this early date.

The "Awawkening" in Iraq

There has been an “Awakening” in Anbar province of Iraq, amongst Arab Sunni tribes. They have cast their lot-for now-with the US forces instead of Al-Queda in Iraq. To put it bluntly, we have bought off a good many of the tribal leaders, who were ready to turn on Al-Queda due to the latter’s over-the-top tactics against their own Sunni brethren. All of this, in addition to “The Surge” has led to a quieting and lessening of violence in the province, and in Iraq as a whole. True, there is still violence, but in retrospect, things have gotten much better. Many credit the resurgence of the candidacy of Senator John McCain on this fact, as McCain’s support for the Administration’s Iraq policy, including the Surge, to many now seems prescient.

That is not to say the problem is well on its way to a resolution. In fact, the current strategy is a gamble at best. There are valid concerns that, over time, the new friends of convenience we now have will become determined foes of the yet fragile government we have encouraged and supported. It is almost a sure bet. The government after all is a Shiite dominated entity that by most accounts is corrupt and incompetent, and has not been eager and willing to share power with the minority parties. Over time, the Sunnis are going to expect more than vague guarantees of religious and political freedom. They are going to demand some degree at least of power and influence over their own regions.

The major sticking point to this, of course, will be what it always was-oil wealth. The Sunnis have none. It is an overextension of their legitimate rights to suppose they should have a greater percentage than what they actually possess. One way around this would be the simple act of investing a percentage of oil revenues in infrastructure in the region, and in health care and education. After all, as a part of the country, they do have a right to that much, and it would be a worthwhile investment in terms of insuring prosperity, security, and stability, to say nothing of encouraging economic initiative and development.

After all, even the oil of Iraq is not going to last forever. By the time it is gone, it would be good that in the meantime something might arise to insure continued prosperity for the nation. Something like-oh, maybe a fucking civilized society, perhaps.

Tatiana

I read not too long ago that if lions and tigers had their own historians, the history of safaris would read much differently. I will now be that historian.

Tatiana went out like a champion and heroine. She escaped her enforced enclosure and mauled three men who taunted her from what they falsely assumed was a vantage point of safety. One of the men died trying to protect the first man she attacked, who repaid this one and only act of human courage by running away with his brother, the third perpetrator, to where they thought other people would be-a cafe-possibly assuming unsuspecting patrons there would provide a similar decoy as their by now dead friend. The tigress tracked them there, and resumed her offensive against them. She would have finished them off, but unfortunately, the police arrived a bit too early, and shot her, killing her before she could do more than injure them non-fatally.

Does this particular report sound cruel and heartless? If so, well, the truth sometimes is just that. The two men who survived the attack have issued or released no statements, other than to say they are following the advice of their attorneys. In other words, one might as well come right out and say that these men intentionally provoked this tiger, though their intent in doing so is yet unclear. My assumption is they intended to lure the tiger out of her enclosure, possibly thinking to get well out of harms way by the time she successfully made her way out. She was a bit quicker than they thought, I am guessing, a fact for which one of them paid the ultimate price.

Another report has stated that the parents of the man killed placed a call to one of the two brothers asking of the whereabouts of their son, whom they wanted to come to their home to celebrate Christmas. The brother who answered the phone stated it had been some weeks since last he had seen the man-an obvious bald-faced lie.

I have to wonder what they used as bait to lure the tiger, and if the statement that the dying man distracted the tiger from the other and ended up sacrificing his life to save him might as well be another lie. I happen to think it is, and that the dead man was himself the bait for the tiger, being dangled over the edge of the enclosure, perhaps while unconscious. Maybe in this way, they attracted the attention of the tiger, which already had a developed taste for human flesh from the time a year earlier when she had mauled a zoo employee-an event of which the three men may well have been aware. In fact, Tatiana’s presence, and history, at the zoo were well known. Maybe they stood back and watched as the tiger assaulted the victim (who under this scenario may indeed have been innocent), until the tiger decided to make a go for them as well. I find it telling that the police, after killing Tatiana and securing the area, referred to it as a "crime scene."

We may never know all the details, but one thing is certain-for both of these brothers to refuse to answer questions and to hide behind attorney client privilege is a sure sign that their presence at the San Francisco Zoo, as well as their involvement in this particular matter, was far from innocent.

Personality Cults

The assassination of Benazir Bhutto will have repercussions throughout the world, extending to the American presidential race. Those candidates of both parties considered to have foreign policy expertise should certainly benefit the most. In some cases, the beneficial effects are not based on reality. Such is the case with Hillary Rodham Clinton, whose major foreign policy expertise seems to revolve around the fact that she voted in favor of the Iraq War when it seemed the popular thing to do and has since straddled the fence regarding the affair.

For the Republicans, both Giuliani and, especially, John McCain, should stand to benefit the most. The Democratic candidates who should, but probably will not benefit, are Elliot Richardson, Joe Biden, and to a lesser extent Chris Dodd. Nevertheless, they will not, mainly because Hillary Clinton sucks all the oxygen out of the atmosphere. Her major opponents are not candidates of foreign policy expertise, or any other kind, but simply representatives of the hopes for “change”-something the three qualified candidates cannot project, nor hope to.

Yet, Hilary’s chief claim to gravitas remains based on the presumption that she is the wife of Bill Clinton, hence she is his “rightful heir”. That is a very scary thought on a variety of levels.

Benazir Bhutto, while she lived, was herself the beneficiary of a political dynasty, and within a relatively short amount of time, a cult of personality revolved around her. To her supporters, she was the promised hope for change and advancement. To her enemies and detractors, she was the epitome of corruption and scandal. Support for her and opposition to her was fierce, and outwardly projected around the figurehead that was the person, perhaps as much if not more so than the principles she represented.

She was, and is, both revered and reviled.

That is of course the end of any movement. The promise of change and progress soon mires down in entitlement*. That brings us back to Hillary, and to US presidential politics in general. All of our major political figures, not just Hillary, are those with the greatest name recognition. Hillary, supposedly the most admired woman in America, will naturally outshine, both for good and for bad, those second tier politicians who do not have her name recognition, regardless of their qualifications.

Hillary Clinton, Barak Obama, and Rudy Giuliani, all are beneficiaries of their own cult of personality. The same is true to a lesser extent of John McCain and Fred Thompson. Now added to the list is the meteoric rise of Arkansas governor Mike Huckabee. John Edwards is a different story. He benefits from experience in Iowa. He has in place the same political organization as he did in 2004. If not for that, and for his status as the last Democratic Vice-Presidential running mate, he would not even be a contender. He would just be a notch or two in the polls above Dennis Kucinich, whose cult seems based on the prospect of establishing world peace, beginning at the local level, and extending from there to the Middle East, Asia, Africa, and the Klingon Empire. The scary thing about the Democratic Party is, if he was as good looking as Edwards, he would probably be a major contender.

It is interesting to note that the cults of personality vested in most of the Republican candidates-Huckabee being the sole exception-are based on experience. True, there is a cult of personality around Ron Paul, but that seems to be a minor movement. Of course, the same is true for the Thompson forces, at this point. The cult is there and always has been. It just is not, at this point at least, drawing the converts it initially hoped. Interestingly enough, there is no true cult of personality around Mitt Romney, though he is trying desperately to buy one. Unfortunately, for him, his personality cult has followed the same basic formula of his religious one-it is a regional cult that cannot seem to spread very far past its foundation point. Not true of Huckabee, who gains many converts based on dissatisfaction with certain aspects of the others, and the fact that he is, after all, a Southern Baptist minister who is openly Pro-Life. Of all the Republican candidates, in fact, he is the only major contender whose cult of personality is image based.

As for the cults of personality vested in the two major Democratic candidates, they all in fact seem based not on expertise and experience, but on image and perception. The images involved, however, may be all that is necessary to win, in their cases.

That is the bad thing about cults of personality. Sometimes they work out well, while other times they result in tragic consequences. It is really a crapshoot. In the case of Obama, the likely result will be the promise of a change that will never come about to any appreciable degree. In the case of Clinton, however, the result will be much more profound, and likely reveal the futile promise of an expertise based on qualifications that do not exist, wrapped around the vague illusion that she is, if appearances are an indication, some kind of female human.

As for the man of the house, he can only put so much of a smiley face on things. Legally, his role will perhaps be limited to watching in helpless frustration as his much-vaunted legacy comes crashing down in ruins around him, as he fulfills the role of his final destiny-White House Husband. (Of course, it could be worse. If Mitt Romney wins and his wife goes on years later to win the presidency, anti-Mormon wags might well designate Mitt the White House Husband-In-Chief)

The presidency of Hillary Clinton, if it does come about, might well be a perfect example of a cult of personality that is devoid of a personality-at least a pleasant one. As for what her accomplishments might be, only one thing is certain. She will not reverse the earlier rule she established as first lady against tobacco in the White House. Of course, we all know from that experience the wisdom of that old saying “rules are meant to be broken.”

Whoever wins, nevertheless, the fact remains that the victory will be thanks not to a thoughtful consideration of the issues and the qualifications of the candidates, but on that phenomenon that makes one choose a president based on who we would most like to have a beer with, or who we would like to have for a weekend fishing buddy. Issues are important, of course, but almost of secondary importance to all but the most politically adept, or the most devoted partisans. These are the people responsible for building up the myths inherent in the cults of personalities, and who expect the rest of us to follow blindly along. It's caused us a good deal of the problems we now have, and will continue to do so, until we as a people start taking a more active interest in the in-and-outs and goings-on of the behind-the-scenes machinations of the various political machines and their chief beneficiaries. Until such time, democracy will never be any more than a beauty contest at best, a shell game at the worse.

*After I wrote this, it seems now as though Bhutto’s son and brother are slated to become the new heads of the PPP. The dynasty, and cult of personality, lives on for now.

Radu-Chapter XXXII (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)

Previous Installments-
Part One
Prologue and Chapters I-X
Part Two
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
PartThree
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Radu-Chapter XXXII (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
19 pages approximate
Radu, of course, was not truly dead, as in fact he had not truly lived in the conventional sense of the word. He was, however, for the time being, indisposed. When Louise made her way to the basement of the funeral home, at this stage more than three quarters of the way to being completely renovated (the only thing now completely lacking being the roof and attic) it was with the intention of warning him that he had damn well better pull himself together. That, indeed, was what he was just in the process of doing.

“If it were not for Cynthia,” he explained, “I would be finished for good.”

As he said this, he picked up his eyeball and, gently and carefully, yet firmly, angled it back inside the socket, which he pinched together in a remarkably difficult effort to fuse the gash.

“It will be a few hours of course before I can see out of this one,” he explained as he then cautiously began stuffing his entrails back inside his abdomen.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Louise asked.

“Wish me luck?” he replied.

“I hope to hell you have learned your lesson,” she said. “That creature you restored obviously wasn’t aware of the limits of your recuperative powers. If she had been, you obviously would not have gotten off so easily.”

“At least she drove Marlowe away for good, I hope,” he replied. “That was the whole point. Of course, I will admit it was a bit unnerving sitting here helplessly, just watching as she ripped me apart. Still, I suppose I will get over it.”

“Well, I have something else for you that might just be what you need,” Louise replied. “Oh, I almost forgot-the heroin. Do you still feel a need for it, I mean?”

“I wouldn’t be inclined to turn it down, but no, not to the extent I did,” he replied. “I guess it’s like they say, once you are an addict, its one day at a time. So, anyway, what have you got for me?”

With a smile, Louie reached into her purse and produced what appeared to be a fifth gallon bottle of some form of liquid. Radu, through the damaged eyes of Marlowe Krovell, focused on the proffered gift, as his nostrils automatically sniffed like the feral animal he now was. He had no doubt as to what the bottle contained.

“Blood from a baptized teenage boy, quite vital and chock full of vitamins, minerals, and proteins, and all the other good amino acids a growing boy needs whilst going through puberty-taken from him as he slept of course, to minimize the release of all those negative chemicals that would prove troublesome for you in your condition. As it is, they should hasten your healing process. By this time tomorrow, you should be as good as new.”

“However did you manage this?” Radu asked as he reached for the bottle. Louise’s eyes shone with a gleam of pride.

“I lured him to my hotel room, of course,” she replied. “I was surprised I still have it at my age. I only regret the poor dear had to die a virgin.”

When she said this, he looked at the bottle suspiciously.

“Are you sure”-

“Oh, for God’s sake, we didn’t do anything, so yes it’s all right,” she replied. “It is a natural urge, after all.”

“Yes, but you are aware of the peculiarities of my brother Vlad’s curse on me,” he reminded her.

“Radu, drink the fucking blood!” she demanded.

Cautiously at first, he put the bottle to his lips and sipped slowly. He stopped, considered whether to continue as he breathed a deep and rare breath, and then he put the bottle once more to his lips. He downed more than half the fifth in one gulp at this point, whereupon Louise stopped him.

“Not so quickly,” she advised him. “Wait a few minutes before you drink it all.”

“I feel better already,” he said. “I think I will be well now.”

“Just the same, be wary of that creature. She will doubtless return here at some point, so you must be strong. She has gone o a rampage throughout the city. She has murdered and mutilated seven people already. When I return, I will do all I can to find and destroy her, so”-

“No!” Radu shouted, whereupon now Louise regarded him with suspicion.

“So, I see there is a little bit of my worthless grandson yet within you,” she observed. “A form of that decadent attachment he supposed was love yet anchored somewhere stubbornly refusing to go away. This could be worse than any virus to you.”

“Nonsense, neither love nor physical desire has anything to do with it,” he said defensively. “I intended to use her in a very important and vital way. Once that is accomplished, you can do with her what you will.”

She regarded him with a hint of suspicion. Yet this was a creature more ancient than she, even at her advanced age, could hope to conceive.

“Very well, I’ll take your word,” she replied at length. “All the same, I have taken steps to protect you from her while you recuperate. She should not be able to return here. I must now take my leave. Martin waits for me. After all, it is Christmas you know.”

As she made ready to leave, he finished the bottle of blood, and made ready to return to his crypt, as the light of day now approached. She walked slowly up the steps, in a hurry to leave before the workmen returned. She only hoped that they held to her and Martin’s specific instructions not to be on the property before nine am, and to be completely gone by six pm. She feared the consequences if they saw Marlowe, or what was worse, if he saw them. Now, she had the further concerns about the hideous creature that Radu had so stubbornly insisted on restoring to life, and who now might prove detrimental to their long-term goals.

She walked up the steps, where Mercury Morris waited to take her on the long journey back to New Jersey.

“I do so appreciate you agreeing to drive me,” she told him as she entered the limousine. “It is hard to find someone this time of the year.”

‘No big whip,” he replied. “My old lady is in prison, and so are my folks. Well, my father is. My mom just wants to go back, and she is pretty determined to make it there. Me, I got nothing better to do.”

“So, when is the release date for your friends new video,” she asked. “I am so delighted he elected to follow my advice and do an entire CD of Frank Sinatra songs. What is the name of it again?”

“He calls it ‘Rappin’ With The Chairman’,” Morris answered. “Hey, that was your idea?”

“Mine and my husbands,” she replied.

“Well, it’s da bomb,” he said. “Wait till you hear the first single off the set. ‘That’s Life’ is the name of it.”

“Ah, one of my all-time favorites,” she said. “Though Martin prefers Strangers In The Night, of course-that’s just Martin for you. Sometimes I think he believes that song was written especially for him. Sometimes I think it might have been, to tell you the truth. He met ol’ Blue Eyes right before that song was released.”

Morris smiled. It was not the first time he had met an old rich woman, or man, who bragged about their position in society and their influence with the rich and the famous with whom they hobnobbed, to hear them tell it, on a regular basis. Yet, something about this old woman made her seem more believable than most, even if what she said was obvious bullshit.

For the most part, it was a quiet drive through Pennsylvania, the old woman seeming not to care, or for that matter even to notice, when Mercury drove considerably over the speed limit. Of course, she did make it clear she wanted to arrive at their destination within a set amount of time.

By the time they finally arrived at the Khoska mansion, Louise seemed almost giddy with anticipation.

“You are a very good driver, young man,” she said. “I want you to have this.”

Mercury turned to see what looked to be, of all things, a medicinal dispenser and a syringe. What in the hell kind of Christmas present is this, he wondered, as she explained concisely the proper manner in which to inject the syringe through the top of the bottle and extract what she called “the vaccine.”

“What’s it for?” he asked.

“It will protect you from a variety of illnesses. I would go so far as to say it would protect you from all known diseases, and a few others no one even knows about, as of now. There is enough here for two injections. Take them a week apart, beginning tonight when you arrive home. There are more in this box. Be sure you pass them out to your family and friends, especially that delightful Toby. The world is in need of artistic people. That will soon be truer than ever.”

Mercury thanked for, and then accompanied her to the house, carrying with him a variety of packages. She rang the doorbell, whereupon Martin answered the door.

“My dear sister, you have finally arrived,” he said. “You are an hour earlier than I expected. Do come in.”

Mercury deposited the gifts inside the door to the spacious family room as the ex-wife, sons, daughters-in-law, and grandchildren of Phillip Khoska gathered around to meet for the first time the woman whom Martin now introduced to them as his beloved older sister Louise.

“Here you go, young man,” Martin said to Mercury as he proffered two one hundred dollar bills. A very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Mercury said as he then turned to leave. “Nice meeting you, ma’am,” he said to Louise.

Suddenly, the unexpected occurred as one of the grandchildren walked up to where the recent arrivals congregated, with his eyes peeled exclusively on the Seventeenth Pulse member known as Mercury Morris.

“Wow, you got gang tats,” the seven-year-old boy exclaimed, to his father’s obvious dismay.

“Ricky, that will be enough,” he said. “Sorry about that, mister.”

“No problem,” Mercury replied calmly, though obviously taken aback. “These ain’t gang tats. I got these in the Marines, over in Iraq. The seventeen stands for seventeen kills. That’s what the dagger dripping blood means. I got it right before I was discharged, after I got shot up real bad.”

The young boy looked at him wide-eyed, and then smiled broadly.

“Yeaaahhhhh, right!” he said.

Mercury ignored the obviously disbelieving expression on the boy’s part and, saying goodbye, he informed Louise he would return to pick her up at the scheduled time, at which she thanked him and said goodbye.

“It is so nice to meet you-Louise is it?” Louise turned to face the woman who was married to the man who was, unbeknownst to all of them, not her brother, but her husband.

“And it is nice to finally meet you,” she replied. “Donald has told me so much about you.”

“Are all these presents for us?” the boy asked to his parent’s consternation.

“Indeed they are, young man,” she replied. “They are not to be opened however until midnight tonight, especially this large one. That one is something I have brought as a gift for the entire family.”

She indicated the large box that was almost the height of the boy, who was engrossed in the process of finding his own gift. Louise smiled widely as he looked in greedy expectation, though no one but Martin could read the unadulterated disdain and disgust she had become so expert at concealing over fifty years of marriage. She was more than adept at concealing her true feelings. She had become an expert at hiding her true accent and the Romany heritage from which it sprung. It was something she insisted on even during those long periods when she and Martin were alone.

After the introductions were complete, Martin-known by the family as Donald Krump-joined the brothers in the basement den, as Louise joined Elaine and the two daughters-in-law in the kitchen, where the final preparations of the dinner were in place.

“You say Donald prepared some of the food?” Louise asked.

“Just the turkey and the dressing, and of course, the eggnog,” Elaine replied. “He claims that is an old family recipe. Is that true? Oh yes, and he also prepared the cranberry salad.”

Louise looked warily toward the giant bowl filled with the frothy mix of eggnog.

“Yes, and unfortunately, my constitution is such these days I can’t drink so much as a sip of it without breaking out in hives,” Louise replied. “I’m sure you will enjoy it however. I do hope he thought to prepare a non-alcoholic portion for the young ones.”

“Not only that, but he prepared a special formula for little Jack here,” one of the wives said as she indicated the now sleeping infant she cradled in her arms. “I think I’d better put him down while I’m ahead.”

“Donald is such a stickler for tradition,” Elaine stated. “He insists no one should touch a drop until midnight, and that the children should remain up to join us as well. Just between you and I, though, I think I’m going to sneak a little sip.”

“NO-DON’T!” Louise shouted, and then quickly recovered her composure, as the other three women looked at her in bemused shock.

“What I mean is, Donald is such a stickler for tradition,” she said. “If he found out, he would lecture us all for an hour. Believe me, you do not want to go through that any more than I do.”

Elaine relented, saying it would likely spoil her dinner, all to the relief of Louise, who joined in the female chitchat. She listened with politely disguised disdain as the older of the two daughters-in-law went into a monologue about how few people understood the true meaning of Christmas these days, and how the politically correct elements of society encouraged this to as great an extent as possible.

“They want us to spend money,” she complained, “but it just isn’t polite to mention Christ. You can buy a ‘holiday tree’ but not a Christmas tree. If you go to a mall, you will hear and see ‘Happy Holidays’ but not ‘Merry Christmas’. They know they are asking for a lawsuit if they do that. Well, I say people should take their shopping elsewhere.

“My kid’s school won’t even allow Christmas pageants, or Christmas displays, or even Christmas carols, because they’re afraid they’ll offend a few Jews or Muslims, or the handful of atheist’s kids. It’s just gotten ridiculous. The school calendar doesn’t list Christmas-it’s listed as ‘Winter Holiday’ or some such crap as that.”

Louise felt as though she were dying, and made up her mind Martin was definitely going to hear about this after she returned this bitch’s favor. It was actually unnecessary for her to be here at any rate, but Martin was, as always, nothing if not sentimental. He insisted she be here.

Luckily, Elaine and the other daughter-in-law soon changed the subject to a discussion about sales, and then diets, evidently becoming as quickly bored as she had been. Well, we all have our good sides, after all, she considered. The subject soon turned to a discussion of the husbands. The younger girl had a bit of a sense of humor, actually, especially when it came to her husband Willie’s manhood.

“He gets upset when I call him ‘Wee Willie Winkie’” she explained to Elaine’s obvious displeasure. The damn girl must be drunk, Louise said. The Christian fanatic got somewhat red in the face, but then quickly recovered, and shared her belief in God, yet again.

“The good Lord blessed me with everything that I could possibly want,” she said with a smile and a wink.

“Maybe I should try praying before instead of during sex,” the younger girl said.

Yes, she is definitely drunk, Louise thought, as Elaine now, to her amusement, began talking about her own marital bliss, and of how happy ‘Donald’ had made her over the past few months of their marriage.

“Of course, he is much older than I am,” she said, and Louise thought to herself, honey, if you only knew.

“I assure you, though,” she continued, “he is every bit the match for Philip, and then some, when it comes to the lovemaking department. I really should not be talking like this in front of Louise, though. I’m sure she has no desire to hear about her brother’s bedroom exploits.”

“Actually, Donald and I keep few secrets from each other,” Louise replied.

“Have you ever been married, Miss Krovelescu?” the older daughter-in-law asked.

“Yes, to a man named Martin,” she answered with a demure smile. “We are actually still married, though separated now for about eight months. We stay in touch however. I am pretty sure we will be getting back together again, very soon now.”

They put the finishing touches on the meal, and then called the men and children upstairs to dinner. As they filed into the dining room, the oldest son remarked he had not been aware Donald was such an avowed football fan, particularly of the old Baltimore Colts, many years since moved to Indianapolis.

“Oh, I actually met Johnny Unitas during his rookie year,” ‘Donald’ now bragged. “I knew the minute I met him he was going to be one of the all-time greats.”

It was momentarily difficult for Louise to conceal her concern at this revelation. Martin could never resist engaging in this type of self-revelatory monologue, which he explained as a method for releasing internal pressure during the build-up to the final moments of an important project.

“Yeah, but he wasn’t as great as old ‘Broadway Joe’”, opined the young grandson, showing off his knowledge of pigskin statistics.

“Well, you have to realize, Unitas was very ill during that season,” the old man explained. “That is actually the reason Namath was so extraordinarily confidant as to make his boastful guarantee. Had Johnny not been so indisposed, I promise you that Namath would never have felt so inclined to make what would have been a very foolhardy prediction.”

“Yeah, yeah, excuses, excuses,” the upstart little bastard replied as he looked now toward Louise, who regarded the spoiled young brat with barely disguised loathing.

“You must really rate to have the Seventeenth Pulse driving you around,” he said with precocious admiration, as the boy’s mother, the Christian whiner, looked at her suspiciously.

“Young man, I really have no idea what you are referring to,” Louise replied, finding the effort at joviality becoming increasingly tiresome, as Martin some days before warned her it would.

“You can’t begin to know what I have to put up with,” he had told her. Now, he made his way over toward his “sister”.

“See what I mean?” he said.

They soon sat to eat, whereupon Louise found herself soon even further outraged by Martin’s request that she “lead us in a bit of a prayer, if you please, dear sister.”

“You are joking, are you not?” she asked as she noted the malicious twinkle in his eye.

“But of course not,” he responded. The bastard will pay for this, she decided. Nevertheless, she obliged his request.

“Dear Lord God, we thank thee for the blessings you have bestowed on us this evening, in the company of family and new and good friends, to partake of the abundance of thy generous bounty. We pray that you grant us wisdom and good health, and that you watch over us each day and night, as we acknowledge this holy day of thy sons blessed birth among men. In the name of Jesus our Lord we pray, Amen.”

“Amen,” they all repeated, as Martin looked toward Louise, obviously impressed at her degree of preparedness.

As they ate, they engaged in small talk, and Louise decided this would be the perfect time to give Martin the latest news.

“You should be aware that our good friend Radu was in a bit of a fix,” she said. “He is very good now, but that creature he insisted on making amends with almost did him in.”

“I suppose it would not be an exaggeration to suppose she ‘tore him a new asshole’, as they say,” Martin observed as he sipped his iced tea.

“She actually tore him more like seven,” she replied, to which he grimaced. “As I said, though, he is thankfully on the road to a speedy recovery.”

As she said this, she reached over toward the cranberry salad, which Elaine just sat near her, whereupon Martin cleared his throat.

“Really, Louise, I should not have to remind you how cranberries tend to make you break out,” he said.

“Of course, you are right,” she replied, making no effort to hide her displeasure. “Thank you for reminding me, Donald. Of course, you know I will be unable as well to imbibe your world-class eggnog.”

“He made some that is non-alcoholic,” the Christian reminded her.

“Oh, but of course he would do that,” Louise said, growing increasingly annoyed. “Donald is thoughtful in that way. Unfortunately, it is not just the alcohol to which my system would rebel, I am also lactose intolerant. If that were not enough, I am allergic to nutmeg.”

Suddenly, the little brat shot up in his chair.

“I just remembered where I heard that name,” he said. “Radu is supposed to be some sort of monster. Mom it’s in your paper you got yesterday.”

Before anybody could react, the little fuckhead went bounding down the steps to the basement.

“Well, this is certainly an unexpected development,” Martin said with what he hoped was a convincing chuckle. “I think perhaps I had best go and explain to the youngster that the Radu in question is an old friend from Romania, and hardly a ‘monster’. I certainly would not want the lad to get the wrong idea. Besides, I am most curious as to just what little Ricky is referring to.”

“Oh, there’s some crazy story about some deformed looking guy that’s been going around Baltimore, killing people and supposedly drinking every drop of their blood,” the boy’s mother explained. “I never really read the story, but he was quite engrossed by it. You know how kids are.”

“Well, it’s a lot of crap,” her husband replied. “Baltimore has always been a high crime area. These papers would do anything to ratchet up crime statistics to sell copies. It’s probably just some junkie. There has been another series of murders, evidently by a different perpetrator, who mutilates the victims. You would have to be an idiot to live in that city, as Lynette found out the hard way. I ain’t buying anything about a monster, though. Just some sick psychopath. They’ll catch him eventually, then something else will happen. That place will never change.”

The mention of Lynette did not set well with the late girl’s mother, who now became despondent. It was an unwritten rule in the household that the topic of Lynette’s murder was off-limits during family gatherings especially at which the children were present, and even this older brother of Lynette should have known better than to even remotely bend that unwritten rule. The two children who remained upstairs looked uncomfortable, as did everyone else. Louise was not sure how to react. Such a statement would generally require a follow-up question, followed by a statement of sympathy. She was more inclined to change the subject, but was not quite sure how.

Martin excused himself, on the pretext that the young man was probably yet distraught over the unseemly demise of his aunt Lynette, and he feared it would not be wise for him to dwell on such things, especially if he had any ideas as to the involvement of his and Louise’s long time family friend.

“I think it is incumbent on me that I reassure the lad,” he said, seeming to Louise to be remarkably at ease.

Martin, however, was anything but at ease, as he strolled down the steps, hastening his pace as he got out of sight of the assembled family members. He was an old hand at dealing with unexpected contingencies, but this one was quite extraordinary. As he entered the basement den, there was yet another unexpected worry. The young lad sat there on the sofa, just staring out into space. The paper set by his side.

“Ricky is everything all right?” he asked. “You seem troubled over something. Surely you do not suppose that I am a friend of so-called ‘monsters’, do you?”

“No,” the young boy replied, but looked down at the ground, not meeting his expression.

Martin now gazed over toward the paper, and saw the artist’s rendition of the bizarrely deformed man seen by four different eyewitnesses during the night and time of the murder of April Sandusky, having been spotted hurriedly leaving the vicinity of the crime. There was one single headline above the photo of the police artist’s sketch.
The Killer Has A Name
RADU

Now how in the hell did they find that out, he wondered, as he noted the by-line of the story-

“Well, I certainly hope you would not think such a thing,” he continued. “Really, I think your grandmother is quite upset.”

The young boy looked up with a frantic look of concern on his face, whereupon Martin hurriedly hastened to reassure him.

“No, I don’t mean to imply that she is upset with you,” he said. “She is merely concerned as to your state of mind. You know how grandmothers are. They tend to take everything so much to heart. They worry far more than is wise. All this talk about monsters, I am afraid, has her quite distraught. Your father is even now reassuring her that you meant no harm, or disrespect, and I shall certainly do likewise.”

Something was wrong, he realized. The boy now looked at him curiously, intensely, as he spoke. He finally merely muttered “okay”, but Martin knew something was drastically wrong. As he said this, he inadvertently glanced once more toward the paper, and then quickly turned away.

“I think I’m going to lie down for a while,” the boy finally said. “I really don’t feel too good. Would you please tell Miss Krovelescu that I am sorry for what I said about that driver? I didn’t mean any harm.”

“Oh, of course,” he said, wondering hopefully whether he might soon be incapable of saying much, if anything, about whatever his current concerns may be. “By the way, do you mind if I take this upstairs and show the others. This is quite an interesting story.”

The boy looked stunned, and unsure of how to answer.

“Yeah,” he finally answered. “Tell mom I said she ought to read the whole paper. It’s really a good one.”

“I will certainly do that,” Martin said. “Why don’t you go lie down for a while? I’ll come get you when it’s time to open the presents.”

“Sure,” the boy said, and disappeared into an adjoining basement guest bedroom.

That does it, Martin said to himself. Something in the paper had him disturbed for reasons other than what he was saying. He quickly thumbed through a few pages, working his way back from the so-called ‘monster’ story, until he saw something that almost made his heart stop. It was a picture of him and Louise, with their true names listed under their respective photos. That was just the beginning. The title of the story was “Baltimore Sun Assistant Editor Murdered”.

How could such a thing happen? The police should not have released the photographs this quickly in their investigation. Yet, there they were, along with Grace, thankfully in disguise and so as yet unidentified, along with the other individuals surreptitiously brought in to camouflage the time and manner of death. Yet, how had the identities of he and Louise been so quickly determined? No one in Baltimore knew them well. Even during the brief period more than thirty years before when Martin ran the Krovell Funeral Home, before Richard became old enough to run it, he and Louise associated with few people in the area. Someone who knew them well was responsible for this. That meant, obviously, that someone in the club had betrayed them. He hurriedly scanned the article to try to glean some sense out of it, but closed it quickly when he heard footsteps approach from behind him.

He turned quickly to see Lisa, the younger of the two daughters-in-law. She was obviously drunk to the gills.

“I was hoping you were down here,” she said. “I get so bored at these family things. Where’s Ricky?”

“He was not feeling well so he went to lie down in the guest room,” Martin replied.

“Good. Will you fuck me?”

“Well now, that is certainly an odd request,” Martin replied uncomfortably. “You haven’t been nipping a bit at the old eggnog have you?”

She smiled and replied no, then produced from her purse a half pint of vodka.

“I was afraid I’d get caught if I tried to mix it, so I just had an Altoids cocktail,” she explained and then breathed her sharp mint breath in Martin’s face.

“Oh well, I see you have come more than prepared,” he replied. “Well, I think it would be best if we returned upstairs, before the others come looking-like your husband, for example.”

“You’re a fag, ain’t you?” she asked. “You have to be to turn me down. I can get any real man I want. I married down-way down. Oh, the money part of it is good, but I never realized how much I would miss-certain things.”

As she said this she put her hand firmly on Martin’s crotch, his cock responding immediately by hardening considerably.

“We should really wait until we can make it worth our time,” he told her. “After all, we have no time for more than a ‘quickie’, as I believe it is called. From what I understand, you have had more than your share of them.”

She looked at him with impatient skepticism, and wagged her finger as she smiled tauntingly.

“Little Ricky showed me that picture earlier,” she said. “If you don’t fuck me I’m going to show everybody. I already told him not to say anything, that you probably had nothing to do with it, and it was just somebody that looked a little like you. You know, the more I think about it though, the more I think-wait a minute, that woman up there, Louise.”

“All right, all right,” he said. “I admit that man in the picture is me. You can’t say anything though, because what we are doing involves potentially tens of billions of dollars.”

“So Louise is really your wife?”

“She is my ex-wife, yes,” he replied. “Mr. Desmond, the deceased newspaper editor, was in the process of tracking down some offshore accounts through use of his Cayman Island contacts. My ex-wife stands to inherit billions, and she promised me a cut if I would assist her. I went through Mr. Desmond.”

The woman’s eyes glazed over listening to this bullshit, which Martin was spitting out at dizzying speed from the top of his head to the point he was by now nauseous.

“So did he do it, or when he was killed did that end it?”

“No,” Martin assured her. “He succeeded, and soon Louise’s rightful money will be safely tucked away in her own accounts. It’s all a matter of legal maneuvering, and will take a few weeks yet. It is all for reasons of taxes. Otherwise, there is no problem, aside from this wait. Mr. Desmond’s murder was an incidental matter that had nothing to do with us, I assure you.”

“Fine,” she said. “Now, fuck me.”

She bent down and hiked up her skirt. What else could he do? He dropped his pants and, gripping the woman around the waist from behind, he quickly and violently pounded it to her. To his dismay, she screamed loudly, and he realized this could go on for some time. She got louder, it seemed, with each passing thrust, and he began to fear this little whore was going to ruin all his plans. He was not even sure she had sense enough to close the basement door when she came down the steps or even for that matter whether she even wanted to do so.

Fearing the worse, he suddenly grabbed her around the throat and, as he continued fucking her from behind, he began choking her, his grip growing tighter and stronger with each passing second. By the time that she realized what was happening, she was already too weak to fight him off from behind her. By the time he ejaculated up inside her, she was unconscious. She slumped to the ground. He lowered her gently to where she lay flat out on the ground, at which point he resumed strangling her until she was dead.

Quickly, he checked the bedroom, only to see young Ricky lying also dead, his eyes staring out into space.

“Two down-eight to go,” he said. He then pulled the woman into the bedroom and dragged her into the closet, into which he then placed Billy, right on top of her.

“Naughty-naughty,” he said, then shut the closet door. He then retrieved the paper, and quickly scanned it. Within less than two minutes, he realized who the culprit was.

“Morrison-that son-of-a-bitch!” he said.

He looked up at the clock and, seeing now the time, realized he would have to move the timetable up by more than three hours. There was no other way.

Regrettably, he made his way up the stairs to the upstairs family room.

“I’ve made a decision,” he announced. “It has generally been an old tradition to wait until the midnight hour to drink the eggnog. Well, the hell with tradition-I need a drink.”

“You are quite late, Martin,” Louise told him, as he just now noticed the cups in the hands of the assembled family members, while the infant brother of Ricky hungrily gobbled up his own special formula.

“Well, I see that I am,” he said.

“I’m sorry, old man,” the oldest stepson said. “I just figured it couldn’t hurt. We can still have the traditional midnight toast.”

“I see,” Martin replied. “So, it is just as well you seem to have read my mind. But, where is Elaine?”

When the others told him she was in the bedroom, he warily made his way down the hallway to the staircase. Everything was going to hell, he realized. The whole purpose of waiting until midnight was to insure that all partook of the special concoction. The fact that Elaine had refused to engage in this break with tradition did not bode well. He had to think of something, and fast. He entered the room to see his wife sitting upright on the edge of the bed, gazing morosely at a picture of her late daughter, Lynette.

“Is all well, darling?” he asked.

“I miss her so much, Donald,” she replied. “I feel like I failed when it counted most. I just could not bring myself to try to control her life, and now it’s too late. Now, here it is, the first Christmas since she’s gone, and I’m starting to realize how little it means. I don’t know if I can go through with any more tonight.”

Oh, don’t worry, you foolish, self-absorbed cunt, he thought. This will be the last Christmas you will have to concern yourself with your worthless, spoiled, and unappreciative daughter’s absence.

“I certainly understand how you feel, my dear,” he told her. “Would you like me to stay here with you, or would you prefer to be alone?”

“Just give me a few minutes,” she replied. “I’ll be down before long.”

“You know, I have a very good idea,” he said. “Come down as quickly as you can, and have a drink with us, for the sake of the others. Then, if you feel like coming back up here, I will accompany you on some pretext, at which point I will return downstairs and make some excuse on your behalf. The reason I suggest this is for no other reason, mind you, that you share this special occasion with those of your loved ones that are yet here with you.”

If only for a very few minutes, you stupid slut, he thought to himself, as she pondered his suggestion.

“Give me just a moment,” she replied, “and I’ll be down, I promise.”

He considered the possibility of killing her on the spot but decided he had pressed his luck enough as it is. The rushed murder of the unfaithful stepdaughter might be explainable. Yet another suspicious demise might well raise more suspicions. He decided to accede to his second wife’s request, and made his way back downstairs, wondering what ever could happen next, as Louise made her way to him frantically.

“You have to do something with those brats,” she complained.

He hurried down to where the boy and girl, who were cousins, seemed intent on opening the larger box.

“And what do you two think you are doing?” he asked.

To his dismay, they looked at him with suspicion. The girl looked to be in a near state of shock.

“What in the hell is that thing?” the boy asked. “Is that thing for real?”

“Oh, of course not,” he replied. “It’s a joke. Not one word out of you now, it must be our secret joke.”

“Cool,” the boy replied.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” the girl replied, whereupon Martin realized he might well end up having to murder the entire family one at a time.

“Trust me,” Martin told her. “Once you see what it’s about, you’ll see it’s a good thing. It will bring us all good luck.”

“That thing-will bring good luck?” she asked in disbelief.

“Just go along with it, Mary, why spoil the fun?”

“Oh, because it’s gross, maybe?” she said.

Suddenly, Louise reappeared.

“Donald, are you sure you used the right amount of ingredients in your eggnog? Please tell me you didn’t skimp, as you are habitually wont to do.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Louise,” he replied, genuinely hurt at the accusation. “Not today, of all days. Louise-it’s Christmas.”

Lisa’s husband then entered and addressed the two kids, his daughter and nephew, telling them the family was getting ready to sing Christmas carols.

“Then we’re going to take some pictures, and then-time to open the presents.”

“Let’s open the presents first,” the boy suggested, eager to dig open the giant box. The girl Mary however was suddenly in no hurry to open gifts. She was obviously upset over what she saw, and Martin was growing more anxious by the minute. Louise was by now determined that if they made it out of this house intact, her husband of now fifty years would hear a lecture he would not soon forget. Now, as the two children filed into the family room, where the oldest stepson sat at the piano playing, of all things, “Silent Night”, the second oldest of the family brothers approached Martin.

“Have you seen any sign of Lisa?” he asked.

“As a matter of fact, I have been meaning to speak to you about that very subject,” he answered. “I think her and little Ricky went for a walk out in the garden. As it happens, I do hate to say this, but your wife seemed quite drunk. I didn’t want to say anything in front of the others, you understand.”

“Why would she go off with little Ricky?” the distraught and frequently cuckolded husband asked with growing dread evident in his tone of voice.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be too concerned,” Martin asked. “They seem quite fond of each other, and I suppose your wife, being somewhat hot and nauseous from drink, wanted company as she walked outside to refresh herself in the cool night air. They were laughing and joking the whole time I was there. In fact, little Ricky unfortunately seemed to have spilled his soft drink on his lap while I was in the bathroom. When I left there, she was bending down, apparently drying him off. They seemed to think it was quite funny. At some point, Lisa suggested they go outside for a walk, a prospect that little Ricky seemed more than eager to oblige. That has all been just a few minutes ago. I would imagine if you were to go down there, the chances are good they would have returned by now, or will shortly.”

“Yeah, I think maybe I’d better do that,” he replied, then wasted no time heading towards the stairs to the basement den.

“You really enjoyed that, didn’t you?” Louise asked him.

“I just hope he doesn’t think to look in the closet of the guest bedroom,” Martin replied. “With my luck, I have almost no doubt that he will.”

The family was now singing in unison, joining in “Deck The Halls”.

“Something is wrong, Martin,” Louise told him.

“Oh, you are a worry wart,” he replied. “Everything will work out for the best not in spite of these unexpected developments so much actually as because of them. We shall accomplish our task with almost three hours to spare, in fact. Really, Louise, you must stop being so negative. The situation is well under control. Come now and let us join them. Perhaps we can impress upon them to join us in a rousing chorus of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.”

As they entered the family den, Martin noticed the youngest of his stepsons was now on the phone, doubtless engaged in yet another long-winded conversation with his girlfriend, who unfortunately could not be present this night, to Martin’s consternation. He could not help but feel some sympathy for the young man, and wished he could offer him consolation. What must it be like for a young man to be apart from his sweetheart on what would undoubtedly be the most important night of his life-on Christmas, no less?

He tarried close to the phone until the young man noticed him, whereupon Martin whispered that when he got finished he would like to speak to him. As he hoped, David obliged by saying goodnight, though this seemed to take him forever to do as well.

“I was wondering if you would be so kind as to take your mother up some eggnog. She is feeling quite depressed, and I think it would make her feel much better. Have you had some, by the way?”

“Are you kidding?” the stepson replied. “I’ve had four cups of it. That stuff is fantastic. It sure made me feel great. Yeah, I’ll take her up some. I guess she’s upset over Lynette, huh?”

“Yes, which of course is understandable,” Martin replied. “It was really unfortunate that your brother mentioned that unpleasantness, but on the other hand, Elaine must come to terms with it at one point or another. Perhaps if you remained up there with her for a few minutes, let her get it out of her system. Perhaps it would do you well, for that matter. I know you and your sister were very close.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” David replied. “Damn, you know Donald, I didn’t think mom was thinking straight when she married you, the two of you being so many years apart. Man, was I ever wrong. You are the coolest stepfather a guy could ask for.”

David gave his stepfather a hug, and then made his way to the kitchen. As Martin joined the rest of the family in the singing of Joy To The World, he watched as David made his way up the steps carrying two cups of the eggnog. He only hoped the little glutton saved his mother at least one of them.

Ten minutes went by, and every time Martin looked over toward Louise, she would cast a sharp glance toward the clock. It was nine-thirty when she did this the last time, not quite five minutes before Missy, the Christian bitch, doubled over in agony. Her husband Richey jumped from the piano stool in horror.

“Missy, what the hell’s wrong?” he asked, whereupon their daughter Mary told him she did not feel so good either.

By the time that the other kid echoed these sentiments, Richey himself doubled over and began vomiting.

“Well, you see Louise, what happens when you are overly aggressive with your ingredients? Of course, a good lot of that might well be detrimental to the overall effect. It should stay in their systems as long as possible, you understand. What you call stinginess one might better describe as prudence. Sometimes, my dear, I really wonder who is the full blooded gypsy of the two of us, you or me.”

“Well, then, Mr. Know-It-All, I have a question. Just what happens when your wife sees how sick her son becomes in her presence, and comes running down here and sees the entire family now in the process of dying, while she herself will be feeling no effects for at least another hour-assuming she even drinks any of the stuff at all?”

“Contingencies, my dear, contingencies,” he answered. “Louise-it is Christmas, and look what it is you are standing under.”

She looked up to see the mistletoe, whereupon Martin grabbed her up in his arms and started kissing her lasciviously in front of the family, still conscious, though severely ill and only now starting to comprehend that things were not all peace and good cheer. Then, Elaine came almost stumbling down the stairs, holding to the banister as she cried out for ‘Donald’.

“David is sick, and now I’m getting sick,” she said. Martin looked over to Louise and winked.

“She just loves cranberries,” he said, as Elaine just now caught site of her older son and his wife, and two of the grandchildren, all of them on the floor on their hands and knees, groaning in agony, her son now throwing up what appeared to be bloody mucus.

“You’re just in time, Elaine, to hear the Christmas story,” Martin informed her. “Should you tell her, Louise, or should I?”

“You tell it, Martin,” Louise replied. “You tell it with such dramatic flair. I am hardly in your league when it comes to dramatics. Perhaps this is due to overcompensation on the part of your merely partial gypsy genetic heritage.”

“Why is she calling you Martin?” Louise asked, now confused and growing noticeably terrified at the sight of her family, deathly ill, while her husband stood calmly by, smiling and embracing his purported sister as though they were far more intimate than mere siblings ordinarily were.

“Oh, really, Elaine,” Martin replied. “Did you not think it a little suspicious when I told you my name was Donald Krump? Did that not seem odd? It did not strike you that I might have been engaged in a bit of a humorous parody of sorts? Suppose I told you my name were John F. Zennedy, or George W. Push? Would you still not have gotten the joke? Of course, I realized I was taking somewhat of a chance. I suppose that is just the gambler in me. Nevertheless, I was happy to discern from my little prank that you, fortunately, have no imagination whatsoever.”

Elaine now collapsed to her knees as the room spun around in a dizzying fashion, as Martin now stood over her.

“Oh my God,” she cried. “Why are you doing this? I loved you, and trusted you. I took you into my home, I married you.”

“Oh now really Elaine, before you go on any further, have I really been that bad a husband to you? Would you not say that, up until this point, I have treated you with more kindness and consideration than Phillip ever did, in all the time you were married to him? Be honest now, my dear.”

“Oh for God’s sake Martin, there you go again,” Louise said. “Pay him no mind, my dear Elaine. Martin has always had this maddening urge to seek the appreciation and approval of others, even at the most inappropriate times.”

“Mom?” came the sudden pained cry of David as he came slowly down the stairs, not quite making it down all the way before he too crumpled over in pain, as almost simultaneously the cuckold son Willie pulled himself up from the basement steps in obvious agony.

“Oh, good, now they are all here, just in time to hear the Christmas story,” Louise said with glee.

Willie, however, now looked with utter hatred toward Martin.

“You son-of-a-bitch, what have you done?” he demanded.

“Oh, dear, I guess you found Lisa and Ricky, did you not?” Martin inquired. “I really did want to spare you that-well, for the time being, any way.”

“Oh, never mind all that unpleasantness,” Louise said in a scolding tone. “You all really must hear Martin tell The Christmas Story. Nothing could possibly impart more meaning to the holiday.”

As the two sons collapsed on the floor, David groaning as Willie begun vomiting, Elaine herself sunk to the floor on her knees in despair, and began sobbing hysterically, while the Christian woman, Missy, gathered her children in her arms, praying loudly, yet somewhat incoherently. Her husband just sat and stared outward, his eyes glazed over in shock, as Louise made her way toward the infant, whom she noticed gasping for breath.

“Here, Martin, I’ll hold the child,” she said. “He could never understand the words of course, but perhaps as I hold him my feelings will be transferred to him, and in that way he as well will come to understand what few others are blessed to know-the true, real meaning of Christmas.”

“Before I begin, I think perhaps it is time to open the presents,” Martin replied. “Well, not all of them, of course, but certainly the one of greater value. What do you think, Louise? Would you not say that it would set the stage quite well? In fact, allow me to hold that precious infant whilst you undo the package. This stiffness in my joints is acting up again.”

“Oh, very well,” she replied. “But you must assist me in removing what I suppose I should just refer to for now as the item.”

Louise handed the child to Martin, who rocked it tenderly, noting how quiet and peaceful he seemed, as Louise began to open the huge package.

“As you all I sure am aware,” Martin began, “when out blessed Lord was born, his mother and step-father, Joseph and Mary, were obliged to flee the place of his birth in order to prevent his murder by Herod. Prior to this, however, the Wise Men, who in fact unfortunately announced the birth of the Holy Child to the despotic king, sought him out in order to give him all due honors. Imagine if you will, for just the moment, that you are a Jewish peasant of the town of Bethlehem, and suddenly you hear a loud voice announce”-

“LO, I BRING YOU GREAT TIDINGS OF JOY, FOR UNTO YOU THIS DAY IN THE CITY OF DAVID, A CHILD IS BORN, WHO IS CHRIST THE LORD!”

He waited some seconds, as the assembled family members, although groaning in pain and overwhelming illness, lurched in reaction to the booming voice of the man they now knew had lived among them as a fraud. He then continued.

“Imagine now if you will the shepherds watching their flock, staring at wonder at this messenger angel, this herald, if you will, then hastening to that most beloved scene so immortalized through the ages. A child, wrapped in swaddling clothes-in grave clothes, in other words-his mother and Joseph reduced to seeking out a barn for shelter, over which the most glorious star shone down from on high.

“Before long, those illustrious mages of whom I earlier spoke arrived, all bearing gifts. There was gold, symbolizing of course that this was a child of royal lineage to whom great treasure was due. Frankincense, also a royal gift, symbolized his remarkable spiritual heritage. Finally, there was myrrh, which symbolized the suffering that this child was due to undergo, and yet in the end, would overcome.

“What better time then to present you with perhaps the most important of all the gifts which I now bestow this night?”

Saying this, Martin joined Louise beside the large box, actually a wooden crate, from which the two of them removed what looked to be a mummy, which they cautiously, almost tenderly, lay beside Elaine on the floor. Elaine looked in horror upon the cadaver.

“I know you must be thinking, ‘now what sort of present is this?’” he continued. “As such, allow me to introduce my brother Raymond, dead now some fifty odd years or so. See, my dear, when the authorities investigate, they shall discover this body, whom they will likely assume to be myself. Being as he is my full brother, even a DNA analysis, under the circumstances, is unlikely to reveal any dissimilarity to speak of. Nor are they likely to perform any sort of tests that might reveal the age of my brother at his death, which was a mere twenty-four years, nor the amount of time he has truly been deceased. My grandson’s mortuary skills certainly are of the utmost artistic quality, to be sure. It is almost a pity such painstaking craftsmanship should be destroyed.

“At any rate, my dear, as I am sure you are aware, you need not worry about society judging you the fool for trusting and marrying a man who in truth brought about the deaths of you and your entire family. You see, I was ever so thoughtful enough as to save you that humiliation of spirit I am sure such worries would bring. Now, no one ever need know. As for the remainder of the gifts, yet unwrapped, they are of such inordinately expensive quality, the world at large will surely assume that I loved and honored our brief relationship, and had the utmost affection and respect for your children and grandchildren as well. Which, in a very real sense, you should know is actually true.

“Furthermore, here is another important piece of information that I would hope might fill your heart with some degree of solace, perhaps even a bit of satisfaction. Phillip will receive the blame for the foul deed that shall occur this night. Therefore, in a very real way, he will pay for his earlier betrayals of you and your children.”

Elaine was transfixed by the horrid sight of the now dried cadaver, its formerly crushed skull repaired with a steel plate, and noted how it seemed cut open, as its hollow, vacant eye sockets seemed to search out her features.

“It will certainly appear as though I died defending you, after which the soon to come inferno which this house shall become they will assume unfortunately immolated my exposed internal organs by way of the excessive heat and flames.

“You’re insane,” she said in a hoarse whisper, which felt to her like a shout. “You’ll never get away with this.”

“Get away with it?” he asked. “Oh, dear, is that what you think this is about, that I am trying to get away with something? My dear, you surely do not think I would engage in such crass underhandedness. It is not that I am trying to get away with something. No, my dear, I am trying to get to something.

“By the way, dear Louise, if you would be so kind, while I conclude the Christmas Story, would you kindly spread the gasoline and accelerants. The other two bodies you will find in a closet downstairs, as I am somewhat positive my dear stepson Willie knows by now. Make certain you douse them sufficiently with the gasoline, which you should be sure to spread about a few other strategic places. The accelerant you need spread generously throughout the house. After the fire has concluded its run, it will have sufficiently faded so as to leave no trace, not that such a thing matters, I suppose, under these particular circumstances.”

“Excellent idea, Martin,” Louise said as she gazed now toward the stepson in question. “There is always a possibility though that the police might think Wee Willie Winkie here, as I am informed his wife Missy called him, to be the perpetrator of the crime.”

“True enough,” he replied. “Nevertheless, the situation has been arranged to the effect that our dear Mr. Phillip Khoska shall remain the major suspect, possibly thinking to set up Wee Willie Winkie to take the blame. After all, Elaine, although I have this strange idea you have forgotten by now, it just so happens that you recently received confirmation of a private investigation into your husband’s background of the last few years, which I am certain you also have forgotten. At any rate, you learned that he was involved in the horrendous international sex-slave industry, and even worse, the abomination known as internet child pornography. In fact, he has been the ringleader of these nefarious enterprises for some time now. It would only make sense that Phillip, criminal mastermind and profound evildoer that he is, would seek to destroy you in desperation, even to the extent of murdering his entire family to cover up such a sordid crime.

“So you see, my dear, you may now go to your eternal reward also secure in the knowledge that your death will help to bring to an end this unholy wickedness which, truthfully, my dear, I regret to inform you that your entire family has been the beneficiary of, at the expense of thousands of innocent young lives at that.

“Therefore, you shall die not and leave behind a legacy of shame. No, the world shall see you as a heroine, one who sought to rectify her late-husbands evil deeds, and died because of his unspeakable wickedness, for which he will nevertheless face justice.

“People will even look at you as a kind of saintly figure, much like Christ himself, whose blessed birth we observe this very night of your demise. For you see, Christ saw the truth. He realized that all men are mixtures of goodness and evil. When he faced down Satan, in the wilderness, when he underwent the temptation, he was fighting not with a separate entity. Nay, indeed, the Satan he sought to resist was the Satan that was in his own heart-his own selfish ego. He knew the time would come when the universe would be his, but he knew there had to be a struggle. He was one of the few men, perhaps the only man, who understood the balance between the darkness and the light.

“Because he preached that men should acquire that spiritual balance, he was called a wine-bibber and a glutton, and a man who dined with sinners and with whores. Finally, they killed him, crucified him, not because his killers hated and feared the truth. No, it was because they did not wish for that great truth to become widespread among all men, whom the elites wished to keep as their ignorant servants.

“And the greatest truth of all was that one which he shared with his honored guests, his disciples, on that magnificent evening known as the Last Supper. It goes without saying of course that he spoke not symbolically, but literally, when he told them, “eat of this bread, for it is my body, broken for the sins of mankind. Drink of this wine, for it is the cup of my blood, shed for the remission of sins. Do all this in remembrance of me.”

“That, you see, is the true meaning of Christmas after all. That is the true gift of God, that promised-nay that prophesied, sacrifice. The original disciples of course knew this well. In time, unfortunately, most would forget this important great truth. Well, after all, the earlier Christians were a very beleaguered lot. The Roman authorities accused them of all manner of what they supposed were vices and perversions, not the least of which were cannibalism. Therefore, as all religions are wont to do, they adjusted to the times. They set aside their principles, and adapted to the current realities of the political climate of the day. In other words, they turned their back on Christ, while outwardly pretending to embrace him.

“Naturally, there were those who refused to go along with the crowd, to use a current expression. There were those who remained faithful, and for their faith, not only the pagans of Rome and the politicians persecuted them, but also the very Christians who in fact it would not be at all incorrect to say had actually usurped the very name. Finally, they who were the ancestors of those us who are true disciples of Jesus the Christ were obliged to leave Rome. In doing so, they ended up in a place known in those earlier days as Dacia. That of course was an obscure Roman province known to us now as Romania, though it also included parts of what we know as Moldava.

“While there, they intermarried and mingled with the more crude pagan stock of the countryside, whose people had not been seduced by the crass wealth and idle lifestyle enjoyed by the corrupt population of the ‘civilized’ city of Rome and its environs. In fact, they discovered there a culture in which they were welcome, worshippers of the ancient goddess Hecate, with whom they traded and established a friendship of long standing. Of course, the outside world considered them witches, and dangerous. The more modern, secularly seduced, so-called Christians considered their goddess, like all goddesses, a manifestation of that entity they called “The Great Whore of Babylon” which in reality, in their ignorance they were not aware was symbolic of the city of Rome itself.

“At any rate, the true Christians who are my ancestors were not merely accepted and tolerated by the Hecate worshippers-they were honored as prophets. In time, they worshipped together and they intermarried. Before long, they came to be as one.

“Of course, it would not be long before the curse of corrupt civilization and so-called progress made its way as well to Dacia, and our forefathers, those proud and brave pioneers who waited patiently for our Lords return, were once again forced underground.

“Yet, it was not without benefits. The Lord God heard their sufferings, and rewarded their faith with ever-greater knowledge and wisdom. That great wisdom, that divine knowledge, has now passed on intact to our own time-which naturally brings us to our present situation.”

Soon, Louise returned from upstairs, only to see that all were alive, and though they yet were conscious, they groaned in pain and terror, their eyes wide with a horrible frenzy, all of them foaming at the mouth. All save the infant, who now rested on a blanket on the floor.

“Louise my dear, before we proceed, would you be so kind as to prepare the sacrifice?” Martin now asked his true wife, as his illicit one groaned and tried to rise in desperation, and Missy tried desperately to beg for all their lives, but especially for the lives of her children, though her words came out garbled and unintelligible.

To her horror, Louise now reappeared, cradling the infant in her arms. While Martin and Louise surveyed the scene of their desperately helpless audience, the phone rang.

“Oh, now I wonder who that could be calling at this time of the night, on Christmas of all times?” Louise asked.

“Might it be our dear Mr. Morris?” Martin inquired as he made his way toward the phone. “Perhaps he wishes to confirm the time he is to drive us from here.”

“He would call my cell phone,” Louise replied. “No, I rather believe it is someone else.”

Martin answered the phone as Louise set about undressing the infant, who due to the jostling action now seemed to stir from his drug induced slumbers.

“Caitlyn, my dear, of course David is still here,” he said. “Unfortunately, he is presently engaged in a game of spades, I believe it is called, with his brothers. Might I suggest you call back later? Better yet, why do I not have him call you back?”

Louise noted how both Missy and David tried desperately to shout in an attempt to attract the attention of the girl who was evidently David’s girlfriend, yet was helpless to do much more than groan feebly.

“What is that? Why, that is a splendid idea. Certainly, you may come over for as long as you wish. We would be delighted to have you join us. So, we will see you then in an hour? Splendid! By the way, do tell your mother and father that my family and I wish them a very Merry Christmas, and a splendid New Year. Will you be sure and do that for me? Excellent!”

“So, Martin, I take it we have the opportunity to save yet one more soul,” an obviously delighted Louise observed. “Our Lord and Savior will certainly be most pleased!”

“Well, of course, my dear,” he explained. “As I always tell you, that is what the true spirit of Christmas is all about-deliverance of blessed souls to the heavenly realm of the King of Kings, and Lord of Lords. After all, the Lord expects us to share our faith to all those to whom we are led by the Holy Spirit. Speaking of which, I think it is incumbent on us now to partake of the feast of The Sacred Blood and Body-would you not agree?”

“By all means, Martin, let is proceed,” she answered and then, to the horror of the distraught oldest daughter-in-law, once more picked up the child. Missy begged for the life of her son.

“Now, Missy, you should be aware, we did not poison little Danny,” Louise reassured him. “Martin merely gave him a sedative, one that would allow him to sleep well and awaken refreshed. He is about to have the singular honor bestowed upon him of receiving the spirit of Christ. What you are about to witness, my dear, is an ancient ritual conducted for centuries by the underground true Church of Christ. On Christmas Day, the day on which we celebrate the birth of our blessed Lord and Savior, we choose by lot a newborn child. Fortunately, there is no need for that, since he is the only child of appropriate age. It is almost as though the good Lord insured a child of the proper age would be present.”

As she explained in this limited detail the nature of this singular honor, which they would bestow upon this child, Martin set about lighting candles, simultaneously extinguishing the electrical lights. He ended by lighting a fire in the fireplace. He then joined Louise, who held the child firmly as it now began to cry. Martin began an ancient prayer in a language none of the family understood, as the child’s father now rose on an elbow and, surveying the scene, attempted to lunge toward the old couple, only to fall flat on his face as he cried loudly. The two children also cried, as Missy watched the scene with now virulent hatred, and Elaine just held her head in her hands, choosing not to look any longer, while praying desperately for intervention from some source, whether divine or otherwise.

They all groaned in terrified excitement when, while Martin began singing a monotone chant in the same obscure tongue, Louise produced a long knife, with which she cut the jugular vein of the child’s throat. The blood poured into a silver goblet, from which each of the older couple sipped. They then forced fed the steaming hot blood, though a mere drop, to each of the unwilling congregants, who moaned in horror but were helpless to resist.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” he said, “I present the Blood of Christ.”

Then Louise, with a hideous cry, produced a large hammer with which she pounded the helpless infant she had previously blessed. The two then circled the corpse of the mangled infant as they chanted and then, suddenly stopping, they tore into the body, biting into the freshly slain flesh, until nothing remained but the internal organs and skeleton. Martin took a small portion of flesh and, his mouth drenched with blood, he bent down with a smile and deposited a small portion inside each family member’s mouth.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and The Holy Spirit, I present the body of Christ,” he said.

“It is done,” he then said to Louise with a satisfied smile. “Their souls have been ransomed, and soon will be with the Lord our God, in the presence of Christ our Lord. What a magnificent night this has been!”

“Indeed it has been,” she replied. “Now, what will we do about this young girl due to arrive?”

“I will let you deal with her, my beloved wife,” he replied. “In the meantime, I will drag all of them down to the basement. It simply would not do for her to see them. While I am doing this, would you be so kind as to increase the potency of the eggnog? Make sure she drinks at least one cup, preferably two, before she joins us.

“Oh, and here! Let us preserve a bit of the Eucharist for her as well. I do not mind in the least bit repeating the ritual on her behalf, especially on a holy night such as this one.”

Louise now became misty eyes as she gazed into the loving eyes of her husband as she licked the blood that gathered around her lips.

“Your magnanimity on behalf of our precious Lord is most inspiring, my dear, dear Martin,” she observed.

“Now, now, Louise,” he replied. “Don’t be trying to inflate my ego. You know that is one of my most sinful weaknesses, and you know how the Lord feels about human pride and vanity. I am a mere servant, my salvation dependent solely upon his divine grace, not on any good works-lest any man should boast, as the Apostle reminds us.”

They embraced each other then under the glow of the candlelight and the fireplace, to which they now proceeded with the remains of the infant. They deposited the entrails and other internal organs within the flames, into which Martin then quickly yet cautiously added some of the accelerant, as he prayed.

“I suppose we should wait until Caitlyn’s arrival before we proceed with the spreading of the gas and accelerant through the remainder of the house. After all, the dear girl has an extremely hypersensitive olfactory system, and I rather fear it would distress her if she encountered the noxious fumes of an inordinate amount of petroleum products. It might well even sicken the poor dear girl.”

As he said this, he looked upon the family. With the exception of Missy, who yet struggled to hold onto life, they were all otherwise dead, including Elaine. He looked with sadness upon the corpse of his second and illicit wife.

“You know, she was really quite a good woman after her own fashion,” he observed. “I think I shall somewhat miss certain aspects of our relationship-such as it was.”

“Martin, you are much too tender-hearted for your own good,” Louise replied as Martin, with a strength and skill that belied his advanced age, began the process of removing the corpses to the confines of the downstairs den. As he did so, she looked upon the form of the sole present remaining survivor.

“You see, my dear, you are perhaps the luckiest one of all,” she told the woman. “Unlike the others here, you seemed genuinely to believe in the apostasy of present day heretical Christianity. Well, now you know the truth. You shall soon see the heaven you have longed for I suspect for most of your life. I know you do not believe this now, but, as they say-one of these days we will laugh about this.”

She went on to prepare the eggnog, hopeful she would convince the coming guest to imbibe the sacred substance that would grant her life eternal. She then placed a call to Mercury Morris, to inform him they should be ready to leave within the hour, two at the most, and to stand ready to receive her next call, which would be to summons him.

By the time that she returned to the living room, Missy was dead, while Martin just now began to drag the second body downstairs.

“You are getting slow, Martin,” she chided him.

“Well, they should be positioned just right,” he replied. “Luckily, my encouragement of David’s girlfriend to hurry over should be even more of an inducement towards assumption of my innocence in this matter. Of course, the presence of George here should also see to that. For once in my brother’s worthless existence, he was actually useful. Come, if you will help me, perhaps we can hurry this matter along more expeditiously.”

She joined her husband then in moving and positioning the bodies in the basement. Then, they waited.

When Mercury Morris received the phone call, it was 1:30 in the morning. He arrived twenty minutes later, to the sight of an ecstatic and satisfied Martin and Louise Krovell waiting outside the front door of what was for now the Khoska mansion. They drove for some twenty minutes, until they finally found a bluff overlooking the scene of the upscale subdivision in which Martin Krovell had lived for more than eight months.

Martin requested that Mercury put on a CD of Christmas songs by Bing Crosby, as he handed their driver a present. With a look reminiscent more of confusion than surprise, the former Seventeenth Pulse member opened the package.

“Wow!” he exclaimed. “A Rolex? Man, I’ve always wanted one of these. Damn, I never got you guys nuthin’”

“Oh, I will hear none of that young man,” Martin replied. “You have done far more than enough to insure that this was in fact one of the best Christmases ever.”

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Morris,” Louise said. “And a very Happy New Year, to you and yours.

Mercury thanked them in sincere gratitude and profound humility as he put the watch on his wrist. He then stepped toward the back of the limousine as Martin took his wife in his arms. While they embraced by the side of the road, they looked out upon the scene of the distant flames, as the smoke ascended up into heaven.

A Midnight Mass For Mother Earth

It had to be one of the most politically charged Midnight Masses in decades, especially from an American perspective. Pope Benedict bemoaned, in this years Midnight Mass, the selfishness of todays' world and the pursuit of wealth at the expense of the poor and dispossessed, and reminded his listeners of the lack of room at the inn for the Holy Family. Yet, he did so from a creche dedicated not, as is typically the case, to the nativity, but to the workshop of Saint Joseph. This creche contained ten figurines from northeast Italy, and other works from an artist from Mexico. The mass then at some point diverged into what seemed to be a lamentation on the effects of global warming, as he criticized the lack of care for the environment.

I fully expect the next few days of the political primary season leading up to the Iowa caucuses and New Hampshire primary to focus on this issue, to in fact take it's cue from the Popes words at this latest Midnight Mass.

The Democrats in particular are eager to regain the votes they lost among Catholic voters in the 2004 elections, where according to some accounts George W. Bush actually won a majority of the votes of American Catholics.

I have to wonder if this was not intentional on his part. In the 2004 election,some Catholic officials were criticized for threatening members who supported Democrat John Kerry with removal from the Church, due to Kerry's support of abortion. Has abortion become such a minor issue this quickly, at least compared to global warming, that the Pope would highlight an issue that is widely seen as a positive for Democrats, and a negative for Republicans? It is after all the Republicans who are seen as strong on Pro-Life issues, a position where the Democrats are viewed as Pro-Choice.

Is it some kind of a signal for the Church, and especially for American Catholics? If it was not so intended, will it be construed in such a way regardless?

Another aspect of the Pope's address, by the way, was a call for world peace. Could this issue be another factor that led the Pope to make this address, and in this fashion?

I know that some people will say I'm reading too much into this, but I don't think so. Regardless of the rightness or wrongness of it, America is viewed as the preeminent leader on the world stage, in all areas of international importance. The importance of the up-and-coming primary elections leading into the next Presidential race can not have escaped him, nor would he be likely to be uninterested in the effect and influence of the next American President and Congress on these and other issues of importance.

I'm not saying the Pope was praying to America so much as praying at America. Or, more specifically, in at least one corner of his mind, to the American politicians running for the highest office in the land. He seems to be giving a special nod to the Democrats. I would look, however, for Republican Mike Huckabee to be the GOP contender most likely to attempt to capitalize on this.

If he does get the Republican nomination, he would probably be the Pope's dream candidate, as he would be the one Republican that, in addition to being staunchly Pro-Life, would be the most likely Republican candidate to be the answer to the Pope's prayers.

He would more than likely be in favor of serious steps toward combating global warming. He would be more willing to quickly end the Iraq War. And he would certainly, of all the Republican candidates, be willing to work on behalf of the poor at the expense of the "Wall Street crowd".

Remember that, after all, Santa Clause was originally a Catholic Saint.

Ron Paul-Supported by Neo-Nazis?

(Above picture taken from White Nationalist website Stormfront)
The rap about Ron Paul is that a great deal of his support comes from white supremacists, so he must himself be one. Well, to my way of seeing things, this is pretty much like saying that since my favorite band of all time is The Beatles, I must be a British rock musician, or they must have all been pagans. Sure, Harrison was one in a sense, and Lennon in his last years might have been Wiccan, but the point is, that is all in fact irrelevant. The important thing about my attachment to them is the music. You can make a similar correlation with Ron Paul and his apparently large degree of support amongst White Nationalists folk such as Stormfront and Vanguard.

Undoubtedly, Paul has a great deal of support amongst these people, but it is due mainly to his stands on certain issues, mainly his beliefs pertaining to adherence to the principles of the Constitution, as well as agreement with his stated positions regarding belief in small government, and his policies in regards to taxes, foreign policy, trade, etc. Some of his stands, incidentally, I wholeheartedly agree with, while some of his other views are more open for debate. Still others are dubious at best. To the Stormfront people, however, his stated views on these and other matters seem to jibe with theirs to a very great extent.

They even have this forum topic up on the white power site Stormfront, which at last count numbered more than 850 replies over a half year period beginning around May, and still going to this day. The picture at the top of this post, by the way, was taken from that forum topic. It is very important, however, to note that some of the respondents are dissatisfied with Paul’s stands, because, in fact, he does not come right out and promote racialist or White Nationalist views.

Nevertheless, Paul did pose for a picture with Stormfront founder Don Black during the recent Values Voters Debate in Florida. In one picture, Paul signs an autograph for Black.

Then, there is this post, which insists that Paul met with members of a White Nationalist group at, of all places, a Thai restaurant in Virginia. Evidently, the person responsible for the rumor is a man named Bill White, a founder of both Vanguard and the National Socialists Workers Party, and who claims to have personally met Paul at an event there.

At the same time, he is a notorious troublemaker within the White Nationalist community. He is supposedly responsible for a violent confrontation that occurred at a recent Nordicfest event in Kentucky, in 2006, for example. He is openly promoting the rumor that Paul is a White Nationalist supporter, and some have suggested that he might be doing so in an attempt to gain publicity for himself. Promoting this story, as well as exaggerating his influence over Paul, or Ron Paul’s support for White Nationalist principles in general, might well be his way of getting it.

Of course, in the internet era, every rumor becomes indisputable fact in the minds of many readers, if not in fact most of them.

Still, there can be no denying that Ron Paul has evidently received some financial contributions from various members of these groups. Moreover, he refuses to send them back on the grounds they would just “spend it on more Stormfront stuff.” Well, it is hard to argue with that logic. Besides, if he pissed off the Stormfront crew, it might well be bad for his campaign. The hefty three percent or so he might win in the average primary might well diminish to a meager two percent or less.

Earth's Obnoxious Little Brother Might Get What's Coming To Him

Has anybody out there ever had a little brother that was just so obnoxious you couldn't resist giving him a good old fashioned smack down from time to time, or at least damn well wanted to do so? Well, Mars is earth's little brother, more or less, and he has that kind of reputation, especially while he's in retrograde as he is now. He's close, very close, and we might soon see him get a good old-fashioned smackdown, according to this article. True, the odds are only one in seventy five, but I wonder what the result would be if it happened. Would he engage in the equivalent of little brother type whining, by way of a chain reaction involving previously latent volcanoes? Might this have some kind of profound effect on the Martian atmosphere?

Hat tip-The Poor Mouth

As For Me, All I Want For Christmas (Or Anytime) Is-

Joy Lauren-naked in a cake or in a big box with a bow, doesn't really matter, just send her special delivery.

Merry Christmas To All My Republican Christian Conservative Friends

Uh huh-You know you like it, yeah, just admit it, now.

Hat Tip-Sonia Belle

Shall We Prey?

I don't know how much of this is overblown, but it could definitely be a growing problem if it isn't addressed. What might be tolerated or even tacitly encouraged on the grounds of military cohesiveness might well turn out being a divisive issue within military ranks.

In fact, a good deal of this might well be considered subversive. For example, take the passage from this web-site, which states in part-

"Fort Jackson "God's Basic Training" -- These Bible studies for basic trainees teach the recruits the "when you join the military, you've really joined the ministry." The rationale is that governments are ordained by God, so all government employees are really God's ministers."

Moreover, in a recent interview, one Air Force official stated the ministry has a right to evangelize amongst those in the military who are "lost" or "unchurched". He states that there is a distinction between evangelism, which he describes as gently sharing God's word, and proselytizing, which he says is far more aggressive.

Well, I don't know about all that, but I do know that if I were a Mormon recruit, for example, I don't know that I would feel complete confidence if my life was in danger were I surrounded by people that had previously made statements to the effect that my religion was "wicked" or "satanic".

Like I said in an earlier post on this subject, people going into the military have a right to practice the religion of their choice, and outlets for the expressions of their faith should be readily available for them, along with whatever other services such faiths might provide-the caveat being the service people should seek them out themselves, not themselves be sought out. This is true as well, however, of adherents of all faiths within the military. There should never be a no man's land within the military where no religion may reside. However, there has to be a line drawn somewhere.

Radu-Chapter XXXI (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)

Previous Installments-
Part One
Prologue and Chapters I-X
Part Two
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
PartThree
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXX
Radu-Chapter XXXI (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
8 pages approximate
Grace was horrified the next time she saw Marlowe. At no time had she ever seen so wretched excuse of a human being, and though she was not quite sure human was an appropriate term for him, she still felt waves of pity coursing through her for the first time in years. He was obviously in as bad a state as any person could possibly be. She knew what was wrong with him. She had seen it often enough. She had gone through it often enough herself.

“Marlowe, you need to get something quick,” she said. “These withdrawals are going to kill you.”

He laughed a bitter, sarcastic laugh.

“Do you know-how hard-it is to-find a- pure-or a Christian-heroin addict?” He laughed for a brief moment, and then he stopped and slammed his fist on the concrete floor.

“Then let me shoot up and take it from me like you have been doing.” she suggested, by now extremely worried as to how these withdrawals would ultimately affect him.

“You are too far along in your pregnancy,” he said with his teeth gritted. “The damage-could be-irreparable.”

He huddled up almost in a perfectly round ball on the floor, as though trying to hide. She went to the front of him and bent down, taking his matted hair gently in her hands, and then moving down to his chin. She held it firmly, and then lifted. He did not resist. He looked up straight at her, and she backed away in horror.

“Marlowe, these withdrawals are killing you,” she insisted. “I am serious. You are dying.”

“No,” he replied. “I am already dead. I know that is hard for you to comprehend. It was hard for me to comprehend what Marty Evans was going through as well, as I never allowed myself to get that far along. Now I know. Still I have no recourse. I have to do this.”

Sweat covered him like a deluge. He was burning and feverish, yet simultaneously seemed cold, shivering from the chills. The pain in his body was obvious from his expression, from the look in his eyes, which begged outwardly for comfort and pity.

“I’m sorry-you had to-see this,” he said, and suddenly he let out a roar much like a wounded animal. Grace started to fear he would be overheard. For three days now, he had not slept, though during the daytime he entered the crypt once reserved for him. She looked over toward the body, still covered with a sheet.

“Why did you bring her here?” she asked. “What do you intend to do with her?”

“Revive her,” he said simply.

Grace looked away from him. She began to fear she was initially correct all along. He was insane. At the same time, perhaps the nature of his delusion was the opposite of what it seemed.

“You have to stop this, Radu,” she insisted. “You are not Marlowe Krovell.”

“I know that now,” he assured her. “Why do you think I am so willingly going through this heroin withdrawal? How can I rid myself of Marlowe Krovell and yet allow myself to be enslaved by his addictions?”

She had no answer for that. She said nothing.

“Did you bring the CD player, and the recordings? I would like to hear them now. I want to prove something to you. In fact, put on Antichrist Superstar. I want to hear it.”

Warily, she did as he requested, and soon the strains of Marilyn Manson’s vocals and music reverberated through the now nearly completely restored basement of the old Krovell Funeral Home.

“If I had heard something like this in my old life, I would have thought the gates of hell had opened on the earth,” he said. “Now, I see it in an entirely different perspective. This was Marlowe Krovell’s favorite-artist, as unbelievable as it is to honor this creature with such a title.

“Did you know that Marlowe came in time to hate this music? Do you know why?”

“I have no idea,” Grace responded.

“He came to hate it for the same reason he initially loved it,” he explained. “It was her favorite.”

He now rose, made his way stiffly over to the body, and removed the sheet, to reveal the collapsing and now rapidly decomposing form of Raven Randall. She was still recognizable, despite the fact that exposure to the relative warmth of the open air, following its exhumation and brief period of freezing, hastened its further decomposition.

“She was the most vicious of all Joseph’s group,” Marlowe said. “Joseph himself feared her, though he was the only one who could really control her. Did you know she had three illegitimate children?”

He looked over at Grace, whose initial response was to ask him what was so particularly horrible about that, but she never got the words out of her mouth.

“She ate them alive,” he told her. She winced when he said this. “When she ate the last one, she convinced the others in the group to join in with her. It was George Dodd’s son, the one called Rhino. She did not tell him that until he had the child’s penis in his mouth. Then, she laughed at him. When he complained about her deception, do you know what she told him?

“Her exact words were ‘you should have known he was your son, Rhino. After all, your dicks are the same exact size.’”

Suddenly, Marlowe doubled over in agony, the pain of his withdrawals suddenly becoming unbearable. He wretched, and then vomited up a hideous bloody mass that wriggled on the floor. She looked at the glob of blood and mucous, enthralled yet sickened. She looked closely at it, and saw maggots squirming throughout.

“You see now what I have to put up with?” he said. “Sometimes I wish I’d stayed at Johns Hopkins.”

“Marlowe, you can’t bring her back,” she told him. “She is too far gone. Her brain will be too decayed. What would be the point of bringing her back anyway?”

“I have to know what was so special about Marlowe Krovell that she fell in love with him,” he explained. “I have to know what it was about him that she thought was worth saving from Joseph. Nothing that I know makes any sense whatsoever. Once I know everything else and can put it all in perspective, then maybe I will know what it is about him that makes him so persistent, so tenaciously determined to exercise control.”

“Yet, you say Marlowe murdered her because he thought she betrayed him in some way,” Grace recalled. “This might not be a good idea, even assuming it’s possible.”

“It’s the only way,” he answered firmly. “It’s the only way I’ll ever free myself from him and rid myself of this addiction.”

Suddenly, he jerked, as though he heard something from a distance.

“Did you hear that?” he demanded. “Turn that damn thing off.”

He indicated the CD player, whereupon she hurriedly turned it off.

“That laughter,” he said. “It was her. I know it. The same laughter when she told Marlowe she was breaking up with him, that he was a fool to think she could ever love him or anybody. The same laughter Marlowe heard after he killed her with an overdose some two weeks later, when-

“I remember now. Marlowe convinced Marshall Crenshaw not to sell to her, or to any of them. She came to him in desperation, and then-he killed her. She laughed that night, the same laugh. It was like she knew all the time.”

Grace watched, as he suddenly seemed calmer than he had since she first returned.

“Marlowe, I don’t hear a damn thing,” she said.

He did not answer her. He just looked at the dead form on the table, the body he had stolen from the city morgue.

“Out of all the dead bodies Brad Marlowe engaged in sex with, Raven Randall was the only one who would have appreciated the sentiment. She was also willfully arrogant in that way. She probably considered Marlowe Krovell’s murder of her out of jealousy the ultimate compliment.

“You are wrong, Grace. I will revive her, in every way. Once I have restored her, she will be a big help to me-a very big help indeed. She will be able to do things that, due to the peculiarities of the curse my brother Vlad put on me, I can never accomplish, at least as it stands now. That will change as well. In the meantime, I will need her help.

“Unfortunately, it might not be safe here for you. I am not quite sure as to the extent of the control I can initially exercise over her. You must leave as soon as you can. Go to your friends’ home and wait for my arrival. By that time, all will be well, I promise you.”

He looked over toward her, and it soon became obvious to him what she felt. She did not want to leave him alone in his current condition, and in his present state of mind.

“I will be fine, I swear,” he insisted. “Remember, I have Cynthia to look out for me. As soon as I have gotten over these withdrawals, she will feed me. She will sustain me. As for Raven-well, the world is going to change in a good many ways by the time you and I next see each other.”

“I have to go through it as well, don’t I?” she asked. “I mean, the same thing you are going through-the withdrawals.”

He looked at her, as though amazed at her seeming prescience.

“You are coming to full term soon,” he said. “The withdrawals will coincide with the birthing. All will be well. You will see. You are not afraid, are you?”

She tried to restrain her dread, but knew she could not hide it. The withdrawals were the only thing in life she truly did fear. It was not the pain she dreaded but the realization this was the one thing in her life she could not control.

“I would be a liar if I said I was not afraid,” she said. “I guess it’s just one of those things that have to be done.”

“You should leave now,” he said. “I really should get started to work as quickly as possible. I want her to be revived sooner rather than later. It is going to take a very painstaking and determined effort on my part. Nevertheless, Marlowe Krovell’s skills as an undertaker will serve me well. So will his addiction. The energy that I feel coursing through me, ripping me apart-how could he have lived with that for so long? How could he possibly have functioned? It was so much a part of him, that as it leaves, it hopefully will take all of him with it.”

“Very well, I’ll go,” Grace said. “You are sure you will be all right? I promised your grandparents I would look out for you. If something happens to you”-

He looked at her sadly at first, and then he smiled.

“They are not my grandparents, Grace,” he said. “They were Marlowe’s grandparents.”

“Of course,” she said. “I will go then. Take care of yourself. I will see you soon. Remember, we have much to do yet together.”

She turned to leave, but slowly.

“Grace-don’t worry,” he said. “Raven is not a threat to you, whether dead or alive. Your place in the world is secure, if not yet manifest. When the time comes, nothing will change that. As for that meddlesome priest-well, that is a different story. He will soon find that Raven will not be so amenable and eager for salvation as was Joseph Karinsky, nor as easily controllable as Sierra Lawson. What he went through with Spiral Lamont, in fact, will seem like, as they say these days, a day at the beach-whatever the hell that is supposed to mean.”

Grace looked at him in almost a sense of wonder. There were few people in the world she truly liked. She could in fact, after twenty-eight years of life, count them all on the fingers of one hand. Marlowe-or Radu-might in fact well make number six. The idea that the two of them might soon be amongst a very small cadre of elites with access to unlimited wealth and relative security, in the face of a world soon to be thrown into destruction and turmoil, made liking him much easier. At the same time, actually liking him made the prospect of the future much less grim.

She counted herself lucky that she fit into the overall scheme of things. There had to be a reason for that. She was privy to the promise, almost like a prophecy, that soon the world’s population would number not in the billions but in the hundreds of millions, at most seven hundred million-a mere tenth of the current world’s population. They explained the rationale behind their reasoning in unemotional, logical terms. There was in every epoch a point in time when the population was cleared-cleansed, in a sense-through some process of natural selection that served in the long run to strengthen mankind’s genetic structure, for the good of the species, and most importantly, for the overall good of the earth.

With each successive cleansing, mankind became more adaptable towards the next period of adjustment. At this particularly important period, due to mankind’s hitherto unknown scientific and technological advances, an elite corps arose, one that could not only guide the process along, and ride the tide of nature’s wrath, but also hasten it, even focus and direct it in a partnership with the forces of nature.

She had known of this for years, yet disregarded it as an insane fantasy. She went on with her life, her struggles with addiction, her life as a prostitute, even as she struggled to mold her life into one with some meaning, as a reporter. Yet, even at best, her life seemed meaningless.

When she learned the truth regarding Aleksandre Khoska, she had not been surprised. Khoska was not one of those people she liked, though he was not one of the masses of multitudes that she disliked or despised. He was one of those few, rare individuals for whom she had mixed feelings. She understood in time that she merely reacted to the man and his own nature. Khoska himself walked in both worlds. He was a mixture of good and bad, of spirituality and opportunism. He was also one of the strongest men she ever knew, and in his own way, admirable.

Yet, what made Khoska strong would also be his undoing. She looked down now upon the agonized body of Marlowe Krovell, inhabited now by the ancient spirit of an ancestor dead now for centuries. What she saw transpiring she realized was much like the molding of tempered steel. She was obliged to follow that path, the same one on which she had up until this point guided him. Though she dreaded it, she oddly looked forward to it, embraced the potential it promised.

Radu was strong, as was she, and she knew now they would both grow only stronger, and together would be an insurmountable force. Most importantly, the child she carried within her womb would combine both their qualities. The child she would soon give birth to would own the world. She would in fact be the mother of a brand new epoch.

As Grace Rodescu considered these things, she slowly came to realize she had nothing to fear by leaving him here on his own. In fact, it was vital that she do so, that she leave him to carry on this important, pivotal struggle. She said goodbye to him one final time, and then ascended the steps to the outside world.

He watched her leave, and he restrained himself from any further spasms, holding back the pain as he shivered. The conflicting heat and cold tore him with much greater ferocity than it would an average person with even the worse of fevers. After so long, he could stand it no longer. He cried, openly and fiercely, until finally, he wailed. Finally, once more time, he roared, the pain now so unbearable he almost wished he could destroy himself and put an end to it.

As he thought these things, however, he saw his brother Mircea, but only for an instant. Mircea he saw replaced by yet another brother, Vlad, imprisoned and vowing revenge on him and his former Turkish allies, as he set about the apparently insane game of impaling captured birds and mice on makeshift stakes. It was far more than a game, however. It was a magical ritual, one in which Vlad Dracula, his accursed foe and brother, surrounded himself with not the accoutrements of some hidden cult of satanic magic, but with sacred objects of the church. He burned the Koran, the same one Radu himself had been presented as a gift by the Turksih sultan, and which Vlad acquired through subterfuge, through one of the many spies he had installed in Radu’s court. He watched as Vlad infused sacred wine with the blood and the rotted entrails of the sacrificed creatures, as he uttered vile curses in the name of the Christian God Radu had tacitly denounced in favor of Allah and His prophet Muhammed, and the sacred Koran, being obliged to do so for political reasons.

He watched as Vlad instructed his minions as to how the wine was to find its way to Radu, where he would eventually drink of it. As a result, Radu became afflicted with numerous diseases. Any one would have killed him and spread throughout the countryside. The worse of all however, was his insane thirst for the blood of the innocents, of those baptized and sanctified, who in those days were the only ones with the power to resist him.

Radu returned the favor to his brother, though this was impossible for him to accomplish to the same degree, not being that well versed in the ways of magic and witchcraft. Now, however, Vlad was gone-Radu was still here, after five centuries of a death that knew no peace. He would be the final victor after all, in this age when the powers of the church instilled not wonder and faith to the extent that it once did, but instead provided Radu with what was more akin to fresh livestock.

Soon, he would live and rage within a world that would turn back to God in desperation, and yet be all the more helpless before him as a result. When he died, finally, as all men must-even one such as he-it would be, finally, in peace. As he thought on these things, he could see in an instant, throughout the following five centuries, how every child in successive generations born to the daughter of Radu Dracula, ritually exposed to the natural bodily gasses that his remains constantly produced, formed a bridge between him and his descendants.

He saw at last the ancestors of the Krovell family, in America, continue the ritual tradition with their own children. Yet, it was different. Perhaps because of the peasant bloodstock Irenea had been compelled to marry into, these immigrant children did not take well to the exposure. The oldest girl suffered from the plaque. The oldest boy became unhinged. The third child seemed not affected at all, but he expressed an insurmountable urge to return to Romania, though he in fact was born in America. This child watched as his older brother became madder by the day, and the two younger children, while both wise beyond their years, became wicked to an extent none would suspect children capable, engaging in sexual perversions with each other they had not the guile to conceal.

He watched helplessly as the older boy tied them to chairs, and set fire to the room in which he bound them, in the attic of the old tenement slum apartment in which the family lived at the time. He watched as the rest of the family took what belongings they could, Magda impressing on Lawrence to rescue the old trunk, risking his life in the process, while the two children waited up in the attic, tied, gagged, and helpless.

When the cleanup crew found them, nothing remained but their skeletons and everyone assumed they ran up to the attic in panic, until further investigation revealed this was in fact the origin of the fire. The assumption from that point was the two children might well have inadvertently started the fire themselves-the same fire that spread from its point of origin and soon engulfed most of Baltimore.

He watched as the same mayor that outwardly refused outside help for the city of Baltimore, ended killing himself in despair, when money, sent in private from charitable organizations, vanished. He watched all this, because he knew to where the money went-into the private coffers of the Krovell family. This was due to the wiles of the gypsy Magda, and her yet young daughter Irenea. They both managed through subterfuge to steal the money. He watched, knowing the truth about the faked suicide, knowing they murdered the mayor of Baltimore. Then Lawrence Krovell, with new wealth at his disposal, purchased a former Romanian mission once used by representatives of the Phenariot regime-the same mission that would soon become the Krovell Funeral Home.

He watched as the crazed older son, consumed with grief and with guilt over his actions, hung himself in the attic of the new home.

He watched as the new son was born, and as the lone surviving of the previous children years later pursued his dream, and returned to Romania. He watched as this descendant of his visited his own official gravesite, occupied in reality by an unknown peasant. He watched as this descendant found the others, the gypsies who were his cousins. He watched as they initiated him into their tribe, and fed him the sacred blood. He watched as he at first reluctantly and then eagerly pursued the rites of his initiation, by abducting a live child, baptized and sanctified. He watched as he fed on the child in the presence of his tribe, and then he knew at last, the true reason why Marlowe Krovell so loved the person whose rotting cadaver now rested on a metal examining table in the restored basement of the Krovell Funeral Home.

It now became clear to him, even as he watched the American soldier later abducted by relatives of the baptized infant, with officials of the church that had proven more dogged in their determination to avenge the child’s murder than he imagined. They found him, took him out to a remote area, and executed him, fearing his standing as an American volunteer during the war in which he was a noted hero would not engender the authorities to try him fairly, even as they also themselves shared the fear that such an event would endanger their chances for American aid.

He watched as the men gathered around him and passed sentence, as he sat there defiantly and looked into the faces of Corneliu Codreanu, then a young man, and his confederates. They included the Khoska family-that same family that would take his young wife into their home, the same family who would see to the upbringing of her and her child, until that child married Ion Ionescu. He saw it all unfold, and realized all this as well was a mere part of the tapestry that was his destiny.

It took five hundred years for it all to unfold. Now, he went through a new kind of birth, as the ravages of years of heroin abuse by his current host descendant tore at his every limb. He pounded the ground as he cursed, but eventually he became calmer. He became steadier. Though yet sick and feverish, he perceived an end to the struggle. For one thing, his desire for the heroin was no longer a craving, unrelenting in its ferocity. Now he just wanted it to be well. At the same time, he understood this was perhaps the most deceptive, therefore the most dangerous, aspect of the addiction. Yet, a part of him begged for relief.

No, he realized. It was not he who begged for the heroin-it was Marlowe Krovell. He rose, and painfully, sickeningly, walked over to the rotting corpse of Raven Randall. He had work he had to perform.

“Cynthia!” he called out. He then looked over toward his supplies. Yes indeed, he had work to perform. Within under a minute the vulture appeared at the head of the doorway that led upstairs to where the first floor of the old funeral home was just now halfway through the process of renovation.

Radu dropped down to his knees and craned his head upwards. Cynthia let out a squawk, flew down to his open mouth, and disgorged her predigested blood and meat.

“Cynthia, wherever do you find these people-a Girl Scout, eh? I can tell by the taste she was obviously a good Christian girl. So what was her story? Oh, I see now. The others constantly teased her, and so she ran away from her troop. How then did she die, from exposure? Did you kill her directly?”

He looked into the seemingly mirthful eyes of the female vulture that was in effect his surrogate mother, and saw the events unfold. A group of men, all of them sick, all of them hungry, but mostly, all of them insane-violently insane. He recognized these men. He knew them. He remembered them from the hospital. They had survived the blast, and to his amusement, realized that, in what was a wholly unexpected development, the hospital released them as per Tariq’s apparent orders. Then, they were taken somewhere by-Detective Berry, who took an interest, it seemed, in their spiritual well-being. For the first time in days, he laughed out loud, an effort that caused him not a small amount of pain.

Now, left alone in the woods, their only refuge an old abandoned cabin where Berry checked on them sporadically, they stumbled upon the lost girl. They then had their way with her-not all of them, however. One of them strangled the girl in an impotent rage, and killed her before the others could stop him. Then, in a fury, they killed the man who had deprived them of their chance for sexual pleasure. Afterwards, they left to hunt more victims. Cynthia fed off the carcasses of both of them.

“Very good, Cynthia,” he said. “A little girl, a virgin, raped and killed by a madman deprived of that medical formula to which he himself was dependent, just as I am dependent on this accursed heroin. You have restored my faith, old girl. You have served me well. Now, I must work. Go outside then, go and stand watch that you may warn me of the approach of any who might intrude on this most important and sacred work I must perform.”

He watched Cynthia fly out as he walked to the CD player. He turned it on. He walked then, still shaking, feverish, sweating, and racked with pain, back to the corpse of Raven Randall. He craned her head backward with his right hand cupped under the back of her neck, and he opened her mouth. He disgorged the digested matter into her mouth, and then gently set it back.

Gently, almost tenderly, he combed her hair. He then reached for the makeup kit, the one Marlowe Krovell always used. He extracted the different colored tones and shades and lined them up, along with the scissors, the tweezers, and the sutures. He extracted the rubberized putty compound that he hoped he would have to use no more than sparingly.

He allowed the talents of Marlowe Krovell to come to the fore of his consciousness as he began to work, as Marlowe’s love for the dead and vastly evil and vicious woman also came to the fore, having previously been denied the opportunity before to work on the only woman he ever truly loved-the woman he in fact had murdered.

He felt his own energy draining into the cadaver, as the dead, cold flesh took on new warmth, tingled under the application of his own energy flow, and seemed to vibrate with a new kind of vibrancy as he reached for the drill. Gently, carefully, he took a mallet and, at the temple, delivered a firm and steady, yet gentle blow. All around her skull, he went in a circle, until he made small holes at roughly four inches apart, a total of five of them. He then took the small hand held circular saw, and he began cutting. Finally, he removed the skullcap.

Her brains exposed, he cradled them gently into his hands, and closed his eyes, and hummed. It was working. He could feel the vibrations within the mass of decaying brain matter, as it came to life. After twenty minutes of this, he removed his hands and set about the arduous task of replacing the top of her head. He was much calmer now as he inserted the needle and thread, and sewed. Soon, this part was complete. He moved down to her chest cavity, her stomach, and her abdomen. He noted that the further along he got, the more vibrant and filed with life energy the cadaver seemed.

He continued with renewed vigor, as he made incision after incision with scalpel in hand, quickly yet concisely filling each incision with extractions of his own spittle, which mixed with what remained of the decaying oils that had once been fatty tissue and flesh. He added as well drops of his blood, though this served to weaken him considerably. He went down the length of her torso, her buttocks, her back, her hips, her arms, her legs, her hands and her feet.

He stood back and surveyed his handiwork. As he saw his bodily fluids seeming to react favorably, he sewed up the incisions, one at a time, and then applied the make-up putty, which would in time dissipate as the incisions healed-or so he hoped.

When he moved to her vagina, he felt Marlowe’s passion welling up inside him, searching for a release. The vagina was moist, tingling with sensation. It pulsated-but Radu stepped backward and surveyed one final time the extent of his as of now more than two hours worth of handiwork. He saw everything now. He saw the truth at last. He saw the true intent of Raven Randall in those last weeks of her life. She had intended to kill Marlowe Krovell all along. She intended the entire time to bend him to her will, and lure him out to where he would become what she always determined he would become-just another one of her victims.

Radu saw all this, and finally, at long, long last, Marlowe Krovell, somewhere deep inside his subconscious, saw it as well. Radu cried, allowing the truth to manifest in a deluge of emotions, as he crawled in agony toward the mirror. He looked inside it, and inside the now truly fading and defeated mind of Marlowe Krovell.

“Now you know, Marlowe,” he said. “Now you know.”

He felt a brief flash of pain as he closed his eyes, and fell to the floor on his knees. The sickness of the withdrawals was gone, and with them, the spirit of Marlowe Krovell. He had succeeded. Yet, he was exhausted, so much to the point he wanted not to wait for the sunrise to return to his crypt.

It had been more of a struggle, these last few months of life during which he tried to make his will predominant, than the entirety of the previous five hundred years which he spent locked in the confines of that old iron trunk, fortified with tar and sealing wax. During that long period of confinement, at least his spirit was his alone. These last few months were a constant battle for dominance, and for his very survival. He was now exhausted, more so than he ever was. Never did he need to rest more than now.

It was, however, a rest he would take with the assurance that he and he alone would awake in the morning, in a body that he shared now with no one else. He was exhausted, but at the same time, he felt a sense of exhilaration unknown to him for years, since the time he was a teenager and he played about the palaces of Istanbul and roamed the streets of the bazaars, amazed at the fine goods readily available to even many commoners. How amazed he was at the time, in that though he was a prince from a royal bloodline, he never knew anything but privation in his little backwater principality.

There was constant struggle and strife, famine and disease, death and fear. It was a struggle to acclimate to his new surroundings, when his father handed he and his brother Vlad over to the Turkish sultan as hostages. Vlad never did, but he, Radu, eventually came to love the opportunity to live his life free of despair and destitution, of the fear of the fate which came eventually to his father, and to his brother Mircea-his skin scalped from his face while he lived, red-hot irons driven into his eyes.

When the sultan, his friend, appointed him the Voivode of Wallachia, he wanted to bring true civilization and prosperity to the region. More importantly, however, he wanted to bring hope in place of the despair that had been the lot of the people for centuries. He wanted them to have the same peace and hope for life, for they and their children, as he enjoyed. The boyars, however, had other ideas. They betrayed him, and plotted his downfall and destruction, while Vlad, who foolishly resisted the Ottomans, waited in the wings to return to power. He would do so, eventually, and the end result of his brief return to power was yet more centuries of repression, poverty and despair for the people who betrayed him.

He would never make that mistake again. Now, he wanted to live only for himself. The world of the ignorant and superstitious could never appreciate the opportunity for the gift of true peace and prosperity. Give the masses any opportunity and they in time would squander it, and betray even their greatest benefactors. All it took was the direction of a few high placed, deceitful, and manipulative upper class nobles and priests.

No longer would Radu fall prey to the whims of humanity. He now had a new opportunity, and he would not squander it on the likes of them. They now existed for his benefit, and he would pursue his life to the fullest, and at their expense. He would begin soon. For now, he must rest. He was exhausted, yes. Nevertheless, he was finally at peace, and would sleep well this day, and awake in the morning fully refreshed, and hungry for blood. He would eat well the next day, he decided. He closed his eyes and for once, in his mind's eye, he could see his own true image, the form of Radu Dracula. He smiled in a sense of profound satisfaction and contentment.

Then, he felt a cold hand clamp his right shoulder with a grip of iron. In shock, he looked up into the mirror, into the cold, piercing light blue eyes of Raven Randall.

She looked at him and laughed with obscene hatred, and everything once more went dark.

Green Bay Mayor Blasphemes The Flying Spaghetti Monster

Calling a Christmas holiday display for The Flying Spaghetti Monster (pictured above) silly, Mayor Jim Schmitt of Green Bay Wisconsin has declared a moratorium on all religious displays. This is a reversal of an earlier ruling of the Green Bay City Council which invited all religions to include religious displays alongside the Nativity Scene put up by City Council President Chad Fradette.

Problems arose after a Wiccan symbol was stolen and damaged. The mayor then declared the whole idea was causing controversy and hard feelings, which was the opposite of what was intended.

Yeah, just wait until the Green Bay Packers lose the Super Bowl, if they even make it that far. If Bret Favre throws a lot of interceptions and fumbles a lot, though, don't blame him. You won't see him, of course, but it could well be The Flying Spaghetti Monster reaching out with his noodly appendage.

Hat Tip to Religion Clause

RAmen

Yule Aspects

This coming Yule, in which the birth of the God is celebrated, has, like all Yules, its own unique qualities. One way in which we can observe and celebrate this is by observing its astrological aspects, much as you would the natal chart for a child born this day, at the precise time of the Winter Solstice.

It is, in effect, the astrological birth chart of the God himself. Just as an ordinary birth chart can give us valuable insight into the latent potentials inherent within a human being, this is true as well of the God, and the way in which he will manifest throughout nature in this year.

Pluto is now at a degree of close conjunction with the Sun, while Mercury is at a similar closeness. The Sun in fact will be almost exactly between the two, separated from both by a mere two degrees. At the same time, the Sun is at a near complete opposition with the planet Mars, which is retrograde, and will be at a complete opposition to the Sun by midnight Christmas Eve and throughout Christmas Day. During the Solstice, however, Mars is more in opposition to Mercury. That Mercury is the planet of messengers, and on the opposite side of the sun from Pluto, the planet of destruction, while faced with this opposition to Mars, the planet of war and strife, need not necessarily amount to an omen of destruction. However, it might well herald an adversarial aspect, one that might well be described as a hindrance to growth and advancement, if only temporarily.

Fortunately, we also have Jupiter in perfect conjunction with the Sun, which gives us reason for optimism in the face of gloom and doubt. Nevertheless, look for a series of serious weather conditions, with possibly brutal cold in some regions, with near blizzard conditions under harsh winds. Earthquakes are also by no means out of the question, nor should volcanic activity be surprising. Here is the reason for this-

Jupiter Sun Mercury Earth Mars

These four planets line up in exactly this order, with our planet being situated between the Sun and Mars, while Jupiter is on the far side of the Sun from earth and Mars. The gravitational pull from such an alignment, at this time of the year, might well have considerably serious consequences.

The reason Venus is not in this graph is due to the fact that it is not lined up in such a way with the Sun as to be in direct or close alignment with us from our perspective. She is, in fact, at an angle which is of minor effect in any way, though her trine aspect to Uranus in Pisces, and her square one to Neptune in Aquarius, could bestow an illusory feeling of calm and peace, even beauty, in some areas.

The moon is waxing full, though not completely so, nor will it until that midnight of Christmas Eve and the night after, when it will then be in conjunction with the planet Mars and thus become a part of that mass opposition to the Sun, Jupiter, Pluto, and Mercury. On the day of Yule, however, it moves into a square aspect with the planet Saturn in Virgo, foretelling an impatient quality, moving toward emotional turbulence and release on the night of Christmas Eve.

All things considered, a damn good night for an old-fashioned fertility ritual, due to the conjunction of the Sun with Jupiter, in celebration of the birth of the god.

YULE
22nd December
Sun enters Capricorn-in conjunction with Mercury, Jupiter, Pluto, opposition to Mars
Moon enters Gemini-square Saturn, moving into conjunction with Mars
Mercury 2nd degree Capricorn-superior solar conjunction
Venus 19th degree Scorpio-squared Neptune, trine Uranus
Mars retrograde 3rd degree Cancer-solar opposition, opposition Jupiter, Mercury, Pluto
Jupiter enters Capricorn-solar conjunction
Saturn 8th degree Virgo
Uranus 15th degree Pisces-trine Venus
Neptune 19th degree Aquarius-squared Venus
Pluto 28th degree Sagittarius-solar conjunction

Mike Huckabee Appeals To Canadians-Save Your National Igloo

It was awful nice of Mike Huckabee to agree to make a public appeal to save the "Canadian National Igloo". You know, that's the great big giant igloo where the Canadian parliament meets, and which is endangered.

What, you didn't know that? Yeah, it actually sounds pretty fucking stupid, don't it? Nevertheless, Canadian television interviewer/comedian Rick Mercer convinced Huckabee it was true, and persuaded him to make this "public service announcement."


Mike Huckabee Makes Appeal To Save Canadian National Igloo
Anytime I link to YouTube, you know it's got to be something special. I got this one from Rufus at Grad Student Madness and just had to go that extra mile.

It explains why so many people in the media are interested in the Huckabee campaign. You have to admit it is somehow heartening to know that a major political figure and candidate for the highest office in the land is capable of being as big a fucking idiot as the rest of us.

Of course it could be a problem if he is actually elected. I can see it now-

Mike Huckabee agrees to take Vladimir Putin on a a snipe hunt.

Mike Huckabee grants tax breaks to business towards purchases of brick stretchers and buckets of steam.

Mike Huckabee is persuaded by his cabinet, on the grounds that it is a secret cabinet tradition, to engage in a circle jerk.

Mike Huckabee might be a nice guy and well-meaning and all, but if he is this dumb-well, you make the call.

The Chemical Conspiracy

A major player in the baseball steroid scandal was left out of The Mitchell Report, says Bruce Reed

It's that damn George W. Bush's fault. When it became obvious his dad was going to lose the 1992 election, he became desperate for the Texas Rangers, whom he owned at the time, to get into the playoffs, so he made a trade for Jose Canseco.

He also has supporters among the many names listed in the Mitchell Report, as well as other names that weren't listed but, by gum, should have been.

See what happens when you play in the Bush Leagues? You get corrupted every time.

As for you, A-Rod, we'll catch you yet, damn you-it's just a matter of time.

Gordon Brown's Cordial Invitation To The Taliban

I don't know why British Prime Minister Gordon Brown wants to talk to the Taliban, or what he thinks he can accomplish by engaging in any kind of dialogue with them. Evidently he was in a coma during the time they destroyed ancient Buddhist statues despite widespread and consistent international appeals. Or maybe it never occurred to him to wonder why, out of all the world's nations, only three of them-Saudi Arabia, The United Arab Emirates, and Pakistan-recognized their regime during their time in power.

I think more than likely he's too naive to understand that asking for a dialogue would probably be seen by them as asking for terms. Those terms would probably amount to them telling Brown, over a cordial cup of tea, to "get the hell out of our country and we won't kill your people".

Of course, according to this article, the Brown government insists the Taliban are not really that powerful, that many of their fighters are farmers that are forced to join their militias at "the point of a gun".

Even if that's true, their assessment of that aspect seems pretty contradictory to me.

Then, they go on to say that we should separate the Taliban from the Pakistani radicals and Al-Queda that have infiltrated the country. Yeah, good idea, let's just forget the fact that Al-Queda went there to begin with at the invitation and with the support of the Taliban, who refused point blank to turn Bin Laden over to the US after 9/11.

With all the evidence pointing to Bin Laden, they refused to even talk about it. So what does Brown have that makes him think they will come to the negotiating table in good faith?

In the meantime, Canada seems to be poised to withdraw from the conflict. Little wonder, as they are one of the few nations there that actually have a combat operations role, the others being the US, Britain, and the Netherlands. While there, their casualties have been the proportionate equal of those suffered by the US, while no progress is to be seen.

All the other nations there, such as France and Germany, are limited to non-combat functions. No wonder the Taliban is resurgent. Somebody somewhere is making a hell of a lot of money off Afghan opium production, and if Brown does talk to the Taliban, somebody somewhere should throw that in there.

Nobody seems to want to cut that source of Taliban money off, for some strange reason. With that kind of weakness on display for all the world to see, why should the Taliban talk to Brown, or to anyone else?

What started out as a war is turning into a blood sport, and the Taliban are the ones that seem to be on the winning side. Much more and it might be legitmately described as their national pasttime.



2bvq25

Radu-Chapter XXX (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)

Previous Installments-
Part One
Prologue and Chapters I-X
Part Two
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
PartThree
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXX
Radu-Chapter XXX (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
10 pages approximate
Phelps had no idea what he was getting himself into when he agreed to drive Khoska out into, it turned out, a remote area of West Virginia just across the Maryland border. His desire to turn back, however, seemed to grow with every passing mile. He was an urban creature by nature. Trips to the county never seemed to work out well for him. Still, he wanted to help Grace Rodescu because he considered her a friend and colleague, and realized that whatever she was involved in may well be big.

Phelps struggled for years to make a name for himself as a news photographer, but certain unfortunate aspects of his personality seemed to stand in the way. This might be his one last chance to make his mark in the world of real journalism. The fact that Grace may have indeed been tied up with some international sex slavery ring, may even have been victimized her own self, as a child no less, hinted at the prospects of something that was more than just big. It might possibly be explosive.

“So you say these people are big name businessmen and politicians,” Phelps noted as they moved past the Maryland state line into what promised to be a trip to the wilds of civilization.

“Not all of them are, I am sure,” Khoska replied. “Certainly, most of their clients are men of wealth and power. They are the kind of people that due to the natures of their positions in society are obliged to silence. From what I understand about these things, they are vetted and cleared by way of an arduous process that might entail months, if not years. They are wiling to pay dearly for the opportunity to indulge their perversions. Then, of course, once they are in so deep, there is no turning back, even if they wanted. They are open to extortion by the nature of their crimes.”

“And you say this deceased son-in-law of yours was one of the ringleaders,” Phelps continued.

“He was not at the very top of the leadership,” Khoska affirmed. “However, he was highly placed. This of course was before I discovered his involvement and turned him in to the church hierarchy. Afterwards, he and a small group of others were defrocked. Sometimes I am at wonder that I have remained alive over the more than ten years since this occurred.

“On the other hand, there is a saying, perhaps you have heard of it. Revenge is like fine liquor. The longer it ages, the more it is to be savored. Of course, there is also the prospect that in the case of revenge, it is more difficult to trace its point of origin.”

“So what does all this have to do with this place we’re going?” Phelps demanded. “You say this is the place you first met Grace.”

“It is a cabin,” Khoska replied. “It used to belong to a man named Karl Groznyy. Technically, it still does, though under an assumed name. I have made it a point to continue paying the utilities and taxes on the property-in his name, of course-for the last thirteen years. Still, it has been all of that time since I have set foot on the place and as such, I have made no repairs to it. It goes without saying then that you should not expect it to be anything other than ramshackle and run-down at this point.

“I hope that my memory will suffice to ensure we take the right roads. As I told you before, it is very remote.”

They remained silent most of the remainder of the way outside of what times Khoska informed Phelps as to the proper turns to make. The old priest realized that, for all these years, his memory seemed all but engraved with the mental map seared into his mind from all those years ago. The closer they got the more certain he was as to the correctness of their route.

“I still don’t understand why it is you wanted to involve me in all this,” Phelps stated. “What is it you think I can do to help?”

“You want to help your friend, for whatever reason,” Khoska replied. “I know enough to realize that you might be one of the few people she trusts. I am almost one hundred percent positive she will turn to you at one point or another. When she does, I am of the hopes that you will help her, though not in the exact way she will unfortunately seek your help.”

“You want me to turn her in, assuming she’s doing something illegal to begin with,” Phelps observed.

“Not turn her in to the authorities, so much as keep me abreast of her movements,” Khoska assured him. “I know enough to realize it is almost a certainty you will agree to help her. In a sense, I wish you would not, for I fear your life might be in danger. Grace will discard you like worn out underwear once she uses you for all she can get. I know you do not want to believe this, but I have a feeling you shall more than believe it, within the hour. We are almost to our destination.

“In about twenty minutes, there will be a narrow, paved road that leads up a steep hillside. Hopefully, it will not have been overrun by the shrubbery that used to merely hide it from view. Groznyy paved it his own self shortly after he purchased the property, but he did not do so until the road is quite out of view from the one on which we are on now. He feared otherwise the entire road would be washed out.”

Khoska pointed out the turn off and Phelps cautiously angled his vehicle into what appeared to be merely a small clearing, and then began what was actually a torturous ascent up a muddy embankment.

“Are you sure about this?” he demanded. “I could blow my damn engine trying to get up here.”

“It’s not much further, I promise,” Khoska replied.

Phelps cursed under his breath as he continued, fearing the thickness of the foliage would be as much of an impediment as the steepness of the hillside due to the slow speed he was obliged to drive. Finally, he made it through to where there was indeed a paved road, yet his back tires now seemed mired in the muddy dirt at his back. He continued, shifting the gears of his van, at times slipping backwards, as the dense foliage surrounded them at the front and on all sides. Finally, with one final thrust on the accelerator, he positioned all four wheels of the van onto the narrow blacktopped road. It was easier at this point to drive trough the dense brush, which he yet was obliged to struggle through all the way to the top of the more than one hundred foot hill.

Finally, they were there. Khoska could barely see the house through the grown up grass and trees, as he hoped the roof was yet intact, though from what he could see of it, it seemed undamaged.

“Holy shit, Grace used to live here?” Phelps demanded.

“For no more than a couple of weeks,” Khoska replied. “She was in the process of recovering from severe injuries she received while in the course of being raped by four men, who as it happened intended to murder her. Groznyy took pity on her and saved her, or she would have surely died that night from her injuries and from exposure, after they abandoned what they thought was her dead body. Groznyy discovered her wandering the countryside, in a daze.

“Then, after he transported her to this place, he had the misfortune to allow his sentimentality to get the better of him, and he imagined himself to be in love with her. Things did not turn out so well for him. But, enough of this monologue. It is time for you to see this for yourself. Come, let us go inside.”

Phelps followed him warily into the cabin. Khoska had kept the keys to the cabin in a secure place after all this time, and though the lock was rusty, it took him no more than three minutes to unlock the door, which opened with some difficulty, as the wood was quite warped. It swung open with a creak, as one of the hinges was especially loose. All of them needed oiling.

Khoska was pleasantly surprised that the lights yet worked, though they served mainly to reveal the severe need for cleaning from the dust and mold that accumulated over the many years since he last had been here. He made his way toward the master bedroom, urging Phelps to follow behind him. He did, though warily, having brought along his camera.

Khoska unlocked the bedroom door and entered. The first thing he noticed was the window, which after all this time yet remained unbroken, though tree limbs brushed against and covered it. He had silently prepared himself for the worse sight, toward which he soon heard Phelps let out a gasp.

“Who in the hell was that?” he demanded, indicating the partially mummified and skeletal remains of the man who remained in the same position in which Khoska last left him.

“Karl Emil Groznyy,” Khoska replied, then indicating the aluminum baseball bat that set on the floor beside the bed. “That is the weapon with which Grace murdered him in his bed.”

Phelps stared at the old priest in disbelief, but recovered his composure long enough to quickly take a series of photos.

“All right, even if that is true, she was a kid,” he stated after he finished shooting. “She had just gone through hell, and this guy, regardless of his later intentions, you say yourself was a part of the group that victimized her, and she knew that. Is this what you were trying to warn me about? This is what you think makes her some kind of cold blooded killer?”

“No,” he replied as he moved toward the mold covered oak dresser that set off to the side of the king sized bed. “What makes her a cold-blooded killer are the things she did in the years following this night. This you see before you now was only the initiatory stage of what was to become a spiritual malignancy that would in time claim many victims, most of whom were, unlike Groznyy, innocent of any wrongdoing.”

He opened the drawer, and found the dead man’s gun. Alongside it, he found a leather-bound address book.

“You left this guy here all this time, and you never reported it,” Phelps observed. “Why?”

He looked at the skeleton, his skull caved in and his brains long decomposed. His tattered nightclothes all but gone, he could discern the extent of mummification that occurred over the years. Though Grozny’s face was long gone, a good portion of his torso remained, dried and leathery, due to the intense cold of those first few weeks in which his body lay, with no heat circulating throughout the remote cabin.

“I could never bring myself to return here,” Khoska replied. “I don’t know for sure why I continued paying the bills on the place. I had this crazy idea I might eventually make some kind of sense out of what happened here this night so long ago. I wanted to come up here and give him some kind of decent burial, but never did. I wanted to come up here and look for some kind of clues, but I never did. Now, I’m afraid I might be far too late.”

Khoska now thumbed through the pages of the address book, but saw few with any names, his being one of the few exceptions. He never realized this. What if someone had discovered this crime scene, and this address book? The authorities would have certainly contacted him. What would he have told them? How would it have looked had they discovered he made regular payments on the property?

“So what was it Grace was supposed to have done after this?” Phelps repeated.

“I secured her adoption into a good family,” Khoska replied. “They were Americans of Romanian descent. They raised her as their own child, loved her and cared for her, and saw to all her needs. Both they and I helped her through years of therapy, and secured her passage into college.

“Then, one day, she recovered her memory, at the age of sixteen-in fact, it happened on the night of her sixteenth birthday party. It came flooding back to her in a torrent. Fortunately, she seemed to recover, following more hospitalization and intensive therapy, but she was never the same after that.

“Within five years time, the entire family was dead. It started with the oldest girl, who developed a severe case of a particularly virulent strain of flu. Grace moved in with her, and cared for her. In the meantime, Grace went through all her money. By the time she went through every last penny, the poor woman was dead, at a very young age, from an illness that, though certainly serious, by any account should not have been fatal.

“Grace used all her money on drugs-on heroin. She later started an affair with the husband of yet another sister. That sister was killed as the result of a bizarre accident. She tripped and fell down the stairs, after she as well came down with a mysterious illness. The husband of course inherited quite a bit of money in an insurance settlement that amounted to more than a hundred thousand dollars.

“He later died an apparent suicide, and a large portion of his money disappeared. Curiously, a similarly large amount of money ended up deposited in Grace’s account. She went through it quickly, of course, presumably as well spent on drugs. It goes without saying, I should add, that Grace was a frequent companion of the husband following the wife’s demise, and was a frequent houseguest of the couple before her death as well.”

Phelps looked at him in disbelief, not sure whether to believe him or not.

“That’s all you got?” he demanded. “You got any proof to go with all this, or is it all just supposition?”

Khoska was more than slightly amused, despite the gravity of the events described.

“You work for a paper that reports the most bizarre gossip and rumors imaginable as though it were all fact, yet you question the veracity of stories I have worked diligently to confirm over the course of years,” he observed. “Every word I tell you is true. I will tell you something else. Grace Rodescu by all rights should have been imprisoned years ago, but was not. Someone has been looking out for her. Who this might have been I do not know, though I have my suspicions.

“If she were not imprisoned for the things I told you, then it perhaps would have been appropriate were she charged with the murder of an older foster brother, one who in fact told her some months before his death that he wanted nothing more to do with her. Shortly afterwards, he was the victim of a house invasion that ended with him brutally beaten to death by unknown assailants, rumored to be members of the Seventeenth Pulse. It so happens that Grace was said to have a connection with this group at the time-a drug connection, of course.”

“Rumors, suppositions, and innuendo,” Phelps declared. “I know about that brother. I’ll have you know Grace wanted the paper to look into it. She was sure he was involved with the mafia and owed them money.”

“And of course nothing ever came of this, did it?” Khoska inquired. “Doubtless this was due to the fact that that the only criminal connection the young man had was in fact incidental, and through Grace. I somehow doubt she told you of that, however, or of that brother’s true feelings towards her, and why he had those feelings. Well, I will tell you. It had to do with yet another foster brother, one whom she in fact engaged in an affair with. It was not technically incest. Of course, I seriously doubt it would trouble Grace if it were. It was more a practical necessity. See, this young man himself was a drug addict, but he had the misfortune as well to suffer an injury on the job. He was incapacitated, and drew a great amount of workman’s comp. Grace, being a drug addict herself, helped him spend his money over the course of four months, until he died of an overdose.

“Grace, being Grace, continued to cash his checks in order to pursue her addiction, until this was eventually discovered. She was charged, of course, but the charges were dropped, for whatever reason. There is actually no longer a record of any of this, so you need not bother to look for it. I assure, you, however, it is all true.

“Just like it is true how she constantly borrowed money from yet another of the sisters, until that sister had enough and told her no more. A few days later, the house burned down around her, leaving her dead. I think Grace got all of two thousand dollars out of that escapade, which went quickly. Still, this was all the unfortunate woman had laying around the house. Had it been no more than two hundred dollars instead of two thousand, I am sure it would have been all the same.”

Phelps was now silent, and grim. He did not want to believe any of this, but something about it all rang painfully true.

“Grace was always bad for borrowing money,” he said. “I know I’ve loaned her more than six hundred dollars myself here and there, and I’ve never gotten a dime of it back. Well, not in money anyway.”

“In other words, she let you fuck her, to use the vulgar expression,” Khoska observed as he continually flipped through the address book. “With Grace, of course, that is certainly a more appropriate terminology than something such as making love, which is something I seriously doubt she has ever experienced.

“Her foster parents are dead, of course,” he continued. “Yes, she saved them for the last. The mother died of a heart attack. Grace was at this time the sole survivor, and she moved in with the bereaved widower, and took care of him. She took care of him, all right. He died two weeks after the woman was buried, a supposed suicide. Grace of course inherited everything. She also quickly went through every penny of this inheritance, including the money from the proceeds of the sell of the house.

“All of these things, by the way, occurred within a span of time that amounts to roughly two years and ten months. Although she has nothing left to show for it, Grace within this amount of time managed to destroy the hopes and dreams of an entire family of people that loved and protected her, took her in with open arms, and did everything they could possibly do to help and support her.

“I never told you of course about the three children, her foster nieces and nephew. That is just as well, of course, as there is nothing to tell. They seem to have disappeared. I often wonder if they are yet alive, holed up in some hellhole, forced into prostitution and child pornography, as Grace herself had been. I sometimes think that would appeal to her sense of irony.”

“All right,” Phelps said, more sadly than defiantly. “I get it. You don’t have to go any further. I just don’t understand why you think I can help you, or how. I hope you paid the water bill on this place. I need to go to the john.”

“There’s no sewer, just a septic tank. The water is from a well Groznyy dug himself. I would not advise drinking any of it.”

Phelps nodded and walked out. As he left, Khoska looked toward the phone. Luckily, it was a standard phone, not dependent on batteries, which would surely have died after so many years. He only hoped the phone wires, which lead through the dense foliage, were intact. He picked up the phone and, though there was a dial tone, he immediately noted the static.

He recognized one of the numbers Groznyy had written down years before, and it made his heart ache. He quickly dialed the number, and sure enough, his own son, Philip Khoska, answered.

“Hello, who is this?” the easily recognizable voice of his youngest son inquired. “Is anybody there?”

Khoska considered the prospect of addressing his son, but was not quite sure what to say. How deeply involved in this was he, he wondered? He also recognized the number of his late son-in-law Voroslav, both numbers, like his own, circled. Is this the reason Groznyy had turned to him in desperation after all, so many years ago?

“Karl, is that you?” his son finally asked. Khoska gasped when he heard this.

“Come on Groznyy, talk to me,” he insisted. “Where have you been all this time? We need to talk. You know that, why else would you have called?”

Khoska was now too stunned to speak, even if he wished to. What would Phillip say if he knew it was he calling from Groznyy’s number?

“It’s not too late, Groznyy. We can work it out. You know the time is short. We all know, Karl, how you saved Grace Rodescu. Yeah, you betrayed us all, but that has been years ago. We can work something out. It is not too late. You can pull through this, my friend. You can be one of the survivors, or you can die like all the rest of the”-

After this, the line filled with static, so Khoska heard nothing. He cursed under his breath, even though he dreaded the prospect of the words spoken this night by his son and their meaning. It occurred to him then that his son would now know the general area from which the call originated. Could he possibly trace it somehow to this exact location? Suddenly, the line cleared, if just briefly, and Khoska could hear now the increasingly agitated voice of his son.

“You need to get to a better line, Grozhny,” he said. “Better yet, you should come to the compound, before it’s too late. You know about Morrison, I take it? It won’t be much longer. He’s going to bring everything crashing down. I’ll be ready. Will you?”

Suddenly, Phillip hung up at his end, terminating the call. He turned uneasily, unsure of what it all meant, and looked toward the long dead remains of Karl Emil Groznyy.

“Groznyy, what were you involved in, my friend?”

He looked toward the door, to see Phelps standing there looking at him, looking very disturbed, even curiously frightened.

“I guess we can go on now,” Khoska said as he deposited the address book within the pockets of his robe.

“Did you forget to tell me about something?” Phelps asked, obviously more anxious now than previously.

“Who’s the Girl Scout?”

“The Girl Scout-what Girl Scout?” the now bewildered Khoska asked.

“The one laying in the other bedroom, dead, that’s what Girl Scout.” Phelps answered.

Quickly, Khoska pushed past him and out the door, down the hallway to the bedroom that sat across the hall from the bathroom. He entered the room, only to see the form of the young girl, obviously dead for some time. Cautiously, he approached her.

“She has not been here that long,” Khoska said, trying to control the anguish at the sight of such a young girl. “She must have gotten lost and found her way here before she died. Who knows how long she has been sought?”

Phelps was now taking pictures of the dead girl’s body to Khoska’s consternation. Then, he noticed something.

“Wait just a minute,” he said. “If she died here, what the hell has been eating her? Look at this!”

Phelps pointed out the gashes on the girl’s naked abdomen. Khoska made a superhuman attempt to control his horrified revulsion as he looked upon the marks left by what appeared to be talons in close proximity to the gash from an apparent scavenger.

“If I didn’t know better I would swear it is the work of a vulture,” he noted. “Still, as you said, why would she be here?”

“That does it!” Phelps declared. “I’m getting the hell out of here. When we get back to Baltimore, I’m calling the authorities and leaving an anonymous tip. I hope there is nothing here that can tie you to this place. That guy in there I don’t care about. Whoever she is-that is a different story. By the way, did that creep have any food in here?”

“He had it well stocked, yes, what difference does that make?”

Phelps moved swiftly into the small kitchen that Groznyy had years before built and equipped with a year-and-a-half worth of provisions. He moved to the refrigerator, only to discover upon opening it that it was nearly bare, save for one very interesting exception. Phelps retuned with an unopened bottle of Samuel Adams Beer.

“I might be wrong, but I don’t think this beer was brewed thirteen years ago, or at least it wasn’t readily available around here-if at all.”

“I think you’re right,” Khoska said, growing more visibly alarmed. “We had better leave, and quickly.”

Before Phelps could respond, the door quickly flew open, and a group of men entered, looking alternately amused, concerned, alarmed, curious, enraged, to outright hysterical.

“Well who the hell are you boys?” one of the dirty, grubby looking men asked.

“Oh-shit!” Phelps muttered under his breath, as another of the men walked up to Khoska.

‘That’s a right purty dress you’s wearing there, hon,” he said with a lecherous sneer.

“Better step away from him Luther,” the first man advised him. “Something tells me they ain’t here to play.”

“Well I’m a-gonna play with him anyway god damn you!” the wild-eyed man shouted, his eyes suddenly transformed in the space of an instant from glazed over lust to savage hatred and defiance.

“Fine, fine,” the other man replied as he held up his hands in an entreaty of peace, as a third man, seemingly the youngest of the group of five, produced a long, thick handled knife with which he pared his nails while gazing with a sadistic smile at Phelps.

“I get the nigger,” he said. “I always did love to play with niggers. They are fun to play with.”

“Try to stay calm,” Khoska told Phelps, who seemed now on the verge of tears.

“Don’t you talk to me, you fucking old fart,” he replied with a hiss.

“Why don’t you take that perty robe off,” Khoska’s admirer suggested, as a fourth man entered, one who seemed only vaguely aware of his surroundings, as he lurched forward and backward while he mumbled incoherently, seeming to concentrate on his right arms and hand as he shook it in unison with his steps.

“No, I will not take this robe off,” Khoska replied firmly, yet as calmly as he could manage. He then addressed the one man who seemed to be the most relatively stable of the group, as yet a fifth man entered, one who had black eyes that blazed with a fury, yet seeming not to be directed towards him or Phelps, but toward the knife of the youngest man of the group.

“My son sent me here to check on you,” Khoska announced. “He wants to make sure you have all the provisions you need, enough to do you for a few more weeks if necessary.”

To his consternation, the man produced a cell phone.

“Why didn’t he call us and let us know you were coming?” he demanded. “Why did you bring that nigger with you?”

“Don’t mind him, he’s just a servant, one of the good ones,” Khoska replied with a desperate glance toward Phelps, who merely shook his head in silent anguish. “He wanted me to come but did not want you to know. He wanted to be sure as to how things were really going.”

“Oh, so he don’t trust us?” the man asked. “Well, that makes sense. Kind of like a surprise inspection, huh?”

“That’s exactly what it is, exactly-a surprise inspection. I am afraid he is going to be displeased at the young lady you have brought up here. People will be looking for her, you know.”

They looked around at each other and smiled. The young man giggled like a silly schoolboy.

“They already have been,” he said. “They split up in groups of three.”

“Hey, Charlie, bring ‘em in here,” the older man shouted, whereupon two more men entered, in the company of three obviously terrified young girls dressed in scout uniforms. They looked to all be no more than about twelve years old. One of the girls cried inconsolably as one of the men gripped her around the waste from behind and held her back tightly up against his groin, as he swayed in a rhythmic motion.

“I hope you brought us some more beer,” the apparent leader of the group said. “We sure can use some.”

Khoska was now frantic, and knew that nothing short of a miracle would deliver him from the predicament in which he now found himself.

“No, I’m afraid not,” he said. “He wants you to be ready to leave here within a couple of days. He will be sending someone else here soon to take you some place else, a place much better than this. In the meantime, you must let these girls go.”

“No,” the young man replied. “Not until we have our fun. After we get us some we’ll send them on their way-provided they shut the fuck up, that is.”

He said this with a threatening glare toward the one girl who cried loudly, but this only made matters worse. Her crying enraged the young man, who shouted for her to shut up, and then struck the young girl across the face so harshly her glasses went flying off and almost halfway across the room. Khoska automatically lunged toward the young man, but a sudden sharp pain sent him sprawling toward the floor, as everything went black.

He found himself at the kitchen table, sitting upright, as Groznyy poured what seemed to be red wine into a glass.

“It’s been a long time, my friend,” he said. “Come, let us have a drink. Let us drink some wine, and talk of Romania.”

Khoska knew he was dreaming, or hallucinating, or possibly as dead now as Groznyy, who now poured the wine in his own glass, as he looked at Khoska with a genial smile on his face.

“You were intending to warn me about them all the time, weren’t you, Groznyy. You wanted to warn me about Voroslav, and about Phillip-about my own family. That is why you came to me to begin with, isn’t it?”

“Khoska, there is plenty of time for such serious matters,” Groznyy replied. “This wine, it is really much better than the shit they used to make in Romania, even better than what they make there now. It is better even than good Bulgarian wine. This in fact is a very old vintage. Some might consider it an ancient one. Please, drink”-

Khoska, reluctant and yet curious, took the glass and sipped the wine, as Groznyy looked on approvingly, and yet expectantly.

“Groznyy, my God, man-this is not wine, this is blood.”

The face of Karl Emil Groznyy now took on a deadly serious aspect as his eyes and his voice burned into Khoska’s consciousness.

“That is always the way of it, though, is it not? The blood is the life.”

He awoke with a pounding ache from the back of his head, only to see Phelps in the course of wiping his head with a damp cloth. He lay stretched out on the old dust-covered sofa. His vision was blurred, but gradually coming more into focus.

“It’s about time your old ass came to,” Phelps said. “Come on, we’ve got to get out of here.”

“Those men,” he said. “What about the girls! Where are they?”

He strained to rise, feeling dizzy and nauseous, as Phelps helped him up.

“They found some wine in a locked closet in the cellar. Evidently, your friend expected unwanted company at some point. They picked the perfect time to have a party with it. They just run out of the booze left them by whoever brought them up here. They have been here ever since the hospital bombing. They were all Johns Hopkins mental patients. I thought I recognized a couple of them from their pictures in the paper. We’ve been doing a series of exposés about their release. It was explained as some kind of bureaucratic snafu.”

Khoska rose and saw all the men sprawled out. Some of them were obviously dead. Only two of them, the young man with the knife and the fierce looking man with dark eyes, seemed yet alive, though obviously very deathly sick. The dark eyed man groaned loudly.

“My God!” Khoska muttered.

“I don’t think it’s a coincidence they ended up here, and judging by all that horseshit you were talking about somebody sending you here to check on them, I don’t think you do either. I will tell you one thing, though, whatever brought them here, God had nothing to do with it.”

Khoska looked down toward the coffee table, and saw a Bible. He saw something else-a book of instruction for the Catholic faith.

“Only in a very obscene, hellish way,” Khoska replied. He then turned toward Phelps, who looked exhausted.

“What happened to the girls?”

Phelps looked back toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms.

“They’re gone,” he said. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

They exited the cabin to the break of day, and Phelps noticed the vulture, perched on a protruding trunk. Khoska saw it as well. It looked as though it laughed at them silently, curiously amused by their presence here this morning, as the sun just now rose. Khoska looked down the hillside, now overgrown with weeds, the same place where he first saw Grace Rodescu on that day when she seemed recovered from the trauma of her previous assault.

“Are you coming?” Phelps asked. Khoska looked over toward him. Phelps was seemingly numb, almost in a state of shock. Khoska noted how his wrists looked bloody from the effort of freeing himself from the ropes that bound him throughout most of the night. He must have known deep down how lucky he was to be alive. Khoska had not yet been conscious enough for it to sink in, though it gradually did. As Phelps started up the van, he gasped, and then cried loudly. Then he stopped, and cursing loudly, he put the van into gear, and drove away slowly.

As they left, Khoska looked once more down the ravine, and from this vantage point saw a glimpse of the old creek. A part of him hoped he would see some sign of life, but in this place of death, he knew it was just as well he did not. Suddenly, Phelps stopped.

“Our being up here didn’t change a damn thing,” he observed. “Everything that happened up here tonight that didn’t involve us would have happened without us, just the way it did, maybe just a little quicker, that’s all. I did not need to see that. I did not need to see any of it.

“They intended to hunt down the whole troop, all fifteen of them, plus the camp leader and the other two adult women with them. They were going to get them all while they hunted for the missing girl. Do you know what they said? They said they were saving them from the world, and that it was going to be hell on earth soon. They kept talking about something called Radu. I don’t guess you know anything about that?”

Khoska stiffened when he heard this, but was not quite sure how to respond

“They were insane,” Khoska said. “What would you expect them to say? Certainly, nothing sensible I should hope. Did they mention who it was who brought them here?”

“They didn’t mention your son, if that’s what you mean. They did not say anything about that. They had other things on their minds. They made the girls pray, before they made them strip, and sing, and dance, while they watched and”-

He could not go on. He stopped and took a deep breath.

“Before they could get to the point of killing them, which I’m sure is what they intended, they were unconscious from the effects of the wine. The girls grabbed their clothes and ran away. They did not stick around to help us, not that I blame them. I had to free myself.”

Khoska once more noted the swollen, bloodied wrists of the photographer, and wondered that he had the strength and nerve to drive away from here.

“So what is it about this son of yours?” Phelps now asked. “You mentioned him for a reason.”

“I was desperate,” Khoska explained. “I found my son’s number in Groznyy’s address book. They were involved in some way, but Phillip had nothing to do with this. When I called, after all these years he remembered Groznyy’s phone number. He assumed I was Groznyy calling him. He thought Groznyy was still alive. No, someone else was responsible for this abomination. I have no idea yet who.”

“Do you have a son named Berry?” Phelps asked. “One of them mentioned something about-you know something, fuck this.”

Suddenly, Phelps got out of his van and walked back toward the cabin, almost before Khoska could raise an objection. When he did so, Phelps waved him off, leaving Khoska to fear his intentions. While Phelps was away, he breathed deeply and said a prayer of thanks for his evident salvation from what could have been a night of unmitigated horror ending in destruction. As he sat there, the one thought reverberated throughout his brain.

Berry. It had to be the Lieutenant. He was up to his neck somehow in this business, from beginning to end. How could he ever hope to prove it now? Should he confide his suspicions with Phelps? Soon, the muckraking newspaper photographer returned to the van, opened the back door, and deposited something inside. He then returned to the driver’s seat, and began once more the long, torturous ride downhill.

“They’re all dead. I got pictures of them, as well as the dead Girl Scout and your friend. By God after what I went through tonight, I deserve to get something out of this. It was all I could do to keep from setting the whole damn place on fire. It would not take much for me to go back and do it now. At least your friend would get somewhat of a send-off. Seeing as how he saved our asses from beyond the grave and all, it seems appropriate. On the other hand, I figure if I do burn the place down, that would destroy whatever evidence there might be to catch these people, whoever or whatever they are.”

Soon, they were back down at the bottom of the hill, the descent not near as torturously difficult as the trip up the hill had been. Soon, they were winding their way back to Baltimore. Khoska had the overpowering urge to sleep, but feared doing so. He knew that soon, pictures of the remains of the long dead Karl Groznyy would stare out from newsstands and grocery counters across Maryland and beyond.

“So, do you have any idea who this Berry might be?” he asked.

“He is a Lieutenant with the Baltimore Police Department,” Khoska replied. “I would advise you to keep this to yourself until we can be certain of finding something in the way of proof. I will tell you one thing about him though.”

Phelps said nothing, as they soon found their way to more familiar terrain, Phelps now barreling toward the Maryland border as though yet in fear of his life.

“I’m waiting,” he said, as though fearing the worse.

“When Grace was apprehended for cashing her dead foster brothers workman’s comp checks, and it was discovered she used the money for drugs, it was Berry who was assigned to her case. It was Berry who went on to investigate her role in the suspicious deaths of her other family members.”

He waited, allowing this a few moments to sink in, as Phelps slowed considerably, his eyes focused firmly on the narrow, winding road, yet intent on the words Khoska spoke.

“It was Lieutenant James Berry,” Khoska finally concluded, “who in fact I am sure now destroyed any evidence he might have discovered concerning her role in those events.”

Khoska felt a wave of relief concurrent with dread. What if he were wrong, he wondered. There was always that possibility and he had been down so many dark and misleading paths, he could not be completely sure this was not yet another one. At the same time, as the lights of the beckoning and yet threatening metropolis glistened in the distance, he felt a sense of near certainty, and breathed deeply, yet sadly.

“Why would he be doing all this?” Phelps asked. “What possible reason could he have?”

“I wish I knew, Mr. Phelps,” Khoska replied sadly. “I only wish I knew.”

What Have We Got To Lose?

It just occurred to me, after my post about the death of Ike Turner, that some might be curious as to why, even though I call myself a pagan blogger, I post as often as I do about seemingly non-pagan topics such as this. Well, there is a very easy answer to that. Culture is a kind of magic in its own right. When you stop to think about it, the first play, the first musical composition, the first dance, the first drawing, sculpture, etc., is almost inarguably traceable back to those prehistoric times when the earliest magical shamans gathered their tribes around and performed some ritual geared toward appeasement or entreaty of what was perhaps more often than not some malignant deity.

Tribal elders would look on as the villagers and tribesman took part in dances to the rhythmic beat of ancient percussion instruments, and would sing and recite poetry, all in the hopes of insuring fertility, protection of the tribe, blessings on marriages, funerals, rites of passage, and ascensions of new chiefs and tribal elders.

To some extent, these traditions remained more or less intact, and are with us to this day. In other cases, they became more and more extravagant. In many of these cases, they went on to lose their original spiritual significance, at least outwardly.

Nevertheless, regardless of whether we view them as ceremonial, religious, high culture, or mass “pop culture” entertainment, still they speak to us on some inner level. To some extent, they enrich us all. Even mind-numbing nonsense serves a purpose. No, it is not a lofty purpose in all cases, but it nevertheless has its place, and its importance. We are better for its presence in our lives, generally speaking of course.

Not long before Ike Turner died, he had committed to producing and playing on an album by a new rock group called The Black Keys, which is a power-duo along the lines of the White Stripes. For whatever reason-perhaps Turner’s growing illness, or perhaps another reason-the project fell through. Now, of course, it is too late, as I do not believe any tracks were ever recorded.

That is really too bad. Who knows what we lost? Take that question to another level. What would it be like if we could have a recording, a modern state of the art CD, containing the actual recorded work of Mozart or Lizst? How about an actual violin concerto by Vivaldi? What if we could actually have a recorded film of an original Shakespeare play, performed live at the Globe Theatre, with the Bard himself in the cast? For that matter, can you picture an original, first time performance of The Oresteia, or The Frogs? For that matter, an old Roman farce? You can almost imagine the cameras panning over the crowd, and see Augustus laughing heartily at some off-color pun.

Even something as simple as an old Wild West barroom singer during the Gold Rush, while prospectors and ranch hands gather around for an afternoon of much-needed leisure daydreaming about the girls they left behind to “strike it rich”.

How much richer would we be? Just a thought. Cultural expressions, even the presumably basest sort, are a part of human nature, and provide both an outlet, and inspiration. It was almost inevitable that some day mankind would develop a means to record and preserve both the best and the worst, and everything in between. You might even consider it a gift of the gods, in a manner of speaking, one to compliment yet another, as a way of saying “bravo”.

Bringing Best Wishes And Joy This Holiday Season

Some of you who have been reading the first draft of my novel, tentatively titled Radu-which I am now trying to publish every five days-may have long ago come to the conclusion “he’s just making this shit up as he goes.” Well, you would almost be right, especially at first. As the book progresses, however, I have noticed that it seems to have taken on a life of its own and gone in directions I never foresaw when I initially started writing it.

One conspiracy, involving an international sex-slave ring, has turned out to have, hidden unbeknownst within its ranks, an even more pernicious cabal-a conspiracy within a conspiracy. Of course, I won’t say here what that is, so this is just to inform you that it will be revealed in the up-coming Chapter 32, which will be published on Christmas Day, and will be at the top of the main page for the following three days. There will be two more chapters between now and then, but this one will be the one that finally reveals the nature of this hidden, inner conspiracy.

With that said I will say no more, except be here for Chapter 32, when Marlowe’s granddaddy Martin explains the true meaning of the season, as he tells “The Christmas Story” to a somewhat captive audience.

Barak And Hillary

Why in the hell does he put up with this shit? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not an Obama supporter, but shit, right is right and wrong is wrong. He should give as good as he gets, in my opinion. He should pull the same shit. Some of his supporters should just casually mention the fact that there are a good many unanswered questions concerning the suicide of former Clinton White House attorney Vince Foster. For that matter, official findings to the contrary, there is still some legitimate questions as to Whitewater, and Hillary Clinton’s work at the Rose Law Firm, where it is alleged by some that she served basically as a bag lady to deliver bribes, disguised as billing records, to then Arkansas governor Bill Clinton. Oh, and Hillary Clinton-isn’t she the one that fought tooth-and-nail to give children the right to sue their parents? Isn’t that a troublesome proposition at best? What was her connection with foreign campaign contributions to Bill’s 1996 re-election campaign, especially from China? Are there not legitimate suspicions that she has remained involved with these same shadowy figures?

What about Travelgate? Wasn’t it a bit heavy-handed on her part to just fire all those travel office workers and put in her own people, for no apparent legitimate reason? Of course, what would you expect from the woman who sponsored a nationalized health care initiative that amounted to a monstrously expensive bureaucracy, and did so in such a heavy-handed and secretive manner that it makes Dick Cheney’s energy policy meetings look like-well, bush league stuff?

Obama should do more than whine about this shit. He should hit back, and he should hit back hard, and fierce. He won’t though, because he is under the Democratic Party curse that insists a viable candidate should always run a “positive” campaign, and steer clear of negative politics. Never mind the fact that the people that adhere to this policy almost always lose.

In the meantime, the Democratic Party politicians in general are seen as wusses, while Bill Clinton, their first elected two-term President since Franklin Roosevelt-that same Bill Clinton who rewrote the book on gutterball politics-is one of the most admired men in the nation, possibly the world.

By the way, did you get a load of how Hillary, before the last debate, walked up to Obama and “apologized” for her campaign workers throwing aspersions about his past (and his present for that matter), that it was supposedly not any of her doing? Jeez, how condescending can you be? I almost expected her to reach out and rub his head. She definitely needs some luck from somewhere. She is not Bill. When he engaged in hardball politics, after all, he merely gave as good as he got, so people accepted that, due to the fact that he is likeable. She is not, and those tactics from her look petulant, arrogant, and shrewish. She is actually the last Democrat who should engage in these kinds of tactics, because of the simple fact that most people do not trust her to begin with, and even more people do not like her. If she wins, in her case it will be despite her personality and her campaign tactics, not because of them.

On top of all this, she is not engaging in this kind of behind the scenes hateful rhetoric against the people that might arguably deserve it. No, she is unfairly maligning a man who, politics aside, is arguably one of the nicest, most well meaning and genuine, major political candidates of our time. I disagree profoundly with much of his politics, but that is just a fact that should be recognized in all fairness. In my opinion, he is sincere, maybe even a true patriot, in the sense that he is a man who honestly wants to do what he feels would be good for the country.

Hillary wants to do good for Hillary. If she wins, may the gods help her enemies, both real and perceived. If she loses, you can gauge her intentions to run again by the number of appearances she makes on the Cable News Channels from that point on. It won’t be pretty. In the meantime, in my opinion, Bill Clinton is living on borrowed time-nothing like a sympathy vote when nothing else seems to work.

One thing is for sure, if Hillary does go on to win the nomination, and then the presidency, Oprah Winfrey had damn sure better go through her finances with a fine tooth comb and make sure every penny is in order and accounted for, because she will in short order be the recipient of the mother of all tax audits. I almost guarantee it.

True, Hillary’s tactics might backfire and Obama could claim the prize of the Democratic nomination. Unfortunately for him, if he continues with his current campaign style, that prize will end up being, in the end, the same as it usually is to a Democratic presidential candidate-a consolation prize.

Oh, And By The Way-India Has Nukes

Two Hindu gods, Ram and Hanuman (the monkey god) have been summonsed to appear in court by Judge Sunil Kumar Singh in order to help resolve a property dispute. They own the land, according to locals, that a priest claims was granted his grandfather by a former local king.

Now that the two gods seem to have so contemptuously flaunted the Indian justice system by failure to appear, the judge has issued a newspaper advert encouraging them to do so at once.

The judge's court is a "fast track" meant to solve disputes quickly. I think here is the crux of the problem. You see, the gods are immortal entities, and can't be rushed, as time has no meaning to them. The judge should try to exercise a little understanding, to say nothing of judicial restraint.

Lunar Tunes

If you re into astrology, this is actually a good astrology blog. I'd forgotten about it until I just started going over my bookmarks. After all these months, it's still regularly updated at least once every two weeks on average. Worth the time to check out.

Kid Nation

For those of you who are always upset and whining about the lack of family programming on television, you hopefully checked out the recent CBS reality series Kid Nation. I put off commenting about the show during it’s run mainly because I had this suspicion that it would turn out to have a phony, manufactured ending-like, for example, series bad girl Taylor winning the last “gold star” and turning out to be a “good kid” at the end. This, of course, would have been lame, and an obvious set-up.

Well, it did not turn out that way, so my concerns were unjustified. Nevertheless, from all indications, the show will return. When and if it does, I recommend it as good “family fare”. Yeah, it is kind of silly. The concept is something along the lines of “Lord Of The Flies” meets “Our Gang”, in a reality series format. A group of kids-in the first season there were forty of them, ranging in ages from eight to fifteen-inhabit an abandoned western mining town known as Bonanza City, somewhere in the desert of New Mexico, and run it with minimal adult supervision.

A gold star is awarded at the end of each episode, by the town council (four kids elected by all the kids to represent four competing divisions) according to who made the most valuable contribution to the community. Each gold star was worth twenty thousand dollars and went toward the child’s college fund. There were four color-coded districts, representing leaders, merchants, cooks, and workers, and a contest in each episode determined what color group was awarded which district.

It was a kind of race, and if all four groups completed the task, they got the choice of a special prize for the entire community, usually a choice of some practical, utilitarian item or some more fun, kid type prize. Usually, but not always, the town council picked the more practical item. To me, though, the so-called practical choices were in some cases not so practical. Books, for example, don’t seem too practical in a situation where everyone is expected to work so many hours a day in a community that is basically a temporary setting. The town council chose the books, and I would be willing to wager that a grand total of one chapter per child on average was read, if that.

In the series finale, three extra gold stars, worth fifty thousand each, were awarded to three different kids who the council decided were the overall best in certain categories throughout the series run.

This series came under a good deal of criticism, for the most part before it even aired, from the screaming meemies of society shouting out accusations of child abuse. That pretty much went by the wayside after the show actually aired.

A word of caution, however-these are by no means “regular kids”. You can make book on the fact that when kids are recommended and approved for appearances in this type of project, they usually come from the upper strata of society, at the very least from the so-called “upper middle class”. One of the kids, on the show’s web site, lists the person she admires most in the world as King Mohammed of Morocco-where she and her family vacations every year.

You get the idea. These are not kids, for the most part at least, whose families are in danger of being thrown out on the streets at the slightest downturn of the economy. Still, in a general sense, this prime time network program is worth watching with the kids and its even fun at times. Some scenes are even funny, if somewhat contrived. In one of the episodes I watched, one little boy who missed his mother and his girlfriend went into the saloon to “have a root beer and get it off my mind.”

Yeah, like I said, some things seem kind of lame and made up. But, as long as there are shows like this, people can’t really complain about the lack of family programming. What it all boils down to is the people that usually make these kinds of complaints generally don’t want anything BUT this kind of programming-which would be really fucking annoying.

One thing to bear in mind is, these were generally pretty smart kids. Yes, they performed well and most of the time made the most appropriate choices, so adults can point to these kids as “good role models” (with some exceptions). Nevertheless, these kids were also intelligent enough to understand that their parents, and a good deal of the country, would be watching them at some vague future date on prime time network television. I wouldn’t be too quick to be handing out any gold stars.

Death Of An Accidental Daddy

In 1952, Ike Turner entered a studio and, with his band, recorded the song "Rocket 88". The guitar amplifier tipped over, resulting in the first feedback sound distortion in recorded history. Rocket 88 is now considered by many the first rock and roll song, and Ike Turner is credited by many as being it's inventor (an honor also bestowed on Johnny Ace).

Ike Turner's private life was tumultuous, and probably had an effect on his creative output. He served time in prison for weapons and drug possession, but nevertheless will always be remembered for his musical career, especially for his discovery of future wife (though he later alleged they never actually married) Tina Turner.

The biggest hit for The Ike And Tina Turner Revue, as they and their band were called, was "Proud Mary", previously a Creedence Clearwater Revival hit, and which Ike and Tina took to number three on the American pop charts.

After a stint in prison, during which both he and Tina were inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (she accepting his award on his behalf), Ike returned to music, and released several recordings, in the meantime winning an award for Best Comeback Artist and Best Blues Recording.

If any would like to leave a message of condolences for his passing to the family and friends of Ike Turner you can do so here

Some have apparently used the site as an excuse to vent their anger over Ike's alleged rough treatment of Tina, and such comments have been and will be deleted, understandably so. Come on, people, grow up.

Not to excuse any kind of abuse, but no one really knows the whole story. And, to paraphrase here Ike's own words-

"I may have slapped Tina, and I knocked her down here and there, but I never beat her."

No, I am not trying to be funny. Shit happens.

Ike Turner died at the age of 76. Though a cause of death is yet to be released, he is said to have suffered from emphysema. His web-site suggests that in lieu of flowers, to send a donation to your local school's music department.

Radu-Chapter XXIX (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)

Previous Installments-
Part One
Prologue and Chapters I-X
Part Two
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
PartThree
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Radu-Chapter XXIX (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
9 pages approximate
Radu-Chapter XXIX

Father Alexandrieu Khoska should have been aware of the dangers of keeping his niece confined within the small room of the Church Of The Blessed Sacrament. Still, what other choice did he have? He could have certainly had her hospitalized, or committed, but the long-term result would doubtless be the same. After another long period of recovery, she would then relapse into yet another assault by whatever spiritual force yet again laid claim to her soul.

The marks on her neck had been unmistakable. The most unholy of all forces to walk among the living sought her for its very own. He alone had the power to prevent this from occurring, but his faith was not what it was once.

Only one time in his life had he been witness to something remotely similar as what recently befell his niece Lynette. A man had lost his wife, who claimed on her deathbed to be a victim of her husband’s malicious intent. When she died, however, no autopsy provided evidence of the poisoning of which she accused him.

Following her burial, a remarkable series of heinous events occurred involving the couple’s three children. One by one, the three of them, two girls and a boy, died. They each died slowly, and separately, and the man gradually drank himself into a continual stupor.

One night following the death of the last and youngest child, the man presented himself to Khoska, and confessed to the crime of poisoning his wife. Khoska listened as the man related how the woman came to him in his dreams, but he resisted her claims upon him.

He gave the man absolution, as he felt he surely had suffered more than enough from the deaths of all his children. He took pity on the man, as Khoska in his younger days was sentimental and tender hearted. The man obviously suffered greatly of spirit and conscience, besides which his wife had become the neighborhood strumpet, openly carousing with any man of the slightest authority within the environs of Ploesti.

That night Khoska found himself tormented by the demonic ravings of innumerable hellish voices. One time, he imagined he saw the faces of the children themselves at his window, howling and clawing at the windows, and then the doors, like savage beasts. Khoska fell to his knees and prayed for forgiveness for his ill-advised leniency to the man. He learned that night that forgiveness, while guaranteed to all who seek it, does not come without a price-nor does it grant freedom from retribution.

The next day, Khoska learned the man was later the same night ripped to shreds in his own home. Not one of his neighbors heard his screams, nor did they report any signs of intruders or visitors. The local Ploesti authorities investigated the crime briefly, but nothing ever came of it.

Khoska applied later for permission to have the man buried in a plot far from his victimized wife and her children, and conducted a ritual of exorcism on behalf of all of them. He was amazed the officials of Ploesti acceded to his request. He understood of course that it had nothing to do with their capacity for belief so much as a willingness to account for the superstitions of the family’s neighbors and surviving relatives.

At the same time, Khoska knew he had brought unwelcome attention to himself, and realized his activities could easily fall under suspicion. Various low-level officials, tentatively for spiritual advice sought him out, though he was careful not to put his foot in his mouth.

Before long, the authorities, who quite naturally never took it seriously to begin with, forgot the allegedly supernatural occurrence. They never forgot Khoska, however, and soon they turned more to him not so much for spiritual advice, but for reasons that were more mundane.

Khoska’s father was retired by now from the church, and found work that was more acceptable, in the teaching profession. His mother as well found employment in that capacity. Aleksandre never wavered in his devotion to the church. His grandfather also remained steadfastly devoted to Christ, and to the Orthodox religion, and proved a steady rock onto which Khoska anchored his faith.

His grandfather, however, was not a realist. Khoska was, and determined that he would do the most good he could do, even if that meant, from time to time, a compromise of certain principles. He felt compelled to remind his grandfather once that not all Christians in the early days refused to waver from the dictates of their consciences, in fact most of them did from time to time. If they had not, the lions would have fed on all of them, and Christianity would have forever vanished.

He was in a bind. He told himself that a traitor deserved no leniency, any more than a wife killer did. If someone expressed disloyalty to the regime, why should such a person deserve his protection? He prayed greatly over his dilemma, until he received the answer he needed.

The communists wanted him to travel to America, where he could become a citizen, and start his own branch of the church. He would attract a devoted following of Romanian exiles, who would supply him with information on the activities of their relatives in the mother country. Khoska would have a contact at the embassy in Washington, who would forward all the information he delivered. He would receive a respectable stipend for his work, of course, in addition to whatever he made of his own volition.

They expected him to do more than wait for information, of course. It was incumbent on him to seek out information. In the meantime, he need not fear for the welfare of his family who remained in Romania. The state would provide for them. They also assured him that they would never know the extent of his activities. In fact, they could possibly serve as a useful conduit were they to not be aware.

Khoska discovered it was an easy process indeed. Never did he know the results of his work, until the death of Nicolai Moloku, who celebrated the death of Romanian dictator Gheorghiu Dej too heartily. Three days after his block party, unknown persons shot him down in front of his home while leaving for work. He only recently discovered that he was not to blame for this, but Moloku’s own step-son was complicit. At the same time, he had to wonder, if in fact he had played somewhat of a role in events leading up to the man’s murder.

He fell into despair at the initial time of Moloku’s murder, the likes of which he never had known, and determined to end it. He found himself sick of the whole sorry business, and began to ponder the earlier consequences of his actions. Many people in the old country Khoska informed on seemed to have vanished without a trace, while yet others the state arrested on what seemed mainly trumped up charges.

Many others shared his suspicions, unfortunately. A great many of his parishioners began drifting away from him, and the money started to dry up. He still received his regular stipend from the Romanian government, which he began to put away.

His grandfather died sometime later, and sent him a long letter, detailing his involvement with Cornelius Codreanu, the former messianic leader of the Iron Guard in those days prior to the Second World War. Khoska was amazed. Codreanu was considered insane, a man who believed himself-or so he told his many followers-an incarnation of the Archangel Michael. Yet, the Iron Guard was a ruthlessly violent fascist organization. They were virulently anti-Semitic. When subordinates of General Antonescu, a rival fascist leader, assassinated Codreanu and thirteen of his followers in prison, the Nazi government of Hitler’s Germany was the most aggressive at protesting this action undertaken ostensibly on behalf of the government of King Carol II.

What possibly could his grandfather have to do with the likes of this man? As Khoska continued to read the long, rambling letter, he discovered this in fact was the reason for his father and grandfathers falling out years before. His grandfather reminded him in the letter of how his mother, at the time near death, delivered him and yet survived, and also recovered from her long illness, the same night of Codreanu’s death. His grandfather claimed this was at the intercession of Archangel Michael. Indeed, according to him, that celestial being inhabited the form of Cornelius Codreanu, who seemed to blame the Jews for all the ills of Romania, and the world.

Had his grandfather been as insane as Codreanu, he wondered? He had to wonder at the ancient parchment written centuries before, and the vials of grayish white powder that were, according to his grandfather, the bones of Codreanu. Together with the blood of the Crucified Lord and the tears of the Virgin, they could destroy any evil-even Radu, described in the parchment as the “Dragon of Desolation”.

He knew even then, of course, who Radu was-the most vile of all spirits, chief among those who may inhabit not only the bodies of the living, but reanimate the corpses of those who have passed on, taking control of their innermost thoughts, emotions, and memories as they do so. Their curse is to securely walk in neither life nor death, and bring destruction to all they despoil, as they feed upon the flesh and blood of those who are unrighteous. Only the cross can repel them, or the light of the sun, or the presence of garlic. Their deaths may only be in practical terms accomplished by a wooden stake through the heart. This was the only manner by which to prevent their accursed blood from regenerating. Even then, the stake must remain in place long enough for their evil hearts to become sufficiently decayed. It was considered most appropriate to destroy their bodies after death, preferably by burning them, following decapitation, lest the stake be removed too quickly.

Khoska never believed those old myths. That was until the incident with the accursed family in Ploesti. Even then, he put it out of his mind. His faith tested severely, he considered himself delusional for a brief period. He began to feel his grandfather had perhaps suffered the same monstrous delusion, all the while keeping it secret.

He now this night told all this in the form of a confession to his son Michael, who listened intently, betraying very little emotion, though at various intervals his eyes would narrow. One time Khoska thought he heard him gasp. Nevertheless, he remained quiet until Aleksandre finished his story.

“So what ever became of the woman?” he asked. “And the children-what ever became of them?”

“What do you mean what became of them?” Khoska answered. “Following the exorcism I conducted over their graves, they returned to the hell from which they came, I would assume.”

“So the children, like their mother, are in hell to this day, and will be forever?” Michael asked, obviously aghast. “Father, forgive me but that is a horrible thought. They were mere children. How old do you say they were again?”

“Well, the oldest was fourteen,” Khoska replied. “I believe the youngest, the boy, was nine, to the best of my recollection. There are millions of people in hell, Michael, more like billons in fact, and I have no doubt there will be billions more eventually. Why would you, a priest, be in such consternation over these three in particular?”

“I find it hard to believe God would send the souls of children to hell-especially at the age of nine,” Michael said.

“Well, that is not for you or I either one to judge,” Khoska replied. “Whatever dark path the woman set her children upon is responsible for their ultimate fate, not God.”

Michael shook his head with a smile that betrayed a beleaguered incredulity.

“I am sorry, poppa,” he said, “but this sounds to me to be on the order of some old wives tale peasants used to tell around the hearth at night to keep their children well-behaved, not something that a priest of today would tell as a true story.”

“Well, it is a true story,” Khoska said, struggling to keep his patience. “Believe me, it is not one that I tell for the fun of it, or for dramatic effect. In fact, you are the first person I have told it to, after more than fifty years, I will have you know. I would not have told it now was it not for the fact that it is indeed very relevant to things that are happening now. What happened to Lynette”-

“Does Phillip know about this?” he asked.

“No, and if I have my way about it he never shall,” Aleksandre answered.

“If he did,” Michael said with a shrug, “perhaps he would be more understanding, not so quick to cast aspersions upon you. He all but holds you responsible, which is grossly unfair. Still yet, Lynette was his daughter, and he deserves to know, I would think.”

Khoska seemed to consider Michaels argument, which to Khoska’s oldest son seemed of great merit. Michael knew his father well enough, however, to know he was not taking the time to consider the point. He was more than likely putting extraordinary time and effort towards demonstrating how his argument was irrelevant.

“Phillip, understand?” he finally said. “No, Phillip will never understand. He would be forced to admit that there is something in this world that is greater than himself in order to do that. No, I am afraid I would only infuriate him even more. He would put such an explanation down to the ravings of a senile, superstitious old fool, and that would be that. The day Phillip finally believes, I am very much afraid will be the day he feels the flames of hell licking away him. Then of course, it will be too late. Nevertheless, he will believe it then. We used to have a saying at the seminary. ‘Those who do not believe in God have a big surprise coming their way.’”

“That hardly seems a valid argument in the way of convincing an unbeliever,” Michael said. “Nevertheless, you have convinced me of one thing. I should definitely stay here a bit longer.”

“There is really no need of that,” Khoska said. “You still have your own duties to attend to, and you really can’t expect Jonathon to continue this ridiculous subterfuge you and he have cooked up.”

“There is no need in that,” Michael replied. “Jonathon will be returning home after the week. I have put in for a transfer here. The Archbishop has all but approved it. I am sure his approval is a mere formality. When he finally grants it, he will appoint my replacement in New Jersey. It is all settled.”

Khoska looked at him in amazement as a sudden crack of thunder heralded an approaching storm, the steady rain of the last hour a mere portent of a larger one coming. Even now, as they sat in the church in front of the icon of Michael the Archangel, they could hear the rain falling faster and harder, as the darkening skies outside seemed to infiltrate the small church in which they took only a fleeting refuge.

“Father, when did you last check the attic in this place?” Michael asked. “I could have sworn I felt a drop of rain hit my head.”

“So you put in for a transfer, and obviously intend to stay here, and you just now are letting me in on this,” Khoska observed.

Michael took a deep breath and removed his glasses. He looked at his father sternly.

“I don’t know how much of this you have told me is true,” he explained. “All I know is, if it is true, you obviously need my help. If it is not true, you obviously need my help even more. Whatever the case, I am staying.”

“Oh, well now, the Archbishop, that old windbag-how much of this does he know?” Khoska asked. “You do know he wants me gone from here, do you not? He says the Church here in Baltimore is a needless expenditure, that it serves no useful purpose, and that I serve no useful purpose. I think he is rather outraged the prior Archbishop and the one before him guaranteed its maintenance throughout the duration of my life. He is constantly urging me to move along, even suggesting there are retirement homes that would be to my liking. So, is that what all this is about?”

“No, Father, no one wants to be rid of you,” Michael replied sadly. “What problems you have had with our current Archbishop I have no part in. I certainly am not on his side. In fact, I admit, I used to think you wasted yourself in this place. Baltimore has a Catholic history and culture, and this church is so out of place here I could never fathom why you come here to begin with. One would be hard-pressed to find a city where a Romanian Orthodox Church would be more out of place than this one. I suppose it might be a little more appropriate than the Vatican-or Mecca, perhaps. Otherwise, I have long wondered why you remain here, with no useful work to perform, no parishioners whose needs you might see to. More lonely and bereft of meaning an existence, for a man of your obvious faith and devotion, I could never envision.

“Well, now I see what it has all been about. It is all over a Romania folk tale-a legend. So, even if it is true, why here-why Baltimore?”

“This is where they came to one hundred twenty years ago,” Khoska answered. “This is where they have remained. I do not know why they came here, to tell you the truth. All I know is, they came here, and this is where he is to manifest. When he does, I have to be ready for him. If I do not destroy him, his evil will spread outward from here. When it does, the seat of world power is within short driving distance of here. So, Michael, you tell me-what is there I have to fear? My only fear now is one of failure. That is all. If I fail to stop this evil, the result will be unthinkable.”

Michael looked at him in amazement. He honestly wondered now if perhaps his father was losing his mind.

“So then, what would he do, turn all the Congress and Washington bureaucrats into vampires? Some might say he is a little late for that. Really, poppa, this is so ludicrous. It saddens me that you have wasted so many years on this delusional supposition.”

“It is not about vampires, Michael,” Khoska said impatiently and dismissively. “There are no vampires. There are only demons-and, yes, delusions.”

“Then what are we talking about?” Michael asked as he found his own patience nearly exhausted.

“We are talking about walking death,” Khoska replied angrily with a hiss. “We are talking about hell on earth.”

“Oh, well that certainly explains it,” Michael said as he slapped his right thigh. Khoska sighed and looked at his son with profound sadness.

“Very well, then, I will explain it,” he said. “When I do so, will you please leave? I mean it, Michael. Please go back to New Jersey. It is not safe here.”

“I’ll think about it,” Michael said firmly. “One thing I definitely promise you is I am going nowhere if you do not tell me.”

Suddenly, the phone rung, at which a frustrated Michael rose.

“I’ll answer it,” he said. “If it takes you as long to get to the office as it does to tell me the truth, whoever that is will hang up before you get halfway there.”

As he left, Khoska wondered if he should tell him anything. Why should he? He would doubtless not believe him, which would be understandable. Half of what he had to say Khoska himself did not believe. Stories of vampires, of reanimated corpses, of bargains made in the dead of night with soul-devouring demons, may have at one time served some greater good, but now they served merely to provide a gorgon’s mask type of prophylactic over what was a greater and even more unnerving truth. There were true demons, ruled by the Prince of the Power of The Air, demons who stood waiting to lay waste to all humanity, and who had no concept of mercy or goodness. They simply existed to destroy, and stood ready and waiting for their opportunity to do so. Once they were unleashed, nothing could stop them or prevent them from doing what was, after all, in their nature to perform.

“Father,” Michael suddenly said from the doorway. Khoska looked toward him to see that he looked very unnerved.

“That is my wife, calling from New Jersey,” he said. “I might be a few minutes.”

“Is there a problem?” Khiska asked.

“Just a family matter,” he said. “I’ll try not to be long.”

He let this hang in the air shortly, and when Khoska made no response, he disappeared back from the doorway. Good, Khoska thought, she wants him to drop this foolishness and return home, as a husband should do. As he waited, Khoska walked the length of the church from the altar to the door, and checked the lock. The door secured, he went about the task of putting out the candles. One by one, he extinguished them, until there was soon no more than seven left lit.

He kneeled and said a quick prayer to the Blessed Virgin, and then to the Crucified Christ, and then to the Risen Lord. He glanced briefly at the statue of the Archangel Michael, that entity he had named the oldest of his twin sons after. The icon seemed to look at him now judgmentally.

“Yes, that was a mistake, was it not?” Aleksandre said, when suddenly there was a knock at the door. He looked out the peephole and saw it was Agnes, finally arrived from Romania, though more than two weeks late at that. She looked to be struggling to secure her suitcase and purse from the ravages of the cold night rain that now poured down around her as she barely managed to shelter herself under the overhead portico of the doorway. Overcoming his shock, he hurriedly opened the door.

“Agnes, why did you not call me?” Aleksandre asked. “What if I had not been here or asleep in my bed?”

“For God’s sake, poppa, just let me in, all right?” she answered. “I’m drowning out here, and freezing.”

Agnes hurriedly entered the church as Khoska reached for her heaviest bag, and yet his youngest child resisted this gallant impulse on his part.

“That one might be a little much,” she protested. “Here, take this smaller one. I guess it’s a good thing the others are yet at the airport.”

“What others?” Khoska asked.

“The children’s belongings, of course,” she said, and immediately caught the dumbfounded look on Khoska’s face.

“Michael didn’t tell you, I take it,” she observed.

“You have children?” he asked, obviously puzzled at the abruptness of this revelation.

“No, poppa, I have not abandoned my vows yet,” she said. “I brought over some of the children from the orphanage-seven of them, in fact. They are mainly girls, though two of them are boys.”

Khoska was beside himself. Of all the possible times, this was the absolute worse to be bringing children.

“Surely you do not mean to keep them here,” he said as he tried to restrain his immediate consternation at such a development.

“Of course not,” she said. “They are to be housed temporarily at a home in the suburbs, run by a qualified caregiver provided by the Church. They are children slated for adoption into American homes, and where they now are will be a kind of halfway house. That was the reason I could not come right away. The church has been making these arrangements. There was quite a bit of red tape to wade through. The children are very fortunate. Most orphans in Romania never leave the state facilities until they are grown. The state is very reluctant to adopt them out to other nation’s citizens. It is almost a point of national embarrassment.”

“Yes, the usual foolishness,” Khiska said. “Some things never change, unfortunately. Well, I guess it is all right as long as they are not to stay here, as I have not the means to house them, to say nothing of the fact that there may be a great degree of danger here yet. That in fact makes it even more surprising that your superiors would accede to this. I am assuming the Romanian government knows nothing of the matter.”

Agnes looked at him curiously.

“You know, it has been a while since I have seen you,” she said. “I am surprised to see you looking as well as you do, considering just what you have been through recently.”

“Daughter, you don’t know the beginning portion of what has transpired in this city, and in this very church,” he affirmed. “If I took the time to explain it concisely, you would”-

“Poppa, the point is-can I have a hug please?”

She fell into her father’s embrace, never considering that the tears he now shed were not only those of happiness for her presence, but fear for her well-being. Khoska of course understood this, as Agnes, the most beloved of all his children, was the most selfless of them all, perhaps the complete opposite of Phillip, who had been the favorite of Marta. How could he impress on a woman of such strong and devout faith the very real danger she may have walked unknowingly into. She never saw danger, for she saw danger as an illusion meant to test faith. She was that spiritual, to the point where she in fact tested Khoska’s faith more than any evil ever could. Now, as she hugged him tightly, Khoska found himself resisting the inclination to conclude that faith itself was an illusion, one that induced unreasonable expectations and blinded one to the realities of life in the mundane, everyday world.

“Perhaps we will talk of these things tomorrow,” he said. “I know you have had a long journey and you are obviously tired. You should however call and check on the children, to make sure they have made it to where they are going.”

“They will be fine,” she replied. “Still, you are right. I should call, as they would like to hear from me before they retire for the night. For now, I would like to say my prayers, if you do not mind.”

“Your prayers?” Khoska repeated, as he suddenly remembered her as a young girl, never failing to say her prayers even on those occasions when she had been sick, which was numerous times during her adolescence.

“But of course, you may say them here, and I shall leave you in private to do so. I will go and tell Michael you are here, as I am sure he will be very pleased to see you.”

“It has been years since I have seen Michael or Jonathon,” she said. “I wonder if I would have known which one was which if I had not known. I used to be able to tell them apart better than you or momma, I think.”

Amazing, Khoska thought. As she talked, she made her way to the statue of the Blessed Virgin, and crossed herself as she bowed. She seemed to be praying even as she spoke in what seemed almost a chant-like state. Perhaps this is an example of this so-called multi-tasking he is always hearing about, he mused as he made his way back to the office.

He was unprepared for the sight of Michael in tears, and seemingly in a state of shock, as he seemed to engage in a monumental struggle to restrain for crying aloud.

“Michael, for God’s sake what is wrong?” he asked, knowing as he did that his son was not given to sentimentality. Something was sorely amiss.

Michael was gasping, and obviously at this point inconsolable.

“They killed Jonathon,” he said in a state of stunned amazement. “An old man, and an old woman, shot and killed Jonathon.”

He struggled to regain his composure as Khoska almost fell into his chair.

“Did they-did they think they were killing yourself?” he mused, not quite able to fathom what his son was saying.

“No, that is just the thing,” he said. “They come to the church asking for Jonathon, saying they heard he was there temporarily. The church secretary showed them to my office, which is where he was at the time. She left him alone with them. Then, when they left, she went not ten minutes later into the office, and there he was, slumped over in his chair-my chair-with a bullet in his heart. No one else was there. This happened not two hours ago.”

Khoska now started to shake, as the reality of what he heard now finally began to sink in. He too now began to weep. He too now struggled to control his anguish.

“Agnes is here,” he said. “Do not tell her-not yet.”

“I-I can’t believe it happened,” Michael replied. “Why would someone do such a thing? Michael has never harmed anyone, would never harm anyone. He refused to eat lobster, ever since he saw one dropped in boiling water. I teased him about that, not two months ago.”

A part of Khoska hoped this would turn out to be another one of the two brother’s practical jokes, but he automatically knew better. They would never take such antics to this extent, especially during such already trying times, to say nothing of the fact that Michael was obviously distraught.

“The church secretary,” Michael said with a sob, “she said the two old people seemed so gracious, and so charming, she would never have entertained the possibility they could do something so evil.”

“This church secretary,” Khoska asked, his mind now starting to turn in countless circles, “has she a name? How well do you know her?”

“Connie?” he asked. “I have known her for seven years. She has worked for me for four. Father, you cannot be serious. If she did something like that, why would she make up such a ridiculous story? According to her, these two old people looked to be in their seventies. No, poppa, I have known her far too long. Besides, what could Jonathon of all people have done to her in this brief time he has been there to illicit such an action?”

“I don’t know, but her story does not make a lot of sense,” Khoska said, now feeling very sick, wanting to throw up and feeling as though he might faint. “You say you know her, but still”-

Suddenly, Khoska cried, loudly, and motioned toward the door. Michael hurriedly shut it, and locked it. Khoska cried uncontrollably, as Michael now hugged his father, trying desperately to comfort him, until the old man finally pulled himself together as well as he could.

“Have you called his wife?” he asked. Michael affirmed that he had, and that she was devastated, as were their children, all of which of course was to be expected.

“This is going to be so difficult,” he said. “Really, I should tell Agnes tonight, it would not be fair to put it off. I really should be the one to tell her, painful though it is.”

He rose and left the office, and Michael stayed behind, fearful of adding to his sister’s grief, remembering as he did the many nights of her illness as a young child, including the one time she almost died of childhood spinal meningitis. She was always sickly and weak up into her mid-teen years, when she gradually and finally blossomed into a lovely, healthy, beautiful woman. Michael, and indeed all the other children, was protective of her, at times to a fault, as their mother pointed out often. This however was something for which he had no protective words at the ready.

He sat down in despair as his father walked back out into the church, where Agnes, having finished her prayers, had finally risen, cell phone in hand.

“I called,” she said. “The children are there, and are fine. Satisfied now, you old worry wart?”

“If you are,” he said as he mustered a smile. “I am sure you would leave them in capable hands.”

“Well, thankfully Phillip has enough money to hire the best caretakers,” Agnes replied with a smile. “Now, where is Michael? I really cannot wait to see him after all these years.”

“Wait just a minute,” Khoska replied. “You said-Phillip hired the caretakers? You don’t mean your brother, of course.”

“That is exactly who I mean,” she replied with what seemed a gleam of pride showing in her eyes. “That is another thing I want to talk to you about. It is high time for this feud between the two of you to end. I have talked to him about this Grace Rodescu business, and now, sometime soon, I mean to have a talk with you as well. Your favorite daughter is going to give you a lecture, in other words. Oh, and speaking of daughter, how is Dorothy holding up?”

“Dorothy is fine, Agnes,” he said, anxious not to change the subject. “What is this about Phillip and the children? I find this more than surprising, I find it almost disturbing. What exactly do you mean?”

“There is a reason the red tape was cut so quickly,” she replied. “Phillip has a lot of influence in Romania, in case you haven’t heard. This is not the first time he has helped either. He just is not one of these types of people who like to brag about his good works. I think he is far too modest. He has worked extensively at charitable undertakings in Romania, not just for orphans. His organization has helped place a good many Romanian orphans in loving, caring homes.”

“I see,” Aleksandre mused, almost forgetting the recent tragedy of his oldest twin sons loss. “Tell me something, Agnes-was Voroslav Moloku ever involved in this charitable activity with Phillip, that you are aware of?”

Dorothy gave her father a stern look.

“I should certainly think not,” she replied. “From what I understand, Voroslav has not been allowed in Romania for some time, due to some criminal activity on his part. According to Phillip, it has something to do with money laundering and drug smuggling-heroin, I believe. When I think of a father of the Church involved in such abominable acts, it makes it somewhat understandable how Phillip could have grown so cold towards religion.

“Nevertheless, he is a good man, poppa. He has changed very much, especially since the death of poor Lynette. I think that really changed him in ways you would never have imagined. I guess it is true what they say. God can turn the darkest tragedy into a force for good.”

Khoska looked away from Agnes as she talked, and though he heard her, it was as if from a distance. He could not tell her about Jonathon-not tonight.

“I think Michael has gone to bed already,” he said. “You remember where your old room is, I take it?”

“Yes, and I think I shall be on my way there now,” she said with a smile. “I am very tired-exhausted, actually. I want you to promise me, though, tonight, that you will talk to Phillip, and do so with an open mind.”

”I shall pray on it,” Khoska replied. “I shall do that right now, in fact.”

“Good night, poppa,” Agnes said as she made her way with her suitcases to the hallway that led past Khoska’s office, down to the corridor that led to the living quarters and to her old room, which Khoska previously had taken great pains to prepare for her imminent arrival. Khoska hoped she would not discern Michael’s presence in the office, as he bowed before the statue of the Crucified Lord.

“Lord God, if you ever heard my prayers before,” he said, “I hope you certainly hear them tonight, for I am in dire need of your guidance and protection. I pray first that I ask this not too late.”

Khoska struggled within himself to find the right words, as he looked back toward the hallway, to insure that Agnes had made her way on past the office and toward her room. Satisfied that she had done so, he turned once more to the icon that now seemed to look down upon him balefully.

“Please, Lord,” he said. “Protect the children.”

Coming Soon-Mormons And Their Blogs

Until such time as I can delve more into it, you might want to check out this page of links to Mormon blogs.

After all, it's one thing to get other people's opinions. You owe it to the subjects of those opinions to get their side of the story. There are plenty of links here that will enable you to get a balanced perspective-quite a few of them, actually.

In the meantime, some food for thought: Does anybody else think Joseph Smith, the founder of the LDS, might have been somewhat of a prankster?

After all, the Book of Mormon was supposedly given him by the angel "Moroni". Isn't that Latin for "morons"?

Maybe It's The Slow Tourist Season

Hans Mos, the prosecutor in Aruba, reversed course and released the Kalpoe Brothers, and then Joran VanderSloot, within a matter of days after rearresting them in connection with the disappearance of Natalie Holloway, claiming new and compelling evidence.

After releasing them, he now says he will close the case. What is particularly disturbing is the fact that Holloway's father had made plans to engage in a large scale search of the ocean off the coast of the island, based on the prosecutor's earlier announcements of a break in the case.

Jossy Mansur, the newspaper editor who has investigated the case, is outraged, and can offer no explanation.

I think he was either threatened, or bribed. Of course, as I implied in the title, it could well be that the tourist season in Aruba has gone to hell, which it well should. There are too many places to spend money on a vacation. The people that have such money to spend should seriously consider other options, in addition to how likely they would be to receive justice in they event they themselves were victimized.

Like I said in an earlier post, if you want to visit a place where you can be raped and murdered and your body hidden in a remote area, come to Kentucky-we need the money too.

STEEEE-RIKE!

You may not know who Marvin Miller is. If you do, you might not know whether or not he deserves to be inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame.

One thing is for sure, though, if you read this article, you will get a pretty good idea as to why he probably never will be, even though he, as a baseball player union's organizer, has been called one of the three most important men in the history of baseball, alongside Babe Ruth and Jackie Robinson.

Of course, most of the people that decide what names will be nominated are-well, baseball's corporate executives.

Green Daze

I don't know why the Greens should take heart at Final Energy Bill. After all, Bush is going to veto the damn thing, after which they'll bitch and moan, even though they should have known he would do just that after they dropped the guaranteed loans that had been included for new nuclear power plants, and especially after they ended the tax breaks for the oil companies contained in the last energy bill.

Bush would come closer to taking seriously a bill that called for mandating Sheryl Crow's suggestion to use one square of toilet paper per bathroom shit than he would this one, and just as close to signing it into law.

Of course, the Greens would never let the opportunity to pass real and meaningful legislation stand in the way of the opportunity to ratchet up the rhetoric and rake in more donated dollars-which is the "green" they really care most about anyway.

The Way Mother Nature Intended

Here is an environmental story that should please nature and animal lovers of all ages. While Donald Trump is determined to turn large portions of the Scottish coast into a golf course,Paul "the wolfman" Lister, multi-millionaire philanthropist and heir to the MFI furniture fortune, is determined to turn a significant portion of it into a nature preserve, known as Alladale Estate and Wildlife Reserve in Sutherland, 40 miles north of Inverness.

Here are some of the animals he intends to reintroduce to Scotland, many of which were driven from the country centuries ago, which I copied from the Guardian article.

Brown Bear

Together with its cousin, the polar bear, this mammal is the largest land carnivore. Regularly reaching half a tonne in weight, this bear survived in Britain until the later Roman period. Biologists have largely hailed resettlement projects in Italy, Austria and France, though they are more controversial with the general population. A brown bear called Bruno was shot dead in Germany last year, after crossing the Italian Alps, where it had been re-introduced. It went on a killing spree, savaging dozens of sheep.

Wolf

The last British wolf was killed after an attack on two youngsters in Sutherland in 1743, but wolf attacks on humans remain rare. The common grey wolf thrives in a host of different climates and habitats, and should adapt easily to the Highlands. Successfully re-introduced to the Yellowstone National Park and Idaho in 1995, other re-introduction projects are taking place in Germany, Denmark and Italy. Mr Lister plans to introduce two packs, comprising 15 animals.

Elk

The second largest species of deer, they can grow to a huge 8ft tall. Males have large antlers which are shed each year. Closely related to Scotland's red deer, they are found mostly in North America and east Asia. Attempts to introduce them to New Zealand and Argentina have been largely successful.

Lynx

One of the closest wild relatives of the domestic cat, it has a fondness for higher altitudes. Remains from the Craven caves in North Yorkshire suggest it survived in Britain until the seventh century at least, radically revising earlier theories about its demise more than 10,000 years ago. Found widely in Siberia and the Carpathian mountains of central Europe, the lynx has been successfully re-introduced in the Balkans in the past decade.

Beaver

Still living on a number of private estates in Britain, this semi-aquatic rodent was hunted to near extinction in Europe. Both its fur and castoreum, a secretion from its scent gland, were highly sought after. It became extinct in Britain in the 16th century, but was gradually re-introduced at the end of the 20th century in Gloucestershire, Kent, and Lancashire. Its need for water will be more than met by the rivers Alladale and Carron in the Highlands.

It is a controversial project, I guess in part due to the dangerous natures of some of the animals, but also I am guessing because the general plan is to let nature take its course, so to speak. Those elk will make a fine meal for the bears and wolves, and the survivors of the carnage will in turn produce a stronger herd.

It's good to read an environmental story that doesn't make me want to cuss at my poor, innocent computer screen.

Now, Lord Ares, About This Defense Department Position

Thanks to Mitt Romney, I know now that I can someday run for President of The United States of America, and not have to answer any uncomfortable questions about my religious affiliation or beliefs. Thank the Goddess for that. Well, thank all of them actually, and the Gods as well.

On the other hand, thanks to Christopher Hitchens, I also know it's best maybe if I just don't bring it up. Or maybe I should just forget the whole thing.

After all, people don't really need to know that I would pray to first one deity or another for guidance as to who to appoint to which specific cabinet position, and that Tarot business is really just for fun, you see. I wouldn't REALLY use that as a guide for how to decide an issue-at least, not without benefit of a coven ritual and the advice of my High Priestess.

Just the same, if I ever do find myself in the position of having to make a speech reassuring potential voters as to my religious beliefs, I'm sure Hermes will put the right words in my mouth.

Current Presidential Prospects-From Better To Worse

This is my assessment as to what kind of President each of the current contenders for the office would be if they won. Some of these predictions might seem to be a bit “out there”, and admittedly, they require certain unforeseeable circumstances in a good many cases. One thing about it, I only have to worry about being proven wrong one time, so I just let myself go with this.

A general assessment is followed by a prediction as to how many terms each one would be liable to serve, followed by what I see as a probable caricature that would be the running theme in the editorial pages. Bear in mind, these caricatures I do not claim would necessarily be fair ones in all cases, just that they are probable and to a point even predictable.

Finally, I compare a potential presidency with one of the past. I should be clear on something especially with this assessment. Such a comparison should not be construed as meaning that a contender would be like that president in every detail. Perhaps most importantly, comparison with what is generally conceived as a good or successful presidency is no indication that the contender would be comparable in scope of success. There could in fact be negative connotations to such comparisons even under what might initially be seen as the best of comparisons. In some cases, the reverse might well be as true.

I list them here in order as to which, in my opinion, would be the best, on down to the ones I feel would be the absolute worse.


Fred Thompson-He will probably not win the Republican nomination, his chances of winning the presidency would be a fifty-fifty proposition if he did, and he would probably be a one-term president if he won. Despite this, I still hold that he would be the best of the entire batch of current contenders from both parties. The reason for this is-he gets it. He understands exactly how the country is supposed to work, ideally-as a union of fifty states. If that confuses you, simply look up the definition of the word “state”.

Anymore, most people seem to view states more as regions, or even as overgrown counties. Fred Thompson understands the truth, that they are actually, in a sense, semi-autonomous nations in their own right, bound together by a common economy and foreign policy, with specific constitutional rights granted to all its citizens, the most important of which are those outlined within the Bill of Rights.

If Fred Thompson wins, especially if he enjoyed a majority in Congress, it would be the biggest culture shock to the nation since FDR. If his party stayed in the minority, he would be hampered and hamstrung at every turn. In either case, I seriously doubt he would be re-elected, but even with all the problems he would face, he would still be an infinitely better president than any of the others. I have this strange idea, though, that if he won, he would be so disgusted with the process that he would step down after one term of office, especially if he did manage to appoint three judicial conservatives to the bench in place of three liberals.

That in fact may well end up being his one major accomplishment, and possibly his only one. He would appoint probably two, possibly even three, judges to the Supreme Court that would be more in line with the founder’s intentions as to judicial philosophy. That is probably the only reason he is running to begin with, because he is obviously so not taken with the political process-and who the fuck can blame him?

One term

Caricature-Exhausted, wrinkled old man

Most like-James Madison

Elliot Richardson-This guy has a lot going for him in the way of accomplishments and qualifications. He has been and done it all, in all branches of government, except the judiciary. He is more or less liberal, without being a far left loon about it. His foreign policy qualifications are second to none. His government experience is considerable as well.

I misspoke in an earlier post when I said Joe Biden was the most qualified Democratic candidate. On giving it further thought, this guy is the most experienced of all the candidates, possibly of both parties. It is a shame he does not have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting the Democratic Party nomination. The only problem I see with him is the potential for yet more left-wing judicial appointments, a demand for which he would be under intense pressure by the activist left wing of the Democratic Party.

In the unlikely event, however, that he is nominated (and I think he would win the general election if he was), he would almost certainly be a two term president. Hell, the guy even looks like Tom Bosley-how could you not like Richie Cunningham’s dad? He could work with an evenly divided Congress, or even a Republican majority, probably better than he would a Democratic majority. The long-term results would probably be better at least.

Two terms

Caricature-Overly relaxed dress and persona

Most like-Richard Nixon

3. Rudy Giuliani-Yeah, I know the conservatives consider this guy a leftist, and I know the liberals consider him a fascist thug. He is also controversial in his private life. I personally think he is going to go the way of Howard Dean, and will crash and burn by the time Super Tuesday comes along, which will unite the activist base of both parties with glee.

Too bad, because he would probably be, not a great president, but still a pretty damn good one, if for no other reason than I take him at his word when he promises he will appoint strict constructionists to the Supreme Court. I also think he will be a bit like Truman when it comes to politics, which would be a refreshing change.

Ask yourself this question. If you were given a hard choice, that you had no choice but to make, would you prefer to live in New York City three years prior to the Giuliani administration, or three years after his administration ended?

Yeah, me too-that’s why I like him. Of course, he has his faults. He has the mindset of a prosecutor, which can be troublesome. He might have to be reined in on matters of civil liberties from time to time. By the same token, however, some of the reiners-in-waiting need to be reined in from time to time themselves, and Giuliani is just the guy to do it.

He would have a troublesome presidency, but I think on balance he would be good, maybe very good. I can’t help but feel, however, he would be a one-termer. He would be renominated, though with difficulty, and a divided Republican party would all but insure a Democratic victory the next time around, as he would in the meantime lose a lot of the Democratic and independent support which might be responsible for his first term victory.

One term

Caricature-Exaggerated skull-like features

Most like-Harry Truman

Mike Huckabee-The Huckster would probably be a fairly good president, and a two termer, but not a lot would be accomplished, other than one very important thing. That is, he might well ease the tensions and blunt a great deal of the rhetoric that has divided the nation, and at the same time is a symptom of the poisonous nature of modern day politics. He would be more liberal than most liberals think he would be, and more conservative than most conservatives fear he would be.

In other words, he would be, more or less, a right-of-center moderate, which means he would please nobody. In the end though, I think most people would pull the lever for him a second time, for no other reason than times would be pretty good, and he would get credit for a new era of more civil political and cultural discourse.

Two terms

Caricature-Friendly but naive.

Most like-James Monroe

Mitt Romney-He would probably be a two-termer. He would probably be a pretty good president. Without any doubt, he would at least try his damndest to be a good one. He would not, however, be one of the great ones. He’s just too damn slick, and in trying to please everybody, he will end up pissing everybody off a great many times. Yet, he would probably win re-election handily, though not in a landslide. Why? Because most Americans would come to recognize, and pretty quickly, that this guy is never going to do anything that is too off the wall.

Have you ever wondered what you would have if you created a hybrid of George H. W. Bush and current president Bush? Look no further than Mitt Romney.

Two terms

Caricature-Appearance oriented, unaware of stains on clothes and face.

Most like-George H. W. Bush

Joe Biden-Probably a two-termer, and probably, on balance, a pretty good president, but his judicial appointments would probably insure yet three more decades of a seriously divided court. His major accomplishments would probably be in the realm of foreign affairs, which is his major area of expertise. He would be moderate in domestic affairs, and would actually come closer than anybody in dealing with such serious issues as health care, education, and the environment, in a manner that wouldn’t be too far out in the stratosphere. This is a guy that wouldn’t back away from a fight, including with factions in his own party. On balance, however, he would be a merely good president. However, in the event of an international or other emergency, he might well rise to the occasion and be one of the great ones.

Two terms.

Caricature-toothy grin with word balloons that trail off into apparent infinity.

Most like-Franklin Roosevelt

Chris Dodd-This is the guy that I have no doubt in my mind would come closer to using a nuke than any other of the current contenders. You can see it in his eyes if you look closely enough. If he wins, somebody somewhere is toast. I also have no doubt in my mind he would be the most likely to find an excuse to do so just under a year before his bid for re-election, which he would go on to win in a landslide.

He would also be the most likely man to capture Osama Bin Laden, which he would make one of his top presidential priorities.

Unfortunately, he would not rein in government spending (in fact it would increase), his judicial appointments would be troublesome at best, and his domestic policies, while they would not be horrible for working class Americans and the poor, yet would be geared toward corporate America at the expense of small business. There would be scandals galore in a Dodd administration.

Two terms

Caricature-Thick, bushy eyebrows barely hiding a malicious glare with insincere smile.

Most Like-Lyndon Johnson

Ron Paul-He would try to run the country the way it should be run, especially in terms of foreign affairs, but he would move too quickly and cause such a disruption in the economy that he would end up possibly the first president since John Tyler to be kicked out of his own party. He might be the first president to be both impeached and convicted in trial by Senate, more than likely for sheer incompetence. He is also the most likely to be assassinated. He would most definitely not be re-elected. His judicial appointments would be the only thing salvageable as to a positive legacy.

One term (if that).

Caricature-Threatening glare, wielding a kitchen knife against a mountain of pork barrel spending bills and bureaucratic red tape.

Most like-James Buchanan

John Edwards-He would possibly pass many laws, a great many of which would be overturned, others that would end up problematic in terms of tax increases and economic impact. In the foreign press, he would be caricatured as a young boy in various childish activities in the midst of serious minded grown-ups. By the time his first term was over, he would be roundly spanked in the next general election. Lebannon would probably erupt, while Iran would-well, be Iran.

One term

Caricature-Little boy.

Most like-Jimmy Carter.

Hillary Clinton-The Hildebeast would probably inspire more sighs of relief in her first term than an amusement park ride, and more cries of outrage and terror than a horror movie. What she would not do is accomplish a hell of a lot. One of her accomplishments would be a possible normalization of relations with Iran. This would be enough to insure her re-election. Otherwise, not a lot here. A few good bills, quite a few more problematic ones, etc., etc. Her major accomplishment, outside of the Iranian initiative I mentioned, would simply be that she would be the first female president.

By the time her second term is over, however, the downside to that is, it might be a long, long time before most people would consider voting for another one. She might do some good on health care, provided she takes a moderate stance, otherwise she will, by the time two terms is over, be in the end about what most people expect from Hillary Clinton.

Two terms

Caricature-Extremely thick, straight down from waist to ankles, and an equally thick and obviously practiced and insincere smile that barely masks a hidden rage.

Most like-Theodore Roosevelt

Duncan Hunter-Hunter would definitely have a hard time and in the end, his only accomplishment would be in the area of judicial appointments. For all his good intentions, I do not think he is equipped to deal with Washington politics or the international arena, and would tend to take the wrong advice from the wrong people, who would lead him around by the nose and possibly end up maneuvering him into a major war, one that would be unnecessary and ill advised. I am thinking here mainly about Venezuela. Now that would be another Vietnam, and would result in oil prices that would make a hundred dollars per barrel seem like the “good old days.”

One term.

Caricature-Cowboy on a pony.

Most like-Franklin Pierce

Tom Tancredo-He could possibly rally the nation behind a comprehensive immigration reform, which would not be as hard line as most people assume it would be. To illustrate what I am trying to say here, think in terms of Richard Nixon going to China. Aside from this, and judicial appointments, not a lot here. He would rein in excessive spending to a greater degree then even Paul or Thompson. Unfortunately, in doing so, he might cause a remarkable downturn in the economy resulting in a major recession, and could instigate a trade war with China. He would be one term due to this and due to increasing military activity, especially in the Middle East, which under him would not go well, to say the least.

One term.

Caricature-Unaware of racist nature of supporters and surroundings.

Most Like-Zachary Taylor

John McCain-It’s my honest opinion that, sooner or later, there is going to be a president that is going to do something, or have something done to him, that no other one has ever done or experienced, while he is in office. There will be a president whose wife will be the first to be a proven and current whore. There will be one who will turn out to be a pedophile. There will be a president who will be the first one assassinated on foreign soil. One will be murdered by his wife (that one might actually have already happened, with Harding), and there will be one that will end up committing suicide while in office.

And, there will eventually be one who will, in time, demonstrate for the nation and the world to see, in no uncertain terms, that he is certifiably insane. By the time his one term in office is over, John McCain will be seen as a nice and well-meaning man with absolutely no grip on reality. He will be seriously advised, in no uncertain terms, to not even think about running for re-election, and he will have no problem understanding this, if nothing else.

He will not bring spending under control, immigration policy will not be enforced, and nothing will be solved in the arena of international relations. Watching the McCain presidency will be like watching two things at the same time- a train wreck, and “You Are There”. He will be a placeholder president with nothing to say but a lot of pleasant sounding nonsense, and nothing to do but hope no one catches on that he does not have a clue. Unfortunately, in reality he will be the last one to catch on.

One term

Caricature-Wets his pants, puddle around ankles, confused.

Most like-John Adams

Barak Obama-He will have absolutely no accomplishments of which to speak, other than being the first black president. He is an inspiring speaker, and in fact is very much like a rock star. However, in order to be a great president-or for that matter, a fair to middling one-one is required to be much like the conductor of a huge symphony orchestra. Barak Obama would be more akin to the front man of an overly large, discordant garage band, and this would translate, in political terms, into a bureaucratic nightmare. Barak Obama would, I am afraid, be a one hit wonder.

One term

Caricature-Rock star running from mob of former fans.

Most like-John Kennedy

Mike Gravell-Mike Gravell is not insane, like John McCain. He is, however, something of a fucking nut. The bad thing here is, you cannot impeach somebody for being a nut. The really bad thing is, this guy would probably be re-elected, because he comes across as likeable, in a grandfatherly kind of way. It is Mike Gravell, not Dennis Kucinich, who is the Democratic version of Ron Paul. Under him, Homeland Security and the INS would be gutted, along with a lot of other agencies. Inflation would end up going through the roof, crime statistics would soar, and the population would increase by a full percentage point or more by the time of his first term due mainly to easing of immigration restrictions. Unfortunately, the more negative consequences of his actions would not be readily apparent until he was well into his second term.

Two terms

Caricature-Unaware of reality

Most like-Grover Cleveland

Dennis Kucinich-

The little Smurf from Cleveland is a lot tougher than he appears to be on the surface, and his major impact would be international affairs, where he would be controversial just due to the fact that he is not the sap a lot of international leaders would assume he is. This could lead to ruptures with some allies, though at least some of our more strident opponents would come to respect him. His major problem will be in domestic affairs, and his major failure would be his failure to establish a “Department of Peace”. By the time his second year in office was over, he would be faced with a veto proof Republican majority in the Senate, and even a greater Republican majority in the House of Representatives, while a number of tacitly blue states would gravitate firmly to the red column for years to come.

The more fanatical Republicans should get down on their knees and pray to God every night that Dennis Kucinich should by some miracle win the Democratic nomination, and they should willingly sacrifice their children to the fires of Moloch in hopes that he wins the presidential election. Because the simple fact is, if he did, Dennis Kucinich would probably single-handedly destroy the Democratic Party.

One term

Caricature-Ridiculously exaggerated short height.

Most like-Woodrow Wilson

As I end this exercise in candidate assessment, one thing should be kept in mind. Many times, and probably in fact more often than not, what makes or breaks a presidency is not any one or even groups of issues, or any national or international emergency, nor is it scandals, or the top people appointed to fill cabinet positions. All of these things are important, as is economic performance, international relations, or any of the divisive issues of any given day.

In the end, however, what makes or breaks a presidency are the people no one ever knows-the second, third, and fourth tier level of bureaucrats who actually run the day-to-day operations of government. These are the people who either get things done, for good or for bad, or bring things to a grinding halt. They are also responsible for the vast majority of the waste and inefficiency that is the United States government, as well as the unbreakable gridlock that is Washington politics today.

These second, third and fourth tier operatives are to be found not only in the ranks of government bureaucrats, but also in the so-called fourth estate of media, and in the PACS and other special interest groups. These are the people who operate behind the scenes, behind the shadows of those individuals who are the more well known public personas that we associate as the face of an issue, department, or organization. Politicians ignore their potential influence at their own peril. The rest of us rarely give them a thought.

Yet, they are the ones who grease the wheels and conduct the business of government under a labrynthine maze which few can rarely fathom, much beyond peering beneath the outer layer. They run the government, or influence it’s policies, or report on it’s inner workings, not for the benefit of the nation at large, but in furtherance of their own agendas.

A great lot of the reasons some of these candidates may not be ranked as high as some would like, is due to my assessment as to their adaptability, and in some cases even their awareness, to this very real fact.

Radu-Chapter XXVIII (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)

Previous Installments-
Part One
Prologue and Chapters I-X

Part Two
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII

Part Three
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Radu-Chapter XXVIII (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
7 pages approximate

Grady Desmond lit a cigar. He sat back in his office lounge chair, and he drew in a deep drag. It was getting better now-much, much better. He knew he should not flaunt the no-smoking policy of the paper, but on the other hand, he knew as well he should not sit here in his office and nurse a snifter of brandy during working hours. His proctologist would have a fit. So would his wife, and his children. His boss would lecture him about propriety. On the other hand, Desmond really could care less if his boss, the editor-in-chief of the Baltimore Sun, fired him-not that there was any danger of that. Desmond only worked from the sheer pleasure of the job, and if they fired him-which was not about to happen-he would easily land another job. His reputation was secure through three decades and change of first beat reporting, and then editorial work. He knew how to play the newspaper game. It was all about the office politics. Grady rose above that over a decade ago. Grady was one of those lucky few. Others catered to him.

He took a final sip of brandy, and then he took another long, leisurely drag of his cigar. He put it out. He was satisfied.

Few people in life had managed to accomplish the things Grady Desmond had in life. He had built, saved, and destroyed careers. In doing so, he took pains to insulate himself from any potential fallout. Finally, when everything came crashing down around him, he sat and watched it all from a position not only of security, but also of comfort. Randolph Morrison killed in a plane crash in India. His son Greg under investigation due to admitted involvement in a murderous pedophile ring. Lonnie Brock was also finally dead after a long, torturous bout with cancer. Even Jason Talbert was not immune, as he discovered the hard way. Insistent though he was that his battery of high-powered lawyers could weather any storm, he never seemed to get the point. Wealthy people never did. The ultra-wealthy were the worse. From their perspective, the world was always about them. Everything and everyone else that gravitated within their orbit existed only for their benefit. What Talbert could never grasp was the determination of others to avoid their own lives becoming casualties of the storm, while men like Talbert used them and disposed of them like plastic utensils. Talbert had to go. Grady had his obituary written two hours before he got word of his demise. It was amazingly accurate, right down to the reaction of the assembled family and friends. Grady even included the dinner menu-Peking Duck. Luckily, Talbert was as always predictable. It enabled Grady to humanize the event of his death ahead of time.

He seriously considered pouring another snifter of brandy when the intercom buzzed.

“Your appointment has arrived, Mr. Desmond,” came the perky voice of the receptionist. Desmond wondered if he might fuck her one more time before the month ended. Before he tried to have sex with his wife of thirty-seven years, for the first time in eleven, by way of a prescription of Viagra, he experimented with the drug on Alice. Having done so, he decided he would not mind making that a semi-regular event, and so he did. It was a once a month thing, but Grady would never allow it to become more regular than that. Women, like a fine brandy, were to be savored at leisure, but should not be overindulged.

“Mr. Desmond, are you there?” she repeated.

“Yeah, Alice, send them in,” he answered.

“I will be leaving now, sir,” she then said. “Will there be anything else you need before I go?”

“Yeah, remember our private meeting for next weekend,” he said. “I will certainly be looking forward to it, and there might be an extra special bonus coming your way.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it as always sir,” the secretary replied cheerily as the door to Grady’s office opened.

When the elderly couple entered Grady’s office, he was astounded at how healthy they seemed for a couple in their late seventies. The old woman could easily pass for her early sixties, and while there was no such miscalculation as to the age of the man, he seemed strong, healthy, and even had a twinkle in his somewhat olive green eyes.

“Please, come in and have a seat,” Grady said cordially. “I’m so happy you could make such a long trip on such short notice. I know you’ve both been through quite a lot over the last year.”

“Not at all, Mr. Desmond,” the old man replied. “It has been too long since we’ve been in Baltimore. We only wish it could be under more pleasant circumstances.”

“In a warmer season,” the old woman added. “Baltimore is horrid this time of the year.”

“Can I offer you something?” Grady asked. “Some brandy, perhaps. I also have some cigars from the finest tobacconist shop in Baltimore.”

“Oh, I’m afraid I will have to abstain from the cigar,” the old man said. “Unfortunately, that is one of the pleasures of life that, tempting though it is, I am afraid it would be liable to hasten my demise. Brandy would be nice, however.”

“As it always is, Martin,” the old woman said in good-natured teasing fashion. “Might I do the honors? Really, I do insist, Mr. Grady.”

“Well, by all means, Mrs. Krovell,” Brady replied. “Or do you prefer the name Krovelescu?”

“Krovell will be fine,” Martin said. “For a short time, I did toy with the idea of changing our name back to the original form, but Louise convinced me that would be seen as pretentious.”

Louise by this time had poured Grady’s brandy, and then began pouring one for her husband, as she let out a laugh.

“Our poor, dear Marlowe started all that,” she said. “He was so insistent that we become true to our heritage, and wear it like a badge of honor. I don’t think the poor boy ever quite got it through his head the Krovelescu family was really quite a common one of mere peasant stock.”

Martin kept his gaze peeled on Grady, and with a smile took the snifter of brandy Louise prepared for him as though it were a routine gesture.

“Yes, I think Marlowe was determined to discover we were descended from some ancient line of nobility, such as the Draculas, or from Radu the Black,” he said. “The sad truth was, our ancestors were never any more than serfs, at best. Our common ancestor Vlad, the one who immigrated here, managed to work his way up to groundskeeper for a Phenariot family. Interestingly, he was in charge of the family cemetery as well. He was their own private gravedigger, until he was discovered digging up already occupied graves and stealing the interred valuables-which is not the kind of heritage in which one would ordinarily take a lot of pride.

“Luckily for Vlad-or Lawrence, as he renamed himself-he managed to stash enough away from previous-er, undertakings-that he was able to leave the country in one piece, along with his wife and mother-in-law.”

“Yes, Magda the Gypsy,” Louise said as she now began sipping her own brandy. “Now she was indeed a character.”

“Actually, it is another ancestor of yours I am most interested in,” Grady said. “I am not sure ancestor would be an appropriate word, to tell you the truth. I hope you do not mind, but I took it on myself to do a bit of research. I know you for quite some time were interested in the whereabouts of your mother. I think I can finally put your questions to rest.”

Martins’ eyes got wide with surprise, and he almost bolted from his chair.

“Mr. Grady, are you serious?” he asked. “You found my mother?”

Grady handed Martin Krovell what appeared to be a set of documents bound by a paper clip. The old man took them eagerly as Louise looked on in obvious interest.

“What does it say, Martin?” she asked.

“Why, according to this she returned to Romania,” he replied. “She had her marriage to my father annulled by a priest of the church. Then, incredibly, she went on to marry that same priest less than a year later, a priest by the name of Mikhail Khoska, by whom she later had a son named-oh my God, Louise, Aleksandre Khoska is my half-brother.”

The old man was obviously distraught, as he sat down the snifter of brandy.

“Mr. Desmond, I hate to impose, but do you mind if I have another bit of this fine Brandy you have so kindly provided for us?”

“Why would he not have told you?” Louise asked, obviously with growing concern. “How cruel of him to keep this from you for all of these years! Why would he do such a thing?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Martin replied. “I think I shall certainly ask him, though.”

“Perhaps he was ashamed of his father’s actions,” Louise said. “It would certainly be understandable.”

“That might be true,” Martin replied. “Still, I came to understand long ago that my father was a jealous, possessive, uncaring, vindictive, abusive man, to the point where he could be mercilessly brutal. No, Father Khoska did not do the wrong thing. I would have liked to know, however. My mother died just a little over ten years ago, according to this document. Had I known, I would have made a trip to see her before she died. Now of course it is too late.

“Mr. Desmond, you have no idea how much you have helped me ease my mind. I have always suspected my father of having done away with my mother somehow. You have no idea how many times I have considered digging up the entire property, but dreaded discovering her remains. There are days it has been all I could think about. I owe you a tremendous debt, sir.”

Grady looked at the old couple now with an intensity that was almost striking in its ferocity. He had more news for the elderly couple.

“Actually, I can’t take credit for it,” he said. “I put one of my top reporters on the job, and she was more than diligent in uncovering the information. You may have heard of her. Her name is Grace Rodescu.”

For just a brief second, Martin and Louise Khoska shot each other a stunned look, as they regarded each other with a deadly silence. This did not go unnoticed by Grady Desmond, to whom they soon both returned their gaze, as they regarded him sternly.

“Why, Mr. Grady. You have surprised us, very much in fact,” the old man said as Louise suddenly smiled. “You are holding up quite well, though, much better than we would have expected, to be completely honest. You do look rather tired, though.”

“What-are you talking about?” Grant asked with a smile though filled now with suspicion. Louise held up her snifter of brandy as she indicated with a nod the one that sat beside Grady.

“You should really be careful whom you allow to prepare your drinks, Mr. Desmond,” she advised him with a suddenly girlish smile. “You never can tell when one might decide to ‘slip you a Mickey’, as they say.”

Grady looked down at his now empty snifter in horror, and then looked back at Louise, who met his gaze with what actually seemed to be a girlish anticipation, as she giggled.

"Now, Louise, you should not be so modest,” Martin said as he patted his wife on the arm. “After all, a 'Mickey Finn' consists of mere ‘knock-out drops’, not a deadly poison. Really, though, we should not tease Mr. Desmond. After all, he has been very cordial towards us, inviting us all this way to tell us all of this important information. Mr. Grady, you really must not mind my wife. She has always been noted as the practical joker of the family, after all. I think it is more than likely that gypsy blood of hers. I am indeed a lucky man, would you not say?”

Grady looked at the two of them, and suddenly started laughing, albeit uneasily, as they did likewise. Suddenly, Grady stopped and, clutching his chest, humped over his desk.

“Oh, my dear,” Martin now said. “Louise, I do believe you might have used a bit too much nightshade. It really isn’t supposed to have this sort of effect, you know.”

“Oh, I know dear,” Louise said apologetically. “I just can’t seem to get used to these more intense preparations. I always found the more old-fashioned extractions were far more reliable in their predictability.”

“Nightshade?” Grady now gasped, as he clutched his chest, his breathing now coming in gasps, as he doubled over. His eyes went back in his head, as he now tilted over in his chair.

“Would you kindly look outside and see if the girl has gone, Louise,” Martin now said as his wife walked toward the door. “I will place a call to our friend.”

Louise opened the door and peered outside, noting the desk outside was empty as Martin placed a call with his cell phone to someone whom he informed could feel secure in presenting herself. Within less than three minutes, an obviously disguised and visibly pregnant Grace Rodescu entered the office of a yet alive, though barely so, Grady Desmond.

“I guess I no longer have you to worry about, Grady,” she said. “I’m really sorry about this, but I can’t afford to take any more chances with you. Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Khoska.”

“Grace, my dear, it has been far too long,” Martin said. “What has it been now-sixteen years or so, I believe. What a pleasure to see you again. And to think-you are carrying our great-grandchild. How magnificent!”

“I am glad you approve,” Grace said.

“Out of all the girls from the old country that Phillip sponsored in that dreadful place, you were by far our favorite, Grace,” Louise now said. “You do know that, do you not?”

Louise then gave Grace a hug, after which Martin did likewise.

“So it was Phillip Khoska who was responsible for all of that,” Grace said. “Grady was telling the truth.”

“Yes, Grace, I’m afraid it was,” Martin said. “Now, come to find out, I and Phillip are related. I would be his uncle, I guess. I really hope you do not look askance on us, dear. What is troubling is he knew it all the time, him and Voroslav, and the old priest as well. I wonder why they would keep such a thing from us.”

Grady now groaned as he actually attempted to rise from his chair. Grace looked at him warily, and then picked up a heavy vase as she walked toward the fallen editor.

“That really wouldn’t be necessary, dear,” Martin advised her. “Should he survive, he will remember little, and what little he might remember, he will be helpless to communicate. Perhaps that would be a most fitting punishment for him, given his position, would you not say?”

“So, you are the chosen mother promised to give birth to The One Who Shall Renew,” Louise said, totally engrossed in the matter of Graces’ pregnancy. “Why, you look to be six months pregnant, yet it has been all of what-a month?”

Grace suddenly betrayed a look of deep worry that Louise found disconcerting.

“What is it my dear?”

“I had an ultra-sound performed, under an assumed name of course, and according to the physician, there is no fetus. There is nothing there, in fact, but a mass of blood and mucous, much like placenta, but no baby. According to the attending physician, the heartbeat seems to be the result of swirling gasses.

“Yet, it takes on the appearance of a human shape, and seems to act like an infant. It has the appearance of a head and appendages. It looks to be sucking its thumb, while curled in a fetal position. Does this sound natural?”

“Well, I am no expert in these matters, dear,” Martin replied. “Bear in mind, however, this is hardly an ordinary pregnancy, and most certainly not an ordinary infant.”

Suddenly, Louise stiffened, and looked gravely at Martin, and then at Grace.

“The old priest Aleksandre, he knows,” she said. “He has to go, Martin. All of them have to go. They are dangerous. We cannot take the chance they do not know. It would explain his silence to you all those years ago. It is the only thing that makes sense. Of course, he had to know you and he shared the same mother.”

“All of the Khoskas have to die, then?” Grace asked with no visible show of emotion, yet noticeably ill at ease.

“Let us worry about that, Grace,” Martin replied. “We will see to the dirty work, as they say. You worry about keeping healthy. We will put the Khoskas in their place. Their deaths may not be necessary. If they are, so be it. We will see to them over time. Indeed, it will not be the first time. I had to put an end to my own father when he proved too weak, as well as my brother, once it became obvious how untrustworthy he was. As hard as it was to do these things, our son George was the hardest. When I think of how he ended up, eaten by rats on the docks of Baltimore, it really saddens me.”

“Uh huh, see what I mean about not being stingy with things you execute people with-especially loved ones?” Louise said to Martin’s obvious dismay. “Too much is always far better than not enough. That is why I always tell you to let me handle these things. Martin can be such a skinflint.

“Nevertheless, this day has been five hundred years in the making,” she then added. “It is actually quite impossible to prevent it. That would be such a mockery.”

“Nevertheless, if it turns out to be essential,” Martin concluded, “or advisable in any way as a stopgap measure, we will certainly see to the Khoska family as well, regrettable though that will be in the case of the old priest. Phillip will be no problem whatsoever, other than technically, of course, due to his wealth and influence. Again, he will not be the first of that caliber either. As for his friend here, I suppose we had best make sure he is finished, Louise, would you not agree?”

Suddenly, Grady Desmond rose on one arm, and looked toward Grace.

“Grace,” he said in a hoarse whisper with great effort. “Please help me. I promise I won’t say a word.”

“Oh, dear, I suppose I should finish the poor fellow off quickly now,” Martin said. “I hate to see him lying there suffering, obviously feeling the fool. Honestly, Mr. Desmond, we do appreciate the great help you have been to us. We are not ungrateful, by any means.”

“You can trust me,” he said desperately. “I only wanted to help Grace. Please, don’t kill me.”

“What do you think?” Louise asked her.

“He sent a former FBI agent to follow me and kill me,” Grace replied. “He didn’t know I found out about that, but I did. He followed me all the way to a remote area of Virginia and would have killed me if someone else had not interfered.”

“I had nothing to do with that,” Grady said. “That was all Phillip Khoska’s doing. I just supplied you the car with the tracking device. I didn’t know he was”-

Suddenly, Grady clutched his chest in agony as his face become blood red, and he gasped in a tremendous amount of air. He then fell out of his chair as he simultaneously breathed his last breath.

“Huh-well, I guess that settles that,” Louise said. “Now, remember Grace dear. There will be four people arriving here shortly. One will be a man in a cheap business suit, acting nervously, his eyes darting around suspiciously. Yet another will be a woman in tears. A very angry man will follow her. Finally, a black man will arrive, wearing a clown suit and a gift of poisoned brandy and cigars.”

“What was this again-a black man wearing a clown suit?” Grace asked. “Why?”

“Louise just thought that would be a nice touch,” Martin said with a shrug. “You have to admit it will certainly give them something to talk about as well as providing an adequate disguise for who will be thought the probable killer. You do have your temporary workers card, don’t you, Louise?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Martin, for the thousandth time, yes,” the old woman replied with exasperation. “No one here will ask for it anyway, I’m sure, but yes I have it. Oh, but that does remind me-here, Grace.”

Louise reached inside her purse and handed Grace a card.

“Here is the number I promised you. He is waiting to hear from you. Really, that dilapidated old building is no place for you in your condition, not until we finish the repairs at any rate. He is more than happy to see to your welfare.”

“He has missed you almost as much as we have, if that were possible,” Martin added.

“Would you like to be alone, dear, to speak to him in private?” Louise asked.

“That would be good,” Grace replied.

“One more thing, Grace,” Martin replied. “You must really discourage Radu from these constant longings for these past attachments of Marlowe’s. He really should let them go. Otherwise, he may never come into his own, and that will never do, of course.

“I understand of course that was inevitable. However, you should stand firm with him. He really needs you. Remind him that Marlowe was never important, that in fact Marlowe was never more than a brief, though necessary, temporary incarnation period to provide his unconscious soul a period of rest and healing, until such time as he could awaken and take his place once more in the world-his true, rightful place.”

“I am trying, but it has not been easy,” Grace replied. “He will come around, I am sure.”

“That is why we wish to avoid him for the time being,” Louise added. “Our presence would only encourage him to hold these false, irrelevant memories. Make no mistake, though, we have the utmost faith in you, my dear.”

“Well, we should really be moving along, Louise,” he said. “Well, I should. You have a temporary secretary’s job to do for a few hours.”

The elderly couple then moved towards the door to the office, and as Louise exited, Martin turned once more toward Grace, as he regarded her in obvious fondness.

“After all he has been through, I see now you are the perfect one to guide him,” he said. “It is so amazing how his strength prevails as it has up until now, despite the influence of such weaklings as that despicable Uncle Brad of his, to say nothing of that worthless heroin addicted friend of his, Marty Evans. No offense, mind you, my dear, I understand that we all have our weaknesses. Of course, when he fell under the sway of that”- here Martin gazed toward the office door, where Louise had just now went out to assume her place at the secretary’s desk-

“That nigger,” he whispered. “Louise hates it when I use that word. You know, the Crenshaw fellow. Anyway, Marlowe-oh, there I go, I am as bad as he is-Radu, I mean, has seen his share of hardships, not the least from that abominable mother of his. Had I known how weak my own son was I would have ended his life as easily as I did my youngest son.

“You see, though, Grace, it turned out all for the best after all. As they say, what does not kill you only makes you stronger. Still, he needs you very much to keep him on the right course. And I know you will do that.”

“You sure seem to be taking your time in there, Martin,” Louise shouted from outside the office. “I hope you are not wasting Graces’ time and making a fool of yourself at your age.”

Martin rolled his eyes and grinned as he shook his head.

“It has been really good seeing you again, Grace,” he said. “Be sure you remember to lock the door when you leave, my dear. After all, the weekend is coming up. If we are lucky, they will not discover Mr. Desmond’s body until it starts to stink up the place. That would make it far more difficult to establish an exact time of death, you see.”

“You can count on me, Mr. Krovell,” Grace said, and then as Martin shook his finger with a teasing admonition, immediately made the correction. “Martin, I mean. And it has been really good seeing the two of you again, as well.”

After he left, Grace rummaged through Grady’s office until she found the hidden tape recorder, which she set on rewind. She then rummaged through his pockets until he found his cell phone. As she suspected, he had surreptitiously taken pictures of the two elderly Krovells, which she deleted.

“Nice try, Grady,” she said with grudging respect as she extracted from her purse her own cell phone, with which she phoned the number on the card earlier given her by Louise.

“Eddie, this is Grace,” she said. “I see you are out, so I’ll call later. I will be coming as soon as possible. I look forward to seeing you again. It’s been too long.”

She waited a few minutes longer, after which she returned to the tape recorder. She hit the record button, after which she placed on Grady’s desk another recorder. When the clock struck eight, she hit the play button on that one, which contained snippets of a previously recorded conversation earlier engaged with the now deceased editor of The Baltimore Sun. The clown would take this recorder with him after his visit, she reasoned.

“You forgot something, Grady,” she said in the way of a farewell. “You always taught me that most times, things are more often than not exactly what they seem to be on the surface. What you did not realize is-this was not one of those times.”

Grace walked casually toward the front door, her high heels clicking on the floor below her. She reached for the door. As she opened the door, she turned one last time. She glanced down toward the now dead body, crumpled on the floor. She smiled. She turned then and left, closing the door behind her.

A Gelding Named Don Imus

Don Imus is back, kind of sort of. He will no longer be on Clear Channel, nor will he be simulcast on MSNBC, and the radio deal he has now netted places him on considerably less stations than on which he formerly appeared. By virtue of this fact alone, he will command a considerably lesser audience than he previously enjoyed. Former sidekick Charles McCord evidently will not be returning, although former show producer Bernard Magurk, who also came under harsh criticism for supposedly racist and/or racially insensitive remarks, will return, along with two African American regulars.

In one of his initial appearances, taped in front of a studio audience, Imus declared that he would not make the young women of the Rutgers University basketball team (formerly known as “nappy headed hos”) feel like fools for accepting his apology. However, he has also assured his listeners that he would not be a “kinder, gentler” Imus.

Translation-Imus is going to limit his criticisms to the “institutionalized racist white power structure”, which he will probably mercilessly slice, gut, and filet as badly as was he himself by the race card drivers, notably the Reverend Al Sharpton, who promises that he will be listening.

I was of the hopes that Imus would land on his feet and get a contract with FX or with Sirius satellite, and would be as mercilessly brutal with all groups equally. Instead, Don Imus seems content to spend his twilight years all but not so much put out to pasture as a gelding-which would have been preferable-but to play at appeasing his hordes of detractors as the sad joke of a media cuckold that I very much fear he has now become.

Like Al Sharpton, I too will be listening, when and if possible, in the probably vain hope that Imus will, as they say, "grow a pair". However, I am not expecting much.

True, geldings have been known to do well in some races. They have been even known to win.

Unfortunately, the most obviously unavoidable aspect of geldings is that by their nature, and by definition, they leave no legacy to speak of. Such will be the case, I am afraid, with this latest incarnation of the late, once great Don Imus (g).

Here Goes Another "Important" Hugo Chavez Puff Piece

To the relief of many and the consternation of others, the referendum of December 1st held in Venezuela that would have ended term limits, thus enabling President Hugo Chavez to run in perpetuity, failed by a margin of 51-49 percent. Chavez, who previously stated that any who voted against the measure would be a traitor, has now conceded defeat-“for now”.

To any who might be hopeful or overly sentimental in regards to this outwardly gracious appearing concession, I might remind you that Venezuela has been the scene of troubling unrest in regards the referendum, with opponents and protestors amassing in the streets in daily displays of opposition to the measure.

Had this not been the case, the chances are more than fair that the election could have easily been manipulated, with the results ending up vastly different. However, Chavez may have come to realize that he overplayed his hand in what many came to see as an unprecedented attempt at a power grab. He also knew that the eyes of the world were watching, and waiting. He wanted power, but not at the expense of riots, bloodshed, and outright carnage. I have a feeling he was sternly warned by his security forces that such a scenario might result in a loss of control that might not be so easily restored.

Remember that as well he has implied there will be another referendum at some unspecified date. Look for him to do so within the next few months to a year, two years at the most. When he tries it again, I look for there to be more emphasis placed on other aspects of the referendum that might not have even been a part of the last one. Chavez might well take a more moderate stance, guaranteeing civil, religious, and political liberties, while possibly guaranteeing limited though well defined property rights.

Hopefuly, though, this slap in the face has been a wake up call to him. He might come to realize that rhetoric and empty promises might make for pleasant dreams, but a morning without hope, for way too many of his citizens, could turn those dreams into nightmares for all concerned.

In the way of a disclaimer, I am not an avowed foe of Hugo Chavez, nor am I a fan of his. I personally do not give a shit what type of government a foreign, sovereign nation elects to have. In most cases, any problem they might give us can easily be solved in measurements of megatons. That fact, if exercised judiciously, would lead to as hearty and sincere a handshake with a communist leader as with a democratically elected one. Otherwise, it is really none of our business. If they elect not to trade with us, in the meantime, I look at it this way-their fucking loss, and in most cases, American workers gain. Who the fuck needs their cheap ass slave labor products?

Incidentally, as far as I’m concerned, this is the only thing our corporate executives and politicians really want with Latin American to begin with. To them, it’s just another cheap-ass trade zone for the manufacture and importation of cheap goods and cheaper workers, a path for whom would quickly be cleared to here. Politicians like Chavez, for all their rhetoric and all their flaws, stand in the way of potentially billions of dollars quarterly. Frankly, I hope they keep the guy. I think he could be reasoned with, provided we approach him from a reasonable position. As it is, while we are engaged in this cold war extension with this paper tiger, there is the further consequence that it is a further inducement for the price of oil to incline upwards, which is another reason for the current policy.

Understanding this simple fact, I never have or never will be a proponent of such idle and ill-advised foolishness as, for example, boycotts of Citgo. I will even go so far as to say that a lot of the current rhetoric can easily be considered to originate from the inside the beltway pundit and political classes who take their cue (and a great deal more from under the table) from the corporate executives of Shell and Halliburton, etc.

At the same time, I can read the writing on the wall, or in this case, the engraving on both sides of the coin. Somebody needs to rein in both sides, and that includes Chavez. Hopefully, this latest development will let a lot of the hot air out of both parties.

Clinton's Comrades

This Grist article tells you all you need to know as to why Hillary Clinton is widely distrusted. This Liebermann-Warner proposal for which Clinton is working so hard to get passed calls for an eighty percent reduction in US global emissions by 2050. Eighty fucking percent? Her, Liebermann, and Bernie Sanders (author of the aforementioned eighty percent amendment) and all the rest of this bills proponents are fucking nuts. If they actually pass this measure, and really try to implement it, you might as well live in the jungles of Brazil, or the African savannah. Holy fucking shit.

No wonder people think Hillary Clinton is a hard core Stalinist. She fucking is one. Any cost of this of course will be passed down to the consumers, if it were ever passed, which hopefully there will be enough common sense senators from both parties to prevent that from ever occurring. If it does, hopefully it will be sent to a president who will veto it.

As it is, it may not make it out of committee. In that case, look for Hillary to make it a campaign issue, but don't look for her to advertise the more oppressive aspects of the bill, which she seems to support in total, working so hard for it's passage that the author of the article refers to her as a "real rock star."

Of course in the world of Hillary Clinton, any company that can't absorb the cost of such oppressive measures without passing it on to the consumer will probably be forced out of business, which in her perfect imaginary world is well and good. People wrongly assume the Democrats hate big business. Well, they are only half right. Take out the word big, and you've got it.

On the lighter side, note that Larry Craig, an opponent of the bill (and one of the Senators blocking it from being moved out of committee, to a floor vote, by way of procedural tactics) is mentioned in the article, along with the name of his hometown-Gayville. Now why the fuck didn't they just say Idaho? After all, isn't that how Senators are usually mentioned in public articles, by the name of the state they represent? Yeah, it's funny, but still, how obvious can you be?

At the end of the article, we are urged to pick up our phones and call our Senators to urge support. Yeah, that would be good for a laugh, but most Senators are too busy to put up with prank phone calls.

On the other hand, they might well take it seriously. After all, most people do seem to think Joe Liebermann is some kind of arch-conservative.

Now that is a fucking joke.

The Prince Of Mardi Gras

Plans to demolish a large section of low rent apartments of new Orleans, and to replace them at a roughly 82% loss, are given a possible explanation in this Truthout article that unfortunately does indeed have the ring of truth to it.

You can sum it up concisely as, reduce the percentage of blacks in New Orleans with an eye toward increasing Republican votes statewide in the next election cycle.

In addition, it seems Democratic Senator Mary Landrieu has been targeted as the weakest Democrat up for re-election in the 2008 election. Denying her black voters, in addition to denying her any kind of victory on behalf of the poor residents, is increasing the odds of her defeat.

In the meantime, according to this article, tens of thousands of poor blacks in the area are still holed up in cheap FEMA trailors yet facing eviction, while others are camped out in tent cities from the inner city to under the I-10 bridge, while the area vacated is being utilized for the purposes of casinos and other kinds of businesses.

There is an insistence that any public housing built should be mixed race housing. Well, it would be wrong to encourage segregated housing, right?

Clever. The Republicans sure stick to their guns when they talk about family values.

Neitzche family values, that is.