Loading...

Thursday, December 24, 2009

A NEW NATION...INDIVISIBLE: A FICTIONAL BLOG

QUOTE:

Warning: If you are easily shocked with regard to contrary
points of view, conspiracy theories, offensive language,
political correctness, sex, or anything else that may offend
your sensibilities or lack of open-mindedness, or if you're a
minor (but by no means limited to the aforementioned),
please do not read this novel. It's not for you...

Note: This is a work of fiction. The events described here
are imaginary: the settings, events and characters are
fictitious, and/or are the product of the author's imagination
or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events
or locales or persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2006 by F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.



A New Nation...Indivisible: A Fictional Blog


Scene Ten


The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America


By F. Scott Sinclair


2008 Presidential Candidate: Former Senator Lester A. Hampton




It was a cold March afternoon at my home located on
the shores of Hoods Canal in the good old Pacific Northwest.
As I stoked the logs in the fireplace, the red ambers
of the coals beneath the logs glowed a brilliant pale
yellow after gathering a wisp of fresh air. Almost
immediately, the coals seemed to have sensed that
I’d placed a new log upon them. The burning coals
seemed to quietly accept the intrusion, relaxing the
collective intensity of their amber glow to a mellow
burnt orange. The pulsating shimmer of the coals—like
someone blushing at something said and embarrassed
by it—has always seemed to conjure up fond memories.
Kind of like seeing surface images of the sun with
its perpetual explosions dancing rhythmically to a
primal beat. Amber coals, or just a blazing fire, are a
constant reminder of nature’s place in the affairs of
man, not unlike politics. What do these two diametrically
opposed extremes, which appear to be unrelated, have
in common?

Today, my fellow Americans will see for themselves
what fire and politics have in common. I will stoke
the ambers of the hearts of my fellow Americans.
Their hearts are on fire, but they are powerless
to stoke their hearts. Kind of like a boat without a
rudder. My fellow countrymen are helpless; drifting
on a rudderless boat down a river—being manipulated
by the forces that be: the currents. They’re helpless
and powerless at the same time.

I’ve thought about this a long time, but my mind’s
made up. There is too much greed, corruption
and malfeasance in our government. Seeing the
picture of George Washington displayed on the
flagpole outside of my dining room window, the
galvanized steel pole swaying along with its burden:
the flag of the State of Washington flapping against
the wind. And riding above the picture of George
Washington was Old Glory herself: my beloved
American flag..

I took a gulp of my gin and tonic, sitting the
remainder on the maple dinner table, and turned
towards my campaign manager, Steve Ralston,
and said, “This day will become a historic event
in textbooks in years to come, my friend.”

Steve’s eyes met mine, and we both pursed
our lips and shook our heads affirmatively. Placing
his drink on the smoked glass coffee table, he said,
“I don’t for a minute believe that you’ll ever eat
those words... America is at its most critical turning
point in its three-hundred year history. Never has
our country been so imperiled financially, constitutionally
and morally as it is today. Bankrupt on all three counts,
I’m afraid.”

“Amen, to that brother...! Now let’s see... When
are the reporters due?”

Steve glanced at his watch, and said, “They should
have been here by now.”

Never wanting to keep people waiting, I motioned
for Steve to follow me outside onto the patio. “Do
you have my speech prepared?”

“No.”

Amused, I said, “So you still think I’ve got the
knack for gab, huh?”

With a sheepish grin, he says out of the corner
of his mouth, “You might say that... You’re a slow
starter, but a helluva finisher. I wouldn’t want to
ruffle your feathers, that’s for sure.”

“You always were a straight shooter, my friend.
I guess I’ll keep you around a while for sentimental
reasons, if nothing else,” I said, trying to take a
reading of his reaction. That awkward smile told
me everything.

Pointing in the direction of the gravel trail that
escorts visitors from the parking lot at the base of
the hill to the residence, Steve says, “Looks like
the ducks have arrived.”

“Well, you’d better hope I come up with some
dried bread crumbs for them to munch on...”

Seeing the apprehension in my demeanor,
he says, “C’mon now, be your old self... Getting
back in the boxing ring of politics isn’t going to
kill you!”

“Your words, not mine,” I said, gazing at the
swaying human limbs coming our way. I then
turned towards the shores of Hoods Canal,
inhaling the elixir of Puget Sound: the smell
of salty air and kelp, and finally said, “Anyway,
I hope you’re right. We’ll soon find out, I’m afraid.”

From a distance, a baseball clad gentleman
in his late forties said, “Hi there...! Sorry we’ve
kept you waiting, sir. Don’t worry; my crew is
the best in the business. We’ll have the video
cameras in place in no time. And insofar as
plugging into our main studio in Seattle, that’ll
be easy with our little satellite here. Care for a
little makeup?”

“Some what...?! Oh, sorry... Forgive me. It’s
been a while since I’ve done a TV interview.
Sure, a little makeup wouldn’t hurt considering
my age,” I said almost apologetically.

“Needn’t fret, Senator Hampton. By the way,
I’m Glenn Aston and this is Fred Custer. He’ll make
you look twenty years younger!” the director said.

“If he’s lucky,” I said.

After my face was touched up and powdered,
I thought I looked good enough to be cremated
on the spot. I’ve seen worse makeup jobs on
cadavers. I didn’t want to appear like Richard Nixon
did when he debated Kennedy and lost the election
due to a piss poor makeup job.

The television crew rushed everything into
place, and the director removed his baseball cap,
and says, “We are at your command...!”

“And the interviewer...?” Steve, my manager asked.

“Oh, our anchor woman...? She couldn’t
make it. Apparently, she had other plans. So,
I guess you’re stuck with me. How’s that?”

I took a deep breath, and said, “Suits me perfect.”

Glenn Aston sat down on the rigid oak and
ornate wrought iron chair next to mine, introducing
himself and me to the television audience, and
then asks, “Why are you returning to the political
arena, Senator Hampton?”

I gazed at the brick siding of my reclusive house,
and replied, “These are trying times for all of us.”

Glenn nodded.

“And I’m afraid that our country is not only heading
down the wrong road, but it’s headed towards a tunnel
with no light at the other end.”

As Glenn reviewed his notes, he offhandedly says,
“A collision course in the making?”

Seeing the seagulls landing on the surface of Hoods
Canal to peck at the garbage someone must have
dumped overboard, and the subsequent squawking
that led to fights over tidbits of food, reminded me
of our plight in the Middle East: our squabble for
tidbits of resources. I said, “See those seagulls?”

I pointed to the refuse the seagulls were fighting over.

“Yes. And that reminds me of the concept of
territoriality inherit in all of God’s creatures,”
he said intently, tapping the eraser end of his
pencil against the yellow legal pad on his lap.

“That’s precisely what I’m trying to say...
Man doesn’t—pardon my French—piss around
his territory like a dog, exactly. He does the
instinctive process one step better—“

“By building a fence, or other barrier, huh?”
Glenn said, almost taking the words right out
of my mouth.

“Maybe I should be interviewing you, Glenn.
You sure have a talent for knowing what I’m
about to say. Are you a mind reader?”

“Am I correct in assuming, you do mean
that in a positive sense?”

As I crossed my legs nervously, I said, “All
joking aside, you’re quite amazing in your
perceptions. That’s all I’m referring to...”

I could see he was beginning to become
irritated for some reason, as he responded by
saying, “Why do you want to be President of
the United States? In thirty words or less,
if possible?”

“Sounds like you want me to answer in
“sound bites” as though this was a political
commercial or something?” I said, becoming
annoyed with Glenn’s tone of voice and hidden
agenda.

He nodded his head attentively.

“Let’s put it this way—“

With a twinkle in his eye, he says, “You’ve
only got 25 words left...”

“We could cut this interview short, if that’s
what you’d like?”

With a hint of appeasement on his face, Glenn
shot back, “Just kiddin’ sir. Please continue...”

Not one to be a party pooper, I continued by
saying, “Look at the deficit, the trade imbalances,
the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan; not to mention,
the depreciating greenback, the anemic economy and the
jittery stock market that's wobbling around dazed
by the subprime housing scandal and credit crunch.
And that's just mentioning the more glaring problems
facing the country. It's simply outrageous!”

“Is that so...?” Glenn said with a straight face.
His jutting jaw was ‘steady as she goes’ in nautical terms.

But I countered with a ‘full speed ahead’ response,
and said, “If you don’t know the answer to those
questions, my telling you won’t make a bit of
difference. It would be like talking to myself, or
those seagulls out there!”

Seeing a slight tinge of red erupting from
the corners of his mouth, I knew things were
beginning to heat up.

“Let me ask the questions, if you don’t mind?”
His caustic tone nearly rattled the overhead
microphone’s booming extension.

“What’s your question?”

Taking a deep breath, he says, “Let’s move on...
You’ve stated that you’d like to sponsor a
Constitutional Amendment. Tell us about that.”

“Well, since we have a volunteer military, our
priorities have gone adrift. Previously, we had
the draft which I considered a litmus test to the
validity of our involvement in any military action.
A case on point, the Vietnam War... We nearly had
a revolution because those, whose lives were on
the line, didn’t think it was worth dying for.
And the draft resistance and protest marches
helped end that war. But not anymore...

“Excuse me. But you’re saying that the volunteer
military is nothing more than hired thugs?”

“Crudely put... But straight to the point.
Mercenaries, if you like, but patriotic souls
who have been abused. Don’t look at me like
that...! Their recruiters have painted a rosy
picture that’s filled with potholes, lies, deception
and a whole lot more. And if we had decent
challenging jobs, and opportunities for our
young folks, the military would be the last
place they’d seek employment. Volunteers
become the slaves of their master—the
U.S. government—and they can do what
they damn-well please with them. And I’d
say with absolute impunity also. Pre-emptive
wars like Afghanistan, Iraq, and God knows
where else, can only be stopped two ways.”

Glenn sat his notepad on the wood coffee
table between us; his cameramen rushing
about trying to get better angles for their
shots, and then says, “By reinstating the draft?”

“There you go again... Care to answer
the question yourself?”

His eyes glared at mine for an instant,
but then his commercial veneer intervened
with a phony smile, and says, “You’re doing
just fine, Senator Hampton.”

I thought to myself, “First impressions
are deceptive. If I’ve ever learned anything
in life, a smiling and cheerful person who greets
you may very well turn into a snake and bite
you. That little piece of advice is something
worth remembering. Many times people who
give you a neutral or less than cordial welcome,
or first impression, are gun-shy, humble,
reserved, or otherwise being cautious—feeling
you out, so to speak. In many cases, you’ll
find when you get to know them better, they’re
the best folks you’ll ever meet in this life.”

Having mulled my mistaken first impression
of Glenn over in my mind, I said, “Perhaps,
you’ve struck a nerve. I’ll accept that reinstating
the draft is not feasible, nor desirable. But what
is desirable is giving the American people the
opportunity to give their thumbs up or down to
war, or any other military involvement. And the
only way to do that is by having an initiative
and/or a referendum process in place at the
federal level in order to let the People have a
say on their country’s future and its direction.
And by having a federal initiative and referendum,
other issues could be addressed.”

Glenn’s eyes lit up, “Like balancing the budget,
civil liberties issues and—“

“And extraordinary rendition, torture,
eavesdropping...among other issues,” I said,
mocking his clairvoyant behavior earlier on.

“Oh, my god...! It’s beginning to rain. I guess
we’ve got to cut this interview short, Senator
Hampton. But thank you for the interesting
interview. And I look forward to sitting down
with you at some future time and tackling the
problems of the country on your road to the
White House.”

His fake smile and words made me want to
throw-up, but I said, “Thanks for coming all the
way out here to Hoods Canal to enable me to
declare my candidacy for the Presidency of the
United States. Thank you so much...!”

He closed the interview with platitudes, etc.
to his adoring audience. Once the cameras had
been turned off, I asked everyone to come inside
and have a catered buffet luncheon. I avoided
Glenn throughout lunch, but put my best foot
forward when he and his crew was about to leave.
After shaking his hand, and being cordial, I
closed the door behind them, and said to my
campaign manager, “Steve, I won’t ever give
that man an interview ever again! Is that
understood?”

“Blindsided...?”

“You might say that... Goodnight. I’m tired.”

Steve let himself out of the house.

It’s a good thing the wife wasn’t here today, or
there’d really have been some fireworks. And I
don’t mean the Fourth of July variety...

*************************************************
QUOTE:

A CONVENIENT (I HOPE) TABLE OF CONTENTS OF
F. SCOTT SINCLAIR’S NOVELS

*************************************************

Saturday, December 19, 2009

SNEAK AND PEEK: A FICTIONAL BLOG

QUOTE:

Warning: If you are easily shocked with regard to contrary
points of view, conspiracy theories, offensive language,
political correctness, sex, violence, or anything else that
may offend your sensibilities or lack of open-mindedness,
or if you're a minor (but by no means limited to the
aforementioned), please do not read this novel. It's not
for you…

Note: This is a work of fiction. The events
described here are imaginary: the settings, events and
characters are fictitious,and/or are the product of the
author's imagination or used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual events or locales or persons
(living or dead) is entirely coincidental.



Copyright (C) 2006 by F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.


Sneak and Peek: A Fictional Blog


Installment Nine of "The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America"


By F. Scott Sinclair



FBI Special Agent Edward Q. Sessions



My partner, Mike Ellsworth, sat glued to the steering
wheel while we maintained surveillance on a four storey
apartment house. There was supposed to be a sleeper
cell of suspected terrorists holding up on the second floor.
The NSA sent us an urgent alert that piqued our interest.
The suspects names were Luther James and Paul
Krugar. Both suspects were considered armed and
dangerous.

We were parked about a hundred yards down
the street near the entrance to a cul de sac that
had a large Willow tree that provided abundant
shade and concealment. Through the strands of
Weeping Willow whips—as I like to refer to
them—that draped themselves in a bow-shaped
fashion from the heavens downward, I could see
some activity in suspect one’s apartment.
The apartment house appeared to be an old
rectangular wood frame white Army barracks that
had been refurbished. Before we could do a sneak
and peek intrusion on our targets, we’d have to get at
least one of them out of their apartment for awhile. I
raised my secure cell phone, dialing my dispatcher,
and asked, “Can you have Ferguson give target
one a tickler call. Check the profile and redirect
to target two.”

“Will do, boss... We’ll hang-up before either
target can answer. Hopefully, one or other will
return the missed call,” the dispatcher said.

“That’s my boy. We’ll cross our fingers. Later,”
I said, as I shutoff the lit display of the cell phone.

“What’s up...?” my partner asked.

“Get ready. We’re about to make another
intrusion.”

“Sneak and peak time!” Mike said with as
much enthusiasm as he could muster under the
circumstances. It was cold outside, and inside
as well... The car's cheap heater that went to the
lowest bidder spewed its warmth only periodically.

To my surprise, I saw the curtains in suspect
one’s apartment window being drawn closed,
and said, “Got some activity, Mike.”

As I pulled the binoculars from the bridge
of my nose, Mike says, “It’s a go then...?”

His pale expression and the mist emitted
from between his lips due to the chill, was a
sight to behold. A big question mark if I’d ever
seen one made of flesh and bone. I said, “Hold
your horses, Dick Tracy; your get out of jail free
burglary card isn’t validated until the suspects
depart the scene.”

He removed his hands from the steering wheel,
then pulled his brown leather gloves off, and
said, “Yeah, I hear you. But I’m going to get a
little practice time in with these lock picks,
and the rest of my U.S. government issued
burglary outfit.”

I said, facetiously, “Don’t they issue a sledge
hammer with that stuff?”

“That’s a different kit. Sneak and peak
paraphernalia is designed for clandestine
intrusion. Nobody’s ever supposed to know...
You know, KGB shit. Or’d you forget the
difference between black ops and white ops?”

“Never heard of white ops? Okay, I coined
the term. To me it means: legal black ops.”

“Clever,” I said, placing the binoculars
back on the bridge of my nose, resting the
round aperture lenses against the sockets of
my eyes, just below eyebrow level.

As Mike tinkered with his intrusive equipment,
I spotted the suspects leaving the apartment.
After hailing a taxi, they got in and headed south
on Spruce Street heading our way. “Better hit
the deck, partner. They’re headed this way.”

As we both slouched down in our seats, Mike
says, “Is the coast clear?”

The yellow Toyota Corolla cab passed us
very slowly. I thought I’d gotten a truly nondescript
vehicle with a phony license; but perhaps, being
too phony draws attention also. Finally, the cab
sped away. I said, “Yeah, the coast is clear...”

We both had our cockroach coveralls on. It
was time to play the local bug exterminator, and
I don’t mean electronic bugs. We have that kind
of exterminator also... Feeling more like KGB
agents than FBI agents, we gathered our equipment
from the trunk, and then looked around to survey
the terrain. It was near seven o’clock and most
of the neighborhood was beginning to rise and
shine. We waited a bit longer, then decided we’d
blend in with the morning traffic—so to speak—and
began our mission impossible: a sneak and peek
intrusion to find out who the bad guys were, and
what they’re up to.

I immediately pulled my cell phone out and
dialed our backup troops who were around the
corner in the exterminator van with a local
logo displayed on it. My hand felt like it was
about to become frostbitten as the wind whirled
by making the tip of my nose burn. Icicles
had formed on the eaves of the homes and
apartments that surrounded us; as well as
the branches of the Birch and Poplar trees
that seemed to decorate the majority of front
lawns and lawn parking strips throughout the
area. A moment later, Special Agent Lawrence
Phillips answered, and said, “Lester’s Bug and
Spray, may I help you?”

“Nice show, Phillips… It’s Show Time. We’re
on the corner of the cul de sac. Pick us up, partner.”

“That’s a roger, chief. We’ve got you in
our crosshairs…,” he said with a chuckle.

The van’s high beams flickered, and the two
of us hopped aboard the van through the rear doors.
Art Crenshaw helped us in and said, “We'll be
outside if you need us, and we’ll be watching your
backside. Pete’s crew will be outside spraying
the shrubs and termites in case anyone gets
curious.”

They had electric heaters in the van that
made my face burn as the frozen flesh began to
defrost. As the grimace on my mug abated, I viewed
four computer monitors that would be keeping
an eye out for intruders as we did our sneak
and peek. Before I could comment, Crenshaw
says, “Len, who’s that coming across the lawn
towards Bob and George?”

“Beats me, sir…,” Leonard Morris said,
shrugging his shoulders through his
cashmere turtleneck sweater.

I grabbed Crenshaw by the forearm, and said,
“Let’s head her off before she makes a scene.
C’mon…”

“Don’t you think that’s a bit hasty?”

His eyes surveyed mine, as I replied,
“It’s Gestapo time, ole buddy.”

Crenshaw made a face, then complied
with my request reluctantly as he said,
“I hope you know what you’re doing? I'd
hate to tell you what kind of shit we’ll be in
if you’ve diagnosed the situation wrong…”

Seeing his apparent nervousness, I
reassured him that what I was about to
do was both legal and necessary under the
circumstances. He nodded affirmatively as
we got out of the back of the van. Hurriedly,
we managed to intercept the woman who was
about to confront our crew spraying around
the foundation of the apartment.

I shouted, “Miss…?! Can we help you?”

With her hands on her hips, the slender
and high-cheek boned woman said caustically,
“You sure can… I’m the manager, and I
think you’d better answer my questions.”

“Everything’s all right. The owner,
Mr. Slater, asked us to fumigate the apartments.
Perhaps he hasn’t had time to notify you?”

“Not likely, he’s my husband. I just gave him
a kiss and he asked me to find out what the hell’s
going on! Explain yourselves,” she said, her hands
still on her hips waiting for my answer.

I had nothing to say at this point that would satisfy
her, that I knew. I had only one trump card, and
removed my badge and commission from my
pocket, and asked, “I’m special agent Sessions,
and this is agent Crenshaw. Please don’t be afraid.
We’re not going to harm anyone. May we talk
somewhere that’s not so conspicuous?”

Removing her hands from her hips, she
immediately sought something in the confines
of her apron. She pulled out a package of Virginia
Slims, removing one slender cigarette with a
shaking hand. The flame from the silver lighter
danced about as she tried to light it. Frustrated,
she took a deep breath, and said,
“I’m sorry. You’ve caught me off guard.”

“Here, let me help you…,” I said, taking
the lighter from her and steadying it for her.

After she’d taken a deep drag and exhaled,
the ensuing smoke rushing from her lips, as
she said, “Thanks. Please, come with me to
the house.”

As we entered the single story ranch style
home, I noticed the paint peeling off of the
siding like dandruff, and thought that her
house must have the same maintenance man
as her apartment. Pursing my lips, I said,
“Ms. Slater, we must notify you that you
are hereby restricted from telling anyone
that we’ve been here. And I mean anyone…”

“Not even my husband whose name you
seem to throw around as though it were your own?"

"That’s correct, Ms. Slater,” my partner said.

I had to get going, so I took agent Crenshaw
aside, and said, “Tell the little lady here the
facts and consequences if she mentions even
one word about this to anyone—ever.”

He nodded and turned towards Ms. Slater,
and said, “Agent Sessions here, has an
appointment with destiny before your
tenants return. I’m going to spell out the
facts of life to you…”

I smiled and excused myself, letting
myself out of the house. I immediately
rendezvoused with my accomplice in legal
crime on the second floor. Before I’d got
there, agent Ellsworth, had already
burglarized the apartment of our first
target. As he was searching through the
suspects drawers, I noticed a computer
beneath a stack of books. I perused the
notebooks next to the computer. “Hey,
Mike…! Christ, I’ve hit pay dirt.”

After quickly returning the contents
of the drawer Mike had examined, he
rushed over, and says, “Got something?”

“Shit…! Have I got somethin’? Take
a look yourself…”

His eyes bulged out of his head, as he
immediately removed the microfilm camera
from his pocket. “Man, this crap will hang
this bastard from the highest lamppost! Oh,
man, look at this…”

I took one of the other notebooks from
the pile, and said, “Damn, a fucking writer’s
diary! This bastard’s a writer?”

Raising his brows, Mike stared out the
window, and says, “And a friggin’ novelist at that…”

“Piss on it. Film it anyway, and we’ll use
his conspiracy shit against him based on the
fact that he’d made contact with a sleeper cell.
In this case, as seems to be standard operating
procedure: our suspects are guilty until proven
innocent! How’s that…?”

“Par for the course…”

“What’s that suppose to mean?”

“Forget it, we’ve got a whole lot of sneaking and
peeking to do. Onward Christian Soldiers…!”
he said sarcastically, as he prepared to copy the
notebook's hard drive.

I knew the conflict that was boiling within
my partner’s mind. His soul was being destroyed
by the KGB tactics that America had been
employing in order to stop the so-called War
on Terrorism. He might as well have said: the
War on Dissent. Oh well, as the man has confirmed
in his infinite wisdom: The Constitution is only a
goddamn piece of paper! I remember telling my
teacher in Junior High School that the Constitution
was a fantasy document, and mentioned the
McCarthy hearings to make my point. Boy,
that seemed to shut that bitch's mouth which
didn't help my grade any. If she only knew,
I'm experiencing the truth of my own words.

All I could say after pondering my thoughts
was, “I hear you… Now, let’s get busy.”

“Right…” he said, with about as much
enthusiasm as the French soccer team showed
after they lost to Italy. If I didn’t know him
better, I’d think he was about to give the closet
door a head butt like the Frenchman did near the
end of the FIFA championship.

We gathered our evidence and departed like
a couple of crooks who’d just been pardoned at
the last moment by the President of the United
States absolving our current and future crimes.
Land of the free, I thought. For some, perhaps…

**************************************************
Quote:

A CONVENIENT (I HOPE) TABLE OF CONTENTS OF
F. SCOTT SINCLAIR’S NOVELS, ET CETERA ON THIS BLOG

**************************************************

Friday, December 11, 2009

YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDIN' ME...? NOPE: A FICTIONAL BLOG

QUOTE:


Warning: If you are easily shocked with regard to contrary
points of view, conspiracy theories, offensive language, political
correctness, sex, violence, or anything else that may offend your
sensibilities or lack of open-mindedness, or if you're a minor
(but by no means limited to the aforementioned), please do
not read this novel. It's not for you…

Note: This is a work of fiction. The events described here
are imaginary: the settings, events and characters are fictitious,
and/or are the product of the author's imagination or used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or locales
or persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Copyright (C) 2006 By F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.



Scene Eight


The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America



by F. Scott Sinclair



President Adolph S. Steinhart



I stood by the gas fireplace in the Oval Office that I had
installed after my doctor suggested that a little intense
heat was needed to unclog my arteries. I placed my
elbow on the mantle, and then gazed at the flakes of
snow drifting by the windowsill. My new national
security advisor, Jennifer Berg, sat on the couch
reviewing the daily intelligence report provided by
my less than reputable intelligence agencies. I said,
removing my elbow from the mantle, “Care to enlighten me?”

After taking a deep breath, Jennifer Berg said,
“Well, sir... I’m afraid we’ve got another crisis on our hands.”

Dumbfounded, I clinched my fists, jamming them
into my pants pockets, and said, “Christ, what’s the
matter now?”

“Since you put it that way, I guess I’d better get
to the bottom line, huh?”

“Give it to me straight. I can take it. I’m the
'War President' if you haven’t forgotten? I’ve been
your folks 'flak catcher' for nearly eight years. What’s
new that I can’t handle? My popularity couldn’t be
any lower, or I’d be at ground zero...and digging,
if you get my drift?”

Staring at the blue Persian rug with the Seal of the
President of United States on it, Jennifer said, “Your
old foe from a couple a years ago has resurfaced.”

With my furrowed brow and pursed lips, I strutted
towards the couch, and said, “Out with it...!”

She couldn’t look me straight in the eyes, and
could barely utter the nightmarish name that nearly
floored me. She said hesitantly, “Former Senator
Lester Hampton has announced his intention to be
a candidate for President in November. Mr. President,
I had no idea—“

“I did. People think I’ve got a few screws loose, and
maybe they’re right... But don’t ever underestimate me...!”

Red-faced, Jennifer says, “That’s a given, sir. You
know me better than that. With the possibility that
the democrats might find a suitable candidate that
inspires our religious supporters, and Lester Hampton
being a rich and powerful independent, we’ve got our
work cut out for us.”

I tucked the tail of my white dress shirt in, and
said as I sat down behind the oak desk, “Something’s
brewing, and it isn’t going to be me...or you, for that
matter.”

“You’re referring to the rumors of potential
Nuremberg criminal charges being asserted against
us once you’re out of office?”

Jennifer always seemed to catch the nuisances
that I tried to veil in a cloud of dust. “The big lie,
my dear.”

Crossing her legs, she says staring at the intoxicating
flame of the gas fireplace, “Big lies, sir.”

I rubbed my face with my handkerchief, and replied,
“True... But what’s worse, we’ve got to keep on with
bigger lies in order to bury the old ones.”

“Would you care for another cup of coffee, Mr. President?”

“Sure... That would be nice.”

Jennifer went to the cart near the entrance to
the Oval Office and poured us each another cup of
brew. The smell of real fresh coffee has always
stimulated my senses, kind of like smelling the
salt in the air at the ocean. The aromatic steam
rises and drifts sensually towards heaven, which
also reminds me of a wave crashing against the
rocks. And afterwards, the pulverized water
evaporates into a mist that engulfs anyone within
its range.

As she handed me the China cup and saucer,
I said, “Any ideas on how to defuse the situation.
We’re good at diverting people’s attention from our
follies. The polls wouldn’t indicate that. But that’s
exactly the point. We have accomplished our
neoconservative agenda magnificently. We managed
a coup, or putsch...if you will, without any significant
resistance. Sure the ACLU is a thorn in the side, but
we’ve managed to survive unscathed up until now.”

Taken aback, Jennifer’s blue blouse appeared
soiled, and says somewhat startled, “Up until now...?”

“Former Senator Hampton...”

“Oh, yeah... I can’t see us being able to stop his
barrage of inquires and point blank speeches that
will certainly hit the mark with the public.”

I sat up and straightened my tie, and said, “He’s
weak on terrorism. We aren’t. He has the advantage...”

“In what way?”

“America has been able to avoid spilling more
blood since 9/11.”

Removing her shoes in order to get more
comfortable, she then says, “And that’s an advantage
for Senator Hampton?”

“Yes... Because we’re losing the war in Iraq and
our diplomatic efforts towards Iran are adrift. We’ve
managed to buffalo the public into giving us all their
rights as provided by that damn piece of paper: the
Constitution. And yes, we’ve kept terrorists under
control here at home. Since I haven’t paid much
attention to this, I think we’ve been more lucky,
than anything else...”

Reading between the lines, Jennifer quips,
“Meaning, without a repeat performance of 9/11,
we’re vulnerable?”

“You’re good, Jennifer... I really mean that. Without
having to spell things out, I can truly say I don’t know
anything. Anyway, do what you can domestically to
curtail the candidacy of former Senator Hampton. I’ll
breathe easier, and so will the rest of the gang. I don’t
want to be airlifted with a bag over my head to The Hague
in the middle of the night once my term of office is over.
Is that clear...?!”

She nodded her head, and made a few notes on the
yellow legal pad straddling her thighs. She put her shoes
on, stood up, and thrust her hand out, and says, “Do I
have your blessing on this one?”

“Domestically, we are very vulnerable. And in Iraq
and elsewhere, our cause is lost. Fear is our only ally
on the home front. Us it prudently...”

Jennifer clenched my fist, and adds, “I’ll get right on it, sir.”

“As I knew you would... I have great confidence in
you, just like my political adviser. Without the two of
you, I wouldn’t be sitting here in the Oval Office enjoying
the power I’ve been able to amass. And besides, what a
great honor it is having the ghosts of past presidents to
help comfort me for the duration of my time in office.”

As Jennifer customarily did, she nodded her concurrence
and bid me good day. As the door to the Oval Office closed
behind her, I wandered over to the window that overlooked
the garden, thwarting my anxiety about my future in a daydream...

***********************************************************
QUOTE:

A CONVENIENT (I HOPE) TABLE OF CONTENTS OF
F. SCOTT SINCLAIR’S NOVELS, ET CETERA ON THIS BLOG

***********************************************************

Tuesday, December 08, 2009

A BOLD AND REFRESHING ARTICLE JAMMED PACK WITH INSIGHTFUL THOUGHTS & BOLD STATEMENTS ABOUT US: AMERICANS. A WAY OF DEFRAGMENTING ONE'S BRAIN CIRCUITRY

QUOTE:

Are Americans Too Broken for the Truth to Set Us Free?

By Bruce E. Levine

What forces have created a demoralized, passive,
disCouraged U.S. population? Can anything be done
to turn this around?

**************************************************
QUOTE:
Trickle-up Economics

Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice shame on me

By Paul Craig Roberts

Little wonder the US can’t afford health care for
the uninsured and unemployed. It is far more important
to finance multi-million dollar bonuses for investment
bankers. I mean, what would we do without capitalism?
Continue

****************************************************
QUOTE: (new)

The Devil and Mr. Obama

Barack promised change -- and sure enough, things
changed for the worse

By Joe Bageant

Many who voted for Obama out of disgust for the Bush
regime are now listening to the Republicans again on
their car radios as they drive around looking for a
suitable place to hide their vehicles from the repo man.
Continue

****************************************************
QUOTE:

Bernanke's Faux Recovery

By Mike Whitney

By usurping powers not granted under its charter,
the Fed has resuscitated insolvent institutions and
helped them continue the transfer of wealth from
one class to another. Continue

****************************************************
QUOTE:

2010: "The Year of Severe Economic Contraction"

By Mike Whitney

Eight of 10 Americans rate joblessness a high risk
to the economy in the next two years, outranking
the federal budget deficit, which is cited by 7 of 10.
An increase in taxes is named as a high risk by
almost 6 of 10. Continue

****************************************************

QUOTE:

A CONVENIENT (I HOPE) TABLE OF CONTENTS OF
F. SCOTT SINCLAIR'S NOVELS

****************************************************

Thursday, December 03, 2009

WAKE UP...! A FICTIONAL BLOG

QUOTE:

Warning: If you are easily shocked with regard to contrary
points of view, conspiracy theories, offensive language, political
correctness, sex, violence, or anything else that may offend your
sensibilities or lack of open-mindedness, or if you're a minor
(but by no means limited to the aforementioned), please do
not read this novel. It's not for you…

Note: This is a work of fiction. The events described here
are imaginary: the settings, events and characters are fictitious,
and/or are the product of the author's imagination or used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or locales
or persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.



Copyright (C) 2006 by F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.




Installment Seven of "The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America"




By F. Scott Sinclair



Paul Krugar



Before Luther and I stepped into our apartment house
entryway, we both vigorously stomped the snow off
our shoes and trousers. As Luther opened the glass
plated wood door, I asked, “How about a nightcap?”

“I thought you would have had enough talking for
one night. What’s on your mind?” Luther asked,
glimpsing towards the mug between my ears with curiosity.

“Curiosity killed the cat, isn’t that how it goes?”

Rubbing his nose, he said with a straight face, “In
that case, how about a couple more brews, on you?”

“It’s my invite, ole buddy. But I don’t have any beer.
Would a gin and tonic suffice?”

With a shy grin, Luther says, “A taste of the high life
for once?”

“It wouldn’t hurt to experience how the other half
lives, now would it?”

“Point well-made... I’ve got some ice in the
freezer—I’ll get it—and I think we’ll be in business,”
he said, dashing off to his apartment with icicles melting
on his pants, and then collapsing on the hallway carpet.

I inserted the apartment key and twisted... My
apartment’s bright interior ceiling light blurred my
vision momentarily while my rods and cones corrected
themselves. Had I left the light, on or off, before we went
to Larry’s Tavern? I thought to myself. Jesus, am I
losing my marbles, or what? Shaking my head in disgust,
I went directly over to my little black book on the
coffee table. As I perused it, Luther knocked and ushered
himself in unescorted since I’d left the door cracked.

“So let’s have it, partner. What’s going on upstairs?”

I gazed at him incredulously, and said, “Upstairs...?”

“Yeah. In your noggin...!”

“Oh, sorry... I tell you in a minute, but first I’ve got
to call a friend.”

Reaching into his pocket, Luther retrieved his cell
phone. “What’s the number? A man on a budget needs
some help, don’t you think?”

Writing isn’t the most lucrative profession for a
freelancer, so I nodded my head and gave him my
friend’s number.

“Damn, now it’s my turn to be sorry. I forgot to
refill my cell phone. Guess we’ll have to use your
phone. The number again?”

I gave it to him as we both waited for my friend
to answer.

With the phone’s receiver nearly glued to his lips,
Luther says, “Hello. Wait a moment. I’ve got a friend
of yours here who wants to chat.”

Luther handed me the phone, as I said, “Chuck, is
that you? This is Paul. How’s it goin’?” The Middle East
accent was unmistakable. “Sorry, sir. I’ve obviously got
the wrong number.”

As the rattled caller made his displeasure known,
I cradled the phone, Luther says, “I must of screwed
up the call, huh?”

“Slightly, I’m afraid. Never mind. I’ll call my friend
in the morning.”

“Care for a drink?”

Flustered by the wrong number, I raised my gin
and tonic in the air, and said, “To the future...!”

“Boy, you are a mystery—you know that, don’t you?”

Seeing Luther’s perplexed expression and raised
brow, I said offhandedly, “I’ve got a strange feeling
that perhaps you’re right.”

“About our future?”

“Something tells me that we’ve got a lot in store
for us...,” I said, almost reluctantly. But my emotional
turmoil couldn’t conceal my inner feelings.

“I don’t know about you...sometimes. Care to elaborate...?”

I felt like I was in a game of five card stud and had
to put my cards on the table for God and everyone
to see: rightly or wrongly. I replied, “Later... Let’s
have a drink under our belt before we get too serious.”

He nodded and raised his glass as did I. The lime
quenched my thirst, and the gin soothed my wounds...

We spoke like two strangers who wanted to be
intimate, but neither dared speak first, not wanting
to offend the other.


* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Lonnie Hanson was at his NSA listening post eavesdropping
on his fellow Americans. Suddenly, he perked up. The pupils
in his eyes became dilated as though he’d just had an
orgasm, and shouts, “Phil...! Get your ass over here
on the double!”

Lonnie’s boss, Jack Gibson, says, “What’s up...?”

“Christ, I’ve been listening to this rag head for
nearly six months without even so much as a damn
nibble. And all of a sudden, I’ve got a sleeper cell
waking up...! Do you hear me? This sleeper cell is now
in the waking position!”

“Great job, Lonnie. This feat deserves an incentive
award,” Jack said, proud of his employee for finally
turning a six month old terrorist lead into a full
blown investigation.

“Man, just like clockwork... Hell, I’ve everything
you’d every want on this dude. The phone is
registered to a Mr. Paul Krugar. Look at this
instantaneous file. Hey boss, our Total Awareness
Program is alive and well, just waiting for the
fish—our fellow citizens—to fall into the trap.”

“I can identify with that... And you’re right; having
all this information is useful as hell. But for God's
sake, don’t let a word of this get out, you hear?”

“I’m a true blue bureaucrat, not like some of
those so-called patriots who’ve tarnished our
NSA image. Don’t ever put me in the same boat
with those friggin’ traitors!”

“Didn’t mean to... You know how it is.”

Lonnie laid back in his chair with a shiteating
grin on his face, and says, “Got’em bro... Jesus,
I’ve got this guy by the scrotum.”

“Yeah... And your fist is about to crush this
so-called freedom loving American’s balls.”

With a hint of sarcasm, Lonnie says, “You
might say: I’ve got his life and future in the palm
of my hand.”

They both did a high-five like they were a
couple of football players who’d just made the
winning touchdown.


* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Saturday, November 28, 2009

DECEIVED: A FICTIONAL BLOG

QUOTE:

Warning: If you are easily shocked with regard to contrary
points of view, conspiracy theories, offensive language, political
correctness, sex, violence, or anything else that may offend your
sensibilities or lack of open-mindedness, or if you're a minor
(but by no means limited to the aforementioned), please do
not read this novel. It's not for you…

Note: This is a work of fiction. The events described here are
imaginary: the settings, events and characters are fictitious,
and/or are the product of the author's imagination or used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or locales
or persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Copyright (C) 2006 by F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.


Deceived: A Fictional Blog


By F. Scott Sinclair


Scene Six of the "Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America"




Ken Kendall: CIA Case Officer



“Jesus Christ…!” I said as I slammed my palms over
my ears to muffle the explosion. The sheer breadth
of the force of the exploding hut nearly knocked me down.

“Are you okay, Ken?” my CIA colleague, Julie Duffy
asked , as the bamboo, straw and splintered wood fell
to the ground, not more than 20 feet in front of us.
From the ensuing debris, a dust cloud emerged--choking
us with every breath we tried to inhale.

Before I could answer her, I had to cough in order
to clear my throat, and then said, “I suggest you ask
someone other than Leroy to handle the detonation
next time.”

Wiping the dust off her fatigues, Julie says, “Can’t
understand why?”

We smiled knowingly, and then in a split second, a
wailing voice descended upon us. Our eyes went their
separate ways as we both tried to focus in on the debris
lying atop the thatched roof of the adjoining hut where
the wailing sound seemed to be coming from.

“Damn…! We’d better see if the General’s still in
one piece,” I said.

But before I could step one foot in the direction
of the hut, Julie stepped in front of me, and says,
“That’s it, partner. No more stunts like that one, or
it’s goodbye Ken! Is that understood?”

Seeing the flames of passion in her eyes, and they
weren’t flames of desire, I said, “In other words, he’s
your asset…not mine, I take it?”

“You do catch on to subtleties rather quickly. A real
plus in this business.”

Seizing the moment, I said, “Let me handle this by
the book from now on, all right?”

Julie shrugged her shoulders, then tossed her blond
hair over her left shoulder, and said, “Right. But this
is the last time.”

Nodding my head, I touched her shoulder and turned
her in the direction of the hut.

As we approached the wooden hut with the thatched roof,
I could see inside. The side nearest the hut that’d been
demolished showed a gapping hole. We decided to enter
through the hole rather than through the flimsy front
door. To my surprise, General Ortega was sitting upright
in the chair I’d had him strapped into. Tears were rolling
down his cheeks. A thin veil of sadness engulfed his exterior
facade, but his pulsating jaw muscles were working overtime.
His anger was boiling over onto the school of hard knocks:
his impoverished childhood.

“Well, General Ortega, you’re a man of your word. Loyal
as they come… Sorry for the mess, but I know you'd
appreciate the little joke we played on you. But, as you
undoubtedly know, you are worth more alive than dead
to us, my friend.”

General Ortega turned his head slowly in the direction
of my voice, and says, “Here’s to your gringo joke!” as he
spit a wad of phlegm next to the toe of my right jungle boot.

I bowed my head and pursed my lips, and replied
soothingly, “That was a mistake, my dear General.
It’s too bad—“

Before I could say anymore, I heard Julie gasp, and
I felt a round cold piece of steel on my neck--just
below my right earlobe.

“Hey, senor, I tink you better not moves,” a Spanish
accent said in broken English.

In Spanish, General Ortega yells, “What the fuck
took you idiots so long to get here! Christ, that could
have been me in that hut!”

I said in a cocky tone, “Come to think of it, General...you’re
right. You should have been in there. My friggin’ mistake!”
And I as usual made another: mistake--opening my
mouth.

General Ortega just glared at me with open
contempt on his face, and says between pulsating
muscles on his irked jaws, “It’s my turn, partner…
Partners...? Isn't that the term you use to refer to
your buddies and friends?! Yeah, it’s about time the
tables were turned. Care for a ride through the
villages of Venezuela behind the stinking ass
of a donkey?”

I swallowed as Julie pleaded, “C’mon, General
Ortega, we’ve got orders. You know the game,
don’t you?”

As his compatriots mingled about, he shouted,
“Would you stupid idiots please untie me? Now…!”

The leader of the commandos said, “General,
we've got our orders… And they include you, sir.”

“What the hell…?!” he said, frustrated. He
then tried desperately to shake the ropes loose,
but couldn't--I’d done the job proper the first time..

With a gleam in his eye, the leader of the commandos
says, “You see, General Ortega, it’s this way: Had you
been nicely blown to smithereens, I wouldn’t be here
right now trying to finish a job that these gringos
screwed up…”

Stomping his boots on the dirt floor, General Ortega
asked gruffly, “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

The head commando raised and lowered his
head, but his black eyes were locked on the general’s
every move.

From behind his mustache, General Ortega curses,
“Bastards…! You fearless sacks of shit!”

I said, hoping to humor the general, “Now is that
anyway to talk to your troops, sir?”

Before I got a reply, my movie screen of life
went to black.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

AN EXPLOSIVE SITUATION: A FICTIONAL BLOG

QUOTE:



SCENE FIVE


Warning: If you are easily shocked with regard to contrary
points of view, conspiracy theories, offensive language,
political correctness, sex, or anything else that may offend
your sensibilities or lack of open-mindedness, or if you're a
minor (but by no means limited to the aforementioned),
please do not read this novel, short story, fictional blog, or
anything else F. Scott Sinclair writes about. It's not for you...


Note: This is a work of fiction. The events described here
are imaginary: the settings, events and characters are
fictitious, and/or are the product of the author's imagination
or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events
or locales or persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.



Copyright © 2006 by F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.





Installment 5 of "The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America"




General Ortega



I found myself on the floor of a mud hut. The stench of
my own blood and body fluids made my eyes open like a
cork popping off of a champagne bottle. I nearly gagged.
The back of my head and ribs felt like a sledge hammer
had pulverized them senseless. As I internally searched
for any broken bones, I attempted to move my arms.
As I did so, I felt the unbearable pain of a weight crushing
my forearm. Was I paralyzed…?! If I were paralyzed,
there wouldn’t be any pain, I thought.


“Good morning, General Ortega,” an unfamiliar
voice spoke out of nowhere.


I tried to move my right arm once more, perhaps
I was experiencing hallucinations. It wouldn’t budge…
As I tried to focus my bloodshot eyes through my
puffy eyelids, I saw the outline of a black boot that
had immobilized my forearm, and said, “Morning. It’s
a bit difficult to shake your hand from where I am.
Please excuse me…”


Stepping down harder, I winced in pain…but tried
to be brave under the circumstances.


“Now, is that anyway to treat a guest in your
country?” the stranger asked.


Tasting the blood from my facial wounds, I choked
and coughed, then said best I could, “If you’d remove
your boot from my arm, I think I could manage to greet
you as you’ve suggested.”


As the stranger removed the sole of his jungle boot,
he said, “Is that better?”


“Yes.”


With a mocking tone, and the stranger said, “That
being the case, let’s start over from scratch. How’s
that sound?”


I raised myself to my knees, and then collapsed.
Seconds later, I awoke to a startling chill. He’d thrown
ice water in my face to revive me.


“As I was saying, General Ortega, I’d like to clear
a few matters up. Sergeant Smith, place our friend
here in the hot seat.”


With drooping eyelids and bloody saliva running
off the corner of my mouth, I said, “I didn’t catch
your name. Care to repeat it?”


Standing with a cane stick in his hand, the stranger
said, “My name is not important. But let’s skip the
formalities and get to the bottom line. Whose side
are you on, General?”


Gasping for air, I said, “Yours, of course…!”


“That’s not what our informants are telling us.
You’re behind the propaganda scheme to defy
American interests, isn’t that correct?”


God, I hope the troops I had deployed get here soon.


“Answer me…!”


As he pounced on my right foot with the heel
of his jungle boot, I shouted, “For Christ’s sake, I
don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!”


“Are you the one who has been behind your
President’s speeches?!”


I cried, “No…!”


The tall stranger in fatigues with his cane in
hand, smacked me across the face, and said,
“That’s bullshit, and you know it. You’d better
come clean, General Ortega…or else. You’ve
received a lot of money under the table, yet
we’re losing the propaganda war. And it’s
because of you, right?!”


I was speechless… My tongue was so swollen,
I couldn’t utter a word.


“Have it your way, General Ortega. But if
there’s a next time, you’d better tell your boss
that if one oil well is blown to smithereens, his
Boy Scout militia of the loyal poor will be annihilated.
Completely…! We’ll, defoliate the forests and
mountains so thoroughly, our satellites will be
able to photograph anyone taking a shit anywhere
in the countryside. Is that understood?”


My head fell forward as I slumped over in
the chair. A dose of smelling salts startled my
senses. His huge fists slapped my face into
submission, but only on the surface. I wasn’t
going to agree to anything, or sign anything.
I’d die before I betrayed our President.


Hearing the frustration of a harsh exhale from
the interrogator, I sensed my doom.


“One last question: Did you instruct your
revered leader to destroy the damn oil fields
if America attacks your country?”


His face neared mine. Our eyeballs were
locked on like a couple of SAM missiles on
radar. “No, damn it!” as I spit in his face.


As he wiped the blood soaked saliva from
his face, he crushed me with a blow of his cane
to my back. I screamed, but the world wasn’t
listening. For god’s sake, I pray my troops
haven’t abandoned me. Were they employed
by the CIA also? Have they betrayed me?


“That’s it…!” the stranger said to a fellow
interrogator who was sitting in the corner
of the hut being amused. “Get a stick of
dynamite and a long fuse…and some petroleum
jelly. We’re doing this by the book, yah hear?”


The other short and stocky interrogator in
the room pulled the toothpick from his lips,
casting it aside, and says, “Real approved torture?”


Gazing at his partner, the main man says,
“Yeah. Just like the president said at the signing
of the anti-torture bill.”


“You’re referring to the lit fuse scenario?”


“Now, you’re coming around. Anyway, get
with the program. I need the stuff now!”


“Gotcha covered, partner.”


It wasn’t more than a couple of minutes before
he returned with the explosive hardware,
and a surprise.


“What did you bring her here for…!”


His aide just shook his shoulders, placing the
requested stuff in the vacated chair, and
then departed.


His boss, my so-called no name CIA case
officer, appeared out of the shadows, and says,
“Let’s talk this over. Okay?”


“There’s nothing to talk over, dear. Got
it sweets? He’s history. Period…!”


She appeared to be a midget next to my
torturer, but she had spunk, and says, “He’s
my asset, not yours. You’ll do this thing my
way. Water boarding is authorized, but not
this. And I don’t give a damn about the
President’s misguided signing. Is that understood?”


The Army Special Forces sergeant looked
on as the verbal battle escalated.


“Sergeant, take our lady friend here to
her quarters where she’ll remain until
extraction from this miserable place.”


Standing her ground, my case officer says,
“You’ll regret this, mister!”


“Take her away. Get her out of my sight.”


“Yes sir,” the sergeant said as he hauled
her away. She struggled, but the sergeant put
a hand over her mouth to hush her up.


Oh, my god, it was Showtime for me…


“General Ortega, I’m sorry you had to
hear all this, but I think you get the picture.
You’ll either give us the itinerary of your
fearless leader for the next month, his
defense plans, et cetera, and confess to
us your part in this propaganda scheme—or
it’s adieus time! Are you ready to meet your
maker? Do you have the humor and the
courage of an Art Buchwald?!”


I lifted my head proudly, and smiled
the best Art Buchwald smile I could manage,
and said, “You bet… I’m ready, if you are?”


Pissed, he grabbed the fuse and lubricated
it with petroleum jelly and crammed it up my ass.
“Jesus H. Christ…!”


He just smiled with contempt, and says,
“Just think how it would feel without petroleum jelly?”


I felt and got the picture at the same time.
Not comforting thoughts, as I watched him
attached the short fuse to the inside of the
stick of dynamite, and joined the other longer
fuse together with the short one.


He wiggled the shitty end of the fuse so
I’d remember that I was attached to the
forthcoming explosion, and says curtly,
“Here’s to you, General Ortega. I’ll be outside
if you change your mind. Just say the word,
and we’ll dowse the fuse. But if you’re bluffing,
you won’t be for long…”


I just nodded my head, and said, “Get it over with…!”


Shaking his head, the interrogator lit the
fuse and summarily walked out of the hut.
My ass was in his hands: figuratively and literally.
I could feel the shaft of his middle finger
scratching my hemorrhoids. I closed my eyes,
viewing the last slideshow I'd ever see in this life.
As my life passed before my eyes, I saw my
beloved family waving as though they knew that
this was my last day on earth. I trembled like
a condemned prisoner before the gas pellets
were ignited in the gas chamber. I saw the fuse
burning as it roared towards my ass...! I
turned my head away as the flame approached
the dynamite, taking my last breath...

**************************************************
QUOTE:

A CONVENIENT (I HOPE) TABLE OF CONTENTS
OF F. SCOTT SINCLAIR'S NOVELS, ET CETERA
ON THIS BLOG

**************************************************

Saturday, November 14, 2009

THE FUTURE LOOKS DEPRESSING: A FICTIONAL BLOG

QUOTE:


Warning: If you are easily shocked with regard to contrary
points of view, conspiracy theories, offensive language,
political correctness, sex, violence, or anything else that
may offend your sensibilities or lack of open-mindedness,
or if you're a minor (but by no means limited to the
aforementioned), please do not read this novel, short story,
fictional blog, or anything else F. Scott Sinclair writes about.
It's not for you...

Note: This is a work of fiction. The events described here
are imaginary: the settings, events and characters are
fictitious, and/or are the product of the author's imagination
or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events
or locales or persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.


Copyright © 2006 by F. Scott Sinclair.


All Rights Reserved.



Installment 4 of "The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America"


Before Luther James and Paul Krugar crossed the wooden
threshold of Larry’s Tavern, they stomped their feet on
the plastic mesh “Welcome” mat. The snow peeled off the
sides of their boots like a fish being filleted.

As the oak door opened, the owner Larry Stevens greets
them. “Well, if you two aren’t a sight…! You two look like
death warmed over.”

Paul glared in Larry’s direction, and says dryly, “You
do know what you can do with that beer glass when you’ve
finished drying it?”

Larry placed the concaved glass down on the bar, and
then nonchalantly draped the towel over his left forearm,
and says, “No… What?”

“You can stick it where the moon don’t shine…!”

“Now is that anyway to treat our friend, Larry, here…,”
Luther said, tapping Paul on the shoulder.

Annoyed, Paul says, “If you don’t stop touching me,
that broom handle in the corner might be your undoing,
ole buddy.”

“Ah, Paul, snap out of it…,” Larry said, placing two
draft beers on the counter.

With a slight whimsical expression, Paul chuckles,
and says, “Now that’s right neighborly if I don’t
say-so myself.”

“I thought a couple of free brews might give you
guys a partial attitude adjustment.”

“A partial attitude adjustment?” Luther quips,
leaning against the bar.

The other patrons could only sit by in amusement
as Larry’s favorite customers verbally dueled with him.

One such patron, Ron Norwood, asked, “You guys
up to no-good as always?”

“Well, Red—“

“The name’s, Ron, to you two,” Ron spouted almost
instinctively, raising his bottle of “Coors” upward in a
symbolic gesture of a toast.

Paul pushed himself back from the counter, raising
his glass of white capped yellow brew in the air, and adds,
“To you, Red. And the horse you road in on… But most
importantly, I’d like to toast to our future. How does that
sound, partner?!”

“Like you’re up to something, as always…,” Ron said,
slamming his Coors on the bar dramatically.

Paul turned to Luther, and then glances shyly into
Larry’s eyes, and says, “Care to arm wrestle, Red?”

“What…?”

“You heard me. You’re a muscular, dude… And with
the way the country is heading, you’re likely to need the cash.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The next Great American Depression, that’s what I’m
referring to…!”

With almost a stoic stare, Red, as he’s affectionately called,
says, “I wouldn’t want to bankrupt you before this so-called
Great American Depression hits!”

Luther interrupts, and says, “You afraid of the truth,
partner?”

“Who pulled your chain?” Red said, gulping down the
last of his Coors.

Larry stepped between them, and with a deadpan look,
says, “That’s enough. Things are bad enough in the country
without this sort of horseplay. So, cut it out!”

“Yes, sir. Whatever you say… But in all good conscience
I must request permission to speak freely, sir,” Paul said
sarcastically, standing erect as though he was still back in
the military.

Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Larry says,
“Permission granted…”

“Good. Fuck you…!”

Bursting out loud in a roaring chuckle, Larry says,
“That’s what I like about you, Paul.”

“And what may I ask is that?”

“What I like about you?”

“Yeah…”

With a shiteating grin, he says, “Nothing…!”

Red roared and ordered another Coors after those words.

Feigning defeat, Paul grabbed both beers…steering
Luther towards a booth in the far corner of the tavern.

As they sat down opposite each other with a formica
table between them, Luther asked, “What was all that about?”

“I was having a little fun, that’s all…”

“At whose expense, ole boy?”

“Doesn’t matter, no how,” Paul said, his head tilted
in the direction of the bar.

“I know you’re down, so it does matter. What’s the
problem? Why the grudge?”

He pursed his lips casually, and then turned toward
Luke, and says, “Grudge? I don’t have the faintest idea
of what you’re talking about.”

“You may be able to bullshit the peanut gallery.
But I’m not the peanut gallery. You’re pissed at the
where the country’s heading, except there’s more
to it than that, isn’t there?”

“You my shrink, or what?”

Before Luke could respond, Paul had smashed
his empty glass against the floor and pushed the
Formica table toward Luther.

Sensing the outrage in Paul’s eyes and the tension
permeating every fiber of Paul’s body, he says,
“C’mon, man. Christ, get the shit out in the open!
Holding it inside you is taking a toll. You’re killing
yourself! Trust me on this, will yah?”

Larry scooted over to their booth hastily with
the ears and eyes of the others patrons following his
every step, and says gasping for breath, “What in the
hell’s going on? I’ve got a damn business to run. I’ve
no time to baby-sit a couple of losers.”

“I’d watch what you say, Larry. This isn’t the
time or place to admonish anyone. Anyway, there’s
no problem. He accidentally knocked the glass off
the table.”

“An accident…?”

Pissed at the interrogation, Paul grits his teeth,
and says, “Yeah, a fucking accident! You act as
though you don’t understand the English language.”

“What I don’t understand is…you!”

“Neither do I, sometimes…! So there… Satisfied?”
Paul shot back.

“Enough already! Let’s call a truce, okay?”
Luther said in a strained whisper, looking about
the room at all those curious eyes.

“An accident? Okay, I’ll buy it this time.
Straighten up, or else. You got that, partner?
I like you, but I’ve got a business and reputation
to protect.”

“Understood. Bring us a couple more beers.
Make that a pitcher of beer and a couple of glasses,”
Paul said, looking Larry straight in the eyes.

Without saying another word, Larry nodded his head.

“Thanks for sticking up for me.”

Luther folded his arms, resting them on the table,
and asks, “Well, what’s the matter?”

“Do you see those goddamn eyes pointing in
this direction?”

“Yeah. So what?”

With his eyes staring down at his new glass of
beer, he says, “The walls have ears?”

“Ah, the eavesdropping shit really is eating at
you, isn’t it?”

“No shit, Sherlock! Christ, you can’t do anything
without looking over your friggin’ shoulder. I fought
in Vietnam for freedom! I wouldn’t call having your
email, snail mail, personal records, library records,
and God only knows what else, read: freedom! Do
you call this Orwellian bull freedom? If that’s some
kind of an American joke, the joke is on us!”

Holding his breath, Luther stared at the cracked
ceiling, and says, “I understand…”

“Do you…? I don’t think so— You’ve never been
forced to do your country’s dirty work. Have you…?”

“What does not being in the military got to do
with anything?”

After a moments pregnant pause, Paul shouts
in a hushed whisper, “Everything!”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, until you’ve put your friggin’ life
on the line for your country, you don’t know
what the hell freedom is all about.”

Shrugging his shoulders with frustration, Luther
says, “Lay it on me…”

Lifting his brow and eyes simultaneously in
Luther’s direction, he says, “Ever been told what
to do morning until night?”

“Like a prisoner?”

“Yeah… Like a prisoner.”

“No.”

“Have you ever wanted to tell someone to go
fuck themselves?”

“Sure. Almost daily.”

“Well, when you’ve been forced into Uncle Sam’s
army you have to keep those feelings bottled up,
or suffer the consequences.”

“Jail time, eh,” Luther said, as he glanced at the
local Western band which was setting up for their first
gig. The lights were dimmed for effect which made their
conversation seem even more sinister.

Slumped on the booth’s shabby cushion, Paul replied,
“Something like that.”

“So when your released from active duty, you feel
you’ve done your time, so to speak.”

“More than that… Especially when you’ve put your
life on the line; and then you find out that your employer
“Uncle Sam” thinks you're expendable.”

“Expendable…?”

“Yeah. Your SSI’s (special security instructions)
state without mixing damn words that you’re expendable;
it lets you know that your country doesn’t give a shit
whether you live or die. Pure and simple… You mean
nothing to your government. Yet you’re taught to love
your country from the moment your ass is slapped
at birth. So, if you think I’m bitter. You’re fucking
right I am!”

“And it doesn’t wash that your fellow Americans
are giving away the Constitution, right?”

“Damn right, it doesn’t wash! What’s worse,
the arrogant bastards act like they’re so damn brave;
yet if they’re asked to fight for their country, or
at least stand up and be counted in preserving our
freedom: they won’t. I say, bring back the draft.
That’ll make this stupid war come to an end willy-nilly,
if you ask me.”

“Doing your duty while others got married,
got deferments, ran off to Canada, etc. and being
called a baby killer at the time has put you at your
wits end, huh?” Luther said, shifting nervously in his
seat. He was nervous because he fit that mold Paul
was forming.

“And not only that… These anti-war bastards
of our generation won’t even lift a goddamn finger
to protect our rights that this sorry-ass president and
thugs have stolen from us overnight! With or without
the Patriot Act, the powers that be can’t even keep
twelve million illegal aliens from entering the country.
If that’s true, you tell me how they’re going to stop a
handful of terrorist from entering the country?
Answer me that…? And the former “Make Love
Not War” gang have done nothing but squander
the national treasury, trashed the Constitution, and
every other right I thought I ever had. And then
they lie about it! And for what? A fictional 9/11 and
WMD’s? A war for oil is more like it. Where are the
idealists of our generation when you need them?”

Shaking his head in agreement, Luther says,
“Sold themselves to the highest bidder, I’m afraid.
They’re probable drinking mint juleps and basking
in the sun somewhere, oblivious to the Fall of the
American Empire.”

“You’ve got that right! My generation has sold
themselves out…and the country. And their children
are no damn better. Without having to go into the
military, they could give a shit less about America.
I don’t blame them for not wanting to go to Iraq,
but their complacence is only extending the miserable
war on terrorism, and emboldening our misguided
leaders. And all of our freedoms are at risk as long
as the lunatics at the helm are still in control. At
least Americans could learn to vote with some
sort of intelligence!”

With a sly smirk, Luther leans forward in the
shadowy booth, and says, “And it would help if the
voting machines would count their votes.”

“Or at least give their votes to the candidates
they voted for. Christ, exit polls have always been
reliable. But not anymore…”

“That’s true… They validate paper ballots, but
not electronic ballots. Am I missing something?”

Laughing under his breath, Luther quips,
“I’m afraid not…”

The sheer intensity of Paul’s rage made his
face beet red, as he says, “And what really makes
me go off the deep end is when I hear lies spewing
from the lips of those who govern us. We’re treated
like criminals if we J-walk. But not our masters,
or illegal aliens! If our president starts a war for a
no good reason that kills untold numbers of people
on both sides, he gets a slap on the hand—if that.”

“And the illegal aliens get citizenship! Jesus,
and what do we get?”

“Tickets and a criminal record for parking
violations, J-walking, vagrancy, speeding, demonstrating
without a permit, or some other crap! Where’s the justice,
man? Pure unadulterated bullshit… Hypocrisy!
Our government can lie, cheat, entrap, coerce, kidnap,
intimidate, murder, incarcerate innocent people, start
illegal wars, torture, eavesdrop on Americans illegally,
invade our privacy at will, amongst other wrongdoing—and
fucking get away with it. But you and I can’t spit on the
sidewalk without feeling guilty! And our so-called leaders
want to export this shit in the name of democracy?!
Give me a flipping break… Did I fight for freedon?!
Hell no…! Did I fight for fascism? Hell, yes…! Or so
it seems… It sounds like World War II was a waste,
if that’s the case.”

After taking the last gulp of his draft beer,
Luther sets the glass down on the table, and says,
“Do you feel better now that you’ve gotten
everything off your chest?”

With a gleam in his eye, Paul says, “Fucking-A right…!”

They laughed at the truth of those words. They
paid the tab, put their coats on, and otherwise
prepared to go outside to engage the cruel weather.
Better cruel weather than cruel leaders, they
thought collectively. After opening the tavern’s
front door, they were greeted by a gust of wind
that instantly burned their faces. As the sound
of the tavern’s door abated from behind, howling
gusts of snow blew them into the parking lot
where their cab was waiting.

It turns out that Luther had unwittingly
become the psychotherapist, and Paul the
patient. What are friends for anyway? Luther
thought as the taxi left the parking lot.

“What did you say, Luther?”

Startled, and wondering if he’d
inadvertently talked out loud to himself,
he says with a blush, “Oh, nothing. Nothing at all…”

Sunday, November 08, 2009

THE TRUTH, GENERAL...! A FICTIONAL BLOG

QUOTE:

Warning: If you are easily shocked with regard to contrary
points of view, conspiracy theories, offensive language, political
correctness, sex, violence, or anything else that may offend your
sensibilities or lack of open-mindedness, or if you're a minor
(but by no means limited to the aforementioned), please do
not read this novel. It's not for you...

Note: This is a work of fiction. The events described here are
imaginary: the settings, events and characters are fictitious,
and/or are the product of the author's imagination or used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or locales
or persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.


Copyright © 2006 by F. Scott Sinclair.


All Rights Reserved.



General Ortega


A misty fog seemed to have enveloped the jungle
canopy of the remote village that I was supposed to
rendezvous with my CIA case officer. The popping
sound of the Huey's blades gave me the willies at
this early hour of 2.00 a.m. But that’s the time she
wanted to meet, so here we are… In the middle of
nowhere, and it was near pitch black down below.

I tapped my pilot on the shoulder and pointed
downward, and said into my headset, “This looks
like the village. Take her in.”

The pilot sounded a bit rattled, as he said, “Not from
this direction you won’t, sir. South by Southwest is the only
approach I’ll make towards landing this bug on its pad
below. If I come in any other way, we won’t see daylight.
And that I promise you…”

He turned his head at an angle, and our eyes met
briefly. I could see the sincerity written all over his face,
and knew instantly that I’d better follow his lead. He
knows something I don’t. I nodded my head in concurrence.

As we swept in from the South, the jungle canopy
whisked by like telephone poles I remember counting as
a youth from the car window on vacations. I almost thought
the pilot was going to make me slide down a rope through the
trees to ground level. But he spared me the pleasure of an
exhilarating experience of fear at its worst.

When the skids touched the dirt road, I was immediately
greeted by half a dozen gringo's and my female controller.

“Welcome to our little haven in your neck of the woods,
General!” my no name CIA officer said.

We were both partially crouched over trying not to get
decapitated by the Huey’s rotor blades, as I extended my
hand. Feeling her chilled and moist hand didn’t make me
feel too secure, as the debris from the dirt road swirled about
making it difficult to get one’s bearings. I said, “Let’s get
moving before we wake up the whole neighborhood!”

See tugged at my rolled up shirt sleeves, and says,
“This way, General.”

I eyed the camouflaged jeep in the distance, and asked,
“Did you get my message about the proposed timing of the
assassination attempt on our dear friend in high places?”

She acted as though what I’d said went in one ear and
out the other. She was ignoring me. But why?

As we reached the roofless jeep in the near pitch black
of early morning, with crickets and other bugs of night
sounding their melodic drums of panic, I leaned against
the armored door, and said. “You haven’t answered my
question, Julie.”

Her neck and jaw in unison slowly turned in my direction.
The moon’s glow reflecting off her blue eyes in the still of
the night, as she said with pursed lips, “How’d you find
out my name, General? Are their loose lips on your side
of our bargain, or what?”

“Not exactly…,” I said, knowing that I’d gone too far.

“I like surprises, General. But not those kind of surprises.
We had an agreement to remain anonymous. That was the
deal, wasn’t it?"

How could I disagree?

“You’re right of course… Sometimes an intelligence
officer likes to convey a sign that information isn’t as
secure as you’d like it. And that maybe there’s someone
on your staff who’s loyalty isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.”

She waved her hand in the direction of the jeep, and said,
“Your point has been made and registered. Now, get in this
so-called limo of ours, if you don't mind. Because I’ve got a
few questions I want answers to, General.”

Sometimes getting too friendly with the help isn’t very
healthy indeed, I thought. “And where may I ask are we headed?”

Julie didn’t even glance in my direction. She kept her
eyes on the road and her hands on the wheel of the jeep.
Moments later we arrived at a deserted outpost, about
5 kilometers from the main village.

As she turned off the engine, she snapped her fingers
and four mercenary soldiers appeared out of nowhere,
surrounding the jeep.

“Take his bags to the storeroom.”

“To the storeroom… Why?”

At first she was looking down at the steering wheel,
but then her eyes and head shifted slowly in my direction.
I could sense a suppressed rage beneath the veneer, as she
replied, “Because you won’t be needing them where you’re
goinin'.”

“Meaning…?” I said, fearing for my life.

She opened the driver’s side door and jumped out,
and said, “You’ll find out soon enough. I hate to ruin a party.
But at this party, you’re the only one invited. How does
that sound?”

My mouth became dry and my lips a bit parched, as I asked,
“It’s not my birthday today.”

She smiled faintly, and said, “Take him inside. I’ll be with
you in a couple of minutes. I need to prepare for the—how
would you term it—a Halloween party of sorts. But I don’t
want to give away the surprise. Take him away.”

“I thought our meeting was going to be about finalizing
the assassination attempt on my fearless leader? What’s
going on here? I demand to know...!“

Abruptly, Julie twisted around, facing me nose to nose. Her
straight nose and blond hair touched my Spanish features,
and says, “A change of plans. Got it?!”

Before I could reply, one of the mercenaries crammed
a handkerchief into my mouth. Only my muzzled grunts
and groans could be heard as they dragged me away.
Struggling didn’t help. After several blows to my kidneys
with a baton, or stick, I was knocked into unconsciousness.

Tuesday, November 03, 2009

This is a Free Country, isn’t it? Right…: Installment 2 of "The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America"

QUOTE:


Warning: If you are easily shocked with regard to contrary
points of view, conspiracy theories, offensive language, political
correctness, sex, or anything else that may offend your
sensibilities or lack of open-mindedness, or if you're a minor
(but by no means limited to the aforementioned), please
do not read this novel. It's not for you...

Note: This is a work of fiction. The events described here
are imaginary: the settings, events and characters are
fictitious, and/or are the product of the author's imagination
or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events
or locales or persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.




Copyright © 2006 by F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.



This is a Free Country, isn’t it? Right…: Installment 2 of
"The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America."


By F. Scott Sinclair





Paul Krugar


Luther James and I scurried into the backseat of the taxi cab. Snow fell inside as I shut the rear car door. The caked snow on my boots began melting as the cab’s heater was working overtime. Even though the sky was overcast, the sun appeared to be wanting to penetrate the ice cold cloud cover. But to no avail…

“Paul,” Luther said, with a foggy mist of smoke-like vapor spewing from his lips, “these are difficult times for you, aren’t they?”

“And you…?”

As our eyes met, he had a glint of luster in those deceptive eyes of his, as he responded, “Me too… It’s as though the Russians have become us, and we’ve become them.”

“Yeah, isn’t that the truth. Hey, look over there! There are at least four policemen kicking and shoving a woman up against that concrete wall, near that bus stop. Christ, now I’ve seen everything…!”

With a slight smirk on his face, Luther says, “Yeah and she’s probably wearing a sweat shirt that says: 2245 Dead. How Many More?…on it.”

I grabbed Luther’s arm, and said, “Stop the cab, damn it! We've got to find out why there’s four against one woman. Not at all a flat playing field I’d say. C’mon?!”

Luther pushed me against the backseat, his foul breath engulfed my nostrils, and says, “You don’t know what you’re up against, do yah?”

“C’mon… I just want to see what all the excitements about. The Gestapo is out there, my friend, if that’s what you’re referring to. Is it? Out with it…!”

He took a deep breath, and contained himself. As he released his paws from my parka, he said hoarsely, “Something like that. And it isn’t a pretty sight.”

“You speaking of Cindy? Then you’re right. She’s lost a son and all the rights and freedoms she thought her son died for. And not just her; they’re thousands of parents whose children--and they themselves--who’ve been duped.”

Immediately, Luther placed his index finger to his pursed lips, shaking his head no. I got the message. The walls have ears, especially cab drivers. They’ve the biggest ears of all. And if this dude driving this pile of shit was a friend of the Man in the White House, our ass’s would be hurtin’.

“Got the picture, ole buddy,” I said, as I saw the cab driver glance into the rearview mirror a little too suspiciously. I should’ve learned to keep my damn mouth in the closed position after the news of the illegal spying by the feds on its own citizens without a warrant. But having been brought up on a lie—freedom of speech—I was too dumb, or more than likely too propagandized...to stop opening my trap at this late date.

I’d forgotten about the police brutality that appeared to be going as we spoke, as we drove by the scene of the crime. Another government crime at that… I felt like the foxes were running and guarding the henhouse: America and the People (chickens) in it. In other words, those who are above the law can J-walk without being arrested; while the rest of us lowlifes are treated like the worst sort of vermin that walks the earth for doing the same thing. America is lost, I thought, as we rounded the icy corner and plowed towards the entrance to Larry’s Tavern.

The driver turned, and says, “That’ll be $9.50 and some change.”

Some change…? Christ, a fucking tip. As I started to hand him--or was it a her?--the exact change, my eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. Jesus, the cap on the driver's head had floppy ears that drooped over the sides of the driver’s face, and the dark glasses on the bridge of the driver's nose didn’t make the identification process any easier. I'd failed to listen to his or her voice at the outset. But when I handed the driver the ten spot, I noticed pearl colored nail polish on her fingertips. What a relief to have answered that unknown fact: gender, even if only for curiosity's sake.

Luther says, “I’ll get the tab for the return trip.”

I nodded as we proceeded towards the entrance to Larry’s Tavern on 1st Street and Magnolia Avenue in the city of X.

Thursday, October 29, 2009

IRAN: A FICTIONAL BLOG--Installment 1 of "The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America"

QUOTE:


Warning: If you are easily shocked with regard to contrary
points of view, conspiracy theories, offensive language,
political correctness, sex, or anything else that may offend
your sensibilities or lack of open-mindedness, or if you're a
minor (but by no means limited to the aforementioned), please
do not read this novel, short story, fictional blog, or anything
else F. Scott Sinclair writes about. It's not for you...

Note: This is a work of fiction. The events described here
are imaginary: the settings, events and characters are
fictitious, and/or are the product of the author's imagination
or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events
or locales or persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.


Copyright © 2006 by F. Scott Sinclair.


All Rights Reserved.



Iran: A Fictional Blog



By F. Scott Sinclair



Paul Krugar



I couldn’t get the news I read on the Internet about the
euros for oil bourse out of my thoughts. Knowing that
Iran was the next government target on its worldwide
war on terrorism, I clinched my right fist, smashing it
against the steam radiator. “Jesus Christ…!”


My outburst could be heard beyond the confines of my
small bachelor apartment. I heard a knock at the door,
as words of concern seemed to walk through the door
like an apparition. “Paul, are you okay?”

“James, is that you?”

“Well, it taint the Crown Prince of Crawford.”

Happy to hear a familiar and concerned voice, I asked
Luther James to come in and have a seat. I returned to
my oak rocker in front of the bay window.“I’m sorry to
bother you, Luther. But things are getting me down…”

He leaned forward on the edge of the couch, and asks,
“Are you still concerned by the warantless eavesdropping
that the president authorized?”

“Nope. Not to say that that’s not a concern of mine, and
every other American. The walls, and everything else,
having ears makes one feel like they’re living in a
Communist country. But what really bothers me is Iran.”

“The next target on the Axis of Evil checklist, huh?”
Luther asks, as he thumbed through a magazine on the
coffee table.

Still internally shocked by the implications of the near
done-deal to attack Iran, I said, “Look. This thing has
gotten out of hand.”

Placing the magazine back in the rack next to the
mahogany coffee table, Luther looks up and straight
into my eyes, and says, “You’ve been reading too much
into the Iranian affair, don’t you think?”

I stood up before the frosted window, watching my
hot breath make condensation balls on the panes of
glass before me, and answered, “I don’t see it that way.
What I see are a couple of overblown egos at work.”

“How so…?”

“Both of these so-called fearless leaders have something
to gain, and a lot to lose too.”

Joining me at the window, Luther gazed at the drifting
flakes of snow as they passed before the window, and asked,
“Such as…?”

“If these articles are to be believed, we’re not going to
attack Iran because they’re in the process of developing
a nuclear bomb.”

“The big Iraq WMD lies again?”

“Something like that, so they say. But I need proof, not just
a conspiracy theory to crack the truth barrier.”

“What about Iran… What do they have to gain by being
obstinate by not cooperating?”

With a sinister smirk, I said, “Prestige and power. Defiance
is the ultimate Weapon of Mass Destruction and popularity
in the region. And that’s a problem for this administration also.”

He countered, “Yeah, any opposition to our so-called
Evil Empire means instant popularity and support.”

I couldn’t help interjecting, “Yup… An instantaneous coalition
of the masses that’ll blow the lid off of Iraq, not just Iran.”

Luther went back to the couch, and replied, “Literally, I’m afraid.
We’d be lucky to escape with our asses intact. That’s for sure…!”

With an intellectual frown, and furrowed brow, I said, “Things
don’t look good. But really, all that both sides have to do…is be a
little conciliatory, that’s all...”

A blank stare met my eyes, “Meaning?”

“Perhaps it means that Washington should back off its threat
of bombing Iran’s nuclear facilities if Iran turns their nuclear
power program over to third parties. Yes, Iran must pay the
freight of the program. But the powers that be can’t say a
damned word about an Iranian threat of developing a bomb
in that case. A cooperative of multinational companies, who’ll
pool their ingenuity and expertise…and build Iran its power
plants.”

An appalled look enveloped Luther’s mug, as he said in almost
a whisper, “Your plan…is that simple?”

“Precisely… And we’ll in turn find out two things.”

That blank look appeared again out of nowhere.
“And what are they?”

“We’ll know immediately who the liar or liars are…”

“C’mon, get a life. No way, Jose.”

“Want a bet…? If our country refuses the offer, it’s attacking
for sinister reasons.”

“To stop the euros for oil bourse?”

“Could be… That, or simply oil. But since we’re overextended
in Iraq, and the euros for oil bourse is coming online in
the next couple of months, I’d say that’s as good a reason
as any to terminate the euros for oil program. And
then again, I wouldn't want to underestimate the
political rationale for attacking Iran just before the
upcoming midterm elections in the House. ”

“A smoke screen. Of course…”

"Or a distracton..."

Luther's eye beamed with insightful glee, and says, "Yeah...!"

I turned in Luther’s direction, taking a sip of cold
coffee in the process. As I placed the cup and saucer
back on the TV tray, I said, “One of many we’ve seen
over the last four years. Whatever this administration
wants, it asks for more power for credible reasons; but
their real sinister reason lies below the surface.”

“Like the alleged illegal warrantless eavesdropping
on Americans issue?” Luther said.

“Right. They say it’s for a good reason: to stop
terrorism here at home. But in reality, they’re
probably up to no good in my estimation.”

“With the likes of what we’ve seen so far, I wouldn’t
trust them as far as I could throw them.”

“I’ll second that motion…”

Luther put his feet atop the coffee table, relaxed
as can be and says, “And Iran?”

“If it fails to take up the offer, then that means
they’re developing what Washington says they’re
producing: nuclear weapons. Or they’re just crazy,
and want to challenge the powers that be…and hope
for the best. Power and prestige are strange bedfellows,
don’t you think?” I said with an intimidating gaze
in Luther’s direction.

“Strange bedfellows, indeed. Good god, this whole
thing might blow up in our faces?!”

“Or theirs… Needless to say, if the doomsday folks
are right, then America is on the brink of collapse.”

“And that accounts for the president’s weird, if not
somewhat maniacal and arrogant behavior?”

“They could be desperate because if the dollar
reserves is the primary issue, time is of the essence, my friend.
If there’s an imperialist empire grab in the offering,
then what’s been said about this administration is
the truth. But if Washington takes up the offer of a
cooling off period, and decides to allow third parties
to construct the nuclear plants that Iran has a right to
have; then I believe one-hundred percent in the integrity
of our government.”

“In other words, put up or shut up, huh?” he said,
tossing his head back into the cushion.

“That goes both ways, Luther. For Iran or our government…”

As he removed his stocking feet from the coffee table,
he says, “Now that we’ve solved all the world’s problems,
how about a beer or two at Larry’s Tavern. The beer’s
on me. What do you say…?”

“Sounds good to me, ole buddy.” I couldn’t turn him
down. He’d listened to this moron long enough. It was
my turn to listen to him. God knows he’d talk my head
off after a couple of brews. I gathered up my parka to
fight off the near zero degree weather outside, and then
waited in the hall while Luther grabbed his parka. We
departed for something that would erase the depression
I was feeling, and would warm the blood in the process.
A couple of beers were about to fill those needs as we
departed our apartment complex. As the wind burned
our faces, Luther hailed a taxi and we were on our way...

******************************************************
"YES HE WOULD" BY PAUL KRUGMAN SPEAKS
DIRECTLY TO THE ISSUE: OUR NEXT POTENTIAL
WAR ON THE MENU...IRAN. MR. KRUGMAN DOESN'T
MIX ANY WORDS. A MUST READ

QUOTE:

Paul Krugman:

Yes He Would

***************************************************
QUOTE:

New York Times:

Military Fantasies on Iran

***************************************************
QUOTE:

Greg Palast:

Gangster Government

***************************************************
QUOTE:

John F. Ince:

Crumbling Under Debt

****************************************************
QUOTE:

Teeing Off Online

By Art Buchwald

***************************************************
QUOTE:

The Bench Press

By Art Buchwald

***************************************************
QUOTE:

Social Insecurity

By Art Buchwald

****************************************************
QUOTE:

Reading, Writing, Arithmetic

Andy Rooney says thanks to new emphasis on reading
and math in schools, other subjects may be getting neglected
and he wonders whether, in the process, we are raising a
generation of "cultural idiots." More...

******************************************************
QUOTE:

Late Night Political Jokes - Late Night Jokes Updated Daily

******************************************************