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.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
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
**************************************************
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…”
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.
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.
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.
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