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
*************************************************
Thursday, December 24, 2009
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
**************************************************
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
***********************************************************
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
****************************************************
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.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
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.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
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