Thursday, January 14, 2010



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

Scene Twelve of the Serialization of "The Walls Have Ears:
A Novel of America"

By F. Scott Sinclair

CIA Case Officer: Ken Kendall

The world seemed to be turning around before my
eyes. As I opened my eyes slowly, the cubicle size
cell they’d dumped me in spun around like a world
globe that used to adorn my high school history teacher’s
desk. But the big difference was: I felt like I was on
the inside of the globe, and the world was spinning
around me. The only way I could extinguish the
nauseous movement was by closing my eyes. Suddenly
I remembered that someone had poured ice water
on my naked body, and my ears felt like they were
full of sloshing water. At that instant, I knew what
the problem was. The dingy and stained cement cell
walls were swirling around me because of an inner
ear infection, no doubt. There’ve only been two causes
of whirling ceilings and walls in my life. Once was when
I came off of a three day drinking binge on R and R in
Bangkok. And the other time was when I collapsed on
the carpet in the living room of my apartment for no
apparent reason. The latter experience was due to an
inner ear infection.

As I twisted on the shiny cement floor, the waves of
water that engulfed my inner ear from last night’s
waterboarding session caused me to roll over on my
back. My eyes remained in the closed and wincing position.
Before I could gather my wits about me, the cell door opened.

Abruptly a halogen light was turned on. I thought it
was the Fourth of July after being denied any sort of
light for nearly three days except for the natural light
that crept through the cracks in the walls and doors.
As I placed my hands over my eyes, a Spanish accented
male says, “How are you, Ken...?”

He said my name! What kind of psychological game is
this pervert trying to play? The good guy...bad guy
routine? No doubt..., I thought.

I kept my eyes shut; the intense light nearly burned
them out of their sockets. Before I could get my thoughts
together, the interrogator says, “Silence won’t get us
anywhere, Ken. You know that from your experience
with torture, don’t you?”

Yes, the truth hurt. But silence was the only game in town.
Once I opened my mouth, the game was lost. They could
tape my babbling statements and do whatever they felt like
with my words. If I talked long enough—coherently or
incoherently—they’d have enough of my own words to
compile a confession of my wrongdoing.

“We can do this the easy way, Ken...or the hard way. The
ball is in your court, my friend.”

I was so cold from the waterboarding I’d gone under last
night, I was shaking in my birthday suit. The air conditioning
unit made sure of that. I felt my bowels move, the stench
nearly choking me to death.

“Piss on you then, Kenny boy. I have a couple of friends
outside who are full of piss and vinegar—literally. If you
change your mind, you know how to reach me, don’t you?
That’s right, just open your little old mouth, Ken. That’s
all there is to it. And I’ll be down here to take your confession
like a fly on shit. Got it...?!”

The stranger kicked my kidneys and I felt warm urine
flowing over my thighs as I huddled in the fetal position
in the middle of the cell.

So I wouldn’t provoke my good guy interrogator, I nodded
and nearly passed out.

“Fucking hell...!” I screamed as the good guy yanked my
hair from their roots.

As my head was drawn backward like the string of a bow,
he said, “Now for the bad guys, Ken!”

As he left the cell, I heard him say in Spanish, “He’s all yours...”

I thought I heard the growling of a couple of dogs outside
the cell. Before I knew it, I heard footsteps and the heavy
breathing of a couple of dogs. Still unable to open my eyes,
I couldn’t detect what was going on.

“Okay, Salvadore, it’s your turn,” a husky voice said. To
whom, I couldn’t tell.

“That’s a good boy...,” another monotone male voice said.

And then I realized a warm sensation on my back. Christ,
it must be one of the dogs taking a piss, on me! My stomach
curdled and I almost vomited.

As I squirmed with anguish on my face, the husky voice said,
“We can’t seem to find any toilets around here. That bucket
would do, but I know you need that for your food. We wouldn’t
want to louse up your mess kit, now would we?”

Yeah, the friggin’ shit and piss bucket?! You assholes...! Don’t
you have any decency? I shouted out loud inside my
cranium—what was left of it, that is...

“We’ve got your lunch ready. It’s sitting outside on a tray. How
does the Colonel’s finger licking chicken sound? If you just
open your mouth a teeny-weeny bit, it’s yours for the asking.
On the other hand, if you don’t care to be cooperative, we
can accommodate you with the prison specialty: shit on a
shingle...! It’s one of my favorite dishes. Creamed gravy with
ground hamburger over toast. How does that sound? But
since there’s a shortage of meat in Venezuela, we thought
cockroaches might be more to your liking—or how about
maggots? They’re delicious...! Ever tried them? Yummy,
if I say so myself, especially when they’re seasoned and fried
in oil. And what’s on the menu for dessert? Well, we’re going
to give that to you Chinese style. What’s a Chinese style dessert?
You eat the dessert first, not last. And your silence has made
the choice easy... You’ve chosen the prison special that’s been
approved by the new retroactive American standards for
torture under the provisions of the Geneva Convention.
Enjoy your lunch!”

As curious as I was, I couldn’t part my swollen eyes. My
head still swarmed with nausea as I felt streams of hot liquid
again on my back, legs, and head. Piss...?!

“That’s your dessert. In a few minutes, we’ll bring you the
main menu: SOS—or shit on the shingle, as it’s so aptly called.”

His words drifted away as my thoughts faded away towards blackness.

Monday, January 04, 2010



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

Scene Eleven of "The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America"

Venezuelan President: Humberto Sanchez

The palace that ingratiated my workplace with solid
brass gleaming everywhere, and Persian rugs
beneath my stocking feet, provided all the comforts
that I’d sought all my life. And now it was time to
pay back those who’ve made this all possible: my
constituency, the poor people of Venezuela. Even
the brown leather high-backed executive chair
brought back fond memories of my military days.
As the mellow yellow marble walls began to
mesmerize my thoughts, the intercom sounded its
insistent sound of urgency. Reaching over the
deluxe leather daily planner, I pressed the intercom’s
button, and said, “Yes, Sonia... What is it?”

With a marked hesitancy in her voice, she whispered,
“A couple of friends of yours are outside. They’d
like you to accompany them to parts unknown.”

“Send them in...,” I said, knowing by her words
that the assassination team that America had sent
down to eliminate me had been neutralized.

I got up and walked towards the twin mahogany
doors to greet my heroes, but Sonia had opened
the double doors before I could get there, and says,
“President Sanchez, I’d like you to meet—“

“Let’s dispense with the formalities. I’ve worked
with these patriots for over a decade. If it wasn’t
for them, I’d have been assassinated the last time
around. Welcome gentlemen...! Please have a seat.
Sonia, provide our guests with the finest coffee and
treats you can muster up. Okay...?”

Bowing in a gracious manner, Sonia exited to find
the finest espresso coffee in the world, along with
the finest pastry known to man.

As we all admired Sonia’s derrière leaving our
presence, I said, “Don’t worry, gentlemen. You’ll
get more opportunities to checkout the merchandise.
So, you can put your tongues back in your mouths.”

Colonel Ramirez coughed, wiping his mouth and says,
“I apologize for our obvious crude behavior, Mr. President.”

With a hint of seriousness, and affection for the
male specie, I said, “Don’t bother trying to be
politically correct. I know Sonia better than anyone,
and she loves the attention. If you hadn't noticed,
my tongue was also hanging out...just like yours. Are
you ready to apologize for me also?”

“I didn’t mean—“Colonel Ramirez tried to say before
I raised my hand to silence him.

“We’ve more important things to discuss.”

Lt. Perez interrupted, and said, “What could be more
important than our feline counterparts?!”

Seeing the sparkle in his eyes, I said, “Point well-made,
Lt. Perez. But contrary to your perverted mind’s opinion,
there are other things of greater importance in this
world besides sex...!”

“True, Mr. President. But it sure beats whatever’s
in second place...!” Lt. Perez jested.

Colonel Ramirez sat down on the black leather couch,
and says, “Enough, Lt. Perez.”

I said, “Now that we’ve finished discussing what makes
the world go around, how about let’s get to the heart
of the matter before us.”

Ramirez and Perez have always enjoyed a relationship
with me that few others would dare have.

"So," Colonel Ramirez says, after taking a sip of chilled mineral water,
“do you want us to torture the Americans?”

“No pun intended, but you don’t beat around the bush,
do you?”

With a smirk on his face, he nodded.

“I’d suggest that there’s something else in that
glass other than mineral water, colonel.”

Perez quips, “Water boarding is considered to be
a humane interrogation method according to
President Steinhart, sir.”

I could only grin at the truth of those words.
“You’re scarcely old enough to remember World
War II. And apparently King Steinhart fits that category,
if you ask me; but not because of his age.”

“His stupidity...?” Perez shot back, leaning back haughtily
on the couch next to the colonel.

“The truth hurts...,” I said, and then continued, “Because
man seems to lose sight of the fact that history repeats
itself. Why the hell they even teach history, even distorted
history...is beyond me. What good does it do to teach
history to our citizens, if we--and our governmental
counterparts around the world--fail to learn by past
mistakes? All those historical lessons only do one thing:
they make cynics, protesters, humanitarian souls,
terrorists and malcontents out of our civilized citizenry.
You don't have to look any further than me to find a
prime example of why governments should be compassionate,
and caring. Those foreigners who have ravaged our country,
our resources and placed our citizens in bondage for
their political and economic agenda, has produced a
benevolent dictator: me. And a democratically elected
socialist at that...! One who loves his people, and rightfully so..."

“It doesn’t make any sense at all, sir. Citizens learn
their history, but our leaders fail miserably in that regard,”
Colonel Ramirez concluded, gripping the arm of the couch
as though he was attempting to restrain himself.

“Exactly...! So what I’m proposing is going to blow
President Steinhart’s mind.”

Seeing my pregnant pause and deliberate raised
eyebrow, they both leaned forward on the edge of
the couch.

I laughed, and said, “Not literally, my friends. Only

"What do you have in mind, Mr. President?"

I caught Colonel Ramirez's drift, and said as I tapped
a pencil absentmindedly on the desk, "I want you
to make immediate arrangements to
charter at least ten 747’s.”

Thinking he’s being helpful, Lt. Perez says, “We
have that many 747’s at our disposal, sir. No need to—“

“Yes, there is...! Listen to me. Listen to everything
I’ve got to say before interrupting!”

They were both silent with their heads bent and
their eyes staring at the smoked glass coffee table.

“That’s better... The reason I want to charter them
is because our enemy, America...will have great difficulty
shooting down their own country’s planes, and the
planes of other countries.”

Perez couldn’t keep still and buts in, and says,
“Like Russian, Chinese, Japanese, Italian, French
and British airliners?”

“Good man! Now you’re getting the picture.”

“And where are we going with the prisoners?”

I took a deep breath, and said, “Don’t you have
any imagination whatsoever? The International
Criminal Court in The Hague, that’s where!”

They both looked like they’d seen an apparition
behind my desk.

“Clever,” Colonel Ramirez said. “That’s asking
for trouble, sir. Real trouble, I’m
afraid. That’s just what the Americans are
looking for: an excuse to invade us.”

I held my breath, not making eye contact at
first...then I glared directly into their eyes, and said,
“They’ve clearly violated our territory trying to
assassinate me. And we have the evidence in the
basement. Their signed confessions and their
captured bodies is all we need to establish our
innocence. And guess what? I’m planning to include
President Adolph S. Steinhart and his merry men
to the indictment as co-defendants in this case.
Yes, they’ll finally be tried before the world for
crimes against humanity in absentia.”

Excited at the prospect, Colonel Ramirez asked,
“In other words, we’re using these CIA thugs as
a springboard to justice against the Americans?”

What could I say but, “That’s the plan. What do
you think?”

Both were now leery about saying anything after
I’d admonished them earlier on.

“Well...?!” I said, trying to keep from laughing in
their faces.

“Sounds a bit tricky to me. What if this move
backfires...?” Perez finally said.

“Let’s deal with that eventuality if and when it
becomes an issue? Are you with me?”

How could they be against me? Their lives and
careers were in my hands. But they know me
better than that. I listen and only blame those
who have done wrong. Honest mistakes, accidents,
and the like, are not sufficient cause for me to
do harm to someone who’s had a streak of bad luck.

After they both looked at each other in amazement,
and at me skeptically, they finally gestured
their approval.

“Thanks,” I said, and got up and shook hands with
my fellow conspirators. As I ushered them outside,
I said, “Sonia will have the coffee and treats waiting
for you the next time we meet. How’s that...?”

They both gave shy smiles and turned, proceeding
as planned to finally rid the world of the rubbish that
was contaminating the environment. Kind of like
being the first person to make love to a virgin: it’s
a bloody job, but somebody got to do it! And I’d
prefer to be the one, of course.


Friday, January 01, 2010

Bangkok, Thailand: The Venice of the East...and rightly so...!

Copyright (C) 2010 by F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved. Care to venture along the river that cuts through Bangkok like a tourist? Here's your chance to save lots of money by watching this video clip that gives you a firsthand glimpse and feeling of traveling upriver like a tourist does, day in and day out in Bangkok, Thailand. The price is right: nothing. So, I hope you enjoy the voyage as much as I did.



The Fear DecadeSince 9/11, We've Embraced Our Inner Coward

By Ted Rall

Home of the free and the brave. Live free or die. Shoot first;

ask questions later. Kill 'em all, let God sort 'em out. These

were the mottos of a brash, impetuous, audacious-to-a-fault

nation. That nation is dead. Continue


Quote:Lining Up for the Wall Street Gravy Train

By Mike Whitney

The banks are not only taking depositors money and

using it in high-risk derivatives transactions and currency

"carry trades", they're also propping up the long daisy-chain

of insolvent creditors whose default could domino Lehman-like

through the entire financial system. Funny how the media

skips little tidbits like this when they give their rosy

evening roundup. Continue



Something's Not Right Here

By Bill Moyers - Mat Taibbi - Robert Kuttner

Truth is, our capitol's being looted, republicans are

acting like the town rowdies, the sheriff is firing blanks,

and powerful Democrats in Congress are in cahoots

with the gang that's pulling the heist. This is not capitalism

at work. It's capital. Raw money, mounds of it, buying

politicians and policy as if they were futures on the

hog market. Continue