Sunday, December 08, 2013

An agnostic's view of the democracy cult.


An agnostic's view of the democracy cult.

Please credit and share this article with others using this link:http://www.bangkokpost.com/opinion/opinion/383718/an-agnostic-view-of-the-democracy-cult. View our policies at http://goo.gl/9HgTd and http://goo.gl/ou6Ip. © Post Publishing PCL. All rights reserved.


Friday, November 08, 2013

I Can't Afford to Eat By Linh Dinh


"I Can’t Even Afford To Eat"Postcard from the End of America: Kensington By Linh Dinh 


Gerald Celente: Total Economic Collapse in Q1 2014


How America Was Lost By Paul Craig Roberts


The Surveillance State Puts U.S. Elections at Risk of Manipulation Imagine what Edward Snowden could have accomplished if he had a different agenda. By Conor Friedersdorf



Wage Crisis - The USA's new underclass


The Long TerrorRussell Brand and the Need for Planetary AdjustmentBy Elliot Sperber


8 Reasons Straight Men Don't Want To Get Married By Helen Smith


How China Can Cause The Death Of The Dollar And The Entire U.S. Financial System By Michael Snyder


Ambling Towards OblivionRussell Brand, the Posh Left and the Politics of Class By Kim Nicolini


Russell Brand: We Deserve More From Our Democratic SystemBy Russell Brand 
The lazily duplicitous servants of The City expect us to gratefully participate in what amounts to little more than a political hokey cokey where every four years we get to choose what colour tie the liar who leads us wears. Continue


Tuesday, October 29, 2013

  Inside Job  : Full movie:    Information Clearing House: ICH & Much More....


  Inside Job  : Full movie:    Information Clearing House: ICH


"A Good Day" With Brother David Steindl-Rast


Ignored Reality Is Going To Wipe Out the Human Race By Paul Craig Roberts


Baby Is Moved To Tears By Mom's Singing 

10-month-old's impassioned response to her mother's private performance of "My Heart Can't Tell You No"


NSA Stores Data to Target Any Citizen at Any Time - Greenwald


The current revelations on the NSA’s spying are just the tip of the iceberg and affect “almost every country in the world,” said Glenn Greenwald. He stressed the NSA stores data for “as long as it can,” so they can target a citizen whenever they want. 


War Criminal and Pressitute Discuss Iraq
Bill O'Reilly Grills Dick Cheney on Iraq: 'What Did We Get Out of It?'

- Video - 

"We spent a trillion dollars on this with a lot of pain and suffering on the American military. What did we get out of it?"    


Perpetual War

By Jeremy Scahill

The question all Americans must ask themselves lingers painfully: How does a war like this ever end? 


NSA Stores Data to Target Any Citizen at Any Time - Greenwald


The current revelations on the NSA’s spying are just the tip of the iceberg and affect “almost every country in the world,” said Glenn Greenwald. He stressed the NSA stores data for “as long as it can,” so they can target a citizen whenever they want. 


Brave New World 

By Patrick J. Buchanan 

The late Ambassador Jeane Kirkpatrick talked hopefully of America becoming again “a normal country in a normal time.” Seems as though the normal times are never coming back. 


Our Invisible Revolution

By Chris Hedges

No one knows where or when the eruption will take place. No one knows the form it will take. But it is certain now that a popular revolt is coming. 


What Recovery?

By Mike Whitney

"4,594,000 Mortgages Going Unpaid in the United States." 


The Lies That Will Kill America
By Bill Moyers and Michael Winship

The ground is all too fertile for those who will only believe whatever best fits their resentment or particular brand of paranoia.


US Political Dysfunction and Capitalism’s Withdrawal

By Richard Wolff

What we learn about early capitalism when we read Charles Dickens, Emile Zola, Maxim Gorky and Jack London, we see now again in the new centers. 


Monday, September 09, 2013

Saturday, July 27, 2013

Installment 26 of F. Scott Sinclair's Novel "The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America"


Copyright © 2007 by F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.

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) 2007 by F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.

Scene 26 of "The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America"

CIA Case Officer Julia Duffy

The compartment I was being held captive in was beginning
to close in. As the dinky quarters of the submarine began to
turn around, I instantly knew that I had an inner ear infection.
All I could do to stop the walls from turning was to close my
eyes. By squeezing my eyelids together, clinching my teeth,
and burying my head into the mildewed stench of the stained
pillow I was provided, I somehow forestalled the nauseous
feeling that was attempting to engulf my entire being.

I slowly began to open my left eye to see if the world was still
spinning. The room seemed to stand still, but the Russian
language written on the wall to tell the occupant to turn off the
lights to conserve energy--amongst other warnings--still made
me woozy. Sure wished that they'd thought about saving
energy before they chose to leave the torturous naked bulb on
24 hours a day. Christ almightly, why aren't torturers given
briefings on energy savings, anyway?

Before I could finish my next thought, the compartment door
swung open. A lanky Russian officer with a greying beard stepped
in with his underling in tow. I tried to turn away, but the shackles
and irons prevented me from huddling against the bulkhead with
my back turned to the intruders.

The Russian officer said, "Good morning, Ms. Duffy, how are
you today?"

I couldn't pass up the pun, and said, "Tied up, as usual..."

"Busy are we...? Well, that's too bad, Julie. And we were just about
ready to free you, too. What a shame, my dear," he conveyed,
loosening his tie.

"It's a bit stuffy in here, comrade. It is all right to refer to you as
comrade, isn't it?" His bushy eyebrows raised as though wings
had replaced his eyebrows at the mention of those words. Before
his eyebrow-like wings made one revolution, he yanked the ankle
chain, and in doing so, the iron shackle pierced the skin of my
tender ankle.

"My God...! Christ, can't you leave a girl alone?" I said, pushing my
ankle toward the Russian officer in order to release the tension.

"Perhaps, you're wondering why you keep getting different
interrogators. Well, the answer's quite simple. Until you act as
though you like one of us...and trust one of us, you'll no doubt
meet the whole crew of this fine submarine before you arrive
at your final destination," he hinted, touching my shoulder with
his yucky paw.

Glibly, I inquired, "And where might that be...?"

"You'll learn soon enough, I'm afraid."

"Is that a threat, or a promise?"

The back of his hand stung as I felt my jaw crack and separate.
Had he broken my jaw? My jaw felt numb, and the stainless
steel bunk with no mattress felt like I'd been sitting on a pile of
rocks. And the stainless toilet was too far away to rest on
comfortably. My butt was about a foot too short. But thank the
Lord for small favors: the diaper they so graciously provided
me with, made me feel at home--as though I was having a
period. What a bloody thought...

There was a knock at the door, and the subservient one
opened the cabin door and retrieved a tray of food, and said,
"Here. Take it."

"Gladly," I said. "Oh, I'm shocked. Not the usual cockroaches
and ants?"

The no name Russian officer replied, wiping his bird nose,
"We're trying to fatten you up."

"For the kill, I suppose, huh?"

With a smirk, he drops the tray in my lap, and says, "Enjoy...
You and your friend, Mr. Kendall, will be transferred from
our custody to that of the International Criminal Court in
a couple of days, my dear. We wouldn't want anyone to
think we've been feeding you cockroaches, now would we?
But, you must admit, us Russians have some of the finest
cockroaches in the world. Isn't that right?"

Not wanting to appear too ungrateful, I said, "If you say so..."

"Care to enlighten us further on your activities in Venezuela?"

"Well, after being starved, waterboarded, half frozen to
death, and you name it, I think you've got enough information
on tape to hang the Crown Prince of Crawford--if that's
your intention--at the Hague," I said with a wink of the eye.

With his receding hairline leaning towards the steel deck,
and his mischievious eyes tilted in my direction, he says through
tense lips, "Very perceptive... Now, eat this shit we've provided
before my partner here changes your diaper. Doesn't it feel
great to return to your childhood days, sitting in a stinking
diaper all day while your mother watched soap operas to her
heart's content?"

"Speak for yourself, yah little anal fixated bastard!"

Lights out...! I thought, just before the blur of the Russian
officer's fist smacked me upside the head.

James Bamford: They Know Much More Than You Think


James Bamford: They Know Much More Than You Think

Friday, June 07, 2013

Installment 25 of F. Scott Sinclair's Novel "The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America"


Copyright © 2007 by F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.

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) 2007 by F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.

Scene 25 of "The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America"

Judge Theodore Marsh

I was staying with my running mate Lester Hampton at
his mansion located on Hood’s Canal. Secret Service agents
were combing the area like a pack of hunting dogs. Other
agents and the Coast Guard were continually searching the
beach and shore within a two mile radius, while other Secret
Service agents kept us under constant surveillance. The
morning mist began to evaporate as Lester and I sat out
on the veranda.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Lester said after taking a bite
of French toast into his mouth, the maple syrup dripping
from the corners of his mouth, and says, “an old friend of
yours will be dropping by.”

“I have friends?”

He wiped his greasy lips with a cloth napkin, and said,
“Does the name, Wilber C. Winslow, mean anything to you?”

Startled beyond words, I couldn’t believe my ears. “You’re
saying, Wilber C. Winslow, wants to discuss something
with me?”

“You got it, Judge Marsh.”

“Surely this must be a mistake...”

As he plopped another piece of dripping French toast
onto his tongue, and inhaled--wolfing it down--he says
with a half-smile, “You don’t give yourself enough credit.
A former Supreme Court justice is the ultimate candidate.
Folks are looking for someone with moral integrity, and
I can’t think of a better person: a former Supreme Court
justice, like yourself.”

As I leaned back, slouching in the ornate wrought iron
chair, I said, “Thanks for the vote of confidence. But not
everyone feels that way, I’m afraid. The felonious five on
the Court blew any integrity that may have existed.
Appearances are everything. After we allowed President
Steinhart to win the 2000 election, our reputation was
irredeemably damaged. Americans no longer respect the
Supreme Court, and for good reason, I might add.”

“Just the same, take my advice and don’t be so hard
on yourself. Okay?”

Reluctantly, I nodded, catching an image of my ugly mug
in the glass door that led into the kitchen. I didn’t like
the reflection I saw. Perhaps old age had set in, or the
bags under my black eyes destroyed the elderly
statesman-like image I’d imagined for so long. Needless
to say, time was running out for me. Next stop: the
incinerator, I thought. Pleasant thought...

I turned my black face and flat nostrils towards the
beach, brought the coffee cup to my lips, and said, “Looks
like we’ve got company.”

“And right on time. C’mon now, Judge Winslow won’t
bite you. Follow me, and I’ll make the introductions.”

“Sounds good to me.” That’s precisely what I did. I
followed the leader to the shore, and we waded up to
our kneecaps in the murky water, helping Judge Winslow
off the 16 foot speedboat.

Judge Winslow limped forward onto the sandy beach,
and then abruptly used both hands to whisk away any
sand that had stuck to his trousers, and then says, “Thanks
gentlemen for the royal treatment.”

“Our pleasure, your Honor,” Lester said. “By the way,
Judge Marsh, meet the Honorable Wilber C. Winslow.”

After we’d introduced ourselves, and became acquaintances
with some customary small talk, we finally reached the veranda.

“Care for something to eat?” Lester asked Judge Winslow.

“No thanks. Ate before we departed Seattle in that tin
can of a speedboat.”

“You won’t turn down a cup of espresso coffee, now will
you?” I said sternly.

Not wanting to offend, I’m sure, Judge Winslow says,
“Absolutely not. I can always use a cup of coffee. I often
sneak a cup or two into the courtroom. You wouldn’t believe
how boring some cases can be.”

Laughing, I answered, “You’re forgetting something,
Judge Winslow.”

Bewildered, his reaction was a blank expression, and
replied, “What’s that...?”

“I’m a judge and can identify with your coffee remarks.
And if I thought long and hard enough, I could no doubt
relate to you on the boredom aspect of being a judge.”

“Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Enough niceties and pleasantries for the moment. How
about filling us in on your need for this meeting. If you
recall, you were quite apprehensive about disclosing anything
over the phone. Besides that, you specifically requested
that no Secret Service agents should be within earshot.
Why’s that?” Lester said.

As the hired help brought more coffee, and began pouring
it into our China cups, Judge Winslow didn’t say a word until
the waiter left. “Okay, gentlemen, the reason for my secrecy
is that I’m in charge of all secret trials of detainees caught
in the War on Terrorism in the Pacific Northwest. Anything
I say here must be held in the strictest confidence. Is that

We both nodded our heads.

“Good. Now that that little detail is out of the way, I can
get to the meat of my concerns. And they are many, I’m
afraid. The FBI is a loose cannon, and they’ve threatened
me personally if I allow anyone released for lack of evidence,
mistaken identity, you name it.”

My black face almost glowed with disgust, and asked,
“What are the facts and circumstances surrounding this
instant case.”

With furrowed brow and clinched teeth, Judge Winslow
says, “Unbelievable. The guy the FBI is trying to railroad
only dialed a wrong number. And the FBI knows this, but
they still won’t release him.”

“Are they stating the provisions within the Patriot Act
as justification for the continued detention?” Lester Hampton

A bit paranoid, Judge Winslow turns his head from side
to side, scanning the terrain for possible eavesdroppers.
Finally, he says, “Among other things.”

“Skeletons in the closet?” Lester asked, shifting the weight
of his elbows onto the frosted glass of the round patio table.

“If you’re implying that the FBI is blackmailing me, you’re
probably right.”

“And what does this have to do with us?” I asked.

He shifted uneasily in his chair, and says, “The kind of
blackmail I’m talking about is more damaging than anything
you can imagine. They’ve threatened to arrest me on trumped
up charges, and hold me indefinitely like the detainee, Jake

“What’s the detainee’s name again,” I asked, not believing
the words I’d just heard.

“Jake Jacobs.”

“Is he a novelist...?”

Judge Winslow nodded affirmatively.

My heart sank into my belly. An anxious hollow feeling
erupted. From the sound of it, it just had to be the same
Jake Jacobs I knew in Thailand. What was he doing in
America? How come he returned unannounced?

“I know him.”

Both Judge Winslow and Lester shot hard looks in my
direction, both saying simultaneously, “You’re kiddin’?”

“Wish I were... Truly, I wish that were the case.”

“Is that why you came here today, Judge Winslow?”
Lester asked, toying with the handle of the China cup.

“Partly. But mostly I want to set the record straight
and destroy this unconstitutional Kangaroo Court I’m in
charge of.”

Leaning forward, I asked, “And how may we help?”

With a glint of moisture in the corners of his eyes,
Judge Winslow whispers, “Someone from the outside
must infiltrate the secret court. And I’m proposing that
you, Judge Marsh, select someone to take my place
while I’m on sick leave.”

“I do know a private investigator whose expertise is
government abuse cases. I tell you what, if this friend of
mine accepts the job, you’re going to have to remain
behind the scenes helping him with the laws and procedures
so his cover isn’t blown.”

“That can be arranged.” He was firm in his response,
folding his arms against his chest—nodding his approval
and conviction.

“Fine,” I said, turning to Lester. “Care to comment...?”

“Can you provide us with an anonymous dossier? We
need one that's cleansed--and untraceable-- just in
case the Secret Service, or anyone else, happens to see
the contents. If they do see the file, it won’t make any
sense to them.”

With a smirk on his lips, Judge Winslow says, “A piece
of cake. Another Da Vinci Code?”

“Something like that,” Lester said. “Care for some more

As our collective eyes melted together, I said, “I’ll be
in touch.”

“And I’ll make all the arrangements,” he said, as we
ended the clandestine discussion and pursued less dangerous
avenues of congenial conversation. My mind drifted off
into deep contemplation, never really focusing on the small
talk that entertained us the remainder of the morning.

All I could think about was getting a hold of Rick Olson.
Our friend, Jake Jacobs, must be pissing in his pants.
My heart burned at what he must be going through
if the rumors of torture by our government were true.

I excused myself and went upstairs. My nerves were
shot and my mind went blank the minute my head hit
the pillow.

Monday, May 27, 2013

Consumerism and Its Discontents


Consumerism and Its Discontents

The Millennium's buying habits, etc. are the heart of this
insightful article.

Saturday, May 25, 2013

Is a College Education Worth the Investment?


Is a college education worth the investment?
Good question: the above article is food
for thought, and a worthy read. You be the


Saturday, May 18, 2013

Consciousness and Quantum Physics: A Video

Installment 24 of F. Scott Sinclair's Novel "The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America"


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) 2007 By F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.

Scene 24 of "The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America"

Editor-in-Chief: Lora Cummings

I fidgeted in my office chair, the leather grained seat
felt hard for some reason. As I stared out the window,
I could almost feel the chill of the wind and the wetness
of the rain on my face. Seattle, Washington was a
perpetual rainforest, enveloped by modern man’s
obsession: a concrete jungle.

I sat upright, rather rigid, placing my naked elbows
firmly atop my glass adorned desktop. The strain of
secrecy, deception, manipulation, investigations, etc.
had taken there toll. I was enclosed in a world of my
own making. A soundproof room at that. And for good
reason. Being the Editor-in-Chief of a newly established
newspaper, The Seattle Herald Tribune, was getting on
my nerves. Why...? I kept thinking. Because Big Brother
was everywhere since 9/11 and the establishment of
Homeland Security. Being the new guy on the block, and
trying to outdo the “big boys” at the Seattle Times and
the Post Intelligencer, was no an easy task. I was up against
a rock and a hard place.

As my thoughts rambled about, Ralph Donaldson, knocked
on my door, and says, “Someone’s here to see you, Chief.”


“Wouldn’t say...,” Ralph said, shrugging his shoulders.
“Your guess is as good as mine, kid.”

Not wanting to keep the mystery guest waiting, I said,
“Thanks. Let him in...”

“How’d you know it’s a guy?” he asked, perplexed.

“Lucky guess, I suppose.”

“Right.” With a stiff upper lip, Ralph turns around and
walked back to the lobby to invite the uninvited guest 
to join me.

I couldn’t think for the life of me who’d want to see me
without an appointment. So, with as much alacrity and
paranoia as I could muster, I pulled the shades so the Feds
couldn’t see who I was talking to, or read our lips. Their
listening devices couldn’t penetrate my office, and I have
the office swept for electronic bugs twice a day. Who did I
have to thank for all this security shit? My paranoid husband:
a retired CIA analyst.

“Lora, I’d like you to meet—,” Ralph said, prompting
the mystery guest to fill-in the missing blank with an
outstretched hand, and a pregnant pause.

“Mr...?” I asked with a arched brow.

“Rick Olson's, my name... A friend of your father.”

The remark jolted me, in more ways than one. I hadn’t
seen my dad in years. Ever since the divorce, my mother
had tainted his name, destroying any relationship we might
have been able to salvage and nurture. All I could say
was, “Really?”

He nodded his head, and says, “I’m a private detective
who’s known your father in good times and bad.”

“So. How is Jake...? I surely haven’t seen much of him,”
I said with a sore throat, and a distinct tightness in the belly.

“I know about the divorce.”

“And the estrangement?”

Again, Rick Olson nodded affirmatively, and countered
by saying, “He told me everything in his own way over time.
But I know you still love him dearly, even though you haven’t
been in touch with him in quite awhile.”

This time, I nodded slowly, trying to avoid eye contact.

He glanced at me, trying to make eye contact, and says,
“And to answer your initial question, your father has been

I shot forward in the chair, my elbows resting wobbly on
the desk, as I shouted, “What...?! What the hell are you
trying to say?”

“Just what I said: He’s been kidnapped by yours truly.”

“You’ve kidnapped him?”

“Not exactly. Uncle Sam has, I’m afraid.”

Our eyes locked onto one another like a missile tracking
a bogey.

“Homeland Security?”

“The FBI to be precise,” Rick replied, looking around
the room as though he was taking inventory. Seeing lots
of books and electronic monitoring equipment sitting on
shelves against the walls, drew his attentive eye.

As his eyes roamed back in my direction, I responded,
“I can’t believe this is happening...”

“What did this soundproof room and its security suite
cost you?”

Still baffled, I said, “Plenty. But that doesn’t answer my

Leaning forward in his chair, Rick Olson says, “Nobody
knows for sure. I was contacted by his landlord last week,
and she doesn’t know why either. But there’s one thing
we do know...”

“And what’s that?”

“You’ll never ever have a chance to reconcile your
relationship with your father if you don’t help me free him.”

Feeling a sense of despair and depression grip my emotional
being, I was taken aback. “You must have mistaken me for
someone who gives a shit...!”

Rick rolled his eyes, and says, “Tis the time to make
amends, my dear. He’s your biological father, as I heard
your mom refers to him. And if that is all he means to you,
then I’m wasting my time, and yours.”

“Wait a minute. I know my mom has made snide remarks
over the years, and those words have certainly influenced my thinking.”

“Jake Jacobs is a decent guy. This I know... He doesn’t
deserve the raw deal your mother has cast around him,
blurring the great qualities he possesses. And you’re a
reporter, and if you have any common sense buried inside
you, you’ll understand that: or at least, you should. It’s
time to grow up and think for yourself. Jake has avoided
contact with you because he can’t stand the derisive
remarks you make about him that are nothing more
than verbatim caustic remarks straight out of your mother’s
lips. True or not true?” he asked, with his hands politely
folded on the edge of my desk.

Stung by the implications, I retorted, “That’s your
interpretation, not mine.”

“Don’t want to answer the question? Fine. It’s been
nice chatting with you. I can let myself out, no escort or 
formalities needed. Here’s my business card. If you 
have a change of heart, give me a call.”

The private detective raised his jet lagged body from 
the overstuffed chair, and didn't say another word on 
the way out.

Nor did I... I just flipped his business card around my
fingers nervously, then tossed it into my desk drawer and
stared at the velvet wallpaper, emotionally drained. But
there’s one thing I know in my heart, Rick Olson’s assessment
of my father was spot on.

My mother has contaminated in a sordid way, my
perceptions of my father. If he dies in captivity, I will be
the cause of his death. And to my dad’s favor, he’s always
said that he would never ever say anything derogatory
about my mother. He would rather not see me than be
tempted to do so. He’s always maintained that he’d never
do anything that would hurt my mother’s and my relationship.
Having a clear conscience in that regard was the only thing
that mattered. ‘Do no harm, and no harm shall return to
you.’ That’s what he’s always said to me. And I believe he 
meant every word of it.

I pushed back the tears, wiped my nose, opened the
shades...and thought, hard.

I was about to make a life or death decision... Oh, my God:
I thought.

Late Night Comedy...!


Late Night Comedy Updated Daily. Keep Up to Date on Current Events in a Fun Way.

Monday, May 06, 2013

Installment 23 of F. Scott Sinclair's Novel "The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America"


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) 2007 By F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.

Scene 23 of the Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America

Landlord: Paula Slater

I could hear my lungs heaving inward and outward as I
desperately staggered back home. As I raced up the icy
steps onto the porch, I grabbed the top rung of the railing.
I had to bend over the railing in order to catch my breath.
When I gasped for air, the frosty air nearly froze my lungs
on contact. But despite my condition, I didn’t have time to
waste. All I could think of was trying to save Paul’s ass.

The mosaic pane glass door was locked. “Damn it, anyway…!
Where the hell are my keys?” I mumbled to myself. I plunged
my hands into all four pockets—front and back—coming up
empty handed, nearly freaked me out.

Knowing that Paul might be tortured, made my gut ache. Sure,
Paul wasn’t the most reliable friend. But how could he be, I was
married. At least he was a decent enough guy who didn’t want
to infringe on my long term happiness. So I had to find my keys
and try the best I could to help him.

But how…? I thought.

My keys weren’t in my pants pockets, as I banged on the door.

“What the hell’s going on, anyway?” my grumpy husband
shouts from the rooftops.

“It’s me. Your one and only, dear.” I thought that might shut
him up. But I was wrong, as usual…

With his checkered red and white robe draped over his
shoulders, and his nakedness exposed like a new born babe,
he says, “Where the hell have you been at this time of night?”

“Tending to the garden, dear. But that’s beside the point.
I’ve got things to do, now let me in before I freeze to death!”

His sheepish scowl unnerved me, as I brushed past his alcoholic
scent. I ran to the filing cabinet and went to the drawer marked
“tenants lease agreements” and rifled through the documents
until I reached Paul Krugar’s agreement.

“What do you think you’re doing at this time of night? I thought
we had a date tonight?” my hubby said, his erection nearly
stabbing a hole in the robe draped over his shoulders.

Annoyed, all I could say was, “Get out of here, do you hear me?”

Acting whiny, he says, “C’mon, it’s our time together. You know,
it’s Thursday. Every Thursday, just like clockwork, my love.”

“Well, I’ve got more than clockwork to accomplish. But I’ll
tell yah what I’ll do… If you’ll go back to bed like a good boy,
I’ll wake you up when I’m through here.”

“What’s so important that it can’t wait till morning?”

Seeing his pathetic horniness, I said, “When I’m through, I
will go straight to bed, and I will screw you to death! Your brains
too, or what’s left of them. Is that abundantly clear?”

“Yes, dear…,” he replied as he waddled off to the bedroom,
the checkered robe falling off his shoulders onto the floor as
the bedroom door closed behind him.

“That’s my boy,” I said under my breath.

Here it is… Paul’s rental agreement. References. Where are
they? Oh here, on the back of the form. It was late at night,
but I had no choice; I had to call the number listed.
I dialed the number of Rick Olson, and waited.

And waited. And waited some more…

Finally, someone answered the phone, and said, “Rick
Olson’s residence, may I help you?”

Sounds like an answering service to me, but I replied,
“I’d like to speak to, Mr. Olson.”

“He’s not in at the moment, but can I take a message?
He should be back shortly.”

“Is this his wife?”

“This is his answering service. May I take a message?”

Just what I thought. “Tell him that a friend of his, Paul
Krugar, is in trouble. Please have him
call me as soon as possible. It’s urgent, okay?”

“Will do…”

I left her my name and number, and hung up the phone;
and proceeded to do my wifely duty. I opened the bedroom
door and slid into bed, and whispered into my hubby’s ear:
“It’s time to get up, my dear.”


Jake Jacobs (a.k.a.—Paul Krugar)

The last thing I remembered was a sharp pain in my shoulder just
after the FBI agent pulled a hood over my head. I had no idea
where I was, and the fact that the hood nearly suffocated me to
death didn’t help matters any.

The complete blackness was stifling as I tried unsuccessfully
to remove the hood. My hands were cuffed behind my back. My
head was leaning against something, probably the backseat of
the FBI’s car from the sound of things. I was constantly
jarred to and fro as the car, van, or whatever traveled up hills,
down hills, around corners, stopped at corners, lights, or

Panicked, I shouted, “Can you take this fucking thing off
my head!”

Instantly, I got a response, a jolt to the ribs. “Christ...!”

A hardened voice pierced the blackness of my senses, and said,
“Shut the fuck up, buddy. Speak only when spoken to... Do
you comprehend, amigo?”

The pain induced by whatever object that was used to jab my
ribs was so horrific, I could only nod my head.

Suddenly, the asshole who’d so kindly given me those
delightful instructions, grabbed me by the shirt collar and my
right arm. I sensed a door had been opened. A moment later,
I was yanked from the vehicle. In the void of the hood, I felt
five large fingertips press my head downward while someone
else pulled me to my feet.

“Well, you’re home, partner.”

I didn’t know whether to respond or not.

“Speak when spoken to...!”

In a muffled tone, I screamed, “Make up your fucking
mind, Godzilla!” Before I could catch myself from flying
off the handle, an excruciating pain enveloped my gut,
causing me to collapse to the ground. As I laid stretched
out on my back, the impact had embedded an impression
of the rough contour of the concrete on the palms of my

The next thing I heard was, “C’mon, we haven’t got all day.”

A large and a medium set of hands jerked me to my feet,
pushing me forward into the path of darkness created by
the hood. I felt like the power had gone off in my apartment
during a rainstorm, but I was unable to use my hands to feel
for objects in my path. My jaws were tight and I was certain
my face was contorted as though it were about to ram into a
wall. As doors opened and closed--keys jingled and clanked
when inserted in the locks--made me nauseousBefore 
my motion sickness overtook me, I was shoved into a chair.

A second later, the blackness became a shocking brilliance.
The hood had been removed, and my eyes were blinded by
the floodlights bearing down on me. My hands instinctively
tried to raise themselves as shades, but couldn’t move. They
were still cuffed behind my back.

My eyes were shuttered in the close position, but I tried
with all my might to lift a small portion of my right lid to
see who was ruining my life. Without warning, both of my
eyelids were wrenched open. A nice and professional FBI
agent says, “If you don’t want this ugly mug of mine to
be the last thing you ever see, I’d suggest you sign the
confession we’ve so thoughtfully completed for you. All
we need is your signature.”

With saliva rolling down my cheek and the agent’s huge
claw pulling my head towards his mug, I replied, “My name
is Jake Jacobs. My serial number is—“

Another agent stepped in, and said, “What’s this shit...?!
Do you think you’re still in this man’s Army, or
something? Those days are over, pal.”

“Bullshit! The fucking difference between now and
then, pal...is there’s a new friggin’ enemy,” I said with
taut lips, and a glare that could kill.

“And who might that be...?” the stranger asked, lighting a
cigarette, and exhaling after enjoying the blue smoke
that filtered into his lungs.

“You motherfucking government thugs, that’s who?”
Before I’d even finished my spiel, the chair I was sitting
on became almost weightless as I tumbled to the floor.
I landed on my hip, damn near shattering the agents
eardrums in the process. I heard a crack in my hip, and
the sharpest pain I’ve ever endured. As though this was
just an ordinary interrogation, the agents didn’t even
flinch, snapping me upright two-seconds later.

“Let’s get something straight, somebody doesn’t like you.
And if you’ve got any brains, you know that you’ve got
no rights. None whatsoever... Are we on the same
wavelength? Because if we’re not, you’ll stay with us until
we retire, and then only if you’re lucky. Know what I'm saying?”

After spitting out some phlegm, I gazed threateningly in the senior
agents direction, and said, “Are you trying to say, I don’t even get
one phone call?”

“Now, you’re coming ‘round. I suppose you thought we forgot
to give you your Miranda warning, huh?” the senior agent says
as he took a drag from his cigarette.

“Now that you mention it, yah... Aren’t you supposed to read me my

“Enough, smart-ass... The joyride’s over. We can do any fucking
thing we want, and more. So I’d watch your trap from now on.”

“My name’s, Kenneth Foster, and this upstanding gentleman
is my partner, Phil Hill.”

My eyes squinted and the pupils behind them made direct contact
with agent’s Hill’s, and I muttered, “We’ve met. He thinks he walks on
water like Jesus Christ. But in his case, shit floats...!”

Agent Foster put out his arm, blocking agent Hill from ripping
into my ass, and says, “ I don’t think I’d better leave you
two alone together, or indefinite detention might become
something more infinite.”

“Like in infinity,” I said, blood soaking my jeans and wool sweater.

“Well, put... Something like that.”

“By the way, would you fuckers like to elaborate upon why you’ve
chosen me to become a test case in President Adolf S. Steinhart’s War
on Terror?”

“Yeah, well we’ve got a few questions ourselves we want answered
before we place you on trial,” the senior man said, sitting back down
behind his desk stubbing out his cigarette.

“I asked first.”

Oh, shit. That didn’t go over too well. But luckily the senior man
could take a joke, such as it was: a bad joke at that.

Looking into his hands, he raised his index finger, and says, “You,
young man, are treading on thin ice. Take it from me, that’s not a
good sign. But since you asked first, I guess I’ll play along. We’ve
been monitoring your activities.”

“Why...? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

He put his fingers into a prayer triangle, and says, “When you
contact terrorists, that’s when things get dicey, so to speak.

“What the hell are you talking about? I haven't contacted any damn
terrorists. Are you out of your friggin’ mind?”

“Okay, we found out it was a wrong number. But after doing a
sneak and peek on your apartment, we copied the contents of your
computer. And, boy, what we found was the jackpot, partner.”

Outraged, I said bluntly, “Is this crap related to the illegal
eavesdropping that our illustrious President has undertaken?”

I watched him remove his blue blazer, setting it on
the back of his chair like a coat hanger, as he
responded nonchalantly, “Was illegal... It’s perfectly
legal at the moment. In fact, it’s retroactive. Do you
understand what that means?”

Shaking my head, I said, “No, I’m stupid. Clue me in...”

“It means—“

“Hey, get real. Christ, you think I was born yesterday. Of
course I know what retroactive means. From day one, he’s
off the hook. His illegality has suddenly become legal. He’s
what we call a person who’s above the law. How
am I doing?”

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” the senior man says slouched
in his government gray generic office chair.

“So what’s all this to do with me?”

“What evidence we’ve procured is legal as hell, and that
means your ass is between a rock and a hard place. Get
my drift...?”

“I guess I'll go back to giving you only my name, rank, serial
number and date of birth.”


I quipped, “I thought that might put a twinkle in your shitty
blue eyes.”

With a confidence of a con man, the senior man says, “We’re
going to use all those political thriller plots to hang your ass
out to dry. How does that sound?”

“Care to loosen the cuffs, the circulation in my arms is about

He nodded to his partner, and says, “Cuff him in the front.”

As I felt the almost painful rush of blood back into my arms
veins, I said, “Do you think a judge would have the audacity
to believe that those plot ideas were in anyway a threat to
National Security?”

“Yes, I do...”

“I don’t think we have anything further to say to each other.
As far as I’m concerned, the interrogation is over...,” I said
as I got to my feet. “You can hood me if you like, waterboard me,
or whatever torture suits your fancy. But you’ll never get another
word out of me worthy of the effort. Terrorists aren’t the enemy
of America. It’s folks like you thugs, and the mafia running
the show—and our government’s blowback, both domestically
and internationally—that’s the enemy of all decent and patriotic
Americans. Had you guys acted properly in your dealings with
your fellow Americans, and our foreign diplomats dealt peacefully
with the international community: we wouldn’t have any
problems with terrorists as we do now. You should be ashamed
of yourself! Doesn’t that swearing in oath at the FBI Academy
have any meaning anymore? You’re the domestic enemy of
the Constitution, not me...!”

“Are you through?”


“Get him out of my sight...!”

I was hooded and dragged out of the interrogation room
with a smile on my face, a smile that says: you’re the enemy
of the state—and you know it, deep down in your souls.


As I heard the door close behind me, I felt the tight grip
of my captors pulling me into the corridor. I staggered
forward, blinded by the hood over my head, then I nearly
stumbled as I was shoved onto a chair or bench—I didn’t
know which.

“We’re going to prepare you for your maker, Jake,” a gruff
voice said. The harsh and grave tone sounded like
agent what’s-his-name? Yeah, that’s him: agent Phil Hill.

I heard some noise on the floor around me, and said, “What’s
the occasion, Halloween?”

“Yeah, the ghost of Christmas past, Mr. Scrooge. Sort of
a Christmas carol from hell, as we like to call it. But the clanking
of chains is going to be around your ankles, partner.”

Before I knew it, I felt the cold steel being attached around
my ankles and the sound of the chain in-between dangling
between my legs, as the guard says, “That ought to do it, Phil.
Take him away, he's all yours.”

“Thanks for the warning...”

“You’re welcome.” the guard replied.

“Care to clue me in on what’s goin’ on?” I said, from the
vantage point of complete darkness.

An eerie gust of air spoke arrogantly into my ear, “You’ll
learn soon enough. Now stand up, and follow me.”

I could only laugh, “Sure thing. Anymore brilliant ideas...?
A friggin’ hood over my head, and you want me to follow you.
What do you think I am, a hunting dog? Of course, considering
the smell of the likes of you, I couldn’t miss the smelly scent...”

There was a pregnant pause before I keeled over. I felt a
boot clip the back of my right knee, as I found myself on the
floor once more. Disoriented.

“C’mon, Grace... Can’t you even stand on your own two feet?
Let’s help him up, and dust him off so the magistrate doesn’t
think we’ve been torturing our honored guest here.”

I shook my head as they jerked me to my feet. Moments
later I staggered into a room full of confusion, or so it seemed.

Someone said, with what appeared to be an amplified voice,
“Remove the hood...”

The blinding lights confused me. As the room moved
around, I saw a man in a black robe perched like a judge in
a trial court on his royal highness's bench. No matter, all
judges think they'll royalty, anyway. Say a cross word,
and you're cited for contempt. Now that's contemptible...!

He said, “Anything to say for yourself, Mr. Jake Jacobs?”

Foolishly I asked, “Why am I here.”

Peering from behind his horn-rimmed bifocals, the judge
says, “I, Wilbur C. Winslow, will be the judge of that. Yours
is not to say, yours is to do or die. And with the current
Patriot Act, that’s precisely the case, young man. We decide
why you’re being incarcerated and for how long, is that

“No...! I’m an American citizen, and I object, dammit! This is
a crock of shit! Pure and simple.”

With jowls flapping and his bushy eyebrows raised, I
knew I was in trouble for the umpteenth time, as he
removed his glasses slowly, and says, “If I hear one more
disparaging comment from you, you’ll be doing some
serious time in the hole. Is that clear?”

I looked around at the smirks on the FBI agents faces,
and the nudges of the two federal guards on either side
of me, and said, “I can take a hint.”

With ruffled feathers, his honor says, “Good. Now that
that’s settled, let’s get to the heart of the manner. Agent
Hill, I've read the charges against this defendant, and it

“Sir...?” he asks as he began to approach the bench.

The judge put up his hand, and says, “No need to approach
the bench. Stay put... Anyway, I don’t see how dialing
a wrong number classifies a person as a terrorist?”

“Well, your honor, the call was made to a suspected
terrorist, and after we did a sneak and peek on Mr. Jacobs
apartment, we found conspiracies plotted out in his
computer, your honor.”

With a frown, and a gulp of water, the judge replies,
“It says here, if I’m not mistaken, that Mr. Jacobs is a novelist.”

“That’s correct your honor.”

With his glasses near the tip of his nose, the judge says
in a condescending way, “And you don’t think that novelists
don’t write down their ideas and plot them out?”

“Well, your honor...” agent Hill tried to say, but was
cutoff...and took a deep breath.

“Well nothing, young man... Common sense would have
told you that this man is no more a terrorist than I am.
Nor are you, agent Hill, a terrorist... Isn't that so...?”

Shaken, agent Hill shot back, “Certainly not, your honor.”

“Then I see no valid reason to hold this man, even one
second longer. Is that understood? Release him immediately!
This is a miscarriage of justice, and a perversion of the judicial
and constitutional process in my estimation.”

With a stiff upper lip, that appeared as stiff as the pale beige
wallpaper adorning the secret courtroom, he says, “I’m sorry,
your honor. I can’t do that.”

“And why not, may I ask?” the honorable judge responded
with a defiant expression emerging beneath the veneer of civility.

“President Adolf S. Steinhart has characterized this detainee
as a noncombatant, and has chosen to incarcerate said
noncombatant indefinitely.”

The judge slammed his gavel down, the resounding thud
shot thunder through the veins of all present in the courtroom,
“And who in the hell does he think he is, anyway? King George
of merry old England?”

“Perhaps, your honor. Perhaps,” the agent said snidely.

“You’ll be in contempt of this court, Mr. Hill, if you fail
to follow my direct orders. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir. But I have my orders, your honor. And I
take my orders from the President of the United States.”

“Do you realize you've just broken your solemn oath of office?”

“Well, whistle-blowers aren't getting much help these
days from the Congress or the Court, sir. I have my
priorities, you have yours...”

Showing his resolve, the honorable judge pointed to the
bailiffs, and order them to release the prisoner.

Before they could comply with the directive, the FBI
agent says, “If it may please the court, if you proceed I
shall be forced to arrest you, sir.”

Totally outraged, the honorable Wilber C. Winslow, says, “
Is that a threat, agent Hill?”

Without blinking an eye, agent Hill says, “That’s a promise,
your honor. Care of the Patriot Act, I might add. If you read
the contents of said Patriot Act, we can and will do as we please.
Now, is that understood, Judge Winslow?”

“Perfectly. The defendant is guilty as charged, and will be
remanded to the custody of the FBI and confined until such
time as the President of the United States so releases said
detainee: Mr. Jake Jacobs. It is so ordered. Court

My mouth fell open as the judged conceded all legal issues
to the executive branch of government like a wilted flower.

Before I could say anything, tape was slapped over my
mouth and the black hood was pulled over my face.

An evil blackness, accompanied by a bleakness of heart,
had taken over my life and soul....

A nightmare personified beyond my wildest dreams: my
America had vanished. Instantaneously destroyed...!

As my gut ached, and my throat developed a frog in it,
and my body shuddered at the thought; tears of sorrow
formed within the currents of my thoughts. Paradise
was Lost.

Welcome to the USSA.

A Book Review by Harrison K. of -- Karmic Rendition: A Novel of Pancho Villa Avenged - 
F. Scott latest published novel. I hope you enjoy it as much
as I enjoyed writing it. The following two books are available
at: bangkokbooks.com, Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble (Nook),
Sony (& Political Instincts)KoboSmashwords and other fine 
stores & affiliates.


Here are excellent previews of the following novels for your 
reading pleasure. If you like "The Walls Have Ears: A Novel 
of America"--perhaps you might enjoy these books penned 
by F. Scott. Thank you so much for your time and consideration.

Karmic Rendition: A Novel of Pancho Villa Avenged - Scott Sinclair - Google Books. 

Al-Ahram Weekly | People | Limelight: Bourne to be a classic

A tribute to the world's best thriller writer: Robert Ludlum with a
quote or two from novelist F. Scott Sinclair in the process.