Quote:
Within The National (In)Security State » Counterpunch: Tells the Facts, Names the Names
By Phil Rockstroh
Saturday, April 27, 2013
Friday, April 26, 2013
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Installment 22 of F. Scott Sinclair's Novel "The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America"
QUOTE:
Warning: If you are easily shocked with regard to contrary
points of view, conspiracy theories, offensive language, political
correctness, sex, or anything else that may offend your
sensibilities or lack of open-mindedness, or if you're a minor
(but by no means limited to the aforementioned), please do
not read this novel. It's not for you...
Note: This is a work of fiction. The events described here are
imaginary: the settings, events and characters are fictitious,
and/or are the product of the author's imagination or used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or locales
or persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Copyright (C) 2007 By F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.
Scene 22 of the Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America
Novelist Jake Jacobs (a.k.a. Paul Krugar)
Luther James, my would-be artist friend, sat on my
moth-eaten couch. I was sprawled out on my bachelor
apartment Murphy bed watching a “B” movie. My head
was resting on a folded pillow made of latex foam that
needed to be laundered something terrible. The pillow
case seemed to be disintegrating before my eyes as we
watched the movie. As I rubbed some of the fine cotton
thread off of my lips and neck, the phone rang.
“Who the hell could that be…?” I said.
Before I could pick up the receiver, Luther says, “I
don’t give a shit. Another beer sounds good.”
“Help yourself… I'll get the phone.” I raised the
receiver, and said, “Paul here…”
“Hi sweetie. It’s me. Care for a nightcap?”
“Paula. Jesus Christ, it’s really you…! I thought I
was leftovers, the way you’ve been ignoring me lately,”
I said as I bit my lower lip in anticipation. “Are you sure
it’s not the monthly rent you’re after? I’m a month
behind, you know.”
After a moment of silence, I started to feel the old vibes
of our on again...off again relationship, as she says,
“Don’t be silly. I’m just horny. You know…”
“The usual time and place?”
“You’ve got it. How about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow? I thought you were horny?” I said
with Luther listening in with baited breath.
“We’ll discuss it tomorrow.”
Trying to act normal, I said, “Tomorrow it is, my
dear. Till then…”
“Night,” she said, seductively.
Tomorrow was the 'code word' for trouble on the
horizon: her husband, pregnancy, or whatever. I had
no more than an hour to get my ass over to her place.
Hell, I haven’t seen her for months. Is she pregnant?
Wonderful…! I thought in a state of panic. I can barely
afford to stay in this joint, and now another mouth to
feed. Oh shit, was putting it mildly.
As I held the phone in my hand, Luther says, “You
look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Might say that…,” I replied, in a complete daze.
Shock was more like it.
“From what I gathered from this end of the
conversation, it looks like you’ve got your work cut out
for you tomorrow. I hate to say it, but I’m envious, pal.”
I shook my head, trying to regain some sense
of reality, and said, “Yeah, right.”
“Better hand me the phone before they charge
you overtime.”
“Sorry.” I slowly returned the red receiver to
its cradle, and said, “Can we resume this party
tomorrow?"
He slid back on the couch, and says, “If I’m not
mistaken, you’re going to be busy tomorrow.”
Still dazed, I could only say, “Right. The day
after tomorrow.”
“Boy, this lady’s got you upset for some reason.”
What about? was the better question. I knew
I only had a little time to get ready. “Alright…
Well, I’ve got to get a couple of things straightened
out in my mind.”
“By all appearances, that’d help. If there’s anything
I can do to help, let me know. Okay?”
I grinned grimly, and nodded my head.
Luther left with his beer in hand, shaking his
head in ignorance. As he grasped the
doorhandle, he gazed back in my direction, and says,
"Cheers, ole buddy."
With a grin and a handshake, we parted ways
for the time being.
******* ****************************************
FBI undercover agent, Phil Hill, was posted in the
refreshment area of Jake Jacobs’ (a.k.a.—
Paul Krugar's) apartment. The dingy beige plastered
walls were cracking at the seams. The December snow
that was clinging to the outside roof was being melted
by the noon day sun, and it wasn’t helping matters.
The moisture runoff from the melting snow oozed
out microscopically from every crack and crevice. He
was tempted to get up from the makeshift dining
table made from old wagon wheels, and place
a couple of chipped coffee cups beneath the leaks in
the ceiling.
But before he could do that, he saw his target: the
infamous Jake Jacobs, and said into his hidden radio
transmitter in a whisper, “The subject is entering
the hallway.”
The surveillance supervisor says, “Good going, Phil.
Keep your eyes on him. But don’t give chase, just yet.
Give him a couple of minutes lead time. We’re not
sure what he’s up to yet. Is that understood?”
“Roger that..., Alpha one.”
Phil kept his mug buried in the sports page of
the New York Times as Jake walked towards
his location, then abruptly turned down the far
hallway. Seconds later he heard the gassy hydraulic
sound of the exit door opening and closing, and
immediately reached for his portable radio,
and said, “The subject has left the building.”
“Understood, Bravo one. We’ve got the target
in our cross hairs.”
*******************************************
Outside the apartment, I felt naked with only
a gray wool shirt, blue jeans and sneakers on. I
hoped my on again...off again girlfriend and landlord,
Paula Slater, would invite me inside in a damn hurry.
But the one thing I knew for sure was that only
God knows her whereabouts.
“Pssst...! Over here, Paul,” Ms. Slater said from
behind a recently trimmed hedge.
The dense and dark shadows of the hedge
obstructed my view. “Where the hell are you...?”
“Over here, silly...,” she said as she gave a couple
of flashes on her pencil flashlight.
Christ, there she is...! As I snuck between a couple
of hedges that had been damaged by the freezing
snow, breaking off icicles in my path, I managed
to squirrel myself in beside Paula. The mound of dirt
I sat atop was hard and rocky. My butt’s cheeks
eased down to a comfortable position. I just stared
at her, and said, “Care to tell me what’s going on...?
The mystery of the code word ‘tomorrow’ is killing me.”
“I’m not pregnant if that’s what you’re thinking?”
Her eyes seemed so sad.
“And your husband?”
“Sleeping at the moment.”
“What’s the matter then? Nothing could be
that awful...”
With instantaneous glee, she asks, “Even if I
was pregnant after all?”
I’d asked for this, and couldn’t answer truthfully
without destroying our relationship. “Yes, even if
you were pregnant.”
Then her eyes went into a gloomy state, distant
and unresponsive.
“Geez, I haven’t got all night. I’m freezing my balls
off. Out with it...!” I whispered forcefully.
Luckily the square hedgerow was blocking the
luminance from the overhead floodlight, as
Paula says, “They're after you.”
Startled, I gently grabbed Paula’s shoulder, turning
her face and body towards me. “Who dammit...!”
“Can’t say...” She turned away again, raising her
eyes towards the universe, holding back tears.
“What do you mean you can’t tell me?”
The silence between us was crushing the torrent
of anxiety pangs stabbing the pit of my stomach.
I looked around to see if anyone had followed me,
but I couldn’t see anyone. Paranoid, I asked, “Are the
Feds behind your silence?”
“Damn it away, can’t you just accept what I’m
telling you? They’re after you, and Luther too.”
“What the hell does Luther have to do with
anything?”
“I don’t know. But I can’t tell you anything because
if they torture you, I’ll be up shit creek without a paddle.
The less you know, the better. I’ve told you too much
already, and you know that for a fact.”
Still in shock, I collapsed on one elbow, and said,
“What now...?”
“Hide. Just get out of here. Something’s dreadfully
wrong...! Why can’t I get that through your noggin?”
“Why...? I haven’t done anything wrong. And that’s
a fact, Paula. You believe me, don’t you?”
“You and your political beliefs, that’s what...! I’ve
told you before, there isn’t any freedom of speech
anymore. But no, you don’t friggin’ believe me. That
is no doubt what’s the matter, if you want my opinion.”
With a terrified look on her face and tears rolling
down her lovely cheeks, she placed her head on my shoulder.
To diffuse the situation, I spoke intimately into
her delicate ear, “Your place or mine?”
“Mine...,” a strange voice from the wilderness said,
making my heart jump into my throat.
“Who the hell are you...?”
“The FBI...!”
“Oh, shit...,” is all I could say.
He laid his commission and badge on me, flipping
the leather holder in my face, and said, “You’re under
arrest. You have no damn rights, thanks to the Patriot Act.”
“And what the fuck am I supposed to have done? You
can at least tell me that much, can’t you?”
Laying back on the heels of his combat boots, the
FBI agent says, “That’s the nice part about the Patriot Act,
we don’t need a reason. And with habeas corpus suspended,
we don’t have to parade you before a judge and show cause
for incarcerating your dumb ass. So get your butt in gear,
or I’ll bust you here and now! Is that clear enough, or do
I have to spell it out?”
Paula started to object, but I put my hand over her
mouth, and said, “Don’t say a word, dear.”
“Do what your boyfriend here says, young lady. Damn
good advice. And if you even say one word about this,
or anything else you’re privy to on this matter: you’re
going to do a lot of time in the slammer. Got it…?!”
She nodded, kissed me, and departed in tears as
the nice officer was so kind as to handcuff me. A real
American thank you, if I’ve ever seen one… Yes, put
your life on the line in one of Uncle Sam’s little trumped-up
wars, and see what it gets you: The Land of the Free,
and the Home of the Brave. Yeah. Right on, I kept
thinking, as they crammed me into the back of their
nondescript federal car.
They surely wouldn’t want anyone to notice that one
of their precious fellow American’s had
vanished into thin air, now would they?
So this is what it’s like to be kidnapped, and by
your own government’s secret police. Snatched off
the streets of America in the middle of the night,
Nicaraguan style. The American Dream: fulfilled,
at last.
***********************************************************
************************************************************************
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), Kobo, Smashwords 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. http://books.google.co.th/books?id=JmKzn4HtGu4C&printsec=frontcover&hl=th#v=onepage&q&f=false …
**************************************************************************
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.
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 22 of the Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America
Novelist Jake Jacobs (a.k.a. Paul Krugar)
Luther James, my would-be artist friend, sat on my
moth-eaten couch. I was sprawled out on my bachelor
apartment Murphy bed watching a “B” movie. My head
was resting on a folded pillow made of latex foam that
needed to be laundered something terrible. The pillow
case seemed to be disintegrating before my eyes as we
watched the movie. As I rubbed some of the fine cotton
thread off of my lips and neck, the phone rang.
“Who the hell could that be…?” I said.
Before I could pick up the receiver, Luther says, “I
don’t give a shit. Another beer sounds good.”
“Help yourself… I'll get the phone.” I raised the
receiver, and said, “Paul here…”
“Hi sweetie. It’s me. Care for a nightcap?”
“Paula. Jesus Christ, it’s really you…! I thought I
was leftovers, the way you’ve been ignoring me lately,”
I said as I bit my lower lip in anticipation. “Are you sure
it’s not the monthly rent you’re after? I’m a month
behind, you know.”
After a moment of silence, I started to feel the old vibes
of our on again...off again relationship, as she says,
“Don’t be silly. I’m just horny. You know…”
“The usual time and place?”
“You’ve got it. How about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow? I thought you were horny?” I said
with Luther listening in with baited breath.
“We’ll discuss it tomorrow.”
Trying to act normal, I said, “Tomorrow it is, my
dear. Till then…”
“Night,” she said, seductively.
Tomorrow was the 'code word' for trouble on the
horizon: her husband, pregnancy, or whatever. I had
no more than an hour to get my ass over to her place.
Hell, I haven’t seen her for months. Is she pregnant?
Wonderful…! I thought in a state of panic. I can barely
afford to stay in this joint, and now another mouth to
feed. Oh shit, was putting it mildly.
As I held the phone in my hand, Luther says, “You
look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Might say that…,” I replied, in a complete daze.
Shock was more like it.
“From what I gathered from this end of the
conversation, it looks like you’ve got your work cut out
for you tomorrow. I hate to say it, but I’m envious, pal.”
I shook my head, trying to regain some sense
of reality, and said, “Yeah, right.”
“Better hand me the phone before they charge
you overtime.”
“Sorry.” I slowly returned the red receiver to
its cradle, and said, “Can we resume this party
tomorrow?"
He slid back on the couch, and says, “If I’m not
mistaken, you’re going to be busy tomorrow.”
Still dazed, I could only say, “Right. The day
after tomorrow.”
“Boy, this lady’s got you upset for some reason.”
What about? was the better question. I knew
I only had a little time to get ready. “Alright…
Well, I’ve got to get a couple of things straightened
out in my mind.”
“By all appearances, that’d help. If there’s anything
I can do to help, let me know. Okay?”
I grinned grimly, and nodded my head.
Luther left with his beer in hand, shaking his
head in ignorance. As he grasped the
doorhandle, he gazed back in my direction, and says,
"Cheers, ole buddy."
With a grin and a handshake, we parted ways
for the time being.
******* ****************************************
FBI undercover agent, Phil Hill, was posted in the
refreshment area of Jake Jacobs’ (a.k.a.—
Paul Krugar's) apartment. The dingy beige plastered
walls were cracking at the seams. The December snow
that was clinging to the outside roof was being melted
by the noon day sun, and it wasn’t helping matters.
The moisture runoff from the melting snow oozed
out microscopically from every crack and crevice. He
was tempted to get up from the makeshift dining
table made from old wagon wheels, and place
a couple of chipped coffee cups beneath the leaks in
the ceiling.
But before he could do that, he saw his target: the
infamous Jake Jacobs, and said into his hidden radio
transmitter in a whisper, “The subject is entering
the hallway.”
The surveillance supervisor says, “Good going, Phil.
Keep your eyes on him. But don’t give chase, just yet.
Give him a couple of minutes lead time. We’re not
sure what he’s up to yet. Is that understood?”
“Roger that..., Alpha one.”
Phil kept his mug buried in the sports page of
the New York Times as Jake walked towards
his location, then abruptly turned down the far
hallway. Seconds later he heard the gassy hydraulic
sound of the exit door opening and closing, and
immediately reached for his portable radio,
and said, “The subject has left the building.”
“Understood, Bravo one. We’ve got the target
in our cross hairs.”
*******************************************
Outside the apartment, I felt naked with only
a gray wool shirt, blue jeans and sneakers on. I
hoped my on again...off again girlfriend and landlord,
Paula Slater, would invite me inside in a damn hurry.
But the one thing I knew for sure was that only
God knows her whereabouts.
“Pssst...! Over here, Paul,” Ms. Slater said from
behind a recently trimmed hedge.
The dense and dark shadows of the hedge
obstructed my view. “Where the hell are you...?”
“Over here, silly...,” she said as she gave a couple
of flashes on her pencil flashlight.
Christ, there she is...! As I snuck between a couple
of hedges that had been damaged by the freezing
snow, breaking off icicles in my path, I managed
to squirrel myself in beside Paula. The mound of dirt
I sat atop was hard and rocky. My butt’s cheeks
eased down to a comfortable position. I just stared
at her, and said, “Care to tell me what’s going on...?
The mystery of the code word ‘tomorrow’ is killing me.”
“I’m not pregnant if that’s what you’re thinking?”
Her eyes seemed so sad.
“And your husband?”
“Sleeping at the moment.”
“What’s the matter then? Nothing could be
that awful...”
With instantaneous glee, she asks, “Even if I
was pregnant after all?”
I’d asked for this, and couldn’t answer truthfully
without destroying our relationship. “Yes, even if
you were pregnant.”
Then her eyes went into a gloomy state, distant
and unresponsive.
“Geez, I haven’t got all night. I’m freezing my balls
off. Out with it...!” I whispered forcefully.
Luckily the square hedgerow was blocking the
luminance from the overhead floodlight, as
Paula says, “They're after you.”
Startled, I gently grabbed Paula’s shoulder, turning
her face and body towards me. “Who dammit...!”
“Can’t say...” She turned away again, raising her
eyes towards the universe, holding back tears.
“What do you mean you can’t tell me?”
The silence between us was crushing the torrent
of anxiety pangs stabbing the pit of my stomach.
I looked around to see if anyone had followed me,
but I couldn’t see anyone. Paranoid, I asked, “Are the
Feds behind your silence?”
“Damn it away, can’t you just accept what I’m
telling you? They’re after you, and Luther too.”
“What the hell does Luther have to do with
anything?”
“I don’t know. But I can’t tell you anything because
if they torture you, I’ll be up shit creek without a paddle.
The less you know, the better. I’ve told you too much
already, and you know that for a fact.”
Still in shock, I collapsed on one elbow, and said,
“What now...?”
“Hide. Just get out of here. Something’s dreadfully
wrong...! Why can’t I get that through your noggin?”
“Why...? I haven’t done anything wrong. And that’s
a fact, Paula. You believe me, don’t you?”
“You and your political beliefs, that’s what...! I’ve
told you before, there isn’t any freedom of speech
anymore. But no, you don’t friggin’ believe me. That
is no doubt what’s the matter, if you want my opinion.”
With a terrified look on her face and tears rolling
down her lovely cheeks, she placed her head on my shoulder.
To diffuse the situation, I spoke intimately into
her delicate ear, “Your place or mine?”
“Mine...,” a strange voice from the wilderness said,
making my heart jump into my throat.
“Who the hell are you...?”
“The FBI...!”
“Oh, shit...,” is all I could say.
He laid his commission and badge on me, flipping
the leather holder in my face, and said, “You’re under
arrest. You have no damn rights, thanks to the Patriot Act.”
“And what the fuck am I supposed to have done? You
can at least tell me that much, can’t you?”
Laying back on the heels of his combat boots, the
FBI agent says, “That’s the nice part about the Patriot Act,
we don’t need a reason. And with habeas corpus suspended,
we don’t have to parade you before a judge and show cause
for incarcerating your dumb ass. So get your butt in gear,
or I’ll bust you here and now! Is that clear enough, or do
I have to spell it out?”
Paula started to object, but I put my hand over her
mouth, and said, “Don’t say a word, dear.”
“Do what your boyfriend here says, young lady. Damn
good advice. And if you even say one word about this,
or anything else you’re privy to on this matter: you’re
going to do a lot of time in the slammer. Got it…?!”
She nodded, kissed me, and departed in tears as
the nice officer was so kind as to handcuff me. A real
American thank you, if I’ve ever seen one… Yes, put
your life on the line in one of Uncle Sam’s little trumped-up
wars, and see what it gets you: The Land of the Free,
and the Home of the Brave. Yeah. Right on, I kept
thinking, as they crammed me into the back of their
nondescript federal car.
They surely wouldn’t want anyone to notice that one
of their precious fellow American’s had
vanished into thin air, now would they?
So this is what it’s like to be kidnapped, and by
your own government’s secret police. Snatched off
the streets of America in the middle of the night,
Nicaraguan style. The American Dream: fulfilled,
at last.
***********************************************************
************************************************************************
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), Kobo, Smashwords 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.
Political Instincts: A Novel of Amazing Thailand - F. Scott Sinclair - Google Books http://books.google.co.th/books?id=g77Wp8dlyuwC&printsec=frontcover&dq=F.+Scott+Sinclair&source=bl&ots=PIk66ESomR&sig=g-Wq2cgvY84uTXv9Yl0rLuP5JVk&hl=en&sa=X&ei=zZN1UO7TC8jyrQeJuYGADQ#v=onepage&q=F.%20Scott%20Sinclair&f=false …
Karmic Rendition: A Novel of Pancho Villa Avenged - Scott Sinclair - Google Books. http://books.google.co.th/books?id=JmKzn4HtGu4C&printsec=frontcover&hl=th#v=onepage&q&f=false …
**************************************************************************
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.
Saturday, April 13, 2013
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Monday, April 08, 2013
Installment 21 of F. Scott Sinclair's Novel "The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America"
QUOTE:
Warning: If you are easily shocked with regard to contrary
points of view, conspiracy theories, offensive language, political
correctness, sex, or anything else that may offend your
sensibilities or lack of open-mindedness, or if you're a minor
(but by no means limited to the aforementioned), please do
not read this novel. It's not for you...
Note: This is a work of fiction. The events described here are
imaginary: the settings, events and characters are fictitious,
and/or are the product of the author's imagination or used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or locales
or persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Copyright (C) 2007 By F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.
Scene 21 of the Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America
President Adolf S. Steinhart
As the propane gas eked its way out to my eternal flame
of power, hidden in the make-believe ashes in the fireplace,
it almost smothered the glowing white flame that appeared
contemptuous of my presence. The fake log began to feel
like a personal mood icon that had its heart set on choking
me to death to redeem all the ghosts and souls I’ve
vanquished in the last six years. With everyone trying
their best to place me on their proverbial couch, my failed
conscience was interrupted by my secretary’s knock at thy
emperor’s gate, and says, “Mr. President, you have a couple
of uninvited guests in my office.”
My secretary has a habit of not buzzing me on the
intercom. She fears my responses will be overheard, or
her own comments might be unappreciated. Good point,
I thought. Her tone of irritation rubbed off on me. “May I ask—“
Before I could utter a word, she answered, “Ms. Jennifer
Berg, and Mr. Ramsey are here to see you.”
I was in the mood to share the good news with my
underlings, and said, “Welcome them in, my dear. Yes,
I need a breather and the scent of fresh air. By all means,
bring them in.”
Anyway, having just been advised that the likelihood
of impeachment proceedings being forwarded from the
Judiciary Committee was almost nil, I felt vindicated. If
there’s one thing I know for certain, eavesdropping is the
one thing that’s paid off political debts, and provided similar
dividends. Some call it political blackmail. I call it: political
clout. The eye of the beholder is my take on the matter.
And my take is what matters. They call me the decider,
and so it goes…
Moments later, my national security advisor came through
the door with the head of the Secret Service White House
detail in tow. Jennifer Berg says curtly, “I’m sure you know,
Mr. Ramsey, here.”
“By all means…! How’s everything these days?”
His eyes were like piercing arrows, stabbing his
penetrating gaze into the Persian rug’s Seal of the
President of the United States: me. He hesitated,
parted his lips, then fell silent.
I asked, thrusting my hand forward jovially, “It can’t
be all that bad, Mr. Ramsey. Now can it?”
Jennifer blurts out, “That’s what I told him, Mr.
President. Exactly that, didn’t I?”
“That’s correct, Mr. President. But with all the lies—“
Ms. Berg jumped in with all fours to save the day,
and says, “Excuse me, Mr. President. What he
meant to say was—“
“That’s alright now. When the Secret Service has
something to say, they’ve got the right and authority to
spell it out. No matter how it hurts… Is that understood,
Mr. Ramsey?”
“Yes, Mr. President. Anything you say, sir.”
Jennifer backed off and pointed for Mr. Ramsey to have
a seat on the couch. I in turn, pressed the intercom and
requested some coffee and refreshments. As I returned to
the black leather couch opposite my desk, I said, “Be forthright
and yah won’t have a dang thing to worry about. Do you
hear me?”
It seemed like an eternity, those few mute moments
before he replied, and says, “Something is fishy, sir. Real
fishy if you ask me.”
I puckered my thin lips in anticipation, and said,
“How’s that, Randy? Do you mind if I call you by your first
name?”
With a hint of a grin, he replies, “Sure enough, Mr. President.
How about if I call you, Adolf? That would certainly reduce
my anxiety a lot, Mr. President.”
“Does my first name ring any bells? That’s in history, I mean.”
“Hitler. Sure, I get it. You were named after him, huh?”
With a sly quip, I said, “You’re a real crowd pleaser, I bet.
Call me whatever you like. Now, out with it…!”
Startled by my last remark, he stutters, and says
apprehensively, “I just got off the phone with one of my
agents. Apparently, you’ve approved another detail to guard
former Supreme Court justice, Theodore Marsh. Is that
correct, sir?”
With a whimsical glance, I said, “I’m glad you addressed
me as: sir. Otherwise, I’d think you were trying to put one over
on me. You know what I’m sayin’?”
I’d never seen a Secret Service agent cower to anyone
but me. And I like it that way. He says with gritted teeth,
“Did you countermand my orders, Mr. President?”
My left foot began twitching somewhat, twisting and
turning in place, as I said, “If you mean by that: Did I sign
documents to that effect? Yes, I did. What of it?”
I could see the head of the White House detail trembling,
but not out of fright. His shaking was due to outrage, and
rightly so. But I wasn’t going to give him the pleasure of
knowing that little morsel of information. I took a deep breath,
and said in an even tone, “Ms. Berg here, provided me with
those countermanding orders. And I signed them. Any
further questions?”
He turned to Jennifer, and shouts, “Why? Why in the
hell did you do that? Our business is to protect you—people.”
He appeared to want to say something less kind. But,
thankfully, he restrained himself. At times, I should follow
his example, but ask anybody—I’m not noted for my
diplomatic ways.
“Now…now…now, let’s not get our nuts in a wringer,
shall we, partner?” I said.
He stood up defensively, and says, “That’s all I wanted
to know. I thought there’d been a mistake, Mr. President.
But I was wrong. I told the agent the orders were legit.
And now I know that I was right, sir. Thank you for your
time, Adolf. I mean, Mr. President. Good day.”
I looked at Jennifer, and winced. My thin lips tightened,
as I said, “Very well, my friend. Thanks for checking with
me. Wouldn’t want anythin’ foolish to interfere with yah
all’s security plans. Needless to say, I’m the last person
who’d deliberately sabotage his own White House detail,
or any other. Yah got that?”
With his feet firm and heels locked together, he shook
my hand, and says, “Thank you, Mr. President.”
He turned to his left and walked around the couch,
letting himself out of the Oval Office.
I immediately turned to Ms. Berg, and hissed, “Now,
what in the hell’s that shit all about?”
With a hint of deceit on her face, she says, “Care to
know about things, or would you rather not know? Remember,
what you don’t know, you can’t honestly attest to. You’ve
asked me to take certain unmentionable activities and take
care of things, my way. Care to change things, at this late
date? You’re certainly welcome to join in, Mr. President.
The intimidation was working. All I could say was,
“Carry-on, partner. The bull’s shit is in the wind. Cut the
smell—anyway you can. Is that understood?”
“Thanks for backing me up, sir. Talk to you tomorrow,
Mr. President.”
“Till tomorrow,” I said, shaking hands, hoping that
my right sweaty palm wasn’t noticeable.
Life’s a bitch and then you die, I thought, as I closed
the Oval Office door behind her. The good news I'd wanted
to share with them was short-lived. Other pressing issues
always seem to come to the forefront and take charge:
usurping an otherwise delightful afternoon in the Oval
Office. Such is life...
**********************************************************************
Karmic Rendition: A Novel of Pancho Villa Avenged - Scott Sinclair - Google Books. http://books.google.co.th/books?id=JmKzn4HtGu4C&printsec=frontcover&hl=th#v=onepage&q&f=false …
***********************************************************
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.
*****************************************************************************************
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 21 of the Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America
President Adolf S. Steinhart
As the propane gas eked its way out to my eternal flame
of power, hidden in the make-believe ashes in the fireplace,
it almost smothered the glowing white flame that appeared
contemptuous of my presence. The fake log began to feel
like a personal mood icon that had its heart set on choking
me to death to redeem all the ghosts and souls I’ve
vanquished in the last six years. With everyone trying
their best to place me on their proverbial couch, my failed
conscience was interrupted by my secretary’s knock at thy
emperor’s gate, and says, “Mr. President, you have a couple
of uninvited guests in my office.”
My secretary has a habit of not buzzing me on the
intercom. She fears my responses will be overheard, or
her own comments might be unappreciated. Good point,
I thought. Her tone of irritation rubbed off on me. “May I ask—“
Before I could utter a word, she answered, “Ms. Jennifer
Berg, and Mr. Ramsey are here to see you.”
I was in the mood to share the good news with my
underlings, and said, “Welcome them in, my dear. Yes,
I need a breather and the scent of fresh air. By all means,
bring them in.”
Anyway, having just been advised that the likelihood
of impeachment proceedings being forwarded from the
Judiciary Committee was almost nil, I felt vindicated. If
there’s one thing I know for certain, eavesdropping is the
one thing that’s paid off political debts, and provided similar
dividends. Some call it political blackmail. I call it: political
clout. The eye of the beholder is my take on the matter.
And my take is what matters. They call me the decider,
and so it goes…
Moments later, my national security advisor came through
the door with the head of the Secret Service White House
detail in tow. Jennifer Berg says curtly, “I’m sure you know,
Mr. Ramsey, here.”
“By all means…! How’s everything these days?”
His eyes were like piercing arrows, stabbing his
penetrating gaze into the Persian rug’s Seal of the
President of the United States: me. He hesitated,
parted his lips, then fell silent.
I asked, thrusting my hand forward jovially, “It can’t
be all that bad, Mr. Ramsey. Now can it?”
Jennifer blurts out, “That’s what I told him, Mr.
President. Exactly that, didn’t I?”
“That’s correct, Mr. President. But with all the lies—“
Ms. Berg jumped in with all fours to save the day,
and says, “Excuse me, Mr. President. What he
meant to say was—“
“That’s alright now. When the Secret Service has
something to say, they’ve got the right and authority to
spell it out. No matter how it hurts… Is that understood,
Mr. Ramsey?”
“Yes, Mr. President. Anything you say, sir.”
Jennifer backed off and pointed for Mr. Ramsey to have
a seat on the couch. I in turn, pressed the intercom and
requested some coffee and refreshments. As I returned to
the black leather couch opposite my desk, I said, “Be forthright
and yah won’t have a dang thing to worry about. Do you
hear me?”
It seemed like an eternity, those few mute moments
before he replied, and says, “Something is fishy, sir. Real
fishy if you ask me.”
I puckered my thin lips in anticipation, and said,
“How’s that, Randy? Do you mind if I call you by your first
name?”
With a hint of a grin, he replies, “Sure enough, Mr. President.
How about if I call you, Adolf? That would certainly reduce
my anxiety a lot, Mr. President.”
“Does my first name ring any bells? That’s in history, I mean.”
“Hitler. Sure, I get it. You were named after him, huh?”
With a sly quip, I said, “You’re a real crowd pleaser, I bet.
Call me whatever you like. Now, out with it…!”
Startled by my last remark, he stutters, and says
apprehensively, “I just got off the phone with one of my
agents. Apparently, you’ve approved another detail to guard
former Supreme Court justice, Theodore Marsh. Is that
correct, sir?”
With a whimsical glance, I said, “I’m glad you addressed
me as: sir. Otherwise, I’d think you were trying to put one over
on me. You know what I’m sayin’?”
I’d never seen a Secret Service agent cower to anyone
but me. And I like it that way. He says with gritted teeth,
“Did you countermand my orders, Mr. President?”
My left foot began twitching somewhat, twisting and
turning in place, as I said, “If you mean by that: Did I sign
documents to that effect? Yes, I did. What of it?”
I could see the head of the White House detail trembling,
but not out of fright. His shaking was due to outrage, and
rightly so. But I wasn’t going to give him the pleasure of
knowing that little morsel of information. I took a deep breath,
and said in an even tone, “Ms. Berg here, provided me with
those countermanding orders. And I signed them. Any
further questions?”
He turned to Jennifer, and shouts, “Why? Why in the
hell did you do that? Our business is to protect you—people.”
He appeared to want to say something less kind. But,
thankfully, he restrained himself. At times, I should follow
his example, but ask anybody—I’m not noted for my
diplomatic ways.
“Now…now…now, let’s not get our nuts in a wringer,
shall we, partner?” I said.
He stood up defensively, and says, “That’s all I wanted
to know. I thought there’d been a mistake, Mr. President.
But I was wrong. I told the agent the orders were legit.
And now I know that I was right, sir. Thank you for your
time, Adolf. I mean, Mr. President. Good day.”
I looked at Jennifer, and winced. My thin lips tightened,
as I said, “Very well, my friend. Thanks for checking with
me. Wouldn’t want anythin’ foolish to interfere with yah
all’s security plans. Needless to say, I’m the last person
who’d deliberately sabotage his own White House detail,
or any other. Yah got that?”
With his feet firm and heels locked together, he shook
my hand, and says, “Thank you, Mr. President.”
He turned to his left and walked around the couch,
letting himself out of the Oval Office.
I immediately turned to Ms. Berg, and hissed, “Now,
what in the hell’s that shit all about?”
With a hint of deceit on her face, she says, “Care to
know about things, or would you rather not know? Remember,
what you don’t know, you can’t honestly attest to. You’ve
asked me to take certain unmentionable activities and take
care of things, my way. Care to change things, at this late
date? You’re certainly welcome to join in, Mr. President.
The intimidation was working. All I could say was,
“Carry-on, partner. The bull’s shit is in the wind. Cut the
smell—anyway you can. Is that understood?”
“Thanks for backing me up, sir. Talk to you tomorrow,
Mr. President.”
“Till tomorrow,” I said, shaking hands, hoping that
my right sweaty palm wasn’t noticeable.
Life’s a bitch and then you die, I thought, as I closed
the Oval Office door behind her. The good news I'd wanted
to share with them was short-lived. Other pressing issues
always seem to come to the forefront and take charge:
usurping an otherwise delightful afternoon in the Oval
Office. Such is life...
**********************************************************************
Quote:
A Book Review by Harrison K. of -- Karmic Rendition: A Novel of Pancho Villa Avenged -
F. Scott's latest published novel. He hopes you enjoy it as much
as he enjoyed writing it. The following two books are available
at: bangkokbooks.com, Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble (Nook),
Sony (& Political Instincts), Kobo, Smashwords and other fine
stores & affiliates.
******************************************************************************************
******************************************************************************************
Here are a couple of 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.
A Book Review by Harrison K. of -- Karmic Rendition: A Novel of Pancho Villa Avenged -
F. Scott's latest published novel. He hopes you enjoy it as much
as he enjoyed writing it. The following two books are available
at: bangkokbooks.com, Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble (Nook),
Sony (& Political Instincts), Kobo, Smashwords and other fine
stores & affiliates.
******************************************************************************************
******************************************************************************************
Here are a couple of 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.
Political Instincts: A Novel of Amazing Thailand - F. Scott Sinclair - Google Books http://books.google.co.th/books?id=g77Wp8dlyuwC&printsec=frontcover&dq=F.+Scott+Sinclair&source=bl&ots=PIk66ESomR&sig=g-Wq2cgvY84uTXv9Yl0rLuP5JVk&hl=en&sa=X&ei=zZN1UO7TC8jyrQeJuYGADQ#v=onepage&q=F.%20Scott%20Sinclair&f=false …
Karmic Rendition: A Novel of Pancho Villa Avenged - Scott Sinclair - Google Books. http://books.google.co.th/books?id=JmKzn4HtGu4C&printsec=frontcover&hl=th#v=onepage&q&f=false …
***********************************************************
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.
*****************************************************************************************
Installment 20 of F. Scott Sinclair's Novel "The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America"
QUOTE:
Warning: If you are easily shocked with regard to contrary
points of view, conspiracy theories, offensive language, political
correctness, sex, or anything else that may offend your
sensibilities or lack of open-mindedness, or if you're a minor
(but by no means limited to the aforementioned), please do not
read this novel. It's not for you...
Note: This is a work of fiction. The events described here are
imaginary: the settings, events and characters are fictitious,
and/or are the product of the author's imagination or used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or locales
or persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Copyright (C) 2007 By F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.
Scene 20 of the Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America
FBI Special agent: Ralph Longfellow
I stomped the snow off my wing tipped shoes at the entrance
to the Jackson Federal Office Building in Seattle, Washington.
As I traipsed dripping wet over to the X-ray machine, I began to
empty my pockets into the plastic basket as the GSA guards
did their thing. After being swept down by the handheld metal
detector, I dropped my arms to my sides, relieved not to be
considered one of the bad guys. In this day and age, nobody's
exempt from prison style inspections. Sometimes I wondered
if I lived in a free country or not.
I said, “Thanks, Elmer...”
Elmer Hanson had been a GSA guard for nearly twenty
years, and the etched creases on his forehead, and elsewhere,
surely had left their mark. His stooped posture was another
dead giveaway. Time does take its toll on the human condition,
I thought.
Elmer handed back my black leather FBI briefcase, and
says, “How you guys doing catching the bad guys?”
Our eyes met briefly, as I said, “It’s an uphill battle at
best, I’m afraid.”
“I know the feeling. How much stuff gets by us, I’ll never
know. But I’m sure it happens regardless of our best efforts.”
I nodded affirmatively, smiled and went about my
business. As I got off the elevator and strolled into the
forensic lab, Greg Bullock tapped me on the shoulder, and says,
“Any headway on that hard drive of our sneak and peek?”
Greg’s checkered tie nearly blinded me, as I replied,
“Yeah, I may have something.”
Rolling up his sleeves, he says, “Like what...?”
“I think I’ve identified the owner of the computer.”
“Really? Does it match with the rental agreement?”
I scratched the nap of my neck, a puzzled look on my
face, and said, “Not exactly.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he said, conveying
an air of urgency and uncertainty simultaneously.
“Have you ever thought of buying less conspicuous ties?”
His glare curled my thinning brown hair, as he flared
his nostrils, and says, “Just answer the damn question.”
“Right,” I said, as I too rolled up my shirt sleeves and
handed him my report.
Snatching it from my right paw, he ran his finger down
each line of the report, and says incredulously, “Are you sure
about this...? Christ, if your report is on the up and up—we’ve
got to get our asses in gear. You sure this dude isn’t, Paul Krugar?”
Having spent half the night going over each detail, I spoke
in a whisper, “The fingerprints match that of Jake Jacobs,
the novelist.”
He asked, “That’s the guy who wants to make America a
true participatory democracy?”
“You got it... He wants to establish a fourth branch of
government: the so-called Peoples branch,” I said. The
ultimate watchdog of the public trough, or simply another
trough for siphoning off the assets in the Treasury, I thought.
Par for the course…
Greg removed his glasses, placing the frames right earlobe
adjustment mount into his mouth as though he was still teething.
“Yeah, just what we need... We can’t even get the Founding
Fathers’ three original branches functioning properly after
two-hundred years, and he wants a fourth branch? That's
ludicrous!"”
I sat on the lab stool in front of the microscope, shrugging
my shoulders in dismay, and said, “This's a weird twist of
events, if you ask me. But why would he be using an alias?”
Greg just guffawed, slapping me on the back, and says
matter of factly, “Apparently, you have a short memory,
partner.”
“Try me.”
“Does Thailand ring a bell?” he said, gazing in my
direction. His stare was unsettling to say the least.
“I just told you that?”
“Hey, ole buddy, after we ran him through the mill
in the Land of Smiles; if you were him, you’d keep a
low profile.”
Dumfounded, I inquired, “Is this shit prior to 9/11
and the supposed Patriot Act?”
“Supposed Patriot Act? Infamous, is more like it...!
Nevertheless, you've dissected the situation within a
cunt's hair. That’s a home run, my friend. Right on the
money! And furthermore, he’s got friends in high places.
But with habeas corpus now suspended, and the good old
Patriot Act alive and well—we’re going to have a field day
with that son-of-a-bitch!” he said, crowing on and on.
As though it was just yesterday, I mentioned our swearing
in ceremony, and the oath we both took at the FBI Academy
at Quantico, Virginia. “Doesn’t that have any meaning
anymore? We’re supposed to defend the Constitution
against all enemies both foreign and domestic, not persecute
folks for exercising those rights?”
“Grow up, Jose.”
“Perhaps you'd better clean your glasses, chief. I’m
as Caucasian as you are...! Do I look like a immigrant?"
He turned the bar stool around, resting his forearms on
the back of the stool, and says, “Needn't get so touchy...
Just a figure of speech. But if you persist and push
the issue, you just might be viewing this operation
from the outside looking in? Care to make a wager
on that?”
Being threatened wasn’t my idea of being a FBI agent,
so I countered, “Don’t give me that cock and bull story.
We still live in America!”
“Maybe...,” he said, “but the honchos have changed. And
if you choose to take the law into your hands, there’s a
price to pay. These zealots have an agenda, and your oath
of office isn’t part of it. In fact, it’s diametrically opposed
to their agenda. Your career could come, let’s say, to a sort
of snail’s pace. Got the picture?”
Our mugs glimpsed at one another like a couple of beers
with white froths: sagging and deflated like our egos.
My eyes rolled instinctively. I took the hint, but not of my
own free will. I still believed in America, but I knew one thing
for sure: we’re headed in the wrong direction morally and
ethically. With bills to pay and a family to support, I had to
cave in to reality. Mr. Jacobs would simply be collateral
damage in a process that’s out of control.
“Well, let’s get the ball rolling. Time is a wastin’ if you’re
sure there’s no way to stop the tidal wave of deceit.”
He smirked at those parting words, and so did
I—reluctantly. Deceitfully, was more like it. I closed
the lab door, and we proceeded to our manager’s
cubicle to give him the good news, if that’s what
you want to call it. The next move would be in the
field, as the surveillance crew was on scene
assessing the situation.
Once they’ve heard the news, Jake Jacobs’ ass would be grass…!
*****************************************************************************
Karmic Rendition: A Novel of Pancho Villa Avenged - Scott Sinclair - Google Books. http://books.google.co.th/books?id=JmKzn4HtGu4C&printsec=frontcover&hl=th#v=onepage&q&f=false …
***********************************************************
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.
****************************************************************************************
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 20 of the Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America
FBI Special agent: Ralph Longfellow
I stomped the snow off my wing tipped shoes at the entrance
to the Jackson Federal Office Building in Seattle, Washington.
As I traipsed dripping wet over to the X-ray machine, I began to
empty my pockets into the plastic basket as the GSA guards
did their thing. After being swept down by the handheld metal
detector, I dropped my arms to my sides, relieved not to be
considered one of the bad guys. In this day and age, nobody's
exempt from prison style inspections. Sometimes I wondered
if I lived in a free country or not.
I said, “Thanks, Elmer...”
Elmer Hanson had been a GSA guard for nearly twenty
years, and the etched creases on his forehead, and elsewhere,
surely had left their mark. His stooped posture was another
dead giveaway. Time does take its toll on the human condition,
I thought.
Elmer handed back my black leather FBI briefcase, and
says, “How you guys doing catching the bad guys?”
Our eyes met briefly, as I said, “It’s an uphill battle at
best, I’m afraid.”
“I know the feeling. How much stuff gets by us, I’ll never
know. But I’m sure it happens regardless of our best efforts.”
I nodded affirmatively, smiled and went about my
business. As I got off the elevator and strolled into the
forensic lab, Greg Bullock tapped me on the shoulder, and says,
“Any headway on that hard drive of our sneak and peek?”
Greg’s checkered tie nearly blinded me, as I replied,
“Yeah, I may have something.”
Rolling up his sleeves, he says, “Like what...?”
“I think I’ve identified the owner of the computer.”
“Really? Does it match with the rental agreement?”
I scratched the nap of my neck, a puzzled look on my
face, and said, “Not exactly.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he said, conveying
an air of urgency and uncertainty simultaneously.
“Have you ever thought of buying less conspicuous ties?”
His glare curled my thinning brown hair, as he flared
his nostrils, and says, “Just answer the damn question.”
“Right,” I said, as I too rolled up my shirt sleeves and
handed him my report.
Snatching it from my right paw, he ran his finger down
each line of the report, and says incredulously, “Are you sure
about this...? Christ, if your report is on the up and up—we’ve
got to get our asses in gear. You sure this dude isn’t, Paul Krugar?”
Having spent half the night going over each detail, I spoke
in a whisper, “The fingerprints match that of Jake Jacobs,
the novelist.”
He asked, “That’s the guy who wants to make America a
true participatory democracy?”
“You got it... He wants to establish a fourth branch of
government: the so-called Peoples branch,” I said. The
ultimate watchdog of the public trough, or simply another
trough for siphoning off the assets in the Treasury, I thought.
Par for the course…
Greg removed his glasses, placing the frames right earlobe
adjustment mount into his mouth as though he was still teething.
“Yeah, just what we need... We can’t even get the Founding
Fathers’ three original branches functioning properly after
two-hundred years, and he wants a fourth branch? That's
ludicrous!"”
I sat on the lab stool in front of the microscope, shrugging
my shoulders in dismay, and said, “This's a weird twist of
events, if you ask me. But why would he be using an alias?”
Greg just guffawed, slapping me on the back, and says
matter of factly, “Apparently, you have a short memory,
partner.”
“Try me.”
“Does Thailand ring a bell?” he said, gazing in my
direction. His stare was unsettling to say the least.
“I just told you that?”
“Hey, ole buddy, after we ran him through the mill
in the Land of Smiles; if you were him, you’d keep a
low profile.”
Dumfounded, I inquired, “Is this shit prior to 9/11
and the supposed Patriot Act?”
“Supposed Patriot Act? Infamous, is more like it...!
Nevertheless, you've dissected the situation within a
cunt's hair. That’s a home run, my friend. Right on the
money! And furthermore, he’s got friends in high places.
But with habeas corpus now suspended, and the good old
Patriot Act alive and well—we’re going to have a field day
with that son-of-a-bitch!” he said, crowing on and on.
As though it was just yesterday, I mentioned our swearing
in ceremony, and the oath we both took at the FBI Academy
at Quantico, Virginia. “Doesn’t that have any meaning
anymore? We’re supposed to defend the Constitution
against all enemies both foreign and domestic, not persecute
folks for exercising those rights?”
“Grow up, Jose.”
“Perhaps you'd better clean your glasses, chief. I’m
as Caucasian as you are...! Do I look like a immigrant?"
He turned the bar stool around, resting his forearms on
the back of the stool, and says, “Needn't get so touchy...
Just a figure of speech. But if you persist and push
the issue, you just might be viewing this operation
from the outside looking in? Care to make a wager
on that?”
Being threatened wasn’t my idea of being a FBI agent,
so I countered, “Don’t give me that cock and bull story.
We still live in America!”
“Maybe...,” he said, “but the honchos have changed. And
if you choose to take the law into your hands, there’s a
price to pay. These zealots have an agenda, and your oath
of office isn’t part of it. In fact, it’s diametrically opposed
to their agenda. Your career could come, let’s say, to a sort
of snail’s pace. Got the picture?”
Our mugs glimpsed at one another like a couple of beers
with white froths: sagging and deflated like our egos.
My eyes rolled instinctively. I took the hint, but not of my
own free will. I still believed in America, but I knew one thing
for sure: we’re headed in the wrong direction morally and
ethically. With bills to pay and a family to support, I had to
cave in to reality. Mr. Jacobs would simply be collateral
damage in a process that’s out of control.
“Well, let’s get the ball rolling. Time is a wastin’ if you’re
sure there’s no way to stop the tidal wave of deceit.”
He smirked at those parting words, and so did
I—reluctantly. Deceitfully, was more like it. I closed
the lab door, and we proceeded to our manager’s
cubicle to give him the good news, if that’s what
you want to call it. The next move would be in the
field, as the surveillance crew was on scene
assessing the situation.
Once they’ve heard the news, Jake Jacobs’ ass would be grass…!
*****************************************************************************
Quote:
A Book Review by Harrison K. of -- Karmic Rendition: A Novel of Pancho Villa Avenged -
F. Scott's latest published novel. He hopes you enjoy it as much
as he enjoyed writing it. The following two books are available
at: bangkokbooks.com, Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble (Nook),
Sony (& Political Instincts), Kobo, Smashwords and other fine
stores & affiliates.
******************************************************************************************
******************************************************************************************
Here are a couple of 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.
A Book Review by Harrison K. of -- Karmic Rendition: A Novel of Pancho Villa Avenged -
F. Scott's latest published novel. He hopes you enjoy it as much
as he enjoyed writing it. The following two books are available
at: bangkokbooks.com, Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble (Nook),
Sony (& Political Instincts), Kobo, Smashwords and other fine
stores & affiliates.
******************************************************************************************
******************************************************************************************
Here are a couple of 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.
Political Instincts: A Novel of Amazing Thailand - F. Scott Sinclair - Google Books http://books.google.co.th/books?id=g77Wp8dlyuwC&printsec=frontcover&dq=F.+Scott+Sinclair&source=bl&ots=PIk66ESomR&sig=g-Wq2cgvY84uTXv9Yl0rLuP5JVk&hl=en&sa=X&ei=zZN1UO7TC8jyrQeJuYGADQ#v=onepage&q=F.%20Scott%20Sinclair&f=false …
Karmic Rendition: A Novel of Pancho Villa Avenged - Scott Sinclair - Google Books. http://books.google.co.th/books?id=JmKzn4HtGu4C&printsec=frontcover&hl=th#v=onepage&q&f=false …
***********************************************************
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.
****************************************************************************************
Installment 19 of F. Scott Sinclair's Novel "The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America"
QUOTE:
Scene Nineteen of the Serialization of “The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America”
By F. Scott Sinclair
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 © 2007 by F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.
Relieved: A Fictional Blog
Installment Nineteen
Renegade Commander Fredricks
Seattle was its usual overcast self. The monorail train
chugged along its ancient concrete railing, shifting
from side to side-- once upon a time being the
pride of the Northwest-- as it negotiated a sharp curve.
When I bent down to look out of the huge passenger
window of the monorail car, I saw Denny Way and
the new breed of hotels that drained into its path.
As the plastic wrist straps swayed to the rhythm of
the monorail train's fuselage, the overhead stainless
steel railing sagged in its attempt to hold me upright, along
with my faux Secret Service agents. If this passenger railing
had been a wing of a 747, it surely would have broken
in two. We bobbed around like a squadron of robins
perched on a high voltage power line during a rainstorm.
Our bodies bounced off one another as the main terminal
came into view. Without notice, the overcrowded car
abruptly braked, pushing all of us forwarded a step or two.
I quipped, “Hey, Mark, it’s not every day you get to
ride the monorail, huh?”
With a whimsical expression, he said, “It may not be
Disneyland, but it beats where we've been the last coupla
years.”
“A prison cell… You got a point there, I’m afraid. And all the
better reason we've got to pull this caper off without a hitch.”
He nodded and poked his head around an older gentlemen's
head that was blocking our view of the main terminal which
rushed into view.
As the monorail stopped, the hydraulic doors made their
diesel brake sound, and then flipped open automatically.
“It’s showtime…!”
The old man ahead of us remarked, “Showtime…?
What’s playing?”
Christ, I thought the guy was deaf. “Just an expression,
sir. This is our first visit to the big city. Sorry…”
With his rumpled hat atop his bald head, and a bottle
of wine in a paper bag, the old guy says, “That’s alright,
sonny. Have a good day.”
“That we will, sir,” I said, happy to get him off our back.
As we disembarked the car, I felt for the papers I’d been
faxed from D.C. Confident that I’d located them, I directed
my faux Secret Service detail towards the base of the Space
Needle. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
I walked down a path where I saw a detail of Secret Service
agents fencing off the entrance to the Space Needle’s main
elevator. The crowd mingled about at a safe distance. I pushed
through the clusters of onlookers, and finally broke free of a
crowd of bystanders. As I approached the Secret Service
detail, I heard someone bark something.
“Halt…! That’s far enough, mister. Where do you think
you’re going? This is a restricted area, can’t you tell?”
I reached for my commission and badge.
“Hold it…! Don’t move!”
With a sub-machine gun pointed at my chest, I froze.
“What’s in the pocket?”
“My Secret Service commission and badge.”
Surprised, the agent said, “Let’s see… Slowly, my friend.
Can’t be too cautious, now can we?”
I complied, pulling the leather case that housed my
badge from its resting place. I slowly handed my I.D.
over to the paranoid bastard.
He had his partner keep an eye on me as he thoroughly
examined my commission and badge, and finally said,
“Welcome aboard, my friend.”
A bit irritated, I quipped, “Yeah, you mentioned that
earlier.”
Taken aback, the agent asks, “Mentioned what?”
“That we’re friends, so to speak.”
“Sorry for the excessive caution, but there’s been some
threats received against Judge Marsh’s life.”
“And how about his future boss, former Senator Hampton?”
Shrugging his shoulders, he says, “That’s old hat. He’s
got his own detail. Besides, he’s had his hat thrown
in the presidential race for sometime now. But this is the
old man’s first day. And we’re going to make sure he’s
safe and sound.”
“So you’re the detail assigned to protect, Judge Marsh?”
Looking both ways, which I thought seemed like an odd
paranoid gesture, he said, “Nobody knows who’s on this
detail. So I can’t help you any more.”
I smiled and said, “That’s good…”
Caught off guard, the nameless agent says, “Why’s that…?”
“Because I’m relieving you of your duties.”
“You’re what…? But I have my orders.”
Seeing the blank look on his face, I said softly, “They've
been changed. Here. Have a look,” as I handed him the
document signed by his boss.
Astonished, he wouldn't budge. “Wait a minute.”
He walked over toward a group of evergreen trees,
out of earshot, that were lining the walkway with
their perpetual green foliage standing upright with
pride. A row of forever vigilant sentinels standing
guard.
Exhibiting his propensity for paranoia, he removed
the cell phone from its holster below his bulletproof
vest. He turned away from my glance and placed the
phone to his ear. Moments later he was animated, his
left arm flailed in the wind. His teeth were clinched
as his head thrashed from side to side as the conversation
became intense. I glanced at my troops and winked. As
I turned my head in his direction, he was standing in
front of me.
“Fuck it…!” he said, “The whole damn pile of shit is
yours, partner. Good luck.”
“Thanks. I think I'm going to need it.”
His shoulders slumped, and he extended his hand, and
says, “The name’s, Slater. Marvin Slater.”
Not wanting to offend or disrupt the operation, I gladly
shook his hand, and gave him my condolences for
having to relieve him of his assigned duty. I knew he’d
trained long hours for this assignment, so I could identify
with his disappointment. That much my former career
in law enforcement had taught me before my incarceration
for trying to defend the neocon Establishment. But, even so,
I've not lost my zeal for protecting the Establishment. Nobody
likes others to tread on their turf. But things happen...
Where have I heard that expression before? Never mind.
But agent Slater accepted his fate like a man, and the
change of the guard took place despite his misgivings.
And now there was only one thing left to do, and that
was to wait… And wait, we did…for our target: Judge Marsh.
**********************************************************************************
Quote:
A Book Review by Harrison K. of -- Karmic Rendition: A Novel of Pancho Villa Avenged -
F. Scott's latest published novel. He hopes you enjoy it as much
as he enjoyed writing it. The following two books are available
at: bangkokbooks.com, Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble (Nook),
Sony (& Political Instincts), Kobo, Smashwords and other fine
stores & affiliates.
******************************************************************************************
******************************************************************************************
Here are a couple of 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. http://books.google.co.th/books?id=JmKzn4HtGu4C&printsec=frontcover&hl=th#v=onepage&q&f=false …
***********************************************************
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.
***********************************************************
Scene Nineteen of the Serialization of “The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America”
By F. Scott Sinclair
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 © 2007 by F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.
Relieved: A Fictional Blog
Installment Nineteen
Renegade Commander Fredricks
Seattle was its usual overcast self. The monorail train
chugged along its ancient concrete railing, shifting
from side to side-- once upon a time being the
pride of the Northwest-- as it negotiated a sharp curve.
When I bent down to look out of the huge passenger
window of the monorail car, I saw Denny Way and
the new breed of hotels that drained into its path.
As the plastic wrist straps swayed to the rhythm of
the monorail train's fuselage, the overhead stainless
steel railing sagged in its attempt to hold me upright, along
with my faux Secret Service agents. If this passenger railing
had been a wing of a 747, it surely would have broken
in two. We bobbed around like a squadron of robins
perched on a high voltage power line during a rainstorm.
Our bodies bounced off one another as the main terminal
came into view. Without notice, the overcrowded car
abruptly braked, pushing all of us forwarded a step or two.
I quipped, “Hey, Mark, it’s not every day you get to
ride the monorail, huh?”
With a whimsical expression, he said, “It may not be
Disneyland, but it beats where we've been the last coupla
years.”
“A prison cell… You got a point there, I’m afraid. And all the
better reason we've got to pull this caper off without a hitch.”
He nodded and poked his head around an older gentlemen's
head that was blocking our view of the main terminal which
rushed into view.
As the monorail stopped, the hydraulic doors made their
diesel brake sound, and then flipped open automatically.
“It’s showtime…!”
The old man ahead of us remarked, “Showtime…?
What’s playing?”
Christ, I thought the guy was deaf. “Just an expression,
sir. This is our first visit to the big city. Sorry…”
With his rumpled hat atop his bald head, and a bottle
of wine in a paper bag, the old guy says, “That’s alright,
sonny. Have a good day.”
“That we will, sir,” I said, happy to get him off our back.
As we disembarked the car, I felt for the papers I’d been
faxed from D.C. Confident that I’d located them, I directed
my faux Secret Service detail towards the base of the Space
Needle. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
I walked down a path where I saw a detail of Secret Service
agents fencing off the entrance to the Space Needle’s main
elevator. The crowd mingled about at a safe distance. I pushed
through the clusters of onlookers, and finally broke free of a
crowd of bystanders. As I approached the Secret Service
detail, I heard someone bark something.
“Halt…! That’s far enough, mister. Where do you think
you’re going? This is a restricted area, can’t you tell?”
I reached for my commission and badge.
“Hold it…! Don’t move!”
With a sub-machine gun pointed at my chest, I froze.
“What’s in the pocket?”
“My Secret Service commission and badge.”
Surprised, the agent said, “Let’s see… Slowly, my friend.
Can’t be too cautious, now can we?”
I complied, pulling the leather case that housed my
badge from its resting place. I slowly handed my I.D.
over to the paranoid bastard.
He had his partner keep an eye on me as he thoroughly
examined my commission and badge, and finally said,
“Welcome aboard, my friend.”
A bit irritated, I quipped, “Yeah, you mentioned that
earlier.”
Taken aback, the agent asks, “Mentioned what?”
“That we’re friends, so to speak.”
“Sorry for the excessive caution, but there’s been some
threats received against Judge Marsh’s life.”
“And how about his future boss, former Senator Hampton?”
Shrugging his shoulders, he says, “That’s old hat. He’s
got his own detail. Besides, he’s had his hat thrown
in the presidential race for sometime now. But this is the
old man’s first day. And we’re going to make sure he’s
safe and sound.”
“So you’re the detail assigned to protect, Judge Marsh?”
Looking both ways, which I thought seemed like an odd
paranoid gesture, he said, “Nobody knows who’s on this
detail. So I can’t help you any more.”
I smiled and said, “That’s good…”
Caught off guard, the nameless agent says, “Why’s that…?”
“Because I’m relieving you of your duties.”
“You’re what…? But I have my orders.”
Seeing the blank look on his face, I said softly, “They've
been changed. Here. Have a look,” as I handed him the
document signed by his boss.
Astonished, he wouldn't budge. “Wait a minute.”
He walked over toward a group of evergreen trees,
out of earshot, that were lining the walkway with
their perpetual green foliage standing upright with
pride. A row of forever vigilant sentinels standing
guard.
Exhibiting his propensity for paranoia, he removed
the cell phone from its holster below his bulletproof
vest. He turned away from my glance and placed the
phone to his ear. Moments later he was animated, his
left arm flailed in the wind. His teeth were clinched
as his head thrashed from side to side as the conversation
became intense. I glanced at my troops and winked. As
I turned my head in his direction, he was standing in
front of me.
“Fuck it…!” he said, “The whole damn pile of shit is
yours, partner. Good luck.”
“Thanks. I think I'm going to need it.”
His shoulders slumped, and he extended his hand, and
says, “The name’s, Slater. Marvin Slater.”
Not wanting to offend or disrupt the operation, I gladly
shook his hand, and gave him my condolences for
having to relieve him of his assigned duty. I knew he’d
trained long hours for this assignment, so I could identify
with his disappointment. That much my former career
in law enforcement had taught me before my incarceration
for trying to defend the neocon Establishment. But, even so,
I've not lost my zeal for protecting the Establishment. Nobody
likes others to tread on their turf. But things happen...
Where have I heard that expression before? Never mind.
But agent Slater accepted his fate like a man, and the
change of the guard took place despite his misgivings.
And now there was only one thing left to do, and that
was to wait… And wait, we did…for our target: Judge Marsh.
**********************************************************************************
Quote:
A Book Review by Harrison K. of -- Karmic Rendition: A Novel of Pancho Villa Avenged -
F. Scott's latest published novel. He hopes you enjoy it as much
as he enjoyed writing it. The following two books are available
at: bangkokbooks.com, Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble (Nook),
Sony (& Political Instincts), Kobo, Smashwords and other fine
stores & affiliates.
******************************************************************************************
******************************************************************************************
Here are a couple of 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.
Political Instincts: A Novel of Amazing Thailand - F. Scott Sinclair - Google Books http://books.google.co.th/books?id=g77Wp8dlyuwC&printsec=frontcover&dq=F.+Scott+Sinclair&source=bl&ots=PIk66ESomR&sig=g-Wq2cgvY84uTXv9Yl0rLuP5JVk&hl=en&sa=X&ei=zZN1UO7TC8jyrQeJuYGADQ#v=onepage&q=F.%20Scott%20Sinclair&f=false …
Karmic Rendition: A Novel of Pancho Villa Avenged - Scott Sinclair - Google Books. http://books.google.co.th/books?id=JmKzn4HtGu4C&printsec=frontcover&hl=th#v=onepage&q&f=false …
***********************************************************
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.
***********************************************************
Installment 18 of F. Scott Sinclair's Novel "The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America"
QUOTE:
Warning: If you are easily shocked with regard to
contrary points of view, conspiracy theories, offensive
language, political correctness, sex, or anything else
that may offend your sensibilities or lack of open-mindedness,
or if you're a minor (but by no means limited to the
aforementioned), please do not read this novel. It's
not for you...
Note: This is a work of fiction. The events described
here are imaginary: the settings, events and characters
are fictitious, and/or are the product of the author's
imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance
to actual events or locales or persons (living or dead)
is entirely coincidental.
Copyright @ 2007 by F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.
Scene Eighteen of the Serialization of “The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America”
By F. Scott Sinclair
Vice Presidential Candidate: Former Supreme Court Justice Theodore Marsh
I hadn’t been to Seattle’s Space Needle in a number of years,
so having the chance to be interviewed by the Daily Show was
a delight. Former senator Lester Hampton and I were old friends
and foes of the Establishment both philosophically and literally.
As the cameramen and women set the stage for the morning
TV interview, I sat back on the studio couch that overlooked
Union Bay. As the Space Needle continued on its once hourly
revolution of the restaurant, I could see sailboats and small
pleasure boats preparing to enter the locks. Their white
fiberglass hulls and mahogany decks bristled proudly as
the sun reflected its awesome magnificence off the polished
surfaces. The morning dew sparkled off those glossy
mahogany decks providing an aura of warmth in the
midst of man-made chaos.
Before I could capture the full breadth of the breathtaking
view from hundreds of feet above planet earth, I was
interrupted by the director, who said, “We’re about to
go on the air, Judge Marsh.”
Presidential candidate Lester Hampton had been unusually
silent, and said, “Please, leave us alone for a moment. We’ll
be over in a minute.”
“You have 5 minutes, sir,” the director said with tight
lips of concern.
“We understand...”
As the director left us to ourselves, I asked, “What’s
the matter, Lester?’
With an unsettled expression, he says, “You’re about
to join me in an adventure that may lead to disaster,
my friend.”
“You’re worried about me, huh?”
“Both of us, I’m afraid.”
Seeing his trembling hands and pale face caused a pang
of anxiety to pierce the pit of my
stomach, as I stated, “Is this a life and death affair...?”
Not wanting to hear his answer, I turned my head
outward upon the Olympic Mountain Range, as Lester
says, “You might say that...”
“In what way?”
The spoon he was stirring his coffee with shook almost
uncontrollably. I reached over to steady his hand before
he spilled the entire contents of the coffee cup on the fine
linen tablecloth. He smiled, embarrassed. He retrieved his
shaking hand, and says, “I’ve a repetitious dream,
Theodore. I don’t know what the symbols mean. It’s
bizarre... But the bottom line is: the death...of us both,
my friend.”
Knowing the integrity of my friend, I knew he was
signaling for me to take a bow, then to exit out of
the picture through the side door. I nodded my
understanding, toying with the napkin in my lap,
and said, “I’ve been threatened before, Lester. I’m
an old man, so time on planet earth is immaterial at
this point. If our boys and girls can give their young
and tender lives for no reason in Iraq, then this old
Black man can give his life up for something he’s
always striven for...”
With his fingers intertwined beneath his chin and
braced by his forearms, Lester said with a demeanor
that had abruptly changed, “And what’s that, Theodore?”
Feeling a pain of nostalgia from my Black past, I said
with a slight tear developing in the corner of my right
eye, “Does the name, Martin Luther King, ring any bells?”
“Sure... It’s been a long time hasn’t it? But one never
forgets how many sacrifices have been made in the
past for freedom.”
“I swore on my mother’s grave that I’d never give up
the good fight against discrimination, injustice...and all
the rights and privileges that both white and black
soldiers gave their lives for. My life is a small sacrifice
for regaining our freedom, liberty and restoring the
Bill of Rights...among other things.”
I saw Lester’s brow furrow, almost grief stricken as
his eyes trailed off in the direction of the director who
was making his way back to our table. “Looks like it’s
showtime, partner.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“And...?”
“Sorry for the pun. And as to your personal warning,
don’t fret. I’m climbing onboard of my own freewill,
okay?”
Before he could open his mouth, the director stood
over us, and said, “This way, gentlemen. One minute
to go...”
Lester followed the arrow of his arm with uncertainty,
and says, “Age before beauty, my friend.”
“Follow the leader...,” I replied.
“Everyone says stupid things when they’re uptight.”
“Yeah, especially this old goat. Well, it’s off to the
slaughterhouse...”
He got my drift...as this old duffer walked towards
the executioner: the interviewer.
“Welcome to the show, Judge Marsh,” the executioner
said, raising his right hand limply.
“Thanks,” is all I could manage to say. His less than
strong handshake meant trouble on the horizon,
sooner or later.
The director interrupted again. “Ten seconds to
showtime, gentlemen.”
As my black skin turned white, I stared incoherently
at the boom operator controlling the mike overheard.
Apparently, they weren’t going to trust the cordless
microphone strapped to the small of my back.
The interviewer, Raymond Sikes, says, “Is there
something the matter, Judge Marsh.”
“Nothing a couple of beers wouldn’t cure.”
“Nervous...?” Sikes said with almost a gleeful
expression of enjoyment at my expense.
“Two seconds to go...!” the director said.
“Of course not...,” I said without much conviction.
“You’re on the air,” the director said.
As the interviewer prepared the audience and
the home viewers for my appearance, I sat back
on the studio couch: petrified.
“Thanks for coming, Judge Marsh. Is it all right
to call you that? I’ve heard that’s your preference
from friends who know you well.”
“Please do... And you...? What do you like to be called?”
“Feel free to call me, Ray. That’s my preference.”
“Great.”
Ray made himself comfortable, then said, “I hear
you have something important to tell the American
viewers this morning?”
“Thank you for this opportunity to tell the American
people that I am declaring my candidacy for Vice
President of the United States. Yes, I shall share
the independent ticket with the Presidential candidate,
former Senator Lester Hampton.”
“Is Lester Hampton in the studio today?”
“Yes, but he’d prefer that I state my positions and
declare my candidacy with the American people alone.”
Looking at his notes, Sikes says, “You’re sort of
out on a limb...?”
“You could say that.... But I’d rather do that than
become a commercial sound bite for the next couple
of years. They’ll be plenty of time for political ads.
Intimacy is what I’m after these days.”
With a haughty mask of a professional talk show
host, he said, “And straight talk...?”
Seeing the first spear being thrown, I said,
“That’s right. And it’s about time somebody
did. Straight talk has been off the table so long,
it’s a miracle that anyone still remembers what
the expression means.”
“Are you saying that the present administration
is too secretive?”
“And conniving, I might add.”
Ray flipped the yellow pages of his legal notepad
until he found what he was looking for, and says,
“Judge, it’s a sad day when the American people,
and the people of the world, no longer hold our
country up as a model of democracy, decency,
freedom, justice, equality and the dream that
America once was. Is that your position?”
Dumbfounded at having him take the words
right out of my mouth, I said, “I’ll go one step
further. I’m nearly 80 years old, and having been
a Supreme Court justice for a number of years;
I’d say that we have a criminal in the White House.
If the independent ticket of Hampton and Marsh
is elected in November of 2016, I shall personally
see to it that President Adolf S. Steinhart is punished.
My first act will be to ask President Hampton to
declare President Steinhart an enemy combatant.”
Shocked, the executioner quips, “You wouldn’t—“
“I surely would...! And for just cause, Ray. Never
in our history have we had anyone who’s aided
and abetted the enemy more than this president.
By torturing the enemy, taking away the right of
habeas corpus, indefinite confinement without
legal recourse, extraordinary renditions, and the
wholesale sell off of the Constitution of the United
States...that we all hold dear to our hearts, President
Steinhart has fostered our enemy’s cause. He's even
gone so far as to declare American citizens abroad, and
here at home, fair game. That's right, he feels he can
murder anyone who opposes him.”
“Do you mean President Steinhart has personally
created enemies of the state?”
“More than that... He’s created enemies of the
American people by incarcerating its citizens
without due process, eavesdropped on their
communications in violation of the FISA Act. And
so help me God, he’s going to pay for the damage
done--especially for the wholesale murdering of American
citizens authorized by the National Defense Authorization
Act--if Lester Hampton and I win the 2016 election!
Is that clear enough? He'll have no place to hide!”
Time was running out. Hurriedly, the executioner
says defiantly, “That means you’ve become the
devil’s advocate...and that covers a lot of territory.”
As I wiped my lips in anticipation of answering the
question, I said, “The so-called ‘territory’ you’re
referring to, I presume...is the issue of torture, if
I gather the gist and the context of the word: territority.”
“Very perceptive, Judge Marsh.”
“I’ll leave that to you and your audience to figure
out. Use your imagination... But I can tell you one
thing for sure; we’ll have a signed and sealed
confession when we’re through...one way or another.
Does that answer your question?”
“Indirectly...,” he said, as he gazed at the director
who’d just made a sign as though he’d just broken
a pencil in two.
Before he could say a word, I said, “It’s been nice, Ray.”
Ray “the executioner” locked his eyes upon his yellow
legal pad, and says without looking up, “How time
flies when you’re having a good time! Anyway, thank
you for declaring your candidacy, Judge Marsh. I
trust you’ll accept my invitation to appear on my show
in the near future?”
His eyes rose slowly to meet those insincere and hollow
words.
“Time will tell, Ray. But thanks for having me--,” I
said, as Ray “the executioner” prepared to interview
another guest. Ray didn’t say another word after he
went off the air to a commercial. Perhaps another day...
Lester Hampton was standing in the shadows, and
waived his hand to get my attention, and says
leaning past the TV camera, “Time’s up, partner.
This way...”
I’d said what I wanted to say, and that was that.
Apparently, the executioner had other things on
his mind, or he was upset with my proposal. Never
mind, that’s show business. We’re off camera, so
I’d better get used to the cold-shoulder treatment.
I reacted to Lester’s continued gesturing, by saying,
“Show me the way, master.”
With a hint of sarcasm, Lester says, “The days
of slavery are over and done with, Judge Marsh.”
As we walked out of the studio, I said, “Not really,
I’m afraid. We’ve just traded one slave master for
another.”
“A Fascist Police State...?”
“There you go... But this time it’s not just Blacks
who are the slaves. White folks from every nook
and cranny are now slaves: wage slaves...right
along with the Blacks, Mexicans and everybody
else, I’m afraid.”
Lester strode out the front door of the makeshift
television studio, and says, “And as long as there’s
a middle-class, we’ll never have a true democracy.”
I came to an abrupt halt in front of the Space Needle
Restaurant's plexiglas covered exterior elevator,
and stared Lester down, and said, “You’re referring
to the middle-class: the golden handcuffs syndrome?”
“Yup...! They’ve everything to lose. They’ll put up
with anything to justify their need to sample a
piece of the good life. A bunch of gutless wanderers...
It’s only the rich and poor who comprise a true
democracy. But there’s only one catch...”
“Let me think,” I said, pondering the merits of
those words. “You’re referring to the fact that
the poor have no money; hence, no power.”
“Bingo! Need I say more...?”
We both grinned at the truth of those words.
Karmic Rendition: A Novel of Pancho Villa Avenged - Scott Sinclair - Google Books. http://books.google.co.th/books?id=JmKzn4HtGu4C&printsec=frontcover&hl=th#v=onepage&q&f=false …
***********************************************************
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.
***********************************************************
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 @ 2007 by F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.
Scene Eighteen of the Serialization of “The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America”
By F. Scott Sinclair
Vice Presidential Candidate: Former Supreme Court Justice Theodore Marsh
I hadn’t been to Seattle’s Space Needle in a number of years,
so having the chance to be interviewed by the Daily Show was
a delight. Former senator Lester Hampton and I were old friends
and foes of the Establishment both philosophically and literally.
As the cameramen and women set the stage for the morning
TV interview, I sat back on the studio couch that overlooked
Union Bay. As the Space Needle continued on its once hourly
revolution of the restaurant, I could see sailboats and small
pleasure boats preparing to enter the locks. Their white
fiberglass hulls and mahogany decks bristled proudly as
the sun reflected its awesome magnificence off the polished
surfaces. The morning dew sparkled off those glossy
mahogany decks providing an aura of warmth in the
midst of man-made chaos.
Before I could capture the full breadth of the breathtaking
view from hundreds of feet above planet earth, I was
interrupted by the director, who said, “We’re about to
go on the air, Judge Marsh.”
Presidential candidate Lester Hampton had been unusually
silent, and said, “Please, leave us alone for a moment. We’ll
be over in a minute.”
“You have 5 minutes, sir,” the director said with tight
lips of concern.
“We understand...”
As the director left us to ourselves, I asked, “What’s
the matter, Lester?’
With an unsettled expression, he says, “You’re about
to join me in an adventure that may lead to disaster,
my friend.”
“You’re worried about me, huh?”
“Both of us, I’m afraid.”
Seeing his trembling hands and pale face caused a pang
of anxiety to pierce the pit of my
stomach, as I stated, “Is this a life and death affair...?”
Not wanting to hear his answer, I turned my head
outward upon the Olympic Mountain Range, as Lester
says, “You might say that...”
“In what way?”
The spoon he was stirring his coffee with shook almost
uncontrollably. I reached over to steady his hand before
he spilled the entire contents of the coffee cup on the fine
linen tablecloth. He smiled, embarrassed. He retrieved his
shaking hand, and says, “I’ve a repetitious dream,
Theodore. I don’t know what the symbols mean. It’s
bizarre... But the bottom line is: the death...of us both,
my friend.”
Knowing the integrity of my friend, I knew he was
signaling for me to take a bow, then to exit out of
the picture through the side door. I nodded my
understanding, toying with the napkin in my lap,
and said, “I’ve been threatened before, Lester. I’m
an old man, so time on planet earth is immaterial at
this point. If our boys and girls can give their young
and tender lives for no reason in Iraq, then this old
Black man can give his life up for something he’s
always striven for...”
With his fingers intertwined beneath his chin and
braced by his forearms, Lester said with a demeanor
that had abruptly changed, “And what’s that, Theodore?”
Feeling a pain of nostalgia from my Black past, I said
with a slight tear developing in the corner of my right
eye, “Does the name, Martin Luther King, ring any bells?”
“Sure... It’s been a long time hasn’t it? But one never
forgets how many sacrifices have been made in the
past for freedom.”
“I swore on my mother’s grave that I’d never give up
the good fight against discrimination, injustice...and all
the rights and privileges that both white and black
soldiers gave their lives for. My life is a small sacrifice
for regaining our freedom, liberty and restoring the
Bill of Rights...among other things.”
I saw Lester’s brow furrow, almost grief stricken as
his eyes trailed off in the direction of the director who
was making his way back to our table. “Looks like it’s
showtime, partner.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“And...?”
“Sorry for the pun. And as to your personal warning,
don’t fret. I’m climbing onboard of my own freewill,
okay?”
Before he could open his mouth, the director stood
over us, and said, “This way, gentlemen. One minute
to go...”
Lester followed the arrow of his arm with uncertainty,
and says, “Age before beauty, my friend.”
“Follow the leader...,” I replied.
“Everyone says stupid things when they’re uptight.”
“Yeah, especially this old goat. Well, it’s off to the
slaughterhouse...”
He got my drift...as this old duffer walked towards
the executioner: the interviewer.
“Welcome to the show, Judge Marsh,” the executioner
said, raising his right hand limply.
“Thanks,” is all I could manage to say. His less than
strong handshake meant trouble on the horizon,
sooner or later.
The director interrupted again. “Ten seconds to
showtime, gentlemen.”
As my black skin turned white, I stared incoherently
at the boom operator controlling the mike overheard.
Apparently, they weren’t going to trust the cordless
microphone strapped to the small of my back.
The interviewer, Raymond Sikes, says, “Is there
something the matter, Judge Marsh.”
“Nothing a couple of beers wouldn’t cure.”
“Nervous...?” Sikes said with almost a gleeful
expression of enjoyment at my expense.
“Two seconds to go...!” the director said.
“Of course not...,” I said without much conviction.
“You’re on the air,” the director said.
As the interviewer prepared the audience and
the home viewers for my appearance, I sat back
on the studio couch: petrified.
“Thanks for coming, Judge Marsh. Is it all right
to call you that? I’ve heard that’s your preference
from friends who know you well.”
“Please do... And you...? What do you like to be called?”
“Feel free to call me, Ray. That’s my preference.”
“Great.”
Ray made himself comfortable, then said, “I hear
you have something important to tell the American
viewers this morning?”
“Thank you for this opportunity to tell the American
people that I am declaring my candidacy for Vice
President of the United States. Yes, I shall share
the independent ticket with the Presidential candidate,
former Senator Lester Hampton.”
“Is Lester Hampton in the studio today?”
“Yes, but he’d prefer that I state my positions and
declare my candidacy with the American people alone.”
Looking at his notes, Sikes says, “You’re sort of
out on a limb...?”
“You could say that.... But I’d rather do that than
become a commercial sound bite for the next couple
of years. They’ll be plenty of time for political ads.
Intimacy is what I’m after these days.”
With a haughty mask of a professional talk show
host, he said, “And straight talk...?”
Seeing the first spear being thrown, I said,
“That’s right. And it’s about time somebody
did. Straight talk has been off the table so long,
it’s a miracle that anyone still remembers what
the expression means.”
“Are you saying that the present administration
is too secretive?”
“And conniving, I might add.”
Ray flipped the yellow pages of his legal notepad
until he found what he was looking for, and says,
“Judge, it’s a sad day when the American people,
and the people of the world, no longer hold our
country up as a model of democracy, decency,
freedom, justice, equality and the dream that
America once was. Is that your position?”
Dumbfounded at having him take the words
right out of my mouth, I said, “I’ll go one step
further. I’m nearly 80 years old, and having been
a Supreme Court justice for a number of years;
I’d say that we have a criminal in the White House.
If the independent ticket of Hampton and Marsh
is elected in November of 2016, I shall personally
see to it that President Adolf S. Steinhart is punished.
My first act will be to ask President Hampton to
declare President Steinhart an enemy combatant.”
Shocked, the executioner quips, “You wouldn’t—“
“I surely would...! And for just cause, Ray. Never
in our history have we had anyone who’s aided
and abetted the enemy more than this president.
By torturing the enemy, taking away the right of
habeas corpus, indefinite confinement without
legal recourse, extraordinary renditions, and the
wholesale sell off of the Constitution of the United
States...that we all hold dear to our hearts, President
Steinhart has fostered our enemy’s cause. He's even
gone so far as to declare American citizens abroad, and
here at home, fair game. That's right, he feels he can
murder anyone who opposes him.”
“Do you mean President Steinhart has personally
created enemies of the state?”
“More than that... He’s created enemies of the
American people by incarcerating its citizens
without due process, eavesdropped on their
communications in violation of the FISA Act. And
so help me God, he’s going to pay for the damage
done--especially for the wholesale murdering of American
citizens authorized by the National Defense Authorization
Act--if Lester Hampton and I win the 2016 election!
Is that clear enough? He'll have no place to hide!”
Time was running out. Hurriedly, the executioner
says defiantly, “That means you’ve become the
devil’s advocate...and that covers a lot of territory.”
As I wiped my lips in anticipation of answering the
question, I said, “The so-called ‘territory’ you’re
referring to, I presume...is the issue of torture, if
I gather the gist and the context of the word: territority.”
“Very perceptive, Judge Marsh.”
“I’ll leave that to you and your audience to figure
out. Use your imagination... But I can tell you one
thing for sure; we’ll have a signed and sealed
confession when we’re through...one way or another.
Does that answer your question?”
“Indirectly...,” he said, as he gazed at the director
who’d just made a sign as though he’d just broken
a pencil in two.
Before he could say a word, I said, “It’s been nice, Ray.”
Ray “the executioner” locked his eyes upon his yellow
legal pad, and says without looking up, “How time
flies when you’re having a good time! Anyway, thank
you for declaring your candidacy, Judge Marsh. I
trust you’ll accept my invitation to appear on my show
in the near future?”
His eyes rose slowly to meet those insincere and hollow
words.
“Time will tell, Ray. But thanks for having me--,” I
said, as Ray “the executioner” prepared to interview
another guest. Ray didn’t say another word after he
went off the air to a commercial. Perhaps another day...
Lester Hampton was standing in the shadows, and
waived his hand to get my attention, and says
leaning past the TV camera, “Time’s up, partner.
This way...”
I’d said what I wanted to say, and that was that.
Apparently, the executioner had other things on
his mind, or he was upset with my proposal. Never
mind, that’s show business. We’re off camera, so
I’d better get used to the cold-shoulder treatment.
I reacted to Lester’s continued gesturing, by saying,
“Show me the way, master.”
With a hint of sarcasm, Lester says, “The days
of slavery are over and done with, Judge Marsh.”
As we walked out of the studio, I said, “Not really,
I’m afraid. We’ve just traded one slave master for
another.”
“A Fascist Police State...?”
“There you go... But this time it’s not just Blacks
who are the slaves. White folks from every nook
and cranny are now slaves: wage slaves...right
along with the Blacks, Mexicans and everybody
else, I’m afraid.”
Lester strode out the front door of the makeshift
television studio, and says, “And as long as there’s
a middle-class, we’ll never have a true democracy.”
I came to an abrupt halt in front of the Space Needle
Restaurant's plexiglas covered exterior elevator,
and stared Lester down, and said, “You’re referring
to the middle-class: the golden handcuffs syndrome?”
“Yup...! They’ve everything to lose. They’ll put up
with anything to justify their need to sample a
piece of the good life. A bunch of gutless wanderers...
It’s only the rich and poor who comprise a true
democracy. But there’s only one catch...”
“Let me think,” I said, pondering the merits of
those words. “You’re referring to the fact that
the poor have no money; hence, no power.”
“Bingo! Need I say more...?”
We both grinned at the truth of those words.
*********************************************************************************
*********************************************************************************
Quote:
A Book Review by Harrison K. of -- Karmic Rendition: A Novel of Pancho Villa Avenged -
F. Scott's latest published novel. He hopes you enjoy it as much
as he enjoyed writing it. The following two books are available
at: bangkokbooks.com, Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble (Nook),
Sony (& Political Instincts), Kobo, Smashwords and other fine
stores & affiliates.
******************************************************************************************
******************************************************************************************
Here are a couple of 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.
A Book Review by Harrison K. of -- Karmic Rendition: A Novel of Pancho Villa Avenged -
F. Scott's latest published novel. He hopes you enjoy it as much
as he enjoyed writing it. The following two books are available
at: bangkokbooks.com, Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble (Nook),
Sony (& Political Instincts), Kobo, Smashwords and other fine
stores & affiliates.
******************************************************************************************
******************************************************************************************
Here are a couple of 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.
Political Instincts: A Novel of Amazing Thailand - F. Scott Sinclair - Google Books http://books.google.co.th/books?id=g77Wp8dlyuwC&printsec=frontcover&dq=F.+Scott+Sinclair&source=bl&ots=PIk66ESomR&sig=g-Wq2cgvY84uTXv9Yl0rLuP5JVk&hl=en&sa=X&ei=zZN1UO7TC8jyrQeJuYGADQ#v=onepage&q=F.%20Scott%20Sinclair&f=false …
Karmic Rendition: A Novel of Pancho Villa Avenged - Scott Sinclair - Google Books. http://books.google.co.th/books?id=JmKzn4HtGu4C&printsec=frontcover&hl=th#v=onepage&q&f=false …
***********************************************************
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.
***********************************************************
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