Quote:
Copyright (C) 2010 by F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.
Op-Ed by Novelist F. Scott Sinclair.
Mandates must be altruistic not punitive in nature
in order to maintain the appearance of a traditional
American value. By applying punitive measures--
fines, etc. for failing to buy mandated health care--America
will be showing the world its baser side. Yes, America's
darker side, i.e. like water boarding, extraordinary
renditions, or for being the champion (number #1)
for having the largest prison population in the so-called
free world, etc. But to make a long story short: individual
American citizens will be the target, and the impact
of mandates will fall directly upon the shoulders of
all Americans, living or yet to be born. Let's not
create another crime against humanity because this
time we're the victims (targets), not the criminals or
terrorists. They (criminals, etc.) get free health care:
we don't and won't.
Hence, that's why I've proposed a humane way to
address the mandated provisions of the health
care bill legislation being considered by Congress.
What do I mean by having mandates that are altruistic,
and not punitive? Well, if a mandate is punitive, the
violator is fined in monetary damages, and/or by
incarcerating the violator for a specific period of time.
Altruistic mandates would assess monetary fines only,
but the violator would receive a very basic health care
package in return. Yes, perhaps a catastrophic policy
that pays for all medical expenses after, say..., a $3,000
(+ or -) deductible; that way everyone gets something:
the violator gets insured, and the insurance companies
receive every one's premiums in order to make the
system work. Such levied fines must also be fair, and
monetarily as low as possible, but sufficient enough
to contrubute to the overall health care plan, besides
being sufficient in order to pay for the very basic
catastrophic plan provided the violators of such mandated
health care.
This is just one (& I hope it's a helpful) idea for smoothing
over one contentious portion of the proposed health care
legislation now pending before Congress. Nuff said. Thank
you for your time.
Best regards,
Novelist
F. Scott Sinclair
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
WE NEED THE RENEGADES...! A FICTIONAL BLOG
QUOTE:
We Need the Renegades...!: A Fictional Blog
Scene Thirteen of the Serialization of “The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America”
By F. Scott Sinclair
Copyright (C) 2006 by F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.
Warning: If you are easily shocked with regard to
contrary points of view, conspiracy theories, offensive
language, political correctness, sex, or anything else
that may offend your sensibilities or lack of open-mindedness,
or if you're a minor (but by no means limited to the
aforementioned), please do not read this novel. It's not
for you...
Note: This is a work of fiction. The events described
here are imaginary: the settings, events and characters
are fictitious, and/or are the product of the author's
imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance
to actual events or locales or persons (living or dead)
is entirely coincidental.
*************************************************
President Adolph S. Steinhart had his holey socks dangling
over the edge of his oak desk at the other Oval Office at Camp
David. He always felt more at home in rural areas. As he
admired the lack of a suntan on his bald white ankles, he heard
a knock at the door. “Yeah, who is it?”
You could hear a bobby pin fall at the deafness that followed.
Adolph watched with intrigue as the brass doorknob twisted
counterclockwise, and said, “Don’t be shy, the doors open.”
Just then, his National Security Advisor Jennifer Berg, pushed
the door open, and says, “I don’t mean to bother you, but
something important has come up.”
After nearly two hours of solitary confinement, President
Steinhart replies, “What makes you think you were interrupting
anything? Do I look like President Harding?”
Astonished by the insult, Jennifer says, “I'll overlook that remark...”
With a smirk of a smile on his mug, he quips, “What does
that mean? That I’m incapable of being a man, and unable to
do manly things?”
Seeing his furrowed brow, she tiptoed to the black leather
couch. After taking a deep breath, her red lips quivered, and
she said, “Let’s let bygones be bygones, how does that sound?”
Leaning upon the surface of the blotter on the desk, Adolph
says, “Okay, enough sexual posturing for the day. It’s not
good for my well cultivated image, is it?”
“You said it, I didn’t.”
As he wiped the sweat from his brow, Adolph said, “When you leave,
tell the help to kick the air conditioning down a couple of notches.”
“Will do... But that’s not why I’m here.”
“Did I ever tell you that you had a real cute pug nose?”
Adolph said, trying to avoid the unavoidable.
Taking another deep breath, Jennifer says pointedly, “Don’t
make this task I’ve been sent to do, any harder than it’s
got to be. Okay...?”
“Okay. What’s on your pretty mind?”
Ignoring the comment, she plodded forward and says,
“It appears the task you assigned me is going to be more
difficult to deal with than I first thought.”
“And what task is that, my dear?”
With an exacerbated expression with feminist overtones,
his NSA advisor says, “I can't do what you’ve asked. I don’t
have enough power or resources to deal with our common
enemy, former Senator Lester Hampton. The Secret Service
has been assigned the task of protecting him around the clock.”
Bolting from his high-backed office chair, the president stood
upright like a flagpole, and said, “Christ Almighty! Isn’t there
some way to recall the detail?”
Shifting uneasily on the left corner of the couch, she responded
as coolly as she could manage under the circumstances, and said,
“There’s only one way to handle this, and its perfectly legal.”
Puzzled, Adolph waited with baited breath, nodding for
Jennifer to continue.
“After you signed the Military Commissions Act of 2006,
you have all the authority you need to apprehend and detain
any person who is giving material aid and comfort to the enemy.
Of course, since our friend is a former senator and a current
candidate for the presidency, it would be a little difficult
to confront him directly.”
“That’s true... What do you have in mind?”
“Remember those law enforcement renegades who were
rounded up and incarcerated?”
“Vividly,” he said, tapping his 2B pencil rhythmically on
the edge of the desk.
Almost shyly, “I’d suggest pardoning them. Especially
Commander Fredericks, but you’d better do it as clandestinely
as possible, I might add.”
“Are you suggesting, a little extraordinary rendition might
be appropriate under the circumstances?”
Looking down, and then raising her head to eye-level,
she almost whispered, “Precisely...”
Adolph rubbed his chin in an act of contemplation. As
the sun draped over his silhouette, and the shadows of
his rugged contour were being accentuated as he stood
in front of the window, he finally turned and said intuitively,
“Gotcha... Brilliant, that it is. Will the U.S. Marshal’s office
go along with this scheme?”
With a hint of a smile, she says, “It was their idea.”
“What...?”
“That’s right. I’ve got a couple of friends stragetically
located in the Witness Protection Program. It’s a
perfect cover, they said.”
Astonished, Adolph queried, “How so...?”
After admiring the head of a deer mounted above
the mantel of the fireplace, Jennifer says, “Well, in the
Witness Protection Program, they’ll be immune from
prosecution and beyond the laws reach. Wherever they
go, they’ll be given false I.D. Or if they’re captured
for some reason, they’ll use their right to make one
phone call to contact the U.S. Marshal’s office. Then
they’re free...!”
“There’s one little detail you've forgotten, or overlooked.”
“And what’s that...?” she asked.
“After I signed the Military Commissions Act,
nobody—including you—have any friggin’ rights to make
a phone call, receive the Miranda warning, and the former
right of habeas corpus has been abolished. And for that
manner, any other rights spelled out in that Goddamn piece
of paper--the Constitution--unless I say so. So, you’d
better find another way to keep track of my private army.
Why? Because that’s exactly what they are: my private army.
And I'm goin’ to take every opportunity to use them
and the secret detainee camps I'm having built in order to
silence my critics, is that understood?” Adolph said,
breaking the 2B pencil in two, tossing both halves
into the trash can.
“That means you concur with the plan?” Jennifer said,
with a whimsical expression—almost magically innocent.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jennifer. Do
you understand what I’m telling you? I won’t authorize
any such thing: you will...! That's what you're getting the
big bucks for. Is that understood?”
Startled, yet remembering her first conversation with
the president about the best way to dispose of their
foe—former Senator Lester Hampton—she could only
concur by nodding affirmatively.
With an upbeat aspect and sly grin, he says, “Now that
that’s settled, care for lunch?”
“Lunch?”
'“Yes, lunch... Have you forgotten about lunch, or are
you so busy, it skipped your mind?”
“Oh no, Mr. President. Not at all... That sounds delightful,
and I’ll take care of things right after lunch.”
“Take care of what?”
“It’s nothing...”
With mischief in his eyes, he says, “That’s what I thought
you said. Remember, I’m sixty years old now. I’m entitled
to forget a thing or two, now and then.”
She wanted to respond by saying, "Yeah, like Ronald Reagon,
huh?" But she thought twice about it and decided to stand up
and change the subject while she was at it, and said, “Where
did you have in mind?”
“For lunch?” he asked dumbfounded.
“Yes, lunch...”
“See... I can’t remember what I’ve said only a few
seconds ago. Getting old, I guess.”
“Right,” Jennifer answered somewhat skeptical.
"Anyway, to answer your question: we'll just have a
quiet business lunch here in the my frontier Oval
Office--as I like to call it--if that's all right with you?"
"Yes, that would be nice."
Moments later, the president’s secretary allowed the
servants to bring them two aromatic dishes of lobster,
shrimp and other exotic seafood. They delved into
the pleasant array of cuisine, letting the future of
the president’s hit list remain on the backburner for
a couple of hours.
One needs to restore their energy, especially when
you’re fighting terrorists both at home and abroad.
And the president decides who’s a terrorist. Now isn’t
that peachy, Jennifer thought.
****************************************************
QUOTE:
Comment: Installments seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen are now
posted of the serialization of F. Scott Sinclair's novel: Pancho Villa Avenged
A CONVENIENT (I HOPE) TABLE OF CONTENTS OF
F. SCOTT SINCLAIR'S NOVELS
*****************************************************
We Need the Renegades...!: A Fictional Blog
Scene Thirteen of the Serialization of “The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America”
By F. Scott Sinclair
Copyright (C) 2006 by F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.
Warning: If you are easily shocked with regard to
contrary points of view, conspiracy theories, offensive
language, political correctness, sex, or anything else
that may offend your sensibilities or lack of open-mindedness,
or if you're a minor (but by no means limited to the
aforementioned), please do not read this novel. It's not
for you...
Note: This is a work of fiction. The events described
here are imaginary: the settings, events and characters
are fictitious, and/or are the product of the author's
imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance
to actual events or locales or persons (living or dead)
is entirely coincidental.
*************************************************
President Adolph S. Steinhart had his holey socks dangling
over the edge of his oak desk at the other Oval Office at Camp
David. He always felt more at home in rural areas. As he
admired the lack of a suntan on his bald white ankles, he heard
a knock at the door. “Yeah, who is it?”
You could hear a bobby pin fall at the deafness that followed.
Adolph watched with intrigue as the brass doorknob twisted
counterclockwise, and said, “Don’t be shy, the doors open.”
Just then, his National Security Advisor Jennifer Berg, pushed
the door open, and says, “I don’t mean to bother you, but
something important has come up.”
After nearly two hours of solitary confinement, President
Steinhart replies, “What makes you think you were interrupting
anything? Do I look like President Harding?”
Astonished by the insult, Jennifer says, “I'll overlook that remark...”
With a smirk of a smile on his mug, he quips, “What does
that mean? That I’m incapable of being a man, and unable to
do manly things?”
Seeing his furrowed brow, she tiptoed to the black leather
couch. After taking a deep breath, her red lips quivered, and
she said, “Let’s let bygones be bygones, how does that sound?”
Leaning upon the surface of the blotter on the desk, Adolph
says, “Okay, enough sexual posturing for the day. It’s not
good for my well cultivated image, is it?”
“You said it, I didn’t.”
As he wiped the sweat from his brow, Adolph said, “When you leave,
tell the help to kick the air conditioning down a couple of notches.”
“Will do... But that’s not why I’m here.”
“Did I ever tell you that you had a real cute pug nose?”
Adolph said, trying to avoid the unavoidable.
Taking another deep breath, Jennifer says pointedly, “Don’t
make this task I’ve been sent to do, any harder than it’s
got to be. Okay...?”
“Okay. What’s on your pretty mind?”
Ignoring the comment, she plodded forward and says,
“It appears the task you assigned me is going to be more
difficult to deal with than I first thought.”
“And what task is that, my dear?”
With an exacerbated expression with feminist overtones,
his NSA advisor says, “I can't do what you’ve asked. I don’t
have enough power or resources to deal with our common
enemy, former Senator Lester Hampton. The Secret Service
has been assigned the task of protecting him around the clock.”
Bolting from his high-backed office chair, the president stood
upright like a flagpole, and said, “Christ Almighty! Isn’t there
some way to recall the detail?”
Shifting uneasily on the left corner of the couch, she responded
as coolly as she could manage under the circumstances, and said,
“There’s only one way to handle this, and its perfectly legal.”
Puzzled, Adolph waited with baited breath, nodding for
Jennifer to continue.
“After you signed the Military Commissions Act of 2006,
you have all the authority you need to apprehend and detain
any person who is giving material aid and comfort to the enemy.
Of course, since our friend is a former senator and a current
candidate for the presidency, it would be a little difficult
to confront him directly.”
“That’s true... What do you have in mind?”
“Remember those law enforcement renegades who were
rounded up and incarcerated?”
“Vividly,” he said, tapping his 2B pencil rhythmically on
the edge of the desk.
Almost shyly, “I’d suggest pardoning them. Especially
Commander Fredericks, but you’d better do it as clandestinely
as possible, I might add.”
“Are you suggesting, a little extraordinary rendition might
be appropriate under the circumstances?”
Looking down, and then raising her head to eye-level,
she almost whispered, “Precisely...”
Adolph rubbed his chin in an act of contemplation. As
the sun draped over his silhouette, and the shadows of
his rugged contour were being accentuated as he stood
in front of the window, he finally turned and said intuitively,
“Gotcha... Brilliant, that it is. Will the U.S. Marshal’s office
go along with this scheme?”
With a hint of a smile, she says, “It was their idea.”
“What...?”
“That’s right. I’ve got a couple of friends stragetically
located in the Witness Protection Program. It’s a
perfect cover, they said.”
Astonished, Adolph queried, “How so...?”
After admiring the head of a deer mounted above
the mantel of the fireplace, Jennifer says, “Well, in the
Witness Protection Program, they’ll be immune from
prosecution and beyond the laws reach. Wherever they
go, they’ll be given false I.D. Or if they’re captured
for some reason, they’ll use their right to make one
phone call to contact the U.S. Marshal’s office. Then
they’re free...!”
“There’s one little detail you've forgotten, or overlooked.”
“And what’s that...?” she asked.
“After I signed the Military Commissions Act,
nobody—including you—have any friggin’ rights to make
a phone call, receive the Miranda warning, and the former
right of habeas corpus has been abolished. And for that
manner, any other rights spelled out in that Goddamn piece
of paper--the Constitution--unless I say so. So, you’d
better find another way to keep track of my private army.
Why? Because that’s exactly what they are: my private army.
And I'm goin’ to take every opportunity to use them
and the secret detainee camps I'm having built in order to
silence my critics, is that understood?” Adolph said,
breaking the 2B pencil in two, tossing both halves
into the trash can.
“That means you concur with the plan?” Jennifer said,
with a whimsical expression—almost magically innocent.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jennifer. Do
you understand what I’m telling you? I won’t authorize
any such thing: you will...! That's what you're getting the
big bucks for. Is that understood?”
Startled, yet remembering her first conversation with
the president about the best way to dispose of their
foe—former Senator Lester Hampton—she could only
concur by nodding affirmatively.
With an upbeat aspect and sly grin, he says, “Now that
that’s settled, care for lunch?”
“Lunch?”
'“Yes, lunch... Have you forgotten about lunch, or are
you so busy, it skipped your mind?”
“Oh no, Mr. President. Not at all... That sounds delightful,
and I’ll take care of things right after lunch.”
“Take care of what?”
“It’s nothing...”
With mischief in his eyes, he says, “That’s what I thought
you said. Remember, I’m sixty years old now. I’m entitled
to forget a thing or two, now and then.”
She wanted to respond by saying, "Yeah, like Ronald Reagon,
huh?" But she thought twice about it and decided to stand up
and change the subject while she was at it, and said, “Where
did you have in mind?”
“For lunch?” he asked dumbfounded.
“Yes, lunch...”
“See... I can’t remember what I’ve said only a few
seconds ago. Getting old, I guess.”
“Right,” Jennifer answered somewhat skeptical.
"Anyway, to answer your question: we'll just have a
quiet business lunch here in the my frontier Oval
Office--as I like to call it--if that's all right with you?"
"Yes, that would be nice."
Moments later, the president’s secretary allowed the
servants to bring them two aromatic dishes of lobster,
shrimp and other exotic seafood. They delved into
the pleasant array of cuisine, letting the future of
the president’s hit list remain on the backburner for
a couple of hours.
One needs to restore their energy, especially when
you’re fighting terrorists both at home and abroad.
And the president decides who’s a terrorist. Now isn’t
that peachy, Jennifer thought.
****************************************************
QUOTE:
Comment: Installments seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen are now
posted of the serialization of F. Scott Sinclair's novel: Pancho Villa Avenged
A CONVENIENT (I HOPE) TABLE OF CONTENTS OF
F. SCOTT SINCLAIR'S NOVELS
*****************************************************
Thursday, January 14, 2010
IS YOUR TONGUE TIED? HERE'S SOMETHING THAT MIGHT JUST LOOSEN IT UP!: A FICTIONAL BLOG
Quote:
Warning: If you are easily shocked with regard to contrary
points of view, conspiracy theories, offensive language,
political correctness, sex, or anything else that may offend
your sensibilities or lack of open-mindedness, or if you're a
minor (but by no means limited to the aforementioned),
please do not read this novel. It's not for you...
Note: This is a work of fiction. The events described here
are imaginary: the settings, events and characters are
fictitious, and/or are the product of the author's imagination
or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events
or locales or persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Copyright (C) 2006 by F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.
Scene Twelve of the Serialization of "The Walls Have Ears:
A Novel of America"
By F. Scott Sinclair
CIA Case Officer: Ken Kendall
The world seemed to be turning around before my
eyes. As I opened my eyes slowly, the cubicle size
cell they’d dumped me in spun around like a world
globe that used to adorn my high school history teacher’s
desk. But the big difference was: I felt like I was on
the inside of the globe, and the world was spinning
around me. The only way I could extinguish the
nauseous movement was by closing my eyes. Suddenly
I remembered that someone had poured ice water
on my naked body, and my ears felt like they were
full of sloshing water. At that instant, I knew what
the problem was. The dingy and stained cement cell
walls were swirling around me because of an inner
ear infection, no doubt. There’ve only been two causes
of whirling ceilings and walls in my life. Once was when
I came off of a three day drinking binge on R and R in
Bangkok. And the other time was when I collapsed on
the carpet in the living room of my apartment for no
apparent reason. The latter experience was due to an
inner ear infection.
As I twisted on the shiny cement floor, the waves of
water that engulfed my inner ear from last night’s
waterboarding session caused me to roll over on my
back. My eyes remained in the closed and wincing position.
Before I could gather my wits about me, the cell door opened.
Abruptly a halogen light was turned on. I thought it
was the Fourth of July after being denied any sort of
light for nearly three days except for the natural light
that crept through the cracks in the walls and doors.
As I placed my hands over my eyes, a Spanish accented
male says, “How are you, Ken...?”
He said my name! What kind of psychological game is
this pervert trying to play? The good guy...bad guy
routine? No doubt..., I thought.
I kept my eyes shut; the intense light nearly burned
them out of their sockets. Before I could get my thoughts
together, the interrogator says, “Silence won’t get us
anywhere, Ken. You know that from your experience
with torture, don’t you?”
Yes, the truth hurt. But silence was the only game in town.
Once I opened my mouth, the game was lost. They could
tape my babbling statements and do whatever they felt like
with my words. If I talked long enough—coherently or
incoherently—they’d have enough of my own words to
compile a confession of my wrongdoing.
“We can do this the easy way, Ken...or the hard way. The
ball is in your court, my friend.”
I was so cold from the waterboarding I’d gone under last
night, I was shaking in my birthday suit. The air conditioning
unit made sure of that. I felt my bowels move, the stench
nearly choking me to death.
“Piss on you then, Kenny boy. I have a couple of friends
outside who are full of piss and vinegar—literally. If you
change your mind, you know how to reach me, don’t you?
That’s right, just open your little old mouth, Ken. That’s
all there is to it. And I’ll be down here to take your confession
like a fly on shit. Got it...?!”
The stranger kicked my kidneys and I felt warm urine
flowing over my thighs as I huddled in the fetal position
in the middle of the cell.
So I wouldn’t provoke my good guy interrogator, I nodded
and nearly passed out.
“Fucking hell...!” I screamed as the good guy yanked my
hair from their roots.
As my head was drawn backward like the string of a bow,
he said, “Now for the bad guys, Ken!”
As he left the cell, I heard him say in Spanish, “He’s all yours...”
I thought I heard the growling of a couple of dogs outside
the cell. Before I knew it, I heard footsteps and the heavy
breathing of a couple of dogs. Still unable to open my eyes,
I couldn’t detect what was going on.
“Okay, Salvadore, it’s your turn,” a husky voice said. To
whom, I couldn’t tell.
“That’s a good boy...,” another monotone male voice said.
And then I realized a warm sensation on my back. Christ,
it must be one of the dogs taking a piss, on me! My stomach
curdled and I almost vomited.
As I squirmed with anguish on my face, the husky voice said,
“We can’t seem to find any toilets around here. That bucket
would do, but I know you need that for your food. We wouldn’t
want to louse up your mess kit, now would we?”
Yeah, the friggin’ shit and piss bucket?! You assholes...! Don’t
you have any decency? I shouted out loud inside my
cranium—what was left of it, that is...
“We’ve got your lunch ready. It’s sitting outside on a tray. How
does the Colonel’s finger licking chicken sound? If you just
open your mouth a teeny-weeny bit, it’s yours for the asking.
On the other hand, if you don’t care to be cooperative, we
can accommodate you with the prison specialty: shit on a
shingle...! It’s one of my favorite dishes. Creamed gravy with
ground hamburger over toast. How does that sound? But
since there’s a shortage of meat in Venezuela, we thought
cockroaches might be more to your liking—or how about
maggots? They’re delicious...! Ever tried them? Yummy,
if I say so myself, especially when they’re seasoned and fried
in oil. And what’s on the menu for dessert? Well, we’re going
to give that to you Chinese style. What’s a Chinese style dessert?
You eat the dessert first, not last. And your silence has made
the choice easy... You’ve chosen the prison special that’s been
approved by the new retroactive American standards for
torture under the provisions of the Geneva Convention.
Enjoy your lunch!”
As curious as I was, I couldn’t part my swollen eyes. My
head still swarmed with nausea as I felt streams of hot liquid
again on my back, legs, and head. Piss...?!
“That’s your dessert. In a few minutes, we’ll bring you the
main menu: SOS—or shit on the shingle, as it’s so aptly called.”
His words drifted away as my thoughts faded away towards blackness.
Warning: If you are easily shocked with regard to contrary
points of view, conspiracy theories, offensive language,
political correctness, sex, or anything else that may offend
your sensibilities or lack of open-mindedness, or if you're a
minor (but by no means limited to the aforementioned),
please do not read this novel. It's not for you...
Note: This is a work of fiction. The events described here
are imaginary: the settings, events and characters are
fictitious, and/or are the product of the author's imagination
or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events
or locales or persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Copyright (C) 2006 by F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.
Scene Twelve of the Serialization of "The Walls Have Ears:
A Novel of America"
By F. Scott Sinclair
CIA Case Officer: Ken Kendall
The world seemed to be turning around before my
eyes. As I opened my eyes slowly, the cubicle size
cell they’d dumped me in spun around like a world
globe that used to adorn my high school history teacher’s
desk. But the big difference was: I felt like I was on
the inside of the globe, and the world was spinning
around me. The only way I could extinguish the
nauseous movement was by closing my eyes. Suddenly
I remembered that someone had poured ice water
on my naked body, and my ears felt like they were
full of sloshing water. At that instant, I knew what
the problem was. The dingy and stained cement cell
walls were swirling around me because of an inner
ear infection, no doubt. There’ve only been two causes
of whirling ceilings and walls in my life. Once was when
I came off of a three day drinking binge on R and R in
Bangkok. And the other time was when I collapsed on
the carpet in the living room of my apartment for no
apparent reason. The latter experience was due to an
inner ear infection.
As I twisted on the shiny cement floor, the waves of
water that engulfed my inner ear from last night’s
waterboarding session caused me to roll over on my
back. My eyes remained in the closed and wincing position.
Before I could gather my wits about me, the cell door opened.
Abruptly a halogen light was turned on. I thought it
was the Fourth of July after being denied any sort of
light for nearly three days except for the natural light
that crept through the cracks in the walls and doors.
As I placed my hands over my eyes, a Spanish accented
male says, “How are you, Ken...?”
He said my name! What kind of psychological game is
this pervert trying to play? The good guy...bad guy
routine? No doubt..., I thought.
I kept my eyes shut; the intense light nearly burned
them out of their sockets. Before I could get my thoughts
together, the interrogator says, “Silence won’t get us
anywhere, Ken. You know that from your experience
with torture, don’t you?”
Yes, the truth hurt. But silence was the only game in town.
Once I opened my mouth, the game was lost. They could
tape my babbling statements and do whatever they felt like
with my words. If I talked long enough—coherently or
incoherently—they’d have enough of my own words to
compile a confession of my wrongdoing.
“We can do this the easy way, Ken...or the hard way. The
ball is in your court, my friend.”
I was so cold from the waterboarding I’d gone under last
night, I was shaking in my birthday suit. The air conditioning
unit made sure of that. I felt my bowels move, the stench
nearly choking me to death.
“Piss on you then, Kenny boy. I have a couple of friends
outside who are full of piss and vinegar—literally. If you
change your mind, you know how to reach me, don’t you?
That’s right, just open your little old mouth, Ken. That’s
all there is to it. And I’ll be down here to take your confession
like a fly on shit. Got it...?!”
The stranger kicked my kidneys and I felt warm urine
flowing over my thighs as I huddled in the fetal position
in the middle of the cell.
So I wouldn’t provoke my good guy interrogator, I nodded
and nearly passed out.
“Fucking hell...!” I screamed as the good guy yanked my
hair from their roots.
As my head was drawn backward like the string of a bow,
he said, “Now for the bad guys, Ken!”
As he left the cell, I heard him say in Spanish, “He’s all yours...”
I thought I heard the growling of a couple of dogs outside
the cell. Before I knew it, I heard footsteps and the heavy
breathing of a couple of dogs. Still unable to open my eyes,
I couldn’t detect what was going on.
“Okay, Salvadore, it’s your turn,” a husky voice said. To
whom, I couldn’t tell.
“That’s a good boy...,” another monotone male voice said.
And then I realized a warm sensation on my back. Christ,
it must be one of the dogs taking a piss, on me! My stomach
curdled and I almost vomited.
As I squirmed with anguish on my face, the husky voice said,
“We can’t seem to find any toilets around here. That bucket
would do, but I know you need that for your food. We wouldn’t
want to louse up your mess kit, now would we?”
Yeah, the friggin’ shit and piss bucket?! You assholes...! Don’t
you have any decency? I shouted out loud inside my
cranium—what was left of it, that is...
“We’ve got your lunch ready. It’s sitting outside on a tray. How
does the Colonel’s finger licking chicken sound? If you just
open your mouth a teeny-weeny bit, it’s yours for the asking.
On the other hand, if you don’t care to be cooperative, we
can accommodate you with the prison specialty: shit on a
shingle...! It’s one of my favorite dishes. Creamed gravy with
ground hamburger over toast. How does that sound? But
since there’s a shortage of meat in Venezuela, we thought
cockroaches might be more to your liking—or how about
maggots? They’re delicious...! Ever tried them? Yummy,
if I say so myself, especially when they’re seasoned and fried
in oil. And what’s on the menu for dessert? Well, we’re going
to give that to you Chinese style. What’s a Chinese style dessert?
You eat the dessert first, not last. And your silence has made
the choice easy... You’ve chosen the prison special that’s been
approved by the new retroactive American standards for
torture under the provisions of the Geneva Convention.
Enjoy your lunch!”
As curious as I was, I couldn’t part my swollen eyes. My
head still swarmed with nausea as I felt streams of hot liquid
again on my back, legs, and head. Piss...?!
“That’s your dessert. In a few minutes, we’ll bring you the
main menu: SOS—or shit on the shingle, as it’s so aptly called.”
His words drifted away as my thoughts faded away towards blackness.
Monday, January 04, 2010
AN EYE FOR AN EYE...AND A TOOTH FOR A TOOTH: A FICTIONAL BLOG
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) 2006 by F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.
Scene Eleven of "The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America"
Venezuelan President: Humberto Sanchez
The palace that ingratiated my workplace with solid
brass gleaming everywhere, and Persian rugs
beneath my stocking feet, provided all the comforts
that I’d sought all my life. And now it was time to
pay back those who’ve made this all possible: my
constituency, the poor people of Venezuela. Even
the brown leather high-backed executive chair
brought back fond memories of my military days.
As the mellow yellow marble walls began to
mesmerize my thoughts, the intercom sounded its
insistent sound of urgency. Reaching over the
deluxe leather daily planner, I pressed the intercom’s
button, and said, “Yes, Sonia... What is it?”
With a marked hesitancy in her voice, she whispered,
“A couple of friends of yours are outside. They’d
like you to accompany them to parts unknown.”
“Send them in...,” I said, knowing by her words
that the assassination team that America had sent
down to eliminate me had been neutralized.
I got up and walked towards the twin mahogany
doors to greet my heroes, but Sonia had opened
the double doors before I could get there, and says,
“President Sanchez, I’d like you to meet—“
“Let’s dispense with the formalities. I’ve worked
with these patriots for over a decade. If it wasn’t
for them, I’d have been assassinated the last time
around. Welcome gentlemen...! Please have a seat.
Sonia, provide our guests with the finest coffee and
treats you can muster up. Okay...?”
Bowing in a gracious manner, Sonia exited to find
the finest espresso coffee in the world, along with
the finest pastry known to man.
As we all admired Sonia’s derrière leaving our
presence, I said, “Don’t worry, gentlemen. You’ll
get more opportunities to checkout the merchandise.
So, you can put your tongues back in your mouths.”
Colonel Ramirez coughed, wiping his mouth and says,
“I apologize for our obvious crude behavior, Mr. President.”
With a hint of seriousness, and affection for the
male specie, I said, “Don’t bother trying to be
politically correct. I know Sonia better than anyone,
and she loves the attention. If you hadn't noticed,
my tongue was also hanging out...just like yours. Are
you ready to apologize for me also?”
“I didn’t mean—“Colonel Ramirez tried to say before
I raised my hand to silence him.
“We’ve more important things to discuss.”
Lt. Perez interrupted, and said, “What could be more
important than our feline counterparts?!”
Seeing the sparkle in his eyes, I said, “Point well-made,
Lt. Perez. But contrary to your perverted mind’s opinion,
there are other things of greater importance in this
world besides sex...!”
“True, Mr. President. But it sure beats whatever’s
in second place...!” Lt. Perez jested.
Colonel Ramirez sat down on the black leather couch,
and says, “Enough, Lt. Perez.”
I said, “Now that we’ve finished discussing what makes
the world go around, how about let’s get to the heart
of the matter before us.”
Ramirez and Perez have always enjoyed a relationship
with me that few others would dare have.
"So," Colonel Ramirez says, after taking a sip of chilled mineral water,
“do you want us to torture the Americans?”
“No pun intended, but you don’t beat around the bush,
do you?”
With a smirk on his face, he nodded.
“I’d suggest that there’s something else in that
glass other than mineral water, colonel.”
Perez quips, “Water boarding is considered to be
a humane interrogation method according to
President Steinhart, sir.”
I could only grin at the truth of those words.
“You’re scarcely old enough to remember World
War II. And apparently King Steinhart fits that category,
if you ask me; but not because of his age.”
“His stupidity...?” Perez shot back, leaning back haughtily
on the couch next to the colonel.
“The truth hurts...,” I said, and then continued, “Because
man seems to lose sight of the fact that history repeats
itself. Why the hell they even teach history, even distorted
history...is beyond me. What good does it do to teach
history to our citizens, if we--and our governmental
counterparts around the world--fail to learn by past
mistakes? All those historical lessons only do one thing:
they make cynics, protesters, humanitarian souls,
terrorists and malcontents out of our civilized citizenry.
You don't have to look any further than me to find a
prime example of why governments should be compassionate,
and caring. Those foreigners who have ravaged our country,
our resources and placed our citizens in bondage for
their political and economic agenda, has produced a
benevolent dictator: me. And a democratically elected
socialist at that...! One who loves his people, and rightfully so..."
“It doesn’t make any sense at all, sir. Citizens learn
their history, but our leaders fail miserably in that regard,”
Colonel Ramirez concluded, gripping the arm of the couch
as though he was attempting to restrain himself.
“Exactly...! So what I’m proposing is going to blow
President Steinhart’s mind.”
Seeing my pregnant pause and deliberate raised
eyebrow, they both leaned forward on the edge of
the couch.
I laughed, and said, “Not literally, my friends. Only
figuratively."
"What do you have in mind, Mr. President?"
I caught Colonel Ramirez's drift, and said as I tapped
a pencil absentmindedly on the desk, "I want you
to make immediate arrangements to
charter at least ten 747’s.”
Thinking he’s being helpful, Lt. Perez says, “We
have that many 747’s at our disposal, sir. No need to—“
“Yes, there is...! Listen to me. Listen to everything
I’ve got to say before interrupting!”
They were both silent with their heads bent and
their eyes staring at the smoked glass coffee table.
“That’s better... The reason I want to charter them
is because our enemy, America...will have great difficulty
shooting down their own country’s planes, and the
planes of other countries.”
Perez couldn’t keep still and buts in, and says,
“Like Russian, Chinese, Japanese, Italian, French
and British airliners?”
“Good man! Now you’re getting the picture.”
“And where are we going with the prisoners?”
I took a deep breath, and said, “Don’t you have
any imagination whatsoever? The International
Criminal Court in The Hague, that’s where!”
They both looked like they’d seen an apparition
behind my desk.
“Clever,” Colonel Ramirez said. “That’s asking
for trouble, sir. Real trouble, I’m
afraid. That’s just what the Americans are
looking for: an excuse to invade us.”
I held my breath, not making eye contact at
first...then I glared directly into their eyes, and said,
“They’ve clearly violated our territory trying to
assassinate me. And we have the evidence in the
basement. Their signed confessions and their
captured bodies is all we need to establish our
innocence. And guess what? I’m planning to include
President Adolph S. Steinhart and his merry men
to the indictment as co-defendants in this case.
Yes, they’ll finally be tried before the world for
crimes against humanity in absentia.”
Excited at the prospect, Colonel Ramirez asked,
“In other words, we’re using these CIA thugs as
a springboard to justice against the Americans?”
What could I say but, “That’s the plan. What do
you think?”
Both were now leery about saying anything after
I’d admonished them earlier on.
“Well...?!” I said, trying to keep from laughing in
their faces.
“Sounds a bit tricky to me. What if this move
backfires...?” Perez finally said.
“Let’s deal with that eventuality if and when it
becomes an issue? Are you with me?”
How could they be against me? Their lives and
careers were in my hands. But they know me
better than that. I listen and only blame those
who have done wrong. Honest mistakes, accidents,
and the like, are not sufficient cause for me to
do harm to someone who’s had a streak of bad luck.
After they both looked at each other in amazement,
and at me skeptically, they finally gestured
their approval.
“Thanks,” I said, and got up and shook hands with
my fellow conspirators. As I ushered them outside,
I said, “Sonia will have the coffee and treats waiting
for you the next time we meet. How’s that...?”
They both gave shy smiles and turned, proceeding
as planned to finally rid the world of the rubbish that
was contaminating the environment. Kind of like
being the first person to make love to a virgin: it’s
a bloody job, but somebody got to do it! And I’d
prefer to be the one, of course.
***********************************************************************************
QUOTE:
A CONVENIENT (I HOPE) TABLE OF CONTENTS OF
F. SCOTT SINCLAIR'S NOVELS
*********************************************************
Warning: If you are easily shocked with regard to contrary
points of view, conspiracy theories, offensive language,
political correctness, sex, or anything else that may offend
your sensibilities or lack of open-mindedness, or if you're a
minor (but by no means limited to the aforementioned),
please do not read this novel. It's not for you...
Note: This is a work of fiction. The events described here
are imaginary: the settings, events and characters are
fictitious, and/or are the product of the author's imagination
or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events
or locales or persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Copyright (C) 2006 by F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved.
Scene Eleven of "The Walls Have Ears: A Novel of America"
Venezuelan President: Humberto Sanchez
The palace that ingratiated my workplace with solid
brass gleaming everywhere, and Persian rugs
beneath my stocking feet, provided all the comforts
that I’d sought all my life. And now it was time to
pay back those who’ve made this all possible: my
constituency, the poor people of Venezuela. Even
the brown leather high-backed executive chair
brought back fond memories of my military days.
As the mellow yellow marble walls began to
mesmerize my thoughts, the intercom sounded its
insistent sound of urgency. Reaching over the
deluxe leather daily planner, I pressed the intercom’s
button, and said, “Yes, Sonia... What is it?”
With a marked hesitancy in her voice, she whispered,
“A couple of friends of yours are outside. They’d
like you to accompany them to parts unknown.”
“Send them in...,” I said, knowing by her words
that the assassination team that America had sent
down to eliminate me had been neutralized.
I got up and walked towards the twin mahogany
doors to greet my heroes, but Sonia had opened
the double doors before I could get there, and says,
“President Sanchez, I’d like you to meet—“
“Let’s dispense with the formalities. I’ve worked
with these patriots for over a decade. If it wasn’t
for them, I’d have been assassinated the last time
around. Welcome gentlemen...! Please have a seat.
Sonia, provide our guests with the finest coffee and
treats you can muster up. Okay...?”
Bowing in a gracious manner, Sonia exited to find
the finest espresso coffee in the world, along with
the finest pastry known to man.
As we all admired Sonia’s derrière leaving our
presence, I said, “Don’t worry, gentlemen. You’ll
get more opportunities to checkout the merchandise.
So, you can put your tongues back in your mouths.”
Colonel Ramirez coughed, wiping his mouth and says,
“I apologize for our obvious crude behavior, Mr. President.”
With a hint of seriousness, and affection for the
male specie, I said, “Don’t bother trying to be
politically correct. I know Sonia better than anyone,
and she loves the attention. If you hadn't noticed,
my tongue was also hanging out...just like yours. Are
you ready to apologize for me also?”
“I didn’t mean—“Colonel Ramirez tried to say before
I raised my hand to silence him.
“We’ve more important things to discuss.”
Lt. Perez interrupted, and said, “What could be more
important than our feline counterparts?!”
Seeing the sparkle in his eyes, I said, “Point well-made,
Lt. Perez. But contrary to your perverted mind’s opinion,
there are other things of greater importance in this
world besides sex...!”
“True, Mr. President. But it sure beats whatever’s
in second place...!” Lt. Perez jested.
Colonel Ramirez sat down on the black leather couch,
and says, “Enough, Lt. Perez.”
I said, “Now that we’ve finished discussing what makes
the world go around, how about let’s get to the heart
of the matter before us.”
Ramirez and Perez have always enjoyed a relationship
with me that few others would dare have.
"So," Colonel Ramirez says, after taking a sip of chilled mineral water,
“do you want us to torture the Americans?”
“No pun intended, but you don’t beat around the bush,
do you?”
With a smirk on his face, he nodded.
“I’d suggest that there’s something else in that
glass other than mineral water, colonel.”
Perez quips, “Water boarding is considered to be
a humane interrogation method according to
President Steinhart, sir.”
I could only grin at the truth of those words.
“You’re scarcely old enough to remember World
War II. And apparently King Steinhart fits that category,
if you ask me; but not because of his age.”
“His stupidity...?” Perez shot back, leaning back haughtily
on the couch next to the colonel.
“The truth hurts...,” I said, and then continued, “Because
man seems to lose sight of the fact that history repeats
itself. Why the hell they even teach history, even distorted
history...is beyond me. What good does it do to teach
history to our citizens, if we--and our governmental
counterparts around the world--fail to learn by past
mistakes? All those historical lessons only do one thing:
they make cynics, protesters, humanitarian souls,
terrorists and malcontents out of our civilized citizenry.
You don't have to look any further than me to find a
prime example of why governments should be compassionate,
and caring. Those foreigners who have ravaged our country,
our resources and placed our citizens in bondage for
their political and economic agenda, has produced a
benevolent dictator: me. And a democratically elected
socialist at that...! One who loves his people, and rightfully so..."
“It doesn’t make any sense at all, sir. Citizens learn
their history, but our leaders fail miserably in that regard,”
Colonel Ramirez concluded, gripping the arm of the couch
as though he was attempting to restrain himself.
“Exactly...! So what I’m proposing is going to blow
President Steinhart’s mind.”
Seeing my pregnant pause and deliberate raised
eyebrow, they both leaned forward on the edge of
the couch.
I laughed, and said, “Not literally, my friends. Only
figuratively."
"What do you have in mind, Mr. President?"
I caught Colonel Ramirez's drift, and said as I tapped
a pencil absentmindedly on the desk, "I want you
to make immediate arrangements to
charter at least ten 747’s.”
Thinking he’s being helpful, Lt. Perez says, “We
have that many 747’s at our disposal, sir. No need to—“
“Yes, there is...! Listen to me. Listen to everything
I’ve got to say before interrupting!”
They were both silent with their heads bent and
their eyes staring at the smoked glass coffee table.
“That’s better... The reason I want to charter them
is because our enemy, America...will have great difficulty
shooting down their own country’s planes, and the
planes of other countries.”
Perez couldn’t keep still and buts in, and says,
“Like Russian, Chinese, Japanese, Italian, French
and British airliners?”
“Good man! Now you’re getting the picture.”
“And where are we going with the prisoners?”
I took a deep breath, and said, “Don’t you have
any imagination whatsoever? The International
Criminal Court in The Hague, that’s where!”
They both looked like they’d seen an apparition
behind my desk.
“Clever,” Colonel Ramirez said. “That’s asking
for trouble, sir. Real trouble, I’m
afraid. That’s just what the Americans are
looking for: an excuse to invade us.”
I held my breath, not making eye contact at
first...then I glared directly into their eyes, and said,
“They’ve clearly violated our territory trying to
assassinate me. And we have the evidence in the
basement. Their signed confessions and their
captured bodies is all we need to establish our
innocence. And guess what? I’m planning to include
President Adolph S. Steinhart and his merry men
to the indictment as co-defendants in this case.
Yes, they’ll finally be tried before the world for
crimes against humanity in absentia.”
Excited at the prospect, Colonel Ramirez asked,
“In other words, we’re using these CIA thugs as
a springboard to justice against the Americans?”
What could I say but, “That’s the plan. What do
you think?”
Both were now leery about saying anything after
I’d admonished them earlier on.
“Well...?!” I said, trying to keep from laughing in
their faces.
“Sounds a bit tricky to me. What if this move
backfires...?” Perez finally said.
“Let’s deal with that eventuality if and when it
becomes an issue? Are you with me?”
How could they be against me? Their lives and
careers were in my hands. But they know me
better than that. I listen and only blame those
who have done wrong. Honest mistakes, accidents,
and the like, are not sufficient cause for me to
do harm to someone who’s had a streak of bad luck.
After they both looked at each other in amazement,
and at me skeptically, they finally gestured
their approval.
“Thanks,” I said, and got up and shook hands with
my fellow conspirators. As I ushered them outside,
I said, “Sonia will have the coffee and treats waiting
for you the next time we meet. How’s that...?”
They both gave shy smiles and turned, proceeding
as planned to finally rid the world of the rubbish that
was contaminating the environment. Kind of like
being the first person to make love to a virgin: it’s
a bloody job, but somebody got to do it! And I’d
prefer to be the one, of course.
***********************************************************************************
QUOTE:
A CONVENIENT (I HOPE) TABLE OF CONTENTS OF
F. SCOTT SINCLAIR'S NOVELS
*********************************************************
Friday, January 01, 2010
Bangkok, Thailand: The Venice of the East...and rightly so...!
Copyright (C) 2010 by F. Scott Sinclair. All Rights Reserved. Care to venture along the river that cuts through Bangkok like a tourist? Here's your chance to save lots of money by watching this video clip that gives you a firsthand glimpse and feeling of traveling upriver like a tourist does, day in and day out in Bangkok, Thailand. The price is right: nothing. So, I hope you enjoy the voyage as much as I did.
***************************************************************
Quote:
The Fear DecadeSince 9/11, We've Embraced Our Inner Coward
By Ted Rall
Home of the free and the brave. Live free or die. Shoot first;
ask questions later. Kill 'em all, let God sort 'em out. These
were the mottos of a brash, impetuous, audacious-to-a-fault
nation. That nation is dead. Continue
**************************************************************
Quote:Lining Up for the Wall Street Gravy Train
By Mike Whitney
The banks are not only taking depositors money and
using it in high-risk derivatives transactions and currency
"carry trades", they're also propping up the long daisy-chain
of insolvent creditors whose default could domino Lehman-like
through the entire financial system. Funny how the media
skips little tidbits like this when they give their rosy
evening roundup. Continue
*****************************************************
Quote:
By Bill Moyers - Mat Taibbi - Robert Kuttner
Truth is, our capitol's being looted, republicans are
acting like the town rowdies, the sheriff is firing blanks,
and powerful Democrats in Congress are in cahoots
with the gang that's pulling the heist. This is not capitalism
at work. It's capital. Raw money, mounds of it, buying
politicians and policy as if they were futures on the
hog market. Continue
********************************************************
Quote:
A CONVENIENT (I HOPE) TABLE OF CONTENTS OF
F. SCOTT SINCLAIR’S NOVELS
*********************************************************
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