tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67832686466908571612024-03-13T07:58:50.418-05:00Pecorino & EggsBen Hasskamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351974191740258268noreply@blogger.comBlogger72125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6783268646690857161.post-14716385132728393292017-02-23T15:41:00.000-06:002017-02-23T15:41:54.610-06:00NEW WEBSITE!We've moved. Our essays and stories can now be found at<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> </span><a href="https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.pecorinoandeggs.com%2F&h=ATM1qxi_eqxoFmQRt6QQ0U_6ZIEB9F9CYUicKaRtMoQvYI7gjDCD4KMpD531Z7QlV8um7x5gYg0z2ihLJP-0AD1wBo2rBUUGtMS-TJrZsPWzRzkzTn2lB5f8vBnfEG8Gl9e1QXqzQZReZ56al7EW--8j&enc=AZMdpkh14ufTLtTh0JjdgHONLx5wYbV9C6TM70_YYq9t78SUpcDBtSEwfL7zF1b9lP39AakDi0u_6tkTRpUFKHVv8pTZl63ZjEoFo9RFI_oJacrsKoe_TCusW52N8oyqKUwZ214XdpyMm4qlL2-oMT9rsuOhhzs0UVFZFcwe2zoBBiL5dGcUGYAdh0rV4W_fazghOLL2jHXppSvWOGN6kKmV&s=1" rel="nofollow noopener" style="background-color: white; color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">www.pecorinoandeggs.com.</a><br />
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<br />Ben Hasskamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351974191740258268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6783268646690857161.post-20500244193749191702017-02-16T16:30:00.000-06:002017-02-16T17:07:35.608-06:00The Media's Fickle Friend: Donald J. Trump<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KpRplD3uwC4/WKYuXZTyDkI/AAAAAAAAAtU/DlXUS5-qGzEvn40AXKoL-sqU6IVAa5_8wCK4B/s1600/12trump15a-7-web.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="452" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KpRplD3uwC4/WKYuXZTyDkI/AAAAAAAAAtU/DlXUS5-qGzEvn40AXKoL-sqU6IVAa5_8wCK4B/s640/12trump15a-7-web.jpg" width="640" /></a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">The main story tonight concerns the media.</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">But first, let’s recap this week in politics, more specifically the excruciating evolution of Donald
Trump’s cabinet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Three of Mr. Trump’s controversial nominees, including Attorney General
Jeff Sessions, Secretary of </span>Education Betsy DeVos, and Secretary of Treasury Steve
Mnuchin, were all confirmed by the Senate this past week. Sessions, whose past has been marred by insensitivities
toward pretty much anyone who wasn’t white, and whose 1986 judicial nomination
for the U.S. District Court was blocked because of civil rights concerns,
was confirmed for Attorney General with a vote of 52-47. So, a man deemed to be too racist to judge
back in 1986, is now the Attorney General of the United States. </div>
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<o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-R9tV7dyG44g/WKX42t2ngzI/AAAAAAAAArk/DF6dMIK9AqcBS3SphryMPrCX_VJAqdvFQCLcB/s1600/Botsford161119Trump87771479589933.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="130" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-R9tV7dyG44g/WKX42t2ngzI/AAAAAAAAArk/DF6dMIK9AqcBS3SphryMPrCX_VJAqdvFQCLcB/s200/Botsford161119Trump87771479589933.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Betsy DeVos, the out-of-touch billionaire from Michigan, whose
confirmation hearing was a barrage </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">of painful ramblings and incoherent
claims.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">This is a woman who suggested
student debt has increased by 980% in 8 years when, according to the </span><a href="http://www.marketwatch.com/story/betsy-devos-up-for-secretary-of-education-flubs-key-student-loan-debt-figure-2017-01-18" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">U.S. Federal
Reserve</span></a><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">, has grown 118%; she foolishly insisted Wyoming schools carry guns to
protect themselves from </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e3xBGq3bvcQ" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">grizzly attacks</span></a><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">; and,
most recently, said Donald Trump’s </span><a href="http://www.newyorker.com/humor/borowitz-report/devos-says-trumps-forty-per-cent-approval-rating-means-more-than-half-of-country-supports-him" style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">40%
approval rating</span></a><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> gave her a “great sense of confidence” because it
showed “that well more than <b><i>half</i></b> the country is with him.” Yes, apparently to our new Secretary of
Education, 40% constitutes itself as half.
Ms. DeVos’ confirmation was a 50-50 split, with Vice President Mike
Pence casting the tie-breaking vote. </span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MXGTRSn9loA/WKX5K5J0c3I/AAAAAAAAAro/8xkWBIqs0UE_U1gq5JHhPJHfKM_z4d9wACLcB/s1600/steven-mnuchin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MXGTRSn9loA/WKX5K5J0c3I/AAAAAAAAAro/8xkWBIqs0UE_U1gq5JHhPJHfKM_z4d9wACLcB/s200/steven-mnuchin.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">And, finally, Steve Mnuchin—you know, the former investment banker at
Goldman Sachs who looks like that guy you’ll find out years from now had an
addiction to cocaine and prostitutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Mr. Mnuchin, who also worked at </span><a href="http://www.npr.org/sections/thetwo-way/2017/02/13/515084616/steven-mnuchin-confirmed-as-treasury-secretary"><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">OneWest</span></a><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">, is the
same Steve Mnuchin who, during the recession, foreclosed on tens of thousands
of troubled homeowners, misled the </span><a href="http://www.latimes.com/business/la-fi-mnuchin-treasury-onewest-20170130-story.html"><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Senate
Health Education Labor and Pensions Committee</span></a><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> about OneWest’s shortcuts,
and who </span><a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/wonk/wp/2017/01/19/treasury-nominee-initially-omitted-more-than-100-million-from-disclosures-democratic-memo-shows/?hpid=hp_hp-top-table-main_wb-mnuchin-memo-855a%3Ahomepage%2Fstory&utm_term=.57a3ff2c8836"><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">failed
to disclose</span></a><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> $100 million of his estimated half a billion net
worth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But what could go wrong
appointing a former G.S. investor?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apart
from the fact that the last time a Goldman Sachs employee was Secretary of
Treasury we fell into a deep recession, the banks collapsed, and we used $700
billion in taxpayer monies to bail them out. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To put this in perspective, according to the </span><a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/wonk/wp/2014/01/12/no-we-dont-spend-1-trillion-on-welfare-each-year/?utm_term=.7c17013f6ae6"><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Washington
Post</span></a><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">, in 2014 we spent $212 billion on welfare programs, $228 billion on
Medicaid, $9.9 billion on low income taxpayer clinics, $2.5 billion on adoption
assistance, $14.1 billion on Title 1 grants, and another $7.1 billion on Head
Start programs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">All in all, that’s around $475 billion—still $225 billion less than we
paid the banks after they callously fucked America.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, yet, certain politicians still claim
it’s poor people and immigrants who are responsible for America’s plight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Not surprisingly, the backbone-less Senate confirmed Mr. Mnuchin with a
vote of 53-47.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trump’s labor pick, Andrew
Puzder, however, withdrew his name from consideration after rumblings his
nomination wouldn’t be confirmed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So...whatever...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">And now, a brief segue:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/wFqblviVyO8/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/wFqblviVyO8?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">The main story tonight concerns the media and its troubled relationship
with political leaders.</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Much has been said about Donald Trump’s relationship with the so-called “liberal
media.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s berated journalists, mocked
reporters, and banned certain media outlets from various events, including his
first ever press conference as POTUS.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He’s told blatant lies and then, when the media has reported the lies, used those reports as evidence of fake news. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Donald Trump’s sheer disdain and aloofness
when it comes to matters of the press is alarming, and each and every
journalist should take measure about what his idiocy is capable of.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">This is the cautionary tale of Donald J. Trump’s ever-growing “media
problem:”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1HsHaxX3Eog/WKX7EePCYjI/AAAAAAAAArw/oPbaYMTrXx0DJNHgi7H26klnRiUWdn1mACLcB/s1600/29-THE_FAMOUS_ZENGER_TRIAL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1HsHaxX3Eog/WKX7EePCYjI/AAAAAAAAArw/oPbaYMTrXx0DJNHgi7H26klnRiUWdn1mACLcB/s1600/29-THE_FAMOUS_ZENGER_TRIAL.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The press has often had a tumultuous relationship with political figures.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Back in the early 18<sup>th</sup>
century, in the British American colonies, newspapers were steadily growing in
popularity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, as readership was
expanding, editors found their readers responded favorably to satirical
criticisms of local governors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In 1734,
one governor in particular, William Cosby (yes, his real name was Bill Cosby), took
umbrage with such criticisms and shut down <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
New York Weekly Journal</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Subsequently, the Journal’s editor, John Peter Zenger, was subpoenaed
and taken to trial for Criminal Libel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Defense lawyers for Mr. Zenger argued truth was a valid defense against
libel, and the courts ruled against Bill Cosby.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">After his acquittal, Zenger became a hero for the freedom of the press
movement and by the mid 1760s there were 24 weekly newspapers across the 13
colonies. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the end of the 18<sup>th</sup>
century, the founding fathers—those guys every goddamn politician seems keen on
emulating—wrote the Constitution.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
rest, I wish I could say, is history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But, over the years, the 1<sup>st</sup> Amendment has become a topic of
severe scrutiny and hasn’t always been honored to its fullest degree.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">GERMANY<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Press problems go beyond the borders of the United States.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In some countries, governments and
dictatorships have resorted to propaganda to diminish the press’
credibility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the worst examples
of this came in Germany during the rise of the Nazi party.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In 1927, Joseph Goebbels, Adolf Hitler’s Reich
Minister of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda (MPEP), founded <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Der Angriff</i> (“The Attack”), using it solely
to advance the Nazi agenda. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Journalists
who defied or criticized the MPEP were routinely imprisoned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fTakTrItUvA/WKX7bCEY14I/AAAAAAAAAr8/Z0iCrA7Tl-s1R7RwVDU4nRBWo5BeFwBEACLcB/s1600/quote-a-lie-told-once-remains-a-lie-but-a-lie-told-a-thousand-times-becomes-the-truth-joseph-goebbels-70-50-03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="186" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fTakTrItUvA/WKX7bCEY14I/AAAAAAAAAr8/Z0iCrA7Tl-s1R7RwVDU4nRBWo5BeFwBEACLcB/s400/quote-a-lie-told-once-remains-a-lie-but-a-lie-told-a-thousand-times-becomes-the-truth-joseph-goebbels-70-50-03.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Now, tell me if any of this sounds hauntingly recognizable: One of
Goebbels’ first acts as minister was to ban the </span><i style="font-family: "Iowan Old Style Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Nationaler Sozialist</i><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">, one of Berlin’s evening newspapers, often
critical of Hitler and his fascist regime.</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Additionally, after Hitler’s election, the Nazi party only had 37%
support from the German citizens—a stat that angered Hitler.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Goebbels, being the good lapdog he was, set
out to increase the support to 100%.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
how does one do this?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They create a
context of a deteriorating economy and a fragile society, and offer a narrative
as to who’s to blame for that deterioration.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In this case: the Jews.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Using the
Nazi newspapers, Goebbels organized and authorized boycotts of Jewish shops and
businesses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This, as we all know, was
only the beginning of the Jewish persecution.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Lastly, according to Roger Manvell and Heinrich Fraenkel’s book, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Doctor Goebbels: His Life And Death</i>,
Goebbels, along with other members of Hitler’s cabinet, had to deal with
Hitler’s manic leadership style in which he repeatedly gave contradictory
orders to his subordinates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If none of
this is striking you as eerily familiar, then perhaps you should read on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you understand exactly what I’m talking
about, I’m fine if you wish to forego the rest of this history lesson and curl
up in the tub and cry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">CHINA<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "iowan old style roman";">According to the </span><a href="http://www.cfr.org/china/media-censorship-china/p11515"><span style="background: white; font-family: "iowan old style roman";">Council
on Foreign Relations</span></a><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "iowan old style roman";">, China's</span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "iowan old style roman";"> </span></span><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "iowan old style roman";">constitution affords its citizens<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">freedom of speech</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>and
press, but the opacity of Chinese media regulations allows authorities to crack
down on news stories by claiming they expose state secrets and endanger the
country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thus, really not affording them
freedom of the press at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In her
book, </span><a href="http://www.hrichina.org/sites/default/files/PDFs/Reports/HRIC-Fog-of-Censorship.pdf"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "iowan old style roman";">The Fog of Censorship: Media Control in China</span></i></a><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "iowan old style roman";">, He Qinglian, a
former Chinese journalist, expands on the Chinese government’s influence on the
media: “News reports about important social or economic issues must first be
reviewed and approved by the appropriate department-in-charge.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Absolutely no negative assessments of
national </span>economic policy may be published.
And, in order to give the illusion there are no corrupt government
offices, stories of corruption are regularly muted. </div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Oghmltr-IOE/WKX9adwTgEI/AAAAAAAAAsQ/vrO8acx8avMIydJwfs-NFQ96i2qa8AL9gCLcB/s1600/13heng-img-master768.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="143" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Oghmltr-IOE/WKX9adwTgEI/AAAAAAAAAsQ/vrO8acx8avMIydJwfs-NFQ96i2qa8AL9gCLcB/s200/13heng-img-master768.jpg" title="Source: New York Times" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Source: New York Times</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "iowan old style roman";">While
Article 35 of China’s Constitution grants free speech, the interpretation of
the Article is left up to the courts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And, yes, you guessed it, the judges appointed to these courts follow
the directives of the </span><a href="https://freedomhouse.org/report/freedom-press/2015/china"><span style="background: white; font-family: "iowan old style roman";">Chinese Communist Party</span></a><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "iowan old style roman";">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To this day, there is still no legal
protection for journalists nor are there consequences, severe or otherwise, for
those that attack journalists.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
Chinese government has established a set of rules they blatantly ignore. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This would be like hitting a home run in
baseball, only for the umpire to tell you you’ve been ejected from the game.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "iowan old style roman";"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "iowan old style roman";"><a href="http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=105807899">NORTH
KOREA<o:p></o:p></a></span></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "iowan old style roman";">Much
like China, North Korea’s Constitution also guarantees the freedom of speech
and press.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only problem with this
is: all reporting not sanctioned by the government is subject to severe
restrictions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What’s more, according to </span><a href="https://freedomhouse.org/report/freedom-press/2016/north-korea"><span style="background: white; font-family: "iowan old style roman";">Freedom House</span></a><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "iowan old style roman";">, a non-governmental
organization that conducts research and advocacy on democracy, political
freedom, and human rights</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-themecolor: text1;">, </span><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "iowan old style roman";">“listening
to unauthorized foreign broadcasts or possessing its publications—whether it be
</span><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "iowan old style roman";">newspapers,
magazines, or journals—are considered crimes against the state.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Penalties for such crimes include hard labor,
prison sentences, and the death penalty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Perhaps what’s most startling is the fact that North Koreans can be
interrogated or arrested for speaking critically about the government.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, much like Nazi-Germany, state-owned
broadcast news outlets serve as mouthpieces for the North Korea’s propaganda.</span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">TRUMP<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">And, finally, tonight we come to Donald J. Trump, a man who has
lambasted media outlets he deems to be unfair, and has propped up sources of
fake news more often than Steve Bannon has attacked minorities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s nothing new that whenever an argument
has been presented to Mr. Trump—an argument that discredits either him or his
sources—he chooses not to engage with the argument, but rather attack the
persons making it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He </span><a href="http://www.politico.com/magazine/story/2016/04/2016-donald-trump-politics-campaign-twitter-social-media-213827"><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">attacks</span></a><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> them
using childish insults and moronic rhetoric, often using famous S.A.T. words
such as “stupid” or “dumb,” and does whatever he can to discredit the source
making their claim. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s that annoying
kid on the playground who keeps yelling, “I know you are, but what am I?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trump searches for facts—no matter how
baseless and inane—to support whatever statement he chooses to make.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Watch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can do it, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Earth is 100%, unequivocally, without
question, flat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here’s my proof from </span><a href="https://flatearthscienceandbible.wordpress.com/2016/02/08/top-ten-undeniable-flat-earth-proofs/"><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Flat
Earth Science and Bible</span></a><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This would
be funny were it not for the very realistic possibility Donald Trump goes on
Fox & Friends and spouts about the credibility of Flat Earth Science and
Bible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dtifnJdONjo/WKX_GgEmXpI/AAAAAAAAAsY/0Sb8xc8EYJcBT9J7bnNTqFWV1CtP0xk_wCLcB/s1600/melissa-mccarthy-as-sean-spicer-snl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dtifnJdONjo/WKX_GgEmXpI/AAAAAAAAAsY/0Sb8xc8EYJcBT9J7bnNTqFWV1CtP0xk_wCLcB/s400/melissa-mccarthy-as-sean-spicer-snl.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Sean Spicer, Mr. Trump’s Press Secretary and the man who just discovered
what the function of a tailor is, does his best to fuel the president’s
propaganda, angrily mouth-breathing his way through, what can only be described
as: circus press conferences.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Going against
long-standing tradition, Spicer tends to call on news outlets that are far less
mainstream. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Reporters from conservative
outlets like Breitbart, One America News Network and Newsmax are regularly
tapped for questions, while Reuters, ABC News, and the Washington Post are
often overlooked. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The press has to be
rolling their eyes every time Spicer steps to the podium.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He shouts, “I’ve already answered your
question” after clearly not answering the question, while spewing spittle on
the reporter from the Associated Press, all the while thinking this will make
him seem less incompetent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="column" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Fake
news has risen significantly over the years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Most of the time these “alternative facts” are easily disregarded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, since the evolution of the Trump
campaign, fake news has somehow become credible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are two reasons why: 1) Donald Trump
watches an inordinate amount of television for an acting president, maniacally
retweeting anything and everything he hears in order to solidify his opinions;
and 2) Donald Trump believes everything he says is fact.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="column" style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "iowan old style roman";">Our political sphere is hindered by a commander-in-chief playing
the most dangerous game of Telephone in the world. For example,
bonehead Gregg Phillips, former Texas Deputy Health and Human Services
Commissioner and currently the man behind the mobile app VoteStand, <a href="https://twitter.com/JumpVote/status/824988484003852288"><span style="color: #954f72;">tweeted</span></a> Donald Trump won the popular vote
of the 2016 election after more than 3,000,000 votes were illegally cast for
Hillary Clinton. In spite of there being no evidence to support this
claim, Donald Trump, eager to propel his own conspiracy theories, tweeted his
appreciation to Mr. Phillips, expressing his enthusiasm to see the results of
this elusive study. Others grabbed the baton and the rumor swelled
until, finally, supporters of Mr. Trump began preaching Mr. Phillips’ tweet as
fact. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "iowan old style roman";">On
Wednesday, Trump made another erroneous claim about former national security
advisor, Michael Flynn, who, this week, was forced to resign. Trump
insisted Flynn was brought down by illegal leaks to the news media. With,
again, no evidence to support his statement, Mr. Trump <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2017/02/15/us/politics/trump-condemns-leaks-to-news-media-in-a-twitter-flurry.html?rref=politics&module=Ribbon&version=context&region=Header&action=click&contentCollection=Politics&pgtype=Multimedia"><span style="color: #954f72;">tweeted</span></a>: “</span><span style="background: white; color: #1c2022; font-family: "iowan old style roman";">The real scandal here
is that classified information is illegally given out by ‘intelligence’ like
candy. Very un-American!” </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "iowan old style roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1c2022; font-family: "iowan old style roman";">I’m sure you’d like to think it stopped there. It
didn’t. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "iowan old style roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1c2022; font-family: "iowan old style roman";">Trump tweeted: “</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "iowan old style roman";">The fake news media is going crazy with their conspiracy theories
and blind hatred. <a href="https://twitter.com/MSNBC" target="_blank"><span style="color: #0a7cc4;">@MSNBC</span></a> & <a href="https://twitter.com/CNN" target="_blank"><span style="color: #0a7cc4;">@CNN</span></a> are
unwatchable. <a href="https://twitter.com/foxandfriends" target="_blank"><span style="color: #0a7cc4;">@foxandfriends</span></a> is great!” Followed
by: “This Russian connection non-sense is merely an attempt to cover-up the
many mistakes made in Hillary Clinton's losing campaign.” Before
adding, “Information is being illegally given to the failing <a href="https://twitter.com/nytimes" target="_blank"><span style="color: #0a7cc4;">@nytimes</span></a> & <a href="https://twitter.com/washingtonpost" target="_blank"><span style="color: #0a7cc4;">@washingtonpost</span></a> by the intelligence
community (NSA and FBI?).Just like Russia.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1c2022; font-family: "iowan old style roman";">He stopped there, right? No. No, he did
not.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "iowan old style roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1AlqfjkWDf4/WKX_dpwE_RI/AAAAAAAAAsk/CkdhBbB8GQcNWqXCRCmZtqO3eZraTWbjACLcB/s1600/trump-live.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1AlqfjkWDf4/WKX_dpwE_RI/AAAAAAAAAsk/CkdhBbB8GQcNWqXCRCmZtqO3eZraTWbjACLcB/s320/trump-live.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1c2022; font-family: "iowan old style roman";">Trump went on, saying at a
press </span><span style="color: #1c2022; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">conference Wednesday morning: “</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Michael Flynn—General Flynn—is a wonderful man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think he has been treated very, very
unfairly by the media.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I call it, the
fake media in many cases.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I think
it's really a sad thing that he was treated so badly.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the same press conference, Mr. Trump
refused to answer any questions posited by the press, except from two
organizations: the right-wing website, <u><a href="https://townhall.com/">Townhall.com</a></u>,
and the <u><a href="http://www1.cbn.com/home">Christian Broadcasting Network</a></u>.</span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "iowan old style roman";">Trump is great at doing one thing: repeating lies so often that many see no other recourse than to believe
them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">This is a dangerous time for our media.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But they ought not to panic—not yet, at least.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>News outlets should be in place as a check</span><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">s
and balances</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> medium, strictly designed to report the facts
and ask the tough quest</span><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">ions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And as soon
as people—specifically the president—feel threatened by those questions, <span class="_247o" data-offset-key="17fk4-1-0" spellcheck="false" style="background-color: #dce6f8; color: #1d2129; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-offset-key="17fk4-1-0"><span data-text="true">The New York Times</span></span></span><span data-offset-key="17fk4-2-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-text="true">, </span></span><span class="_247o" data-offset-key="17fk4-3-0" spellcheck="false" style="background-color: #dce6f8; color: #1d2129; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-offset-key="17fk4-3-0"><span data-text="true">Washington Post</span></span></span><span data-offset-key="17fk4-4-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-text="true">, </span></span><span class="_247o" data-offset-key="17fk4-5-0" spellcheck="false" style="background-color: #dce6f8; color: #1d2129; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-offset-key="17fk4-5-0"><span data-text="true">The Huffington Post</span></span></span><span data-offset-key="17fk4-6-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-text="true">, </span></span><span class="_247o" data-offset-key="17fk4-7-0" spellcheck="false" style="background-color: #dce6f8; color: #1d2129; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-offset-key="17fk4-7-0"><span data-text="true">POLITICO</span></span></span><span data-offset-key="17fk4-8-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-text="true">, </span></span><span class="_247o" data-offset-key="17fk4-9-0" spellcheck="false" style="background-color: #dce6f8; color: #1d2129; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-offset-key="17fk4-9-0"><span data-text="true">Reuters</span></span></span><span data-offset-key="17fk4-10-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-text="true">, the </span></span><span class="_247o" data-offset-key="17fk4-11-0" spellcheck="false" style="background-color: #dce6f8; color: #1d2129; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-offset-key="17fk4-11-0"><span data-text="true">Associated Press</span></span></span><span data-offset-key="17fk4-12-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-text="true">, and the hundreds of other media outlets should feel they're finally getting somewhere.</span></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After
all, it’s far too dangerous to live i</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">n a world where Mr. Trump and his cronies
abide by the adage: “</span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vn_PSJsl0LQ"><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">It’s not a lie, if you
believe it</span></a><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Ben Hasskamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351974191740258268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6783268646690857161.post-70063033638598875982017-02-07T21:54:00.000-06:002017-02-09T10:18:04.879-06:00The Sad Tale of Rudolph Giuliani <div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Painfully, we begin tonight with Donald Trump – The
Magician.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uHnqGehQvG8/WJqZzAmXBSI/AAAAAAAAAq4/ZlCcfMowpUIPe_I6zmSswx9P9Vz8v6i4wCLcB/s1600/wp-1475460720324-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uHnqGehQvG8/WJqZzAmXBSI/AAAAAAAAAq4/ZlCcfMowpUIPe_I6zmSswx9P9Vz8v6i4wCLcB/s320/wp-1475460720324-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman";">Donald Trump is the greatest magician who’s ever lived.</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman";">His sleight of hand and misdirection is
rivaled by no one.</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman";">He loves letting the American
people know they should be afraid of x,y, and z.</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman";">In this instance, let’s consider x, y, and z
to be Hillary Clinton’s emails, the biased media, and voter fraud.</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman";">And while the American people—most notably
the Democrats and other liberals—are busy in-fighting about his hypocrisy or
illogic, Mr. Trump sets off on a blistering course of executive orders.</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman";">These executive orders do far more than advance
his, frankly, bizarre agenda, they pose a legitimate threat to our Constitution
and our national security.</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman";"> </span></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<!--EndFragment--><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">While pundits, representatives, and constituents were busy shouting on CNN
and MSNBC about the absurdity of voter fraud, Mr. Trump signed an executive order
banning entry of refugees while also banning the travel to and</span> from <u><a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/world/national-security/jihadist-groups-hail-trumps-travel-ban-as-a-victory/2017/01/29/50908986-e66d-11e6-b82f-687d6e6a3e7c_story.html?utm_term=.9e87493b6c69" target="_blank">seven Middle Eastern countries</a></u>—not surprisingly,
predominately Muslim countries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hundreds
of immigrants were detained at airports, including—and, this is real—several who
are here legally on work visas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>
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<!--StartFragment--><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Even though the sole purpose of this order was to keep Muslims out of
America, and even though Mr. Trump said he </span><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">would
give priority to Christian refugees over those of other religions, he</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> audaciously claimed this ban</span><!--EndFragment--> was “<u><a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/2017/01/30/not-muslim-ban-donald-trump-defends-executive-order-attacks/" target="_blank">not about religion</a></u>.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rWBX3DPUp8c/WI_FFYcglHI/AAAAAAAAAoQ/5o_UnYLy1MAWm2YCnPY-OxCLYAoSuTdlACEw/s1600/JS119036204trumppentagonNEWS-large_trans_NvBQzQNjv4Bqeo_i_u9APj8RuoebjoAHt0k9u7HhRJvuo-ZLenGRumA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rWBX3DPUp8c/WI_FFYcglHI/AAAAAAAAAoQ/5o_UnYLy1MAWm2YCnPY-OxCLYAoSuTdlACEw/s400/JS119036204trumppentagonNEWS-large_trans_NvBQzQNjv4Bqeo_i_u9APj8RuoebjoAHt0k9u7HhRJvuo-ZLenGRumA.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">President Goony McGoonerson smiling after signing immigration ban.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">So what did the people do?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
got out and protested another executive order from a leader with a propensity
for blatant maleficence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was Mr. Trump
deterred by the American people who took to the airwaves, the streets, the
airports, and social media to condemn his action?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hardly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>While they lambasted this vile, heinous act, Mr. Trump slipped in what
could be one of the most harmful orders that seemingly no one is talking about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last Saturday night the yellow-haired, human
Droopy Dog signed an executive order giving the disheveled, perpetually
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Security Council.</span></div>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 1"/>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">How could Mr. Trump do such a thing?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AsMd3k868dQ/WJqGzXw2OlI/AAAAAAAAApQ/l2lqqJFU8ncoHhX6yqaPo0I5LSqZ8XSVACLcB/s1600/Sarah-Palin-Steve-Bannon-200x150.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AsMd3k868dQ/WJqGzXw2OlI/AAAAAAAAApQ/l2lqqJFU8ncoHhX6yqaPo0I5LSqZ8XSVACLcB/s200/Sarah-Palin-Steve-Bannon-200x150.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Easy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He downgraded the roles of
the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the director of national
intelligence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So now Mr. Bannon—whose Breitbart
website is a haven for bigoted, racist, misogynists—will have more power than
our nation’s most trusted security members.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The mere fact that Mr. Bannon looks constantly on the verge of a heart
attack should give us pause enough, but the reality is: Mr. Bannon’s goals are
the advancement of white, rich, males and the destruction of the state.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">This is not hyperbole.</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Mr. Bannon made that clear
late last year in an interview with the <u><a href="http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2016/08/22/steve-bannon-trump-s-top-guy-told-me-he-was-a-leninist.html" target="_blank">Daily Beast</a></u> when he said, “[Vladimir]
</span><span style="background: white; color: #02141f; font-family: "iowan old style roman";">Lenin wanted to destroy the
state, and that’s my goal too. I want to bring everything crashing down, and
destroy all of today’s establishment.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5GxNPkc0bac/WJqQ3n8WWGI/AAAAAAAAAqQ/ZmNxpCYtHBsLan8YFIqQM89glGzVoJLZwCLcB/s1600/who-steve-bannon-most-dangerous-political-operative-america.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5GxNPkc0bac/WJqQ3n8WWGI/AAAAAAAAAqQ/ZmNxpCYtHBsLan8YFIqQM89glGzVoJLZwCLcB/s320/who-steve-bannon-most-dangerous-political-operative-america.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">But what’s most concerting is the amount of power the members of the
principals committee have, especially—and this, too, is real—authorizing the
assassination of enemies of the United States government, including American
citizens. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These assassinations are fully
authorized by law and no details of the killings are required to be released to
the public. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>According to the <u><a href="http://harvardnsj.org/2010/06/law-and-policy-of-targeted-killing-2/#_ftn5" target="_blank">Harvard Law Journal</a>,</u> “</span><span style="background: white; color: #211f1f; font-family: "iowan old style roman";">President
[George W.] Bush gave the CIA, and later the military, authority to kill U.S.
citizens abroad if there was strong evidence that an American was involved in
organizing or carrying out acts of terrorism against the United States or U.S.
interests.</span>” And, now,
Tomato-faced Bannon will be a part of a secret panel to determine such threats.
This would be like giving a six-year old
the nuclear football and then telling him every other country in the world
wants him to eat his Brussels sprouts. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I realize the clown car of absurd ideas and orders enacted by Mr. Trump
in the last two weeks has been overwhelming—I, myself, feel the urge to block
all news notifications on my phone—but if we ignore the magician’s slight of
hand for too long, we’ll be the unfortunate victims of his curious trick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let’s stop fighting about the things that
don’t matter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In short, let’s give up on
proving Trump’s wrong about voter fraud, let’s quit making him realize there
weren’t six million fucking people at his inauguration, and let’s stop demanding
he release his tax returns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trump
supporters are blind to his faults, and a man cheating on his taxes aren’t
going to make him seem evil—it’ll make him seem smart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m tired of wasting time wandering down the
trails that lead nowhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If we continue
to do so, we’ll be fooled by the magician’s cruel illusion, and we’ll have
nothing to do but wonder, for years to come, how in the absolute hell he pulled
it off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">And now, a brief segue: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/bafvfd41dWc/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/bafvfd41dWc?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Our main story tonight concerns Rudy Giuliani.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Last week, former New York City mayor turned cyber security expert,
Rudolph Giuliani claimed Donald Trump wanted “<u><a href="http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/nationworld/politics/ct-giuliani-trump-muslim-ban-20170129-story.html" target="_blank">a Muslim ban</a></u>” and ordered Giuliani
himself to assemble a commission to show him “the right way to do it legally.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Giuliani, appearing on Fox News, eagerly
recalled the <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>details of a phone call
that allegedly took place between him and the president.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">For the full interview, click <u><a href="http://www.mediaite.com/tv/giuliani-after-trump-announced-muslim-ban-he-asked-me-for-right-way-to-do-it-legally/" target="_blank">here</a></u>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Giuliani, speculated by many to be the next Secretary of State before
removing himself from contention, said, “When (Trump) first announced it, he
said, ‘Muslim ban.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He called me
up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He said, ‘Put a commission
together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Show me the right way to do it
legally.’”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Giuliani, who himself has a
difficult relationship with <u><a href="http://www.politico.com/story/2007/11/giuliani-billed-obscure-agencies-for-trips-007073" target="_blank">legality</a></u><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">, </b>took almost grotesque pleasure in relaying the details. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He explained the story as if conveying an
anecdote from summer camp, inexplicably unaware he was divulging the fact Mr.
Trump knew what he was doing, and knew it was based off of religious
discrimination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps it’s because of
Giuliani’s obliviousness why he rose so meteorically and fell so
catastrophically during Trump’s campaign, and subsequent victory.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Or perhaps it’s because Rudy Giuliani has a history of making inflammatory
statements—statements that, over the years, have become more and more fantastical.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For example, even though Rudy’s father
did a stint in Sing Sing prison for felony assault and robbery, and even though
that father later became an enforcer for an organized crime family in <u><a href="http://www.nydailynews.com/opinion/wayne-barrett-rudy-giuliani-love-article-1.2122253" target="_blank">NewYork</a></u>, Giuliani claimed former President Obama “doesn’t love
America” because he wasn’t <u><a href="http://www.politico.com/story/2015/02/rudy-giuliani-president-obama-doesnt-love-america-115309" target="_blank">brought up right</a></u>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He also claimed
the Central Park Five—five black and Latino men falsely accused of rape and
assault and later exonerated through DNA evidence—were still guilty because,
after all, they were “<u><a href="https://www.buzzfeed.com/darrensands/giuliani-trump-has-a-pretty-solid-basis-for-saying-central-p?utm_term=.tfXN7A6A2N#.fx6KVRXR0K" target="_blank">criminals and engaged in criminal activity</a></u>.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This statement came even though there was no empirical
evidence to support such a claim. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xYC1hiv019Q/WJqOkhbaOII/AAAAAAAAAp0/xT4b2K5qk4UBon-bGiaXoiR6Y9-n3GDZwCLcB/s1600/giuliani.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xYC1hiv019Q/WJqOkhbaOII/AAAAAAAAAp0/xT4b2K5qk4UBon-bGiaXoiR6Y9-n3GDZwCLcB/s320/giuliani.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or what
about that time, when questioned about the shootings of unarmed, black men, he
said, “<a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/post-politics/wp/2014/11/23/giuliani-white-police-officers-wouldnt-be-there-if-you-werent-killing-each-other/?utm_term=.aa108c393d80" target="_blank">White police officers wouldn’t be there if black people weren’t killing each other.</a>”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Therefore, c</span>ategorically claiming the reason unarmed
black men are relentlessly murdered by white cops is because they’re doing it
to themselves. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s possible because of these,
and many other inflammatory statements, he wasn’t asked to be a cabinet member to
either George W. Bush’s presidency or Donald Trump’s current fiasco. But I'm not inclined to believe that. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Then if it's not his inflammatory statements, perhaps it’s because of his questionable ethics and actions during
his tenure as mayor of New York City. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is the same mayor who sought an
increase in fines for <u><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/1998/01/13/nyregion/with-higher-fines-giuliani-hopes-to-hobble-jaywalkers.html" target="_blank">jaywalkers</a></u>, constructed pedestrian
barricades, ordered the arrest of <u><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/1999/11/20/nyregion/in-wake-of-attack-giuliani-cracks-down-on-homeless.html" target="_blank">homeless men</a></u> and women found sleeping in
public places, saying, “Streets do not exist in civilized societies for the
purpose of sleeping there. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bedrooms are
for sleeping,” and spent city funds escorting his mistress from Long Island to <u><a href="http://www.politico.com/story/2007/11/giuliani-billed-obscure-agencies-for-trips-007073" target="_blank">Manhattan</a></u>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An out of touch mayor is
not an anomaly in America, but a mayor with such little basis in reality is the
definition of Rudy Giuliani. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But reality
has never been a strong fixture in Donald Trump’s world, so I’d be
hard-pressed to believe it’s this that sunk Giuliani’s cabinet hopes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rowurm7w39w/WJqO-zFVf8I/AAAAAAAAAqA/Bi4orxFtisgXlYrPqtYft0MfdEIABIs7QCLcB/s1600/912.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="152" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rowurm7w39w/WJqO-zFVf8I/AAAAAAAAAqA/Bi4orxFtisgXlYrPqtYft0MfdEIABIs7QCLcB/s320/912.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">After 9/11, Giuliani became both a local and national hero, taking to the
streets to assure the people they would rise again and that sheer New York will
would be the foundation for their cure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But, sadly for Rudy, this adoration didn’t last long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He falsely claimed, after the attack, he was
the only politician at Ground Zero—chastising then-New York Senator Hillary Clinton
for her lack of action—even though, unfortunately for Rudy, <u><a href="http://www.elle.com/culture/career-politics/news/a41031/rudy-giuliani-facts-to-know-trump-cabinet/" target="_blank">she marched next to him</a></u> hours after the attack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">But perhaps the most harmful action Giuliani took post-9/11 was during
the city’s cleanup efforts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite the
arrival of the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA), the Army Corp of
Engineers, and the Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA)—all with
extensive disaster response experience—Giuliani dismissed the groups and
assigned the Ground Zero cleanup to the largely unknown city agency, the
Department of Design and Construction (DDC).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Giuliani and the DDC claimed the air quality around Ground Zero was “safe,”
even though records show the city was aware of the danger from the start.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a <u><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2007/05/14/nyregion/14giuliani.html" target="_blank">federal court deposition</a></u>, Kelly
R. McKinney, associate commissioner at the city’s health department, issued a
statement claiming she gave the city an advisory of asbestos in the air and
warned of its hazards. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>FEMA,
the Army Corp, and the OSHA instructed all workers at Ground Zero to wear respirators,
an instruction Giuliani and the DDC ignored.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Since the cleanup, dozens of those workers have become ill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>According to the <u><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2007/05/14/nyregion/14giuliani.html" target="_blank">New York Times</a></u>, 70%
of the nearly 10,000 cleanup crew screened at Mount Sinai Medical Center had
trouble breathing and healthcare costs related to such illnesses have run into
the hundreds of millions of dollars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> As crazy as this sounds: i</span>t’s
hard to believe even <i>this</i> colossal fuck-up was the reason Trump
steered away from Giuliani. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">After all, Giuliani was one of Trump’s staunchest proponents at the
start of the shaky campaign—a campaign in which nobody seemed eager to
latch on to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rudy was like Renee Zellweger in
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jerry Maguire</i>, when Tom Cruise is
yelling, “Who’s coming with me?” and all he got was a low-level secretary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VZArWSwm2V4/WJqM4ZVekAI/AAAAAAAAApo/QwcQutc1a3QKSp6K8GYkDQK_HFQ6rf9BQCLcB/s1600/giphy.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VZArWSwm2V4/WJqM4ZVekAI/AAAAAAAAApo/QwcQutc1a3QKSp6K8GYkDQK_HFQ6rf9BQCLcB/s320/giphy.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">But Trump used Giuliani as Trump does and he
got Rudy to deliver some truly astonishing sound bites, including—and oh my
god, this is absolutely what he said—“There were no radical Islamic terrorist
attacks while George W. Bush was president.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Giuliani, seemingly unaware he’s acted as the RNC’s puppet for the last
decade and a half, has happily taken to the airwaves to shout nonsense I’m not
even sure he believes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He bungles simple
sentences, he blathers on about the true meaning of patriotism, and he instills
fear whenever handed the opportunity—like that time he said his friend was
afraid to go to London because, as Secretary of State, Hillary Clinton had
created an <u><a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/americas/rudy-giuliani-donald-trump-no-terrorist-attacks-obama-911-george-w-bush-a7192591.html" target="_blank">unsafe world</a></u>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Let's set all of this aside. Consider them innocuous facts and unfortunate incidences when being considered for a cabinet position. And let's also set aside the fact that a several hundred page document written by Giuliani's campaign staff was <u><a href="http://www.thesmokinggun.com/documents/crime/rudy-giulianis-vulnerabilities" target="_blank">leaked</a></u> to the press citing the candidate's vulnerabilities. And let's also set aside the fact that this steadfast patriot was a willful <u><a href="http://www.thesmokinggun.com/file/rudy-giulianis-vulnerabilities?page=16" target="_blank">Vietnam draft dodger</a></u>. And let's note that, as a Republican, Giuliani often strayed from the pack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He believes in the
teaching of evolution, was a proponent for gun control saying a mandatory
waiting period for a handgun was a “sensible and moderate” solution.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s come out in support of gay marriage, he
supports the federal funding of embryonic stem cell research, he’s expressed
pro-choice positions during his campaigns in 1989, 1993, 2000, and 2008, and,
during his time as mayor, fought for the rights of illegal immigrants—calling
for them to be allowed to use public schools and even pressed for a $12,000,000
grant to start a city agency that would help illegal immigrants <u><a href="http://www.realclearpolitics.com/articles/2007/05/defending_rudys_immigration_sw.html" target="_blank">gain citizenship</a></u>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">It’s possible these deviations from the Republican norms is what
eventually killed any chance he had at a cabinet position.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or perhaps he’s just too goddamn unlikable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rudy, the RNC, other members of the
Republican party, Fox News, and now Donald Trump treat you like that nerd in
high school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You ask the pretty girl to
prom and she says “yes” only to ditch you as soon as something only slightly
better comes along.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d like to say it’s
nothing personal, but we both know that's not true.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Why is Giuliani forever alone in the world of politics?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
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</style>Ben Hasskamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351974191740258268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6783268646690857161.post-73497083683930086552017-01-26T17:58:00.001-06:002017-01-26T20:42:20.579-06:00Donald Trump Has No Friends?<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">We've got a lot to cover.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, while we’ve never been a huge fan (or
even, “tremendous” fan) of lists, we feel bullet points are the best way to
tackle what can only be described as a chaotic, manic, inexplicable first week
of Mr. Trump’s presidency.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So bear with
us as we try to make sense of a tiny handed man whose only clear objective is
attempting to follow his own rambling logic. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">In today’s lesson plan, we’ll cover:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The Wall<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Affordable Care Act<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The Pipeline Orders<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Gag Orders<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Donald Trump Has No Friends<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">THE WALL</span></u></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-N9yWfMIjvdQ/WIqHxJ672dI/AAAAAAAAAm4/hvdoThJ-1OI8cJVQlnEevLdDwj1B9V6nACLcB/s1600/00a12a7b5e8bc599fc0a2ce377f2c37db219b917.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-N9yWfMIjvdQ/WIqHxJ672dI/AAAAAAAAAm4/hvdoThJ-1OI8cJVQlnEevLdDwj1B9V6nACLcB/s320/00a12a7b5e8bc599fc0a2ce377f2c37db219b917.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">The insanity leeching out of Mr. Trump during his campaign is now
gushing out of him like a spastic fire hydrant.
It’s true, Mr. Trump promised to build a wall along the Mexican/American
border to “<u><a href="http://abcnews.go.com/Politics/transcript-abc-news-anchor-david-muir-interviews-president/story?id=45047602" target="_blank">stop drugs from pouring in</a></u>,” and keep out drug dealers, rapists, and criminals. It’s also true, Mr. Trump promised Americans
that Mexico would pay for said wall.
What wasn’t clear was <i>how</i>
exactly Mexico was going to fund such a project. Rest assured, though, our Commander in Chief
has a solution. In an executive order
signed on Wednesday, Mr. Trump ordered the immediate construction of a wall
using funds already available in the <a href="https://www.dhs.gov/sites/default/files/publications/FY_2016_DHS_Budget_in_Brief.pdf" target="_blank">United States budget</a>. And,
while these funds are, in fact, designated for the sole purpose of border
protection, they only represent a fraction of what it will cost to construct a
<u><a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/0/mexico-border-wall-donald-trump-planning-much-will-cost-will/" target="_blank">15-foot, 1,000-mile wall</a></u>. So, what’s the plan after
that? Even though Mexico has refused to
pay for the wall—going so far as to <u><a href="http://www.politico.com/story/2017/01/trump-mexico-border-wall-warning-234211" target="_blank">cancel a trip</a></u> to meet with the president—Mr. Trump is moving forward with
the idea the American taxpayers will foot the cost and Mexico will reimburse
us. How will they reimburse us, you ask? By implementing a 20% tax on goods imported
from Mexico. In a statement released
earlier today, White House spokesman Sean Spicer said such a tax could generate
approximately $20 billion dollars a year in tax revenue. I see two problems with this: the first,
according to the <u><a href="https://ustr.gov/countries-regions/americas/mexico" target="_blank">United States Trade Representative</a></u>, in 2015, </span><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">U.S. goods and services trade with Mexico totaled
an estimated $583.6 billion, with $267.2 billion accounting for exports, and $316.4
billion accounting for imports. That
means the U.S. goods and services trade deficit with Mexico in 2015 was $49.2
billion. Now, it’s possible Mexico could
reduce the number of its exports, which would effectively kill a number of jobs
(according to the Department of Commerce, U.S. exports of goods and services to
Mexico supported an estimated 1.1 million jobs in 2014), or, more likely, they
refuse to pay such a tax. Secondly, and
perhaps a larger problem could be, Mexico imposes a tax on us. If we have a trade deficit with Mexico that’s
just shy of $50 billion, what’s stopping them from imposing their own tax? As Mr. Trump has already demonstrated, there
doesn’t need to be any particular rhyme nor reason to create a tax on trade. Setting dangerous precedents on trade could
also have global ramifications with countries such as China, Japan, and South
Korea.</span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<u><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><b>AFFORDABLE CARE ACT</b></span></u><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">In spite of what many Americans think, the Affordable Care Act—or ACA—is
not an insurance company.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since its
inception, though, thousands of people have taken to Facebook and Twitter to voice
their displeasure with the customer service of the ACA—I’m looking at you <i>Bren</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Pz9G10Mojn8/WIqCnz34HoI/AAAAAAAAAmc/gGwA5QM3lkEU8yOPMfagY5CRod0n60V_gCLcB/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2017-01-26%2Bat%2B10.51.18%2BAM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="108" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Pz9G10Mojn8/WIqCnz34HoI/AAAAAAAAAmc/gGwA5QM3lkEU8yOPMfagY5CRod0n60V_gCLcB/s640/Screen%2BShot%2B2017-01-26%2Bat%2B10.51.18%2BAM.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Let me be clear, the ACA is and never was an
insurance company.</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">It’s simply an act
designed to provide affordable care universally in America—hence the name:
Affordable Care Act.</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">On Monday, Mr. Trump
signed an executive order directing members of his administration to begin
efforts to repeal and replace the </span><u style="font-family: "Iowan Old Style Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/volokh-conspiracy/wp/2017/01/23/can-president-trumps-executive-order-unravel-the-affordable-care-act/?utm_term=.d079ad644d6f" target="_blank">ACA</a></u><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">.</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Even the most conservative
estimates put the number of people who will lose their health insurance at
</span><u style="font-family: "Iowan Old Style Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="http://www.nbcnews.com/health/health-care/will-obamacare-repeal-cost-millions-jobs-n703901" target="_blank">18,000,000</a></u><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">.</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">That’s over
5% of our country’s population.</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">The
president doesn’t yet have a plan to replace the ACA, but has assured the
American people it will be “tremendous.”</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Perhaps, Mr. Trump, Mexico can fund our new healthcare system, as
well.</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">You should just write it out like
a Christmas list of things you want from them and hope they take you seriously.</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">If this plan seems a bit childish to you,
perhaps you could just impose a 30% tax on Mexican imports.</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Or, hell, why not 40%?</span></div>
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<u><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><b>THE PIPELINE ORDERS</b><o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Rh9185LTyhk/WIqJvRZx2HI/AAAAAAAAAnQ/zIGLoUE6vyMHld4RFfxCkUiZhq-_6zAwwCLcB/s1600/980x.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Rh9185LTyhk/WIqJvRZx2HI/AAAAAAAAAnQ/zIGLoUE6vyMHld4RFfxCkUiZhq-_6zAwwCLcB/s400/980x.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Ah, yes, well done you demonic, apple-faced goon, you even signed executive
orders related to the Dakota Access and Keystone XL pipeline projects. Effective immediately, construction should resume on both projects. Mr. Trump also signed a directive ordering an end to protracted <u><a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2017/01/24/us/politics/keystone-dakota-pipeline-trump.html" target="_blank">environmental reviews</a></u>.</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">I’m sure your oil lobbyist friends were
collectively masturbating over this one.</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">And I’m also sure you weren’t at all motivated by your own financial
well-being.</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Did you really think, Mr. Trump,
we wouldn't care that you own shares in </span><u style="font-family: "Iowan Old Style Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="http://www.forbes.com/sites/jenniferwang/2016/11/29/trumps-stock-portfolio-big-oil-big-banks-and-more-foreign-connections/#5d6e072c2434" target="_blank">Phillips 66</a></u><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">—a joint venture
partner in Dakota Access pipeline—as well as investments in the Canadian energy
company TransCanada—the developer of the Keystone XL pipeline?</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">This comes in conjunction with the recent
freeze you put on government agencies’ spending, most notably the Environmental
Protection Agency (EPA).</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">You’re like the
dealer in a game of Blackjack who somehow convinces the rest of the table to
let you play, and then stacks the deck for himself. </span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Which brings us to our next point...</span></div>
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<u><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><b>GAG ORDERS</b><o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iNq5cYx0P7k/WIqIbNMG0zI/AAAAAAAAAnA/kGP7bsHgck4BAHOFXJCuE5K2DVarWDiVACLcB/s1600/632589664-president-donald-trump-displays-one-of-five-executive.jpg.CROP.promo-xlarge2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="285" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iNq5cYx0P7k/WIqIbNMG0zI/AAAAAAAAAnA/kGP7bsHgck4BAHOFXJCuE5K2DVarWDiVACLcB/s400/632589664-president-donald-trump-displays-one-of-five-executive.jpg.CROP.promo-xlarge2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">After you froze spending you went so far as to order the EPA to shut
their tree-hugging traps about what you’ve done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In spite of this fascist direction, one EPA
staffer—who wished to remain anonymous—relayed the following: “T</span><span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman";">he entire agency is under lockdown, the
website, Facebook, Twitter, you name it is static and can't be updated. All
reports, findings, permits and studies are frozen and not to be released. No
presentations or meetings with outside groups are to be scheduled.<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>Any
Press contacting us are to be directed to the Press Office which is also
silenced and will give no response.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <span style="background: white;">All grants and contracts are frozen
from the contractors working on Superfund sites to grad school students working
on their thesis.<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>We are still doing our work, writing
reports, doing cancer modeling for pesticides hoping that this is temporary and
we will be able to serve the public soon. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But many of us are worried about an
ideologically-fueled purging and if you use any federal data I advise you
gather what you can now.<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>We have been told the website is being
reworked to reflect the new administration's policy.<span class="apple-converted-space">”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As of this
morning, the EPA’s website—which had been updated regularly—shows the last
update was made seven days ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the other hand, the <u><a href="http://www.cbsnews.com/news/national-park-service-staff-escalate-campaign-against-trump/" target="_blank">National Park Service</a></u> is
a prime example of a government-funded group unwilling to bow down to
your <i>1984</i>-esque style of governing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well
done, Park Service, we at Pecorino & Eggs commend you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Placing gag orders on government agencies is
about as effective as last year’s Congress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s like you beat somebody up on the playground and then rudely asked
them not to tell on you.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<b><span class="apple-converted-space"><u><span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman";">DONALD TRUMP HAS NO FRIENDS</span></u></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-U0lpVfORCqU/WIqHnu5mWGI/AAAAAAAAAm0/IPml_BBzAOsvxfCawTny5etBYIWEsIQYQCLcB/s1600/donalddoves.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="316" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-U0lpVfORCqU/WIqHnu5mWGI/AAAAAAAAAm0/IPml_BBzAOsvxfCawTny5etBYIWEsIQYQCLcB/s320/donalddoves.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Ah yes, it’s true.</span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Sure, Mr. Trump, you have people you surround yourself with, but your
aura of desperation reeks like a cheap cologne.</span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">You’re not even a week into your presidency and already some of your
staff hate your guts.</span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Yesterday, </span><a href="http://nymag.com/daily/intelligencer/2017/01/trump-aides-cant-stop-blabbing-about-how-hes-a-madman.html?mid=fb-share-di" style="font-family: "Iowan Old Style Roman"; font-size: 12pt;" target="_blank"><u>New York Magazine</u> </a><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">reported you “get bored” easily and
would rather “watch television” than listen to security briefings.</span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">And even the faintest criticism that’s sent
your way makes your blood boil.</span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">So now
you know, Mr. Trump, how we feel every time you open your mouth.</span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">The </span><a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2017/01/25/us/politics/donald-trump-presidency.html?_r=0" style="font-family: "Iowan Old Style Roman"; font-size: 12pt;" target="_blank"><u>New York Times</u> </a><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">even reported you
are “convinced of broad, but hidden plots to undermine” you, and said you “channel
fringe ideas and give them as much weight as carefully researched reports.”</span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">For an example of this, please refer to your
own conspiracy that voter fraud is the reason you lost out on the popular vote,
or the ludicrous claim you had higher crowd counts at your inauguration than former
President Obama.</span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">First, David Becker,
who for six years was in charge of the election initiative for the Pew Center,
said voter duplication “does exist, but it happens in very, very small numbers
and nothing like what is claimed by the president.”</span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Even Lindsey Graham thinks you’re off your
rocker on this one! </span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">That’s like the BTK
Killer saying you took things too far.</span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Secondly, </span><a href="http://www.usnews.com/news/national-news/articles/2017-01-25/tiffany-trump-steve-bannon-steve-mnuchin-registered-to-vote-in-multiple-states" style="font-family: "Iowan Old Style Roman"; font-size: 12pt;" target="_blank"><u>U.S. News & World Report</u> </a><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">released an article on
Wednesday, with evidence you may be interested in, Mr. Trump.</span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Your nominee to be secretary of the Treasury
(and former Goldman Sachs partner), Steven Mnuchin, is registered to vote in
both California and New York.</span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Casual racist
Steve Bannon, your senior advisor, registered to vote in New York while being
registered to vote in Florida (he’s still registered to vote in Florida by the
way).</span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">And perhaps the best example of
this corruption you’re hell-bent on exposing is Tiffany Trump, your daughter,
who is registered to vote in both Pennsylvania and New York.</span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Your ability to be clueless about things is
truly something to be marveled at. </span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">And, thirdly,
who fucking cares about inauguration crowds?</span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Are you that petty that you can’t accept the fact that the first black
president of this country garnered a wider audience than a rich white boy from
Manhattan?</span></div>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BzqQVTcPNho/WIqKkbVeOJI/AAAAAAAAAno/D73-awRMp8UD1e99zAJgOHBCt3tsmz3rwCLcB/s1600/DeVos1a2.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BzqQVTcPNho/WIqKkbVeOJI/AAAAAAAAAno/D73-awRMp8UD1e99zAJgOHBCt3tsmz3rwCLcB/s320/DeVos1a2.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "iowan old style roman";"></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">I’d love to jump into the federal funding you cut from sanctuary
cities, or the living hell that is Betsy Devos and her education “point of
view,” or the <u><a href="http://time.com/money/4639544/trump-nea-sesame-street-budget-cut/?xid=time_socialflow_facebook" target="_blank">17 other agencies and programs Mr. Trump wants to cut</a></u>, or even Kellyanne Conway’s casual claim that assertions made by the
White House can be described as “alternative facts.”</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Here’s an alternative fact for you: you’re a
great guy, Mr. Trump, full of profound and poignant wisdom, and whose decency
toward every living being in this world is matched only by your generosity.</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;">While your heart may swell at this
alternative fact we've presented, we the people know what it really is: <u><a href="http://etikids.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/306002.gif" target="_blank">a lie</a></u>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
Ben Hasskamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351974191740258268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6783268646690857161.post-39213980881648909752017-01-13T13:39:00.003-06:002017-01-13T13:54:33.590-06:00Words by Jimmy Carter<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I encourage everyone to read the remarkable words by Jimmy Carter, in a speech he delivered on July 15, 1979, about our nation's energy crisis. Over forty years ago President Carter saw this country meandering toward this blanket attitude of selfishness and passivity, and he pleaded with the American people to fight for change and embrace fundamental goodness.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">In times of uncertainty it is easy to get lost in the fold. We have become a divisive country, especially in the past year, and many claim to see the dark days of our political system on the precipice of destruction. We are inundated with fear and pointed toward the ones who's to blame for that fear. None of it is healthy and this toxic environment will only make us more divisive. What we should really be doing is focusing on how to fix the broken parts of our system and create a more unified society.</span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Various passages from this speech can be found below, and the link to the speech is at the very bottom. Words in <b>bold</b> are the particularly powerful excerpts.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: sans-serif; outline: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 8px;">
<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">"Good evening. This is a special night for me. Exactly three years ago, on July 15, 1976, I accepted the nomination of my party to run for president of the United States.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: sans-serif; outline: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 8px;">
<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">I promised you a president who is not isolated from the people, who feels your pain, and who shares your dreams and who draws his strength and his wisdom from you.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: sans-serif; outline: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 8px;">
<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">During the past three years I've spoken to you on many occasions about national concerns, the energy crisis, reorganizing the government, our nation's economy, and issues of war and especially peace. But over those years the subjects of the speeches, the talks, and the press conferences have become increasingly narrow, focused more and more on what the isolated world of Washington thinks is important. </span><span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"><b>Gradually, you've heard more and more about what the government thinks or what the government should be doing and less and less about our nation's hopes, our dreams, and our vision of the future.</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: sans-serif; outline: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 8px;">
<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">Ten days ago I had planned to speak to you again about a very important subject -- energy. For the fifth time I would have described the urgency of the problem and laid out a series of legislative recommendations to the Congress. But as I was preparing to speak, I began to ask myself the same question that I now know has been troubling many of you. Why have we not been able to get together as a nation to resolve our serious energy problem?</span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"><b>It's clear that the true problems of our Nation are much deeper -- deeper than gasoline lines or energy shortages, deeper even than inflation or recession. </b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: sans-serif; outline: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 8px;">
<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">I know, of course, being president, that government actions and legislation can be very important. That's why I've worked hard to put my campaign promises into law -- and I have to admit, with just mixed success. </span><span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"><b>But after listening to the American people I have been reminded again that all the legislation in the world can't fix what's wrong with America. </b></span><span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">So, I want to speak to you first tonight about a subject even more serious than energy or inflation. I want to talk to you right now about a fundamental threat to American democracy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: sans-serif; outline: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 8px;">
<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">I do not mean our political and civil liberties. They will endure. And I do not refer to the outward strength of America, a nation that is at peace tonight everywhere in the world, with unmatched economic power and military might.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: sans-serif; outline: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 8px;">
<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"><b>The threat is nearly invisible in ordinary ways. It is a crisis of confidence. It is a crisis that strikes at the very heart and soul and spirit of our national will. We can see this crisis in the growing doubt about the meaning of our own lives and in the loss of a unity of purpose for our nation.</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: sans-serif; outline: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 8px;">
<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"><b>The erosion of our confidence in the future is threatening to destroy the social and the political fabric of America.</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: sans-serif; outline: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 8px;">
<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">The confidence that we have always had as a people is not simply some romantic dream or a proverb in a dusty book that we read just on the Fourth of July.</span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">It is the idea which founded our nation and has guided our development as a people. Confidence in the future has supported everything else -- public institutions and private enterprise, our own families, and the very Constitution of the United States. Confidence has defined our course and has served as a link between generations. </span><span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"><b>We've always believed in something called progress. We've always had a faith that the days of our children would be better than our own.</b></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"><b>Our people are losing that faith, not only in government itself but in the ability as citizens to serve as the ultimate rulers and shapers of our democracy. </b></span><span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">As a people we know our past and we are proud of it. Our progress has been part of the living history of America, even the world. We always believed that we were part of a great movement of humanity itself called democracy, involved in the search for freedom, and that belief has always strengthened us in our purpose. But just as we are losing our confidence in the future, we are also beginning to close the door on our past.</span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"><b>I</b></span><span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"><b>n a nation that was proud of hard work, strong families, close-knit communities, and our faith in God, too many of us now tend to worship self-indulgence and consumption. </b></span><span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"><b>Human identity is no longer defined by what one does, but by what one owns. But we've discovered that owning things and consuming things does not satisfy our longing for meaning. We've learned that piling up material goods cannot fill the emptiness of lives which have no confidence or purpose.</b></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">The symptoms of this crisis of the American spirit are all around us. For the first time in the history of our country a majority of our people believe that the next five years will be worse than the past five years. Two-thirds of our people do not even vote. </span><b><span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">The productivity of American workers is actually dropping, and </span><span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">the willingness of Americans to save for the future has fallen below that of all other people in the Western world.</span></b></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"><b>As you know, there is a growing disrespect for government and for churches and for schools, the news media, and other institutions. </b></span><span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">This is not a message of happiness or reassurance, but it is the truth and it is a warning.</span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">These changes did not happen overnight. They've come upon us gradually over the last generation, years that were filled with shocks and tragedy.</span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">We were sure that ours was a nation of the ballot, not the bullet, until the murders of John Kennedy and Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr. We were taught that our armies were always invincible and our causes were always just, only to suffer the agony of Vietnam. We respected the presidency as a place of honor until the shock of Watergate.</span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">We remember when the phrase "sound as a dollar" was an expression of absolute dependability, until ten years of inflation began to shrink our dollar and our savings. </span><span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"><b>We believed that our nation's resources were limitless until 1973, when we had to face a growing dependence on foreign oil.</b></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">These wounds are still very deep. They have never been healed. Looking for a way out of this crisis, our people have turned to the Federal government and found it isolated from the mainstream of our nation's life. </span><span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"><b>Washington, D.C., has become an island. </b></span><span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"><b>The gap between our citizens and our government has never been so wide. The people are looking for honest answers, not easy answers; clear leadership, not false claims and evasiveness and politics as usual.</b></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"><b>What you see too often in Washington and elsewhere around the country is a system of government that seems incapable of action. You see a Congress twisted and pulled in every direction by hundreds of well-financed and powerful special interests. </b></span><span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">You see every extreme position defended to the last vote, almost to the last breath by one unyielding group or another. You often see a balanced and a fair approach that demands sacrifice, a little sacrifice from everyone, abandoned like an orphan without support and without friends.</span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">Often you see paralysis and stagnation and drift. You don't like it, and neither do I. What can we do?</span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">First of all, we must face the truth, and then we can change our course. We simply must have faith in each other, faith in our ability to govern ourselves, and faith in the future of this nation. Restoring that faith and that confidence to America is now the most important task we face. It is a true challenge of this generation of Americans.</span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">We know the strength of America. We are strong. We can regain our unity. We can regain our confidence. We are the heirs of generations who survived threats much more powerful and awesome than those that challenge us now. Our fathers and mothers were strong men and women who shaped a new society during the Great Depression, who fought world wars, and who carved out a new charter of peace for the world.</span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">We ourselves are the same Americans who just ten years ago put a man on the Moon. We are the generation that dedicated our society to the pursuit of human rights and equality. And we are the generation that will win the war on the energy problem and in that process rebuild the unity and confidence of America.</span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"><b>We are at a turning point in our history. There are two paths to choose. One is a path I've warned about tonight, the path that leads to fragmentation and self-interest. Down that road lies a mistaken idea of freedom, the right to grasp for ourselves some advantage over others. That path would be one of constant conflict between narrow interests ending in chaos and immobility. It is a certain route to failure.</b></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"><b>All the traditions of our past, all the lessons of our heritage, all the promises of our future point to another path, the path of common purpose and the restoration of American values. </b></span><span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">That path leads to true freedom for our nation and ourselves. We can take the first steps down that path as we begin to solve our energy problem.</span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">Energy will be the immediate test of our ability to unite this nation, and it can also be the standard around which we rally. On the battlefield of energy we can win for our nation a new confidence, and we can seize control again of our common destiny.</span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">In little more than two decades we've gone from a position of energy independence to one in which almost half the oil we use comes from foreign countries, at prices that are going through the roof. Our excessive dependence on OPEC has already taken a tremendous toll on our economy and our people. This is the direct cause of the long lines which have made millions of you spend aggravating hours waiting for gasoline. It's a cause of the increased inflation and unemployment that we now face. This intolerable dependence on foreign oil threatens our economic independence and the very security of our nation. The energy crisis is real. It is worldwide. It is a clear and present danger to our nation. These are facts and we simply must face them.</span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"><b>Our nation must be fair to the poorest among us, so we will increase aid to needy Americans to cope with rising energy prices. We often think of conservation only in terms of sacrifice. In fact, it is the most painless and immediate way of rebuilding our nation's strength.</b></span><span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"> Every gallon of oil each one of us saves is a new form of production. It gives us more freedom, more confidence, that much more control over our own lives.</span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">So, the solution of our energy crisis can also help us to conquer the crisis of the spirit in our country. It can rekindle our sense of unity, our confidence in the future, and give our nation and all of us individually a new sense of purpose.</span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">I do not promise you that this struggle for freedom will be easy. I do not promise a quick way out of our nation's problems, when the truth is that the only way out is an all-out effort. What I do promise you is that I will lead our fight, and I will enforce fairness in our struggle, and I will ensure honesty. And above all, I will act. </span><span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">We can manage the short-term shortages more effectively and we will, but there are no short-term solutions to our long-range problems. <b>There is simply no way to avoid sacrifice.</b></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">Twelve hours from now I will speak again in Kansas City, to expand and to explain further our energy program. Just as the search for solutions to our energy shortages has now led us to a new awareness of our Nation's deeper problems, so our willingness to work for those solutions in energy can strengthen us to attack those deeper problems.</span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">I will continue to travel this country, to hear the people of America. You can help me to develop a national agenda for the 1980s. I will listen and I will act. We will act together. These were the promises I made three years ago, and I intend to keep them.</span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">Little by little we can and we must rebuild our confidence. </span><span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"><b>We can spend until we empty our treasuries, and we may summon all the wonders of science. But we can succeed only if we tap our greatest resources -- America's people, America's values, and America's confidence.</b></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">I have seen the strength of America in the inexhaustible resources of our people. In the days to come, let us renew that strength in the struggle for an energy secure nation.</span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">In closing, let me say this: I will do my best, but I will not do it alone. Let your voice be heard. Whenever you have a chance, say something good about our country. With God's help and for the sake of our nation, it is time for us to join hands in America. </span><span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"><b>Let us commit ourselves together to a rebirth of the American spirit. </b></span><span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">Working together with our common faith we cannot fail.</span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;">Thank you and good night."</span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><u><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kakFDUeoJKM" target="_blank">Full Jimmy Carter Speech</a></u></span></span></div>
Ben Hasskamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351974191740258268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6783268646690857161.post-42152931901954885212017-01-12T11:27:00.000-06:002017-01-12T15:20:38.496-06:00Dear America - Letter #9<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Q1VIw7lPXfg/WHe75pdC1VI/AAAAAAAAAl8/7WFuhk8cptkFbeOJ0a8hRdnW-fHOvHkEACLcB/s1600/eGDCJ1r.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="356" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Q1VIw7lPXfg/WHe75pdC1VI/AAAAAAAAAl8/7WFuhk8cptkFbeOJ0a8hRdnW-fHOvHkEACLcB/s640/eGDCJ1r.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 12pt;">Dear America,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">What’s up?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Merica here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I hear you’ve been bothering our fearless leader, Donald J. Trump.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Knock that (<u>per Facebook Terms and Conditions insert curse word here</u>) off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s a good guy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A good guy whose gonna kick some ass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know what we like about him? He’s
real.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s as real as they come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve never seen a guy tell it like it is the
way he does.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s so raw it gets my wood
rattling—if you know what I mean.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
stuck it to Crooked Hillary, he stuck it to the liberal media, and now he’s
gonna stick it to you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">Trump is gonna drain the
swamp, kill the establishment, cut taxes, destroy Obamacare, and bitch slap any
foreign leader foolish enough to question his kick ass authority.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s gonna bring back the coal factories,
eliminate NAFTA—the absolute worst trade deal in the history of this great
county.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s gonna deport the immigrants
and build a great, big wall to keep ‘em out. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What’s more, he’s gonna charge the Mexicans
down to the penny to pay for that wall. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s
gonna be the greatest job creator God has ever seen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s gonna do so many great things that by
2020 we’ll be the most powerful country in the world again. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And on that good day, America, we can’t wait
to tell you we told you so.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">Fuck China.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fuck Mexico.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Fuck the Ukraine, Iraq, Iran, and Syria.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There’s a new sheriff in town, America, and you’d best get used to it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">Trump’s gonna build ties
with Russia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s about time!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So what if they hacked us and used
information to influence the election?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does
anyone really care?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Besides, they hacked
us for good reason: to sully the name of Hillary Clinton and her
confidants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In short, they acted like
‘Mericans! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fuck yeah!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How can we not respect them for that?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Isn’t that the type of ally we’d wanna have?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">And you know what the best
part is, America?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trump’s gonna let us
keep our guns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our 100% absolute
Constitutional right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No longer will we
have to live in fear that Hillary and her cronies will come knocking on our
doors and demand our Glocks and Berettas. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’ll be free to carry whatever we want,
whenever we want, and there isn’t a damn thing anyone’s gonna be able to do
about it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">We’re gonna get back to the
way things were.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And isn’t that what
America is all about?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">Now fuck off bothering our
President-elect and do what you do best: fade into the ether while ‘Merica
enjoys the fruits of the electoral college’s labor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">Later sucker,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">‘Merica<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Ben Hasskamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351974191740258268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6783268646690857161.post-73385625097128789892017-01-04T16:45:00.000-06:002017-01-04T16:57:48.478-06:00Dear America - Letter #8<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman";">Dear 115</span><sup style="font-family: "iowan old style roman";">th</sup><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman";"> Congress,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Hello, you knuckleheads. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s me,
America. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, you really started things
off with a bang, didn’t you? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What was
supposed to be your celebratory affair on Tuesday morning—welcoming new and
returning members of Congress—turned into a complete and utter disaster after
what you pulled on Monday night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One may
call it an ill-fated reach; others may refer to it as sneaky and distasteful;
I prefer to think of it as idiotic. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>House
Republicans, led by Representative <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2017/01/03/us/politics/trump-house-ethics-office.html" target="_blank"><u>Robert W. Goodlatte</u> </a>of Virginia, attempted
to prevent the <a href="https://oce.house.gov/" target="_blank"><u>Office of Congressional Ethics</u> </a>(OCE) from pursuing
investigations into members of Congress that might result in criminal charges.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Good one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">It’s like before the race even started you managed to trip over your own
shoelaces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even Speaker of the House <u><a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/powerpost/wp/2017/01/02/house-republicans-vote-to-rein-in-independent-ethics-office/?utm_term=.f0f39fecdfd0" target="_blank">Paul Ryan</a></u> and President-elect Donald Trump were against this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know you’ve fucked up when those two are
condemning you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Crippling the Ethics
Committee?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Really?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How dense can you be?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">We know Congress’ track record, and we are not fooled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In May of this year, <u><a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2016/05/is-this-the-worst-congress-ever/483075/" target="_blank">The Atlantic</a></u> did
an article about the worst Congress in history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And congratulations, 114<sup>th</sup> Congress, you took the cake!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You even beat out the 112<sup>th</sup>
Congress—which was the most ineffective in history, according to <u><a href="http://www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2014/12/29/in-late-spurt-of-activity-congress-avoids-least-productive-title/" target="_blank">Pew Research Center</a></u>, passing a mere 208 substantive bills in its two years—the lowest
recorded in congressional history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
laziness and ineptitude even edged out the 113<sup>th</sup> Congress, which
passed only 4 more bills, and saw <u><a href="http://www.foxnews.com/politics/2013/12/22/ted-cruz-dr-seuss-speech-highlight-in-year-that-congress-did-little-any.html" target="_blank">Ted Cruz</a></u> reading <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Green Eggs and Ham</i> on the Senate Floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s right, 114<sup>th</sup> Congress, you were
worse than a grown man mumbling the words of Dr. Seuss to our elected officials.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">We do, however, commend the constituents of the 115<sup>th</sup> Congress’
men and women.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You got on the phone and
you inundated your representatives with calls denouncing such an action.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Internet searches for the phrase “<u><a href="http://www.house.gov/htbin/findrep" target="_blank">Who is my representative</a></u>?” flooded search engines shortly after news of this broke,
and by Tuesday morning it had reached its peak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Their outrage rattled your sneaky play so effectively, your hopes of
reduced oversight were squashed even before it could reach the voting
floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We insisted we would keep
fighting the <u><a href="http://pecorinoandeggs.blogspot.com/2016/11/dear-america-letter-2.html" target="_blank">good fight</a></u>, and we will continue to prove that we’re not
going anywhere.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">On Tuesday morning, Representative Goodlatte took to <u>The Hill</u> to
vent about our misconceptions of the meeting and his hopes to limit the
committee’s power. His claim was that he
was improving the OCE, rather than dismantling it—even though one of his
suggestions was renaming the committee altogether.
He writes, “</span><span style="background: white; color: #2b2c30; font-family: "iowan old style roman";">while
the name may change, the office maintains its independence and mission to
review complaints...”</span><span style="background: white; font-family: "iowan old style roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Really? If your suggestions were so innocuous, why try
and slip this in without going through the proper channels? You even wrote, “<span style="background: white;">Today the OCE is able to accept anonymous complaints, meaning
literally anyone from anywhere in the world can send something through a
website and potentially disparage the reputation of a Member without a basis in
fact. Responding to an anonymous accusation drags good people’s names through
the mud, costs the accused tens of thousands of dollars, and costs people their
jobs.</span>” According to the OCE’s <u><a href="https://oce.house.gov/learn/faq/" target="_blank">website</a></u>,
though, it takes a great deal for an investigation even to reach the
preliminary stages. Investigations are
broken up into a 30 day preliminary review and then a second-phase, 45 day
review. In fact, it takes at least two
members of the OCE Board to request an investigation before it can begin. The fact that you think any bumpkin off the
street can sully the name of a Congress man or woman through the manipulation
of the OCE is blatantly unfounded. Mr.
Goodlatte, it’s like you got caught with your hand in the cookie jar and you
told your mother the Cookie Monster is in your basement and he made you do it. Take some responsibility for your asinine
idea. In</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> a time when there is so
much distrust and paranoia surrounding politics and our representatives, don’t
hold a surprise, closed-door meeting to keep the one independent body from
investigating issues of misconduct. We’d
like to think our representatives are smarter and savvier than that, and we don’t appreciate
you taking us for imbeciles?</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I mean, seriously, how stupid do you think we are, 115<sup>th</sup>
Congress?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You knocked on our door and
the first thing you say is, “While it’s true we’re following in the footsteps
of some historical and colossal fuck-ups, please don’t monitor us in the event
we may accept inappropriate gifts or goods for certain works we may or may not
do.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are you serious?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This would be like releasing sex offenders
into halfway houses and telling them, “Hey, you know those ankle bracelets we
use to monitor your whereabouts?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They don’t
actually work.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">We say again: “Good one.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">There is so much to do, so many problems to solve, so many laws to pass,
and this was the first of your efforts?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
need to focus waging wars on poverty, affordable healthcare, and equal pay for
women.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You need to create and enact a
federalized minimum wage rate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You need
to fix the floundering programs of Social Security, Medicare, and
Medicaid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You need to fight back against
the idea of school vouchers and pour money into our public education systems
through grants and endowments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You need
to do so many things in your 700+ days, and you start off by attempting to put
in a preemptive measure ensuring that, when you inevitably fuck up, there won’t
be anyone around to hold you accountable?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Good one, you absolute, unequivocal <u><a href="http://www.mememaker.net/static/images/memes/4406769.jpg" target="_blank">jabronis</a></u>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Make sure to pay your phone bill, because we
can’t wait to keep calling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Best regards.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">America<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Ben Hasskamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351974191740258268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6783268646690857161.post-35200631528092899742016-12-19T17:00:00.000-06:002016-12-19T23:27:50.178-06:00Dear America - Letter #7<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>This is an article by Ben Hasskamp and Ben Hasskamp alone. It does not necessarily represent the views
of America, ‘Merica, Putin, Trump, Obama, or anyone other than the writer
himself.</b></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Dear Readers:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Let’s face it, we have become a country of uninformed experts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We managed to callously create a society
based on the foundations of misinformation and deceit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many of us have not only blindly accepted
this, but have willingly perpetrated it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Today, it seems as if everybody has a Yelp! profile proclaiming the next
best restaurant with vague descriptions like “simply amazing” and “very good,”
as if this is evidence enough of an establishment’s merit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Frankly, I do not believe you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Similarly, I do not trust or believe that Donald
Trump’s new <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2016/12/16/us/politics/mick-mulvaney-office-management-budget-trump.html?_r=0" target="_blank"><u>budget director</u> </a>of this fair country will be successful
simply because our President-elect said “he’s a tremendous talent, especially
when it comes to numbers and budgets.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Tell me <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">why </i>he’s
tremendous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tell me <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">why</i> he’s qualified.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I came
to you and said I would be a better quarterback for the Patriots than Tom Brady,
wouldn’t you demand I prove this?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wouldn’t
you demand I show one iota of evidence to support this outrageous claim?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or would you just take me at my word? How has the line between truth and absurdity become so blurred?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There will be no end to fake news: this is a reality we all must face. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In this era, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">everybody</i> is a source while few are true connoisseurs of
intelligence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps it’s because many
of us feel threatened by intelligence, and we take it upon ourselves to insist
our point of view is the one and only authority.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Take this blog, for example.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I, too, have the absurd belief that people
will not only read my words, but treat them as grand influence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s humbling to see my readers approach my
paragraphs with such skepticism I can almost feel them screaming how ludicrous
and asinine my thoughts are as soon as my articles are posted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I take solace in the fact that I approach
arguments the same way my high school English teachers encouraged us to
approach our papers: establish a theory, present your arguments, and back up
those arguments with statements of fact.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We, as a country, should no longer be satisfied when somebody says,
“Well, I’m entitled to my opinion and you’re entitled to yours.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, you knucklehead, you’re not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If your opinion is that the sky is a shade of
neon pink, I demand from you a mountain of evidence to support your claim.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Having an opinion does not automatically make you informed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At times, even I have wished that weren’t
true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it is an actuality we all must
acknowledge and accept.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, while it’s
okay to question the opinions of others, we need to research those opinions or
proclamation and poke holes in it with as much relevant and valid information
that we can uncover.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s time to be
informed experts again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s time to
question the establishment when they arrogantly and blatantly feed us
lies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, <u><a href="http://www.politifact.com/punditfact/statements/2016/dec/15/realtime-politics/websites-offer-false-headlines-about-treason-c/" target="_blank">Realtime Politics</a></u>, it
is not true Democrats are filing treason charges against Trump.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, <u><a href="http://www.usapoliticstoday.com/hillary-clinton-kids-wikileaks-nuke-hillary-see-potential-clinton-foundation-sex-trafficking-ring/" target="_blank">Alexander Warren</a></u> of USA Politics
Today, it is not true Hillary Clinton has a child trafficking ring. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="background: white; color: #333333;">No, Trump
supporters, in spite of what the majority of you may think, he did not win the <u><a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/monkey-cage/wp/2016/12/18/a-new-poll-shows-an-astonishing-52-of-republicans-think-trump-won-the-popular-vote/?utm_term=.8973549caaf0" target="_blank">popular vote</a></u>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>And No, <u><a href="https://www.yelp.com/user_details_reviews_self?rec_pagestart=10&userid=YnN4QR6HXr79iwtBs8gF5A" target="_blank">Liz “BBQ sauce tastes great on everything” T</a></u>, I do not believe it to be true that “never
before has there been <span style="background: white; color: #333333;">such
a GENIUS fusion of two of America's two [sic] most beloved delicacies: doritos
nacho cheese chips and the taco bell taco.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And, even if I were to believe it, what makes Doritos and Taco Bell
tacos delicacies?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What makes it a “GENIUS
fusion?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know you “ate two and wasn’t
even drunk,” but the reality that Yelp! has deemed you a “2016 Elite” critic
is heartbreaking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m sorry, Liz “BSTGOE”
T, but I can’t help questioning your assertions just like I question the
assertions of Mr. Warren, Realtime Politics, and a vast many others out their
claiming to speak the truth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We need to stop reporting
headlines as fact and get into the meat of stories; it’s the only way we can decipher
between what is true and what is baseless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If we do not have decency in the news, then there’s no way we can claim
to be a decent country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If only
journalism malpractice were a thing we’d be in far better shape, and the hostilities
of our nation wouldn’t be so rampant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
can turn this around, we just need to try.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Most sincerely,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Ben Hasskamp</span><span style="font-family: "iowan old style roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Ben Hasskamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351974191740258268noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6783268646690857161.post-54792095491821090922016-12-09T17:15:00.000-06:002016-12-09T17:15:02.712-06:00Dear America - Letter #6<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: x-small; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">From:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Trump, Donald<br />
<b>Date:</b> December 4, 2016 at 3:42:07 AM <br />
<b>To:</b> Putin, Vladimir <br />
<b>Subject:</b> <b>hang out?</b></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Hey Vlad,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">What are you doing tonight?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You wanna hang out?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Melania is making popcorn and I’m ordering KFC.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We could watch a movie or something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rocky IV?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But we could watch your version where you recut it so Dolph Lundgren wins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or we can watch something else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whatever you want.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let me know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Don</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: x-small; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">From:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Putin, Vladimir<br />
<b>Date:</b> December 4, 2016 at 6:49:18 AM <br />
<b>To:</b> Trump, Donald<br />
<b>Subject:</b> <b>hang out?</b></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Dear Mr. Trump,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">No.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cannot hang out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have much business to attend to and have no time to watch Rocky IV.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or any other Rocky for that matter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will let you know if my schedule should change.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though, it won’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In meantime, send me passwords for your Chief of Staff and Defence Secretary’s email accounts. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thank you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Regards.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: x-small; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">From:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Trump, Donald<br />
<b>Date:</b> December 4, 2016 at 6:51:05 AM <br />
<b>To:</b> Putin, Vladimir <br />
<b>Subject:</b> <b>hang out?</b></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Hey Vlad,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">No problem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My chief of staff’s password is RabbitRun322 and my defense secretary’s password is WarWarWhatIsItGoodFor69.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do you need their emails, too?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe you could come over tomorrow and we could go Segwaying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s a nice spot by the river we could grab some Mexican taco bowls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Look forward to hearing your thoughts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Don</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: x-small; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">From:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Putin, Vladimir<br />
<b>Date:</b> December 4, 2016 at 11:59:22 AM <br />
<b>To:</b> Trump, Donald<br />
<b>Subject:</b> <b>hang out?</b></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Dear Mr. Trump,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">No.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do not want to ride Segway with you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, please send emails.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Regards.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: x-small; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">From:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Trump, Donald<br />
<b>Date:</b> December 4, 2016 at 12:01:01 PM <br />
<b>To:</b> Putin, Vladimir <br />
<b>Subject:</b> <b>hang out?</b></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Okay Vlad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t worry about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Segways are dumb anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t even like them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Reince Priebus’ email is ReincePeePants@gmail.com.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a very good email, sort of an inside joke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe I could tell it to you some day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">James Mattis’ email is MadDog696969@hotmail.com.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His is also very good.\<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Do you also need Steve Bannon’s email?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t sure...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The four of us are all supposed to get together tomorrow and watch Shark Tank.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe you could come?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Don <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: x-small; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">From:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Putin, Vladimir<br />
<b>Date:</b> December 5, 2016 at 4:51:24 PM <br />
<b>To:</b> Trump, Donald<br />
<b>Subject:</b> <b>hang out?</b></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Dear Mr. Trump,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">No.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do not like Shark Tank or that phony baloney Mark Cuban.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will not come.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Yes, please send Steve Bannon’s email and password.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Regards.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: x-small; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">From:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Trump, Donald<br />
<b>Date:</b> December 5, 2016 at 4:53:21 PM <br />
<b>To:</b> Putin, Vladimir <br />
<b>Subject:</b> <b>hang out?</b></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Yeah, Shark Tank is stupid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bannon’s the one who likes it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>None of the rest of us like it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s really very dumb.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Steve’s email is Steveo.Bano@aol.com.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We like to call him Steveo sometimes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s really very funny.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe you could come in this weekend and we could call him Steveo together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’d be tremendously funny.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Don</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: x-small; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">From:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Putin, Vladimir<br />
<b>Date:</b> December 5, 2016 at 6:23:23 PM <br />
<b>To:</b> Trump, Donald<br />
<b>Subject:</b> <b>hang out?</b></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Dear Mr. Trump,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">No.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do not want to call him Steveo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is a most horrendous nickname which I do not understand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Also, you only sent me Mr. Bannon’s email.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Send password immediately. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Regards.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: x-small; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">From:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Trump, Donald<br />
<b>Date:</b> December 5, 2016 at 6:27:11 PM <br />
<b>To:</b> Putin, Vladimir <br />
<b>Subject:</b> <b>hang out?</b></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Totally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is an horrendous nickname.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s what I told him when he was like: “Hey, everyone start calling me Steveo now.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He went through a Jackass-phase for a long time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One time he tackled a guest at the Trump Tower while wearing a panda costume.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was hilarious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Johnny Knoxville is like his hero.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">His password is KKKLivesMatter09.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Maybe this weekend I could come to Russia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could bring Melania.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hear it’s beautiful this time of year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have my own plane, you know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Don</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11.0pt;">From:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11.0pt;"> Putin, Vladimir<br />
<b>Date:</b> December 6, 2016 at 7:11:06 AM <br />
<b>To:</b> Trump, Donald<br />
<b>Subject:</b> <b>hang out?</b><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Dear Mr. Trump,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">No.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do not come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am very busy with business.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please stop inviting me to things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am tiger hunting this weekend and cannot be disturbed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Regards.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: x-small; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">From:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Trump, Donald<br />
<b>Date:</b> December 6, 2016 at 7:17:01 AM <br />
<b>To:</b> Putin, Vladimir <br />
<b>Subject:</b> <b>hang out?</b></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I love tiger hunting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could come maybe?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I won’t say anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll just hang out in the back while you hunt tigers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I won’t bother you, I promise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: x-small; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">From:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Putin, Vladimir<br />
<b>Date:</b> December 6, 2016 at 8:57:06 PM <br />
<b>To:</b> Trump, Donald<br />
<b>Subject:</b> <b>hang out?</b></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Dear Mr. Trump,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">No.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do not come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><u><a href="https://www.instagram.com/kadyrov_95/" target="_blank">Ramzan Kadyrov</a> </u>is already joining me and there simply isn’t enough room for either you or Melania.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please stop asking to come as I am very busy with business.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Regards.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: x-small; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">From:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Trump, Donald<br />
<b>Date:</b> December 6, 2016 at 9:01:19 PM <br />
<b>To:</b> Putin, Vladimir <br />
<b>Subject:</b> <b>hang out?</b></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I’m very busy with business, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m a businessman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe we could get together and talk about business.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m really very good at business.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: x-small; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">From:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Putin, Vladimir<br />
<b>Date:</b> December 6, 2016 at 9:06:36 PM <br />
<b>To:</b> Trump, Donald<br />
<b>Subject:</b> <b>hang out?</b></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Dear Mr. Trump,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">No.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Regards.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><o:p><br />
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<b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: x-small; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">From:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Trump, Donald<br />
<b>Date:</b> December 6, 2016 at 9:07:51 PM <br />
<b>To:</b> Putin, Vladimir <br />
<b>Subject:</b> <b>hang out?</b></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Totally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Business is dumb.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Well, let me know when you’re free.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can’t wait to hear from you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Love, Don</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: x-small; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">From:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Postmaster<br />
<b>Date:</b> December 6, 2016 at 9:08:57 PM <br />
<b>To:</b> Trump, Donald<br />
<b>Subject:</b> *<b>UNDELIVERABLE</b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">*: <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">hang out?</span></b></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #000066; font-family: "arial";">Delivery has failed to these recipients or distribution lists:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "tahoma"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Putin, Vladimir</span><br />
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Your message wasn't delivered because of security policies. Microsoft Exchange will not try to redeliver this message for you. Please provide the following diagnostic text to your system administrator:<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 9.5pt;">Final-Recipient:<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span style="background: white; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 9.5pt;">VladTheMan@Russia.com</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br />
<span style="background: white;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">Action: failed</span></span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" /> <span style="background: white;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">Status: 5.7.1</span></span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" /> <span style="background: white;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">Diagnostic-Code: smtp;550 5.7.1 RESOLVER.RST.AuthRequired; authentication required</span></span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" /> <span style="background: white;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">X-Display-Name: Putin, Vladimir</span></span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 7.5pt;">Sent by Microsoft Exchange Server 2007</span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 9.5pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"> </span></span></span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Ben Hasskamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351974191740258268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6783268646690857161.post-41533965348585356552016-12-07T18:38:00.001-06:002016-12-07T18:58:38.534-06:00Dear America - Letter #5<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Message Header"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="11" QFormat="true" Name="Subtitle"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Salutation"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Date"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Block Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Hyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="FollowedHyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Document Map"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Plain Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="E-mail Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Top of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Bottom of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal (Web)"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Acronym"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Address"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Cite"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Code"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Definition"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Keyboard"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Preformatted"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Sample"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Typewriter"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Variable"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal Table"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation subject"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="No List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Contemporary"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Elegant"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Professional"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Balloon Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Theme"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" QFormat="true"
Name="List Paragraph"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="List Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="List Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="List Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Dear Mr. President-elect
Trump,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Okay. We get it. And we believe in times of crisis and anxiety,
the best course of action is not to panic. Are we <u><a href="http://pecorinoandeggs.blogspot.com/2016/11/dear-america-letter-4.html" target="_blank">scared</a></u>? Well, that’s a complicated question. Yes, we’re concerned that your current cabinet
member nominations are the usual suspects of moral corruption and white supremacy. But we’re also empowered by the fact you’ve
chosen to nominate such a clown car of ineptitude we have no other recourse
than to rise up. So you know what we’re
going to do, Mr. President-elect, Mr. Big Shot, Mr.
My-Way-Or-The-Highway-Jackal? We’re
going to <u><a href="http://www.house.gov/representatives/find/" target="_blank">call our Congress men and women</a></u>.
We’re going to demand change. We’re
going to voice our <i><u><a href="http://www.discountednewspapers.com/" target="_blank">informed</a></u></i> opinions
until the air in our lungs is gone. We’re
going to fight—in your world of suppression—if only for one semblance of
satisfaction.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">We’re going to
be the activists this country needs. We’re
going empower organizations like <u><a href="http://www.thetrevorproject.org/" target="_blank">The Trevor Project</a></u>, <u><a href="https://www.safehorizon.org/" target="_blank">Safe Horizon</a></u>, <u><a href="http://www.naacpldf.org/" target="_blank">The NAACP Legal Defense Council</a></u>, <u><a href="https://www.plannedparenthood.org/" target="_blank">Planned Parenthood</a></u>, and <u><a href="http://www.maldef.org/" target="_blank">MALDEF</a></u>. We’re going to donate both our time and our
money. We’re going to create a revolution
so big and so powerful Alexander Hamilton would have blushed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">You are our
president; we acknowledge that fact. But
the foundations of equal rights, equal opportunity, and free speech not only
exist, they are protected under the Constitution you claim to find so dear. And if fundamental civil liberties are
ignored, we’ll rant, and we’ll march, and we’ll cry out against your broken
system. We’ll call for action and
efficiency when Congress and your cronies are unwilling to safeguard the human rights you claim to be needless.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">We’re going to
ignore your tirades. We’re going to give
your Twitter feed a timeout. We’re going
to show you what we’re really capable of.
It’s time to grow up, Mr. President-elect. It’s time to acknowledge global warming is a
fact, and not a <u><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2016/11/19/world/asia/china-trump-climate-change.html" target="_blank">hoax perpetrated by the Chinese</a></u>. It’s time to recognize Black Lives Matter as a
movement, <i>not </i>a silly protest. It’s time to believe the <u><a href="https://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/550/three-miles" target="_blank">desegregation</a></u>
of schools, communities, and cities is not only right and just, it’s imperative
to our nation’s continued existence. America
is already great because of our diversity.
We created a land so free, and so prosperous, immigrants from all over
the world came in search of the American dream. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">We are a country that is constantly moving forward, constantly creating. And, in spite of what they tell you, Mr. President-elect, Democrats are
not the Progressives, America is The Progressive. And we believe the best solution to our
problems is to move forward, not backward.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">So, are we
scared? Yes. But so should you be. Because you have no idea how far we’re
willing to go to protect our people from your blatant racism, sexism, and
ignorance. And we welcome you to prove
us wrong. Nothing would make us happier.
Prove our fears are groundless and unjustified;
prove you can treat your presidency with grace and respect, not like an episode
of The Apprentice; prove you care about the ideals of this country and not your
own fascist agenda. Stick it to us by
protecting us, that’s all we ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Well, we should
run, Italy and France are coming over to play <u><a href="https://media.tenor.co/images/3149d16ad27f8e941750c28847c544e4/tenor.gif" target="_blank">Risk</a></u> and we still haven’t made
the hummus. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">As always, let us
know if you have any questions. We look
forward to hearing from you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Always helpful,
never intrusive,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">America<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />Ben Hasskamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351974191740258268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6783268646690857161.post-88855200007235749402016-11-29T12:12:00.000-06:002016-11-29T12:19:33.209-06:00Dear America - Letter #4<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Dear America,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Got your <a href="http://pecorinoandeggs.blogspot.com/2016/11/dear-america-letter-2.html" target="_blank"><b>letter</b></a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was very good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And while I'm sure you'd like to think I'll take
it under advisement, I think we both know that's not gonna happen. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Honestly, I really
only have one thing to ask: Scared yet?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">No?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Well, then let's
recap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since my tremendous victory in an
election <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">so</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">easy</i> to win I even got to say "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8wM248Wo54U" target="_blank"><b>pussy</b></a>" during my campaign,
I have selected some very great people to my administration.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Let's start with
Steve Bannon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know, America, I
know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I said I'd drain the swamp and
then I hire a former Goldman Sachs investment banker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But listen, he once said <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2016/11/15/us/politics/stephen-bannon-breitbart-words.html" target="_blank"><b>this</b></a></i> about the women's movement: "That's one of the unintended
consequences of the women's liberation movement—that, in fact, the women that
would lead this country would be feminine, they would be pro-family, they would
have husbands, they would love their children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They wouldn't be a bunch of dykes that came from the 7 Sisters schools
up in New England."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That's the kind
of rhetoric I can get behind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His nasty
ex-wife, Louise Piccard, accused him of being an antisemite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But what does she know?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She's a woman for God's sake!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plus, he's a propagandaist just like me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a 2010 interview, he said: "Fear is a
good thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fear is going to lead you to
take action."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even <a href="http://www.rawstory.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/David-Duke-and-Spanish-white-nationalists-Facebook-800x430.png" target="_blank"><b>David Duke</b></a> said it
was an "excellent" pick!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My new National
Security Advisor, Michael Flynn, also upholds the fear mongering ideals I'm very
keen on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plus, he uses Twitter!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How could I not pick the guy?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Back in August, <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/checkpoint/wp/2016/11/18/trumps-new-national-security-adviser-has-said-some-incendiary-things-on-the-internet/" target="_blank"><b>Flynn tweeted</b></a>: "Fear of
Islam is RATIONAL: please forward this to others: the truth fears no questions..."
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His blanket racism is not only an asset
to my administration, but a useful tool in weeding out tons and tons of unwanted
immigrants.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Who's next?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ah, yes, Jeff Sessions!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My new Attorney General.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This cat is a great man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even though he was <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/the-fix/wp/2016/11/18/that-time-the-senate-denied-jeff-sessions-a-federal-judgeship-over-accusations-of-racism/" target="_blank"><b>denied federal judgeship</b></a>
by a Senate Judiciary Committee because of racist remarks, and even though he
said he thought the KKK was "O.K." until he found out they smoked
pot," and even though he scoffs at women's rights, the guy is all for mass
deportation of Muslims!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That's exactly
what I said I'd do in my campaign!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We're
made for each other. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two peas, one pod,
am I right?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">America, in your
letter you said you'd like me to place an emphasis on education.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who better to do that than Betsy DeVos—a Michigan
billionaire and conservative activist—as my Education Secretary?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This woman is perfect since she has such
little understanding of the foul beast that is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">public education</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>According
to <a href="http://www.aclumich.org/article/aclu-raises-serious-concerns-over-nomination-devos-secretary-education" target="_blank"><b>Kary Moss</b></a>, executive director of the ACLU (whatever that is), Betsy has "been
a staunch proponent of school vouchers and supported unlimited, unregulated
growth of charter schools."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Betsy
even agrees to back my plan to use $20 billion of federal funds for block
grants to states to support the use of vouchers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, with any luck, she'll completely get rid
of the <u><b><a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/answer-sheet/wp/2016/11/27/whats-the-worst-that-could-happen-with-betsy-devos-as-education-secretary-two-scenarios/" target="_blank">$15 billion allocated to Title I</a></b></u>—the federal program designed to provide
equal access to primary and secondary educations—a Title that greatly benefits
children living in poverty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How cool is
that?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Talk about cutting the fat!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, I know what you may be thinking, school
vouchers just divert tax-payer dollars into private and parochial schools, and that
there's really little to no evidence to support the claim that charter schools
educate children better than public schools, but at least I picked a woman to
my administration! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's time to start
giving me some credit, America.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My pick for CIA
director, Mike Pompeo, is a solid Tea Party Republican supported by the Koch
Brothers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My pick for Secretary of
Housing and Urban Development, <a href="http://www.politifact.com/truth-o-meter/article/2015/nov/13/political-group-takes-aim-ben-carsons-past-statem2/" target="_blank"><b>Ben Carson</b></a>, used to be a neurosurgeon, so he's
got to be smart at supporting urban development.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although, to be fair, nobody supports urban
development more than me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or housing for
that matter. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I support it greatly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And just this morning
I picked Tom Price as my Health Secretary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We'll stand side by side and dismantle Obamacare as soon as I take
office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He's absolutely <a href="https://www.blogger.com/"><b><span id="goog_375088113"></span>against
abortions</b><span id="goog_375088114"></span></a> and wants to cut off funding to any clinic that performs them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Birth control covered under insurance?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>WE DON'T THINK SO. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What will Women's Rights be when they have no
rights? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Women Wrong is more like it, am
I right. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Honestly, though, Tom is tremendous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all, who <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i> needs programs like Medicare and Medicaid, not to mention
Planned Parenthood?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As rich, privileged,
white men: we certainly don't.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">So, I'll ask again,
America: Scared yet?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I'm sure I can
expect another long-winded retort very soon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Toodles for now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Best regards.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Donald J. Trump</span><span style="font-family: "courier new";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Ben Hasskamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351974191740258268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6783268646690857161.post-35986818992287117982016-11-17T16:50:00.000-06:002016-11-17T21:10:28.674-06:00Dear America - Letter #3<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style"; font-size: 12pt;"><u><br /></u></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style"; font-size: 12pt;"><u>FROM THE DESK OF THE PRESIDENT</u></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style"; font-size: 12pt;">Dear America,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 76.05pt;">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style";">Hello there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's me. Your fearless leader...It's Obama.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Barack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's Barack Obama.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The President of the United States.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Current
</i>President.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was writing to...well...I
was just wondering if...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style";">Please don't
make me go<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style";">There's still
so much I have to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still need to
close Guantanamo, overhaul immigration, and mend ties with Cuba. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need to fix Social Security and create free
college education programs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need to ensure
Merrick Garland is appointed to the Supreme Court.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the love of God, I need to protect my
true treasure: Obamacare.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style";">Oh, who am I
kidding?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Honestly, I just want to save
my legacy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, this is crazy, right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Donald J. Trump? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still wake up in the mornings believing the
election was a twisted dream, but then I wander the halls of the West Wing and
see the pained, heartbroken expressions of my staffers and know it must be true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Democracy is a wonderful thing, sometimes the
best of things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's something that
should be upheld and honored.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, I'll
say again: this is crazy, right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Donald?</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style";">Isn't there
any leniency with that whole "term limit" thing?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe just another two years?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Six months and I'll walk away, I promise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style";">Seriously,
America?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I spent my two terms stimulating
the economy, providing healthcare for every single American, reducing
unemployment, and creating jobs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I
took office in January 2009 the Dow Jones had dipped below 8,000, the
unemployment rate was 7.6%, and job creation was practically dormant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today, the Dow is well over 18,000,
unemployment is at 4.9%, and I've helped create more than 9,000,000 jobs! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Make America Great <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u>Again</u></i>?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What the hell
do you think I've been doing these last 8 years? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style";">Please,
please, please, don't make me go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please
don't let the last 8 years be destroyed by the next 4.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You wouldn't build the Golden Gate Bridge
to turn around and blow it up, would you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Come on, man!!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I bottled beer in
the White House for God's sake!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I SING
AL GREEN!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And you've replaced me with an
orange haired, red-faced, discriminatory, fear-peddling, ignoramus?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style";">COME. ON. MAN.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style";">Just...just...oh, please just
let me stay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I promise I won't bother
anyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'll just keep my head down and
do my job and I won't say a thing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just say
you'll think about it, okay?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Isn't
violating the Constitution worth not having to subject yourself to a former
reality star as your Commander in Chief?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Isn't ignoring the democratic process worth not having to worry about a
woman's right to choose? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Isn't shunning
the electoral college worth not having to worry about one's immigration rights?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The nuclear football will be in the hands of
a pea-brained nitwit with an itchy trigger finger and no inside voice!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please just think about it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style";">Well, I hear
Michelle calling. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We need to go down to
the garden and pick vegetables for dinner—oh yeah, that's right, I built a
fucking garden in the White House, too!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style";">Don't forget
me, America.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "bookman old style";">Love, always
and forever,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="35" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="10" QFormat="true" Name="Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="11" QFormat="true" Name="Subtitle"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style";">Barack H.
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</style>Ben Hasskamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351974191740258268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6783268646690857161.post-49083153797535647502016-11-14T15:42:00.001-06:002016-11-14T15:42:53.486-06:00Dear America - Letter #2<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Iowan Old Style Roman";">Dear Mr.
President-elect Trump,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Iowan Old Style Roman";">Hi.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s America.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Got your letter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We especially
liked the Ziggy postage stamp you used. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
is both a beloved and underappreciated character in our cartoon history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We would like to think your letter was sent
in good faith, but judging by the rigid, bombastic content, we're guessing we
should assume otherwise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Iowan Old Style Roman";">We'd like
to start by congratulating you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You did,
indeed, win the 2016 Presidential Election.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That much is true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But after
reading your letter some thoughts came to mind, and if you'll indulge us for
just a few more words, we think we can help alleviate some of the divisiveness
you're so keen on exercising.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Iowan Old Style Roman";">First, and
this is a simple one, tone down the racist, bigoted, misogynistic
rhetoric.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We'll explain it in a way
second grade teachers all across the country are explaining to their students:
think about what you're saying, and if you're fine with somebody saying that about
you, then it's probably OK.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Example: you
said, "When Mexico sends its people, they're not sending their
best...They're bringing drugs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They're bringing
crime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They're rapists."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someone could just easily say, "When
Donald Trump comes to your town, he's not bringing his best.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He's bringing drugs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He's bringing crime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He's bringing rape."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both are unfair characterizations, we're sure,
but no less contentious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We will not
survive your presidency if your sole belief is the promotion of old, rich,
white men and to hell with the rest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Iowan Old Style Roman";">This
country was founded on the ideals of hope, freedom, and truth, three ideals you
clearly struggle with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, for the next
four years, please remember your job as president is not only to be tolerant,
but embracing; embracing of all sexes, races, religions, creeds, and sexual
orientations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Freedoms should not be
afforded only to gun owners and Wall Street fat cats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are the land of the free for many reasons
beyond those, and the moment you discontinue our traditions, the moment we quit
being a country.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Iowan Old Style Roman";">Second: enough
with the fear mongering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In spite of
your preposterous claims, your job as president isn't to tell people what to be
afraid of and who's to blame for those fears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It's a fundamentally flawed concept to accuse poor people of creating a
stagnant or failing economy, or reprimanding an entire race for isolated incidents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Terrible things happen all the time—in our
country and others—and chastising a whole populous for a few extremists will
only advance our country's latent racism and instill that fear you're so intent
on broadcasting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our country's
well-being is far more important than your unsettling scare tactics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Iowan Old Style Roman";">Thirdly,
and for more than half of Americans this is probably most important, it is and
always will be a woman's right to choose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Inflicting your own "moral" compass on another woman's body is
neither the president's decision nor any other Tom, Dick, and Harry who feels
otherwise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has been decades since
women have been afforded and granted the right to choose, and you should not
only refuse to be a president that strips away freedoms based on one's gender,
you should condemn it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, while you
argue abortion should be a state's issue, rather than a federal issue, the 1973
Supreme Court opinion decided otherwise. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is not your obligation or even your privilege
to insist you know what is right for all women.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And it would be to misunderstand these women to presume as much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Iowan Old Style Roman";">Lastly, after
the election, thousands took to the streets to protest the result.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please know not all of these people were
whining or protesting the democratic process or even the electoral college, most
of these people were protesting your plans and policies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These Americans strongly believe your agenda
is so deeply flawed and marred by deceit they have taken to their cities to
speak out against it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not only are these
people protected by the constitutional rights you claim to respect, they are
the activists our country needs and craves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If we do not have a voice, then our only other recourse is to be
paralyzed by our anxieties.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Iowan Old Style Roman";">We do,
however, take solace in one thing: throughout our nation's history we have
always risen up, reborn into something greater, something more meaningful than
ever once it was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, we promise you,
we will rise from this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We will fight
until we have nothing left and we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">will</i>
succeed, this is our undying promise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Revolutions
manifest in all sorts of ways, and so, Mr. Trump, thank you for being this
generation's catalyst.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Iowan Old Style Roman";">We need to
get back to what this country was built upon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We need to quit ridiculing intelligence, and, rather, promote it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is imperative not only to instill an appreciation
for education, but a hunger for one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Teachers should be the highest paid employees in our country and schools
should be seen more as kingdoms than prisons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We need to focus on advancing technology, getting back to building
rather than destroying; infrastructure should be celebrated, not glossed over
like some inconvenient truth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We need to
quit belittling morality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so, during the
first 100 days of your presidency, we implore you to focus only on one thing: decency toward all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We can't fix our problems, Mr. Trump, without
first admitting we have them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before you
tear down this country, understand what makes us tick, understand our passions, understand our hopes and beliefs. In short: understand <i>us</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Iowan Old Style Roman";">It's time
to end oppression and endorse unity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's
time to end hate and advocate love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>America
is not just your country, Mr. President-elect, it's all of ours. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And once you start believing that, then maybe
we'll have something to talk about.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Iowan Old Style Roman";">I'm sure
we'll discuss very soon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Iowan Old Style Roman";">Regards.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Iowan Old Style Roman";">America<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Ben Hasskamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351974191740258268noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6783268646690857161.post-39980168324401192262016-11-10T17:21:00.001-06:002016-11-11T10:00:28.062-06:00Dear America - Letter #1<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">FROM THE DESK OF </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><u>DONALD J. TRUMP</u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier"; font-size: 11.0pt;">Dear
America,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier"; font-size: 11.0pt;">Hello.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s me. It's your president.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First, let me start by saying how tremendously glad I am
to be your commander in chief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It means
a lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I really, really, really
appreciate it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I appreciate it almost as
much as I’d appreciate a card from my grandmother on my birthday. It truly was a nice gesture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So many of you said I couldn’t win, but I’m
here for good and there’s nothing you can do about it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier"; font-size: 11.0pt;">Secondly,
let me take the opportunity to say: Goodbye you blacks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Goodbye you Muslims.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Goodbye Jews.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Goodbye Somalis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Goodbye you
disgusting Greeks with your overcooked, under-sauced food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Goodbye lazy Mexicans, enjoy climbing my ten
foot wall with your nine foot ladder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Goodbye women, with their <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ways</i>
and their <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">shopping</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Goodbye you fags, with...whatever it is you
do. Because, obviously, a very strong, very tough, tremendously masculine man such as myself couldn’t
possibly care what makes you tick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good
riddance you spicks, you lazy sacks of trash.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Goodbye to the Millennials, Generation X, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and </i>Generation Y, I won’t miss you degenerate twats a bit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Goodbye Koreans who sell their overpriced
tomatoes on 57<sup>th</sup> and Park. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Goodbye you micks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Goodbye you meager Indians, stealing the
money I’ve made from your misfortunes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What’s mine is mine shitheads.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Goodbye
democracy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Goodbye equal rights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Goodbye diversity, for diversity is the root
of all true evil. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was Adam white?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was Eve?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier"; font-size: 11.0pt;">Lastly:
Hello you beautiful white people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hello
you Wall Street Industrialists, you titans of all industry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hello rich white widows and widowers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hello rich bankers, with your causal cocaine
addictions and squash memberships.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hello
you glorious people willing to give me your hard earned cash thinking I have an
intention of making a difference.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
world needs suckers too, ya know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Hello malicious intents. </span>Hello
idocracy. Hello segregation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hello persecution.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hello oppression.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Hello sweet, sweet white supremacy; you've been lurking for far too long and I can't tell you how happy I am to let you out of your cage. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier"; font-size: 11.0pt;">Let me
make something perfectly clear to your America: I am not here for you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is about me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Make America Great Again?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> More like: </span>Make TRUMP great again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am going to tremendously like taking everything
you have and either profit from it or destroy it. You think now because I'm president I won't make a buck? You think because I'm president I'll tone down my racist rhetoric? You think because I'm president I'll start to give two fucks about anybody but myself? If so, America, you're off you're rocker.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier"; font-size: 11.0pt;">I suppose
I should be concerned I’ve said such harsh words in such a public forum—after
all, you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">are</i> America—but the last
year has pretty much proved I can do whatever the fuck I want whenever the fuck
I want.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am the cockroach that will
never die, constantly scurrying away just before the shoe drops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier"; font-size: 11.0pt;">And,
finally, thanks for proving to me that you don’t take
anything particularly seriously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it’s
because of your wonderful apathy that I’m your President-elect, and there are few things
more stunning than that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier"; font-size: 11.0pt;">Good
riddance, America.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll see you when I
see you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "courier"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier"; font-size: 11.0pt;">Best
regards.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier"; font-size: 11.0pt;">Donald J.
Trump<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Ben Hasskamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351974191740258268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6783268646690857161.post-85493807289900703382015-03-21T12:22:00.001-05:002016-11-14T15:10:44.146-06:00CENTS - A Short<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The restaurant where Abby Harper found herself had not always been a restaurant. In fact, the space had gone through eighteen renovations during its many years on Rue de l’Abbaye in Paris. The restaurant had first been a butcher shop, the owner of which was an Armenian refuge who had left Marseilles for brighter prospects. His butcher business floundered after the first four years, during which he made a perfectly unremarkable living. The butcher shop was then turned into a series of cafes, each one more faceless than the last. Then there was that brief time in the 70s when the space had been abandoned, a blank canvas for tweekers and addicts alike. A Saudi businessman then leased it and turned the space into a nightclub. This particular venture was short-lived and the space was, once again, left abandoned. It would stay vacant until a man by the name of Monsieur Phillip Bonaparte would buy the space and turn it into Le Bonaparte Cafe. Bonaparte’s was simple, but always busy. Over its awning was pulled a taut vinyl canopy running the length of the cafe. Wicker chairs lined the outside walk in the quiet alcove that was the unremarkable street of Rue de l’Abbaye. Abby Harper, however, chose the friendly confines of Bonaparte’s interior. The weather had been much too hot that day, anyway.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> She had arrived to Bonaparte’s late—a trait she had always despised in a person. But upon her arrival she found her date had not yet arrived. She was seated near the kitchen, a placement she had found peculiar considering her date’s reputation and stature, not only among the Parisians, but most of western Europe. She thought it wise not to fuss considering Bonaparte’s was unusually busy that night.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Abby ordered a bottle of Chateau Pavie and waited, fretfully tapping her fingers on the sterile white tablecloth. Guests chewed their food, clinked their glasses, and scraped their silverware. Everything was noisy, grating. Abby considered how lucky she was to be sitting at that table, to be drinking such a fine bottle of wine, and to be waiting for the man who was set to walk through Bonaparte’s narrow entrance.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> To understand Abby Harper, one must understand her past. She had always wanted to be a journalist. She had read voraciously as a child, penned essays pertaining to countless studies, affairs, and subjects, she had been published in journals, magazines, and newspapers, and, by the age of nineteen, had completed a novel outlining the life and death of Richard Nixon. She graduated from Columbia with a double major in English and Journalism and had been awarded a grant her junior year to study under Sam Sifton at the New York Times. There is not much to say about Abby’s looks. In short, she is a perfectly handsome girl. There is nothing stunning about her, but nothing offensive either. She has dark brown hair cropped just above her shoulders and possesses these unusually light brown eyes. So light, in fact, that sometimes by the shine of the moon they turn an odd shade of peach. Her shoulders are small, like a doll’s shoulders, slight and fragile. She is short, but not too short. She has fair skin, but not too fair. To the casual observer, Abby is fantastically ordinary. She never caught the attention of a man at Columbia, nor did she particularly care to. Abby was content with her malfunctions just as she was content with her glimpse of resonance. She had many attributes, she’d written about many things, but what Abby didn’t have was what college admissions offices call “life experiences.” Born and raised in Manhattan, Abby hadn’t seen the outside of the Tri-state area in all of her 22 years. So three weeks before her 23rd birthday, Abby boxed up her typewriter and set off to take a a low-level internship at Le Monde newspaper in Paris, excited at the prospect of garnering those highly coveted “life experiences.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The morning she arrived in Paris was no exception to her experiences in life. She was carelessly ignored by the bagmen at the airport, crudely overlooked in the taxi line, and shrewdly received by her landlord at the flat she was renting. Her landlord was a beast of a man. He had a belly that poked below his undershirts; undershirts that were perpetually stained in red wine, body odor, and duck fat. He always wore suspenders, one would be strapped tightly across his shoulder, the other would hang loosely next to his waist. He had a grey beard and a puffy face wrought with broken capillaries, an affliction brought on by too many bottles of Chateau Rayas. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> When Abby arrived at her flat she knocked on his door with three meek raps. He answered chewing a half-lit cigar and donning a frayed cream-colored fedora. “Qui êtes-vous?” he grumbled. “Et pourquoi êtes-vous sonner a ma porte putain!” </span></span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The man was speaking so fast all Abby could do was blink.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Pourquoi?” he repeated.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I’m Abby Harper,” she said softly.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “American?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Yes, Monsieur.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The flat was located on the tiny side street Rue de Montmorency. During business hours the street was bustling with shoppers, tourists, and students, but at the strike of sundown it emptied, devoid of energy, its extravagance abandoned.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What’s your name?” the landlord asked.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I’m Abby Harper, Monsieur, I’m renting the flat upstairs. I mean—I’m <i>going </i>to be renting the flat upstairs—I believe we spoke on the phone. Are you Monsieur LeRouche?” </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Oui.” The LeRouche she was speaking to was Alfred LeRouche, a former transplant from Lyon whose wife had left him ten years previous and he hadn’t so much as walked fifteen feet from his leather sofa ever since. “You aren’t too much to look at, are you?” </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Abby looked down at her pleated khaki skirt and checkered argyle sweater. Her hair was pulled back in a short ponytail and her loafers had a hole in one of its toes. </span></span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Monsieur?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Well don’t just stand there blocking the walk,” said LeRouche. “Come in, come in. You’re letting the air out.” He stubbed out his cigar and discarded it into the street. LeRouche didn’t offer to help her with her bags, he simply lumbered up the three flights of spiraling steps while scratching his hairy belly. Abby followed, tugging at her two suitcases and perspiring through that sticky argyle sweater.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Abby’s flat was the last door on the third floor. LeRouche unlocked the door and pushed it open. It swung on its rusty hinges revealing a room no more than the size of a broom cupboard. There was a twin mattress on the floor (no bed frame, no boxspring, no sheets, no pillows, no blankets), a hot plate and a small sink in the corner, and, across from the bed, a futon that had seen the lights of better days. On one of the cushions was a faded orange stain that looked almost cartoonish; the other cushions had been shredded as if a herd of rats had taken to it with merciless savagery. A single incandescent light hung from the ceiling, a frayed mesh string dangling from its end. Perhaps the rats had gotten at that, too.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “It’s cosy,” said Abby.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I know what it is,” LeRouche grunted.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Well…” Abby watched a daddy longlegs crawl out from behind the hot plate. “…Thank you, sir.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> LeRouche didn’t turn to go.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Merci,” she tried. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> A flash of impatience dressed LeRouche’s face. While he wasn’t completely disgusted, he was awfully close. His body odor seemed to perfume with rage. He held out his arm and flipped opened his palm. Abby noticed how old his hand looked, blanketed in callouses and deep, meandering crevices. It looked like a piece of paper that had been crinkled up, tossed in the waste, fished out, and reopened.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Oh, I’m sorry.” Abby reached into her purse and placed a Euro in that wrinkled hand.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What the hell is dis?” the Frenchman asked. He tipped his head toward her, the end of his Fedora nearly poking her in the nose. “Silly American girl. The rent! I’m looking for the rent!” His yells shook the old building with each exclamation. Bits of cigar spittle sprayed from his mouth, slapping Abby in the face without so much as a delicate introduction. “You need to pay the first months rent in advance. That way I know you’re not going to do anything…” He cast a baleful glance at her khaki skirt. His contempt was blinding. “…That way I know you’re not going to do anything…well…<i>American</i>.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I’m won’t do anything…American,” she said, unsure what that even meant.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> LeRouche scoffed. “That may very well be. But the point remains: I still need your rent, as that is my<i> </i>policy. If you choose to ignore this policy, along with any others that may come to mind, you’re welcome to hold residence in the street with the vagrants and the mimes.” They stood silently for a moment before LeRouche shouted, his arms raised exposing his odor stained undershirt, “Well, get on with it, Miss Harper!”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Abby, her hand shaking, reached into her purse and removed her checkbook.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “A check?” he asked.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Do you not take checks?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> LeRouche let out a sigh that made the entire hallway shudder. “My, my, my, young lady.” His shoulders slumped, his face darkened, he seemed to have lost his energy. “Les’ just get dis over wis’.” </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Abby wrote out the check for the agreed upon amount and LeRouche left, slamming the door as he went. She heard him lumbering down the stairs, each foot dragging after the other.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Abby took the middle seat of the futon and watched a cockroach crawl up the far wall, just above her bed. She thought about going to kill it, but realized more cockroaches would inevitably come and there would be little use. There is always little use in killing a cockroach, she thought, her eyelids becoming heavy. The ceiling light flickered, casting shadows about the room. Her head lolled back against the futon’s springy cushion and sleep took her. Though it was a sleep that was full of angst and distress.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The man whom Abby was waiting for at the restaurant was an Englishman. Though, technically he was born in Wales, he was raised in west London since the age of three. The Englishman’s father owned three newspapers and the Englishman’s mother was married to the Englishman’s father. Neither of his parents were particularly interesting, though they made a fine living and that’s more than can be said about most people. One of the newspapers the Englishman’s father owned was Paris’ more conservative journal Le Figaro. The Enlighman’s father was also part owner of Le Monde and a smaller, satirical newspaper that barely had 10,000 subscribers. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> As for the Englishman’s looks, he was quite dapper. He usually wore a suit or a blazer, though rarely a tie. He was fit, but not arrogantly so, the type of body a swimmer might have. His jawline was so chiseled it looked as if his face was cut from a slab of marble. His hair was cropped short, his nails well manicured, and when he smiled Abby swore the blues of his eyes sparkled. Love, though, can play many nonsensical tricks on a person’s brain. Most of which are cruel and hardened. <span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The bottle of wine arrived and the waiter offered to pour her a glass. She decided to wait for the Englishman, as he never cared too much when she started without him.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The Englishman in question went by the name of Ross. Ellington Ross, to be precise. He was the youngest of four children and had always acted the spoiled part of his upbringing. His mother doted on him, his father fed him money—sometimes force-fed—and Ellington Ross went about his life acting the role of the socialite he had always hoped to be.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Abby came to meet Ellington Ross on her fourth day of work. It was at a raucous affair, an affair that should have been docile, but it turned into something of a fanfare. Champagne was popped, people danced, the food seemed never-ending. Abby’s boss and editor, Pierre Moucau, was the guest of honor. He had published his 1000th edition of Le Monde and was due to receive an accolade for such an accomplishment. Abby was invited since she was technically Le Monde staff (though she would be expected to stand in back and blend against the drab tapestries). Once she arrived, Abby felt this sensation of wonderment. Something magical was about to happen…</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Then there, whilst standing against the wall, the man named Ellington Ross approached Miss Harper with his cool and casual confidence. He had swagger and he had grace, but, magnificently, he had little else. Ellington Ross was a one note schmoozer, but he was pitch perfect. Abby fell into his trawls almost instantly. She had been standing against the door in a wrinkled navy blouse, awkwardly pressing the hem with her sweaty palms. Her hands were narrow and thin, but on this particular evening they looked bloated, like sausages stuffed with rancid air. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> As luck would have it, Ellington Ross turned out to be an awfully smooth talker. It has been said (at some point or another) that he could talk the rattle off of a snake. “You look lost,” the Englishman said.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Abby turned and witnessed the well-crafted Englishman standing before her. He was dressed in a newly tailored suit, the black of his jacket exceptionally deep, and the white of his shirt crisp and starched. He wore no tie even though this was to be a black tie affair. The Englishman didn’t seem to mind, let alone care.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I’m sorry, am I in your way?” Abby huddled into the corner.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “No,” he said, flashing that smile that had melted hundreds of girls previous. “You’re not in my way.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Abby was sure he was speaking to someone else. And because she believed this, she said nothing.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I’m Ellington Ross,” Ellington Ross said.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Still, she said nothing.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “And you are?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I’m Abby Harper?” she asked more than said.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What a charming name you have, Miss Harper.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Is it?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Quite.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Well…thank you.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “And what is it you’re doing over here all by your lonesome.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Abby felt her face flush and her bloated hands clam. “I haven’t a clue, really.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Are you not enjoying the party?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I’m enjoying the party just fine.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> He looked her over, his eyes filled with skepticism. “That seems to be a lie, Miss Harper. You wouldn’t lie to Ellington Ross, would you?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “You refer to yourself in the third person?” she asked, a merciful rush of relaxation finally finding her.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Only when I find myself in the company of a beautiful girl.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Abby had spoken to several men in her days, and had even gone on a handful of dates, and at no point during these liaisons did any of her male compatriots refer to her as beautiful. One boy—Josh something or other—referred to Abby as “cute.” But that was the extent of his comment and, in spite of her many phone messages, she never saw Josh-something-or-other again. But hearing the words for the first time from such a polished Englishman, Abby found her knees weakened by bashfulness.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Are you sure you’re speaking of me?” </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “You’re the only beautiful girl I see around,” he said. “So, yes, I’m speaking of you, Miss Harper.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> She wiped her sweaty forehead with the back of her sleeve.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Would you care to dance?” Ellington Ross asked. He extended his arm indicating she should take it. “I promise I’ll go slow.” He leaned in so close she could feel the warmth of his breath. He whispered, “I’ve never been much of a dancer, but I’ll give it my worldly best—if you’ll have me. I’ve never been a presumptuous man and I don’t intend to start now.” All of this, of course, unbeknownst to Abby, was a lie.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> But she said, “I’d love to,” and took his arm and followed him onto the dance floor. It was hard to ignore the stares of the other girls as he led her through the crowd. There were interns of which she was familiar and others she was not, there were editors from magazines who knew Ellington Ross far better than they would have liked, there were reporters on the edge of their chairs, knee deep in bacon wrapped figs and smoked turbot with lemon, all of them watching this young girl transfixed by a man who was both revered and loathed. Ellington Ross and Abby danced until her legs could take no more. When they were done he led her out of the ballroom just as Pierre Moucau was ready to take the stage. They walked and they talked and they got lost. Abby thought he might take her to Notre Dame, or perhaps a stroll along the Seine, but he finally led her to a park that had no name and they settled down on a small yellow bench. It had The paint was brittle and chipped, and there was a gold platelet near its base that read: <b>L’amour est la riviere de la mer</b>. As she took a seat she looked down the path and saw a row of elm trees sway listlessly in the wind. A pair of shadows appeared at the end of the narrow path and a couple appeared. They were holding hands but didn’t look all that happy. The man was glum, the woman bored. Another relationship that had gone stale. The couple passed them wordlessly.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “They weren’t all that pleasant, were they?” said Ellington Ross.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “No,” said Abby. “I suppose not.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I’d like you to know Miss Harper: you’ve charmed me; you have charmed me like no girl ever has.” </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Is that so?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Most definitely so. When I saw you standing there, a quiet girl against a door much too large, I was instantly captivated. My heart swelled and my soul became rich. You were the girl I had been looking for through all the superficial nonsense that is Paris. You, Abby Harper, are what makes captivation so bloody enticing.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Abby felt a tremendous rush of comfort, as if she and Ellington Ross had known each other for years. He was no longer a stranger, but a partner. Ellington Ross, sensing such a moment, leaned across the decaying bench and kissed Abby on the mouth. Their lips parted and he put his hand on her waist. The warmth of the evening washed over her and the spring birds chirped amongst the elms. A flutter moved through her stomach. He brushed back her hair—the hair she had always considered to be intrinsically ordinary—unable to fathom the man who was meeting her lips. The night wore on until it turned into dawn and Abby returned home feeling the blinding palpitations of love. She didn’t sleep a wink the entire next day, there was too much to reflect on, too much to celebrate. Paris had finally reveled itself in the most unexpected of ways. And that was how Abby Harper came to meet Ellington Ross.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The waiter came around and asked Abby if everything was all right.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Yes,” she said. “Why do you ask?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “You’ve been sitting here a while, madame, and your companion has not yet shown. I just want to make sure…” But the waiter didn’t finish the thought. “May I pour you some more wine, madame?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Abby looked at her glass which was already half full.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Sure. Yes.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The waiter hung his white towel across his left arm and poured an ounce and a half into her glass.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Merci.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The waiter disappeared and Abby resumed watching the door.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The next few weeks with Ellington Ross breezed by with more romanticism than Abby could imagine. He took her to the theater, to the symphony, to the opera. He paid for expensive dinners, bought rare jewelry. Their entire affair moved on without incident and the happiness Abby felt seemed eternal, unencumbered by the inevitable impracticalities of love.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> And then came the day of the picnic…</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The afternoon was cool, a light breeze kicking up off the Seine. Abby and Ellington Ross crossed the river and veered into The Tuileries Garden. He carried a wicker picnic basket he had packed with two short loaves of baguette, a wheel of Brie, Spanish olives, a bottle of white Burgundy, and a jar of preserved figs.<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span> They found a small bit of shade under a cluster of Mulberry trees and laid out a red, flannel blanket. They sprawled out on it and stared up at the cloudless sky. She curled into the crux of his arm as he nibbled on a bit of bread.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Are you cold?” he asked.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “No.” Though, she was.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “You seem cold.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I’m fine.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “It’s such a marvelous day, isn’t it?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “It really is.” Abby’s thoughts drifted to a faraway place. She wasn’t sure how much time had past when she heard him ask: “What’s on your mind, Miss Harper?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “All sorts of things.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Top thought.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What is the one thing that is at the forefront of your thoughts? Where is your mind fixed right this very minute?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I supposed most of my thoughts have been fixed on Le Monde’s essay competition.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Oh?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “It’s stupid, I know.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Why is it stupid?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Because I’m all wrapped up in a competition I have no business winning.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Why do you say that?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Because there are so many great writers—great <i>journalists</i>—entering. And I’m just a lowly intern.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “They’re <i>all</i> lowly interns,” he said. “It’s Le Monde’s essay competition designed <i>specifically </i>for interns and interns only. They do it every quarter.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “You know it?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “My father founded it.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Oh…”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “And he’s on the judging panel.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Abby felt her face grow hot. “Oh…” her voice trembled. “I’m such a colossal fool sometimes.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I wouldn’t pay it much mind.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “The competition or the gaffe.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> He smiled and it seemed to warm her. “Either.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I’d just like to win. That’s all. Maybe it’d give me some semblance of justification.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Justification for what?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “For traveling to Paris. For taking a low-level internship at a paper most Americans have never heard of. I could have worked at the New York Times, the Washington Post, the Boston Herald. Instead, I chose Paris. Winning this competition…I don’t know…maybe it would make everything worth it.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Do you not think so?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I don’t believe in competition.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “That’s because…” But her voice faded.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> He sat up and crossed his legs in front of her. “That’s because of what?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Nothing.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “No, what did you mean?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The red in her face transformed into a sickly grey. “I didn’t mean anything by—“</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “No, Abby, that’s because what?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> “Ellington—“</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Tell me!” He snapped so quickly she felt her body jerk. The blanket mussed in one of the corners and a few of the garden’s onlookers took notice of them. She suddenly felt hypersensitive. She could hear the mulberry branches rattling against each another. She could hear the pebbles clicking as the wind blew them across the path.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> She opened her mouth to speak but felt nothing but dry, hot air. And then the words came, timidly. “That’s because everything’s been handed to you. It’s hard to be in competition with anyone if you’re already ahead of the curve. You’ve lived a privileged life, Ellington. I’m not blaming you for it, it’s just something—”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “That is most certainly untrue!”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I don’t mean—“</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I had to work, Abby—Bloody hell! I <i>have </i>to work. And for you to insinuate my life has been easy, well that’s just…that’s just bloody preposterous!” Abby felt the tears welling up in her eyes. A pit grew in her stomach. She shivered. She could see a madness in his eyes, something deep, seeded; a canyon filled with rage and denial. This madness was fueled by many things, but logic was not one of them. “Jesus Christ, Abby! When did you decide to start being such a bitch?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Abby’s lip quivered and the tears finally fell.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “And now you’re deciding to cry? <i>Are you mad?</i> Is this the path you’ve chosen? A path paved with insensibilities? If so, then I simply won’t have it!” Ellington Ross stood from the blanket, dusting off his lapels as he did, and headed off. She watched him until he disappeared amongst the crowd, then she let the tears consume her.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Abby checked her watched. Abby checked the door. Abby checked the back exit. None of them delivered good news.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Are you sure you got the time right?” a voice asked.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Abby looked up and saw, once again, the pale-faced waiter towering over her. “Yes,” she said. “I’m sure. At least I think I’m sure.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Well, have you tried calling?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “He doesn’t…He isn’t answering.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Well, as you can see Madame, we’re very busy tonight and—“</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “He’ll be here. May I have another napkin? This one’s dirty.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The waiter looked at the spotless napkin and rolled his eyes. “Of course. I’ll be right back.” He didn’t move right away. “Perhaps you’d like to call him one more time. Maybe he’ll answer…eventually.” He finally headed off.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Near the kitchen, another waiter dropped a tray of dishes and she shuddered against the noise.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Ellington Ross’ words refused to leave Abby’s thoughts. She wandered home from the garden, drifting through the streets without any real sense as to where she was going. At night, all of Paris looked the same. The alleys weaved into streets, the streets grew into roundabouts, and the roundabouts, somehow, transformed into dead ends. All of it was unique, but grotesquely familiar. And when it began to rain, it did little to deter her wanderings. She had left the picnic basket, but took the blanket and Brie. She bit off large corners, smacking her lips through soft mouthfuls of dairy. All those that passed her in the street watched the sad girl shuffling to and fro, a flannel blanket draped over her like a poncho, a handful of creamy cheese clutched in her fragile hand. She was miserable, yes, but the cheese was doing its damnedest to help.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Madame Harper?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Abby turned and saw Monsieur LeRouche shadowing the mouth of an alleyway. He had a small bag of groceries—a head of flat leaf parsley and the greens of two leeks stuck out of its top. In his other hand was a small umbrella. The rain scattered off the nylon top with sad little beats.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Monsieur LeRouche?” Abby said through a mouthful of cheese.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Madam Harper, what are you doing out on a night like this? It’s simply dreadful.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I…” But all she could do was look at her cheese. Soon she began to cry, the Brie quivering in her hand.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Madame Harper, what ever is the matter?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “My…My…My…”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> LeRouche discontinued his inquiry and held out the umbrella. She moved listlessly toward him, the blanket slipping off one of her shoulders. LeRouche slipped the end back over her shoulder. “Come on, my dear, let’s get you home.” He led her through the rain, traversing the city’s streets like a wise sherpa. She spoke very little at first, but by the time they made it back to Rue de Montmorency she had gone through the entire story. She told him of Ellington Ross’ outburst and the name he had called her and the look in LeRouche’s eyes was that of disgust. “He is not a man,” he said. “He is a child. He does not deserve you.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “No, you don’t understand, Monsieur LeRouche, the thing about it is: I don’t deserve him! I really don’t! He’s too good for me. The entire incident had to do with me and my silly attitude! It was my fault. Besides, a girl like me has no business—“</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> LeRouche suddenly stopped. They were three doors from the flat and the rain had intensified, but LeRouche needed to get something off his chest. “Madame Harper, you are a treasure. You are a gem. A <i>true </i>gem. At first I was weary of you, sure, but since that time I have seen quite a remarkable girl begin to form into an even more remarkable woman. And no right-minded man would ever, in his life, call you something as appalling as that. You should be cherished, not chastised. And for you to blame yourself for such an incident is pure madness! I hope you understand that.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> She nodded and the Brie finally fell from her hand. They watched the rain carry the cheese away, slipping over the cobblestones before disappearing into a nearby drain.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Come now, I shall make you a stew that will warm you for days. The recipe has been in my family for years, and if I should fail at its execution then the wine I’ve purchased shall be tonight’s perfectly acceptable substitute. Does that sound all right?” She nodded again and he led her inside. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> That night they dined on the most delicious stew Abby had ever tasted. They drank three bottles of wine from the Rhone Valley and tore pieces of baguette so crusty LeRouche’s table was littered with crumbs before the second loaf was ever unpacked.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “So besides this boy, what else troubles you?” LeRouche asked. “I can tell when a woman’s heart is resting solely on one thing, but you, my dear, are shaken by <i>many</i> things.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Abby told him all about Le Monde’s essay competition and, as she had done with Ellington Ross, assured LeRouche she had no business winning.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Why do you say that?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Because I only just started there. Because I’m the only American entering. Because so many other writers have so many other things to say. <i>Important things!</i> Because—“</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “My dear, it’s precisely because you are saying these reasons that you will not win. If you believe because you are an American and for that reason you will lose, well then you shall lose. Do you believe you can win, Madame Harper?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Nobody had ever asked her such a question before. It was simple, direct, but somehow poignant. She thought about it for such a long time LeRouche managed to finish his glass of wine and pour another. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Yes,” she finally said. “I believe I can win.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Splendid!” he declared and topped off her glass. “And what shall you write?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I haven’t the faintest idea.” They began to laugh, sloshing heavy drops of red on the crumb-cluttered table. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> At half past nine Ellington Ross called to apologize. LeRouche insisted she not take the call, but she was already under his spell and couldn’t refuse. Their conversation lasted just two minutes. But in those two minutes Ellington Ross managed to say all the right things and make all the right apologies. But there was a drabness to his words, something artificial and forced. It was as if he was clipping his nails or folding his socks during the call. Abby accepted his apology and LeRouche emitted a painfully audible sigh. Ellington Ross told her he would meet her the next evening for dinner, at a place called Le Bonaparte Cafe. He gave her the time of the reservation and the address in such a haste she had barely accepted the offer before he hung up with a quick, “Great!” followed by a brutal <i>click</i>.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Abby retook her seat at the table and LeRouche poured her another glass of wine. On the stove, the leftover stew continued to simmer.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> It was getting late. Much too late. Twice more the waiter had come back around to ask Abby if she was sure her guest would be arriving. Her face would flush and she’d catch the furtive glances of the unlucky guests still waiting for a table. She insisted her date was coming and just when she thought she couldn’t wait any longer, Ellington Ross walked through the door. She clumsily stood and knocked over one of the water glasses. “There he is!” she said with this high pitched squeal. “He’s here!” The waiter rolled his eyes and disappeared to retrieve a towel.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Ellington Ross was dressed in a blue blazer and faded red pants. Underneath the blazer was a pinstriped shirt and a scarf wrapped around his neck that had not been tied. He looked spectacularly ridiculous.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Abby remained standing. “Hello, Ellington.” </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> He took his seat without a reciprocation.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Did you find the place all right?” She was still standing.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I’m here, aren’t I?”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The waiter returned with a towel and began mopping up the water.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Go away,” Ellington Ross instructed. “I won’t be here long and it won’t much matter if this is dry or not.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The waiter disappeared. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “You’re not staying long?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Sit down,” he instructed.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Why aren’t you staying long?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “<i>I told you to sit down, Abby!</i>”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Abby gripped the edge of the table and lowered herself into the chair. Her legs wobbled and the muscles on the back of her neck began to twitch.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “You couldn’t have gotten a better table?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “This was all they had,” she said. “When I got here—“</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Nothing is ever your fault, is it?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Ellington, I don’t understand why you’re—“</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “—Save it,” he interrupted. “I can’t take another lecture from you, Abby. Your lectures are bloody awful and frankly I have no use for the trite statements you insist on spooning down my throat.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Ellington, have I done something wrong?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “And my name! Bloody hell! I <i>hate</i> how you say my name!”<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “How do I say your name?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “The way you say <i>everything</i>. You speak like a little girl, Abby Harper. You speak like a sad little girl who doesn’t know her P’s from her Q’s. Do you know that? Do you know you speak like that?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Abby wanted to answer, but was—understandably—afraid to sound like a little girl.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Do you know what happened to me today, Abby?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> She shook her head.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I was crossing the Passerelle Simone-de-Beauvoir—have you crossed that bridge before?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> She shook her head again.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Of course not. Anyway, I was crossing the Passerelle Simone-de-Beauvoir and a small child was complaining to his mother—in French, naturally—that he wanted some sort of cookie. The boy was speaking so fast it was hard for me to fully understand. Anyway, the mother was scolding him about his manners and just as they passed me I glanced back to look at them. Now, this isn’t an action I’m normally accustomed to. Normally such people don’t deserve one glance, let alone two. But, for some reason, this boy intrigued me. This whiny, spoiled little boy had captured <i>my </i>attention. Can you believe it? Anyway, I looked back at the boy and just as I did the sun hit the walk in such a way there was a brief glare that struck my eye. Naturally I wanted to see the object that had diverted my attention from the boy, and when I looked down I saw a shiny American penny resting facedown on the walk. A coin such as this—much like the boy—had never aroused my attention in the past, but there I was, on the bridge, coming out of a meeting in which I had closed a three million dollar account, and I was staring at a penny! I mean, can you honestly believe that?” Ellington Ross reached into the pocket of those red pants and removed the penny. He set it on the white tablecloth and stared at it with this sobering expression.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Ellington, I—“</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> He held up a hand for her to stop and took a long sip of water. Abby placed her hands under her thighs and rocked back and forth.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Stop doing that!”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> She did.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Anyway, I stopped to pick up this penny and I looked at the year. Do you know what year it was?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Abby shook her head.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “It was 1943. Isn’t that fascinating?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Yes?” </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Are you unsure?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Are you unsure if it’s fascinating or not?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “No.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Then why did you say ‘yes’ as if it was a question?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I—“</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Once again, he held up a hand for her to stop. “It’s fascinating, Abby, because 1943 was the year the United States stopped minting coins in copper. You see, once the penny became currency, all coins were minted in copper. Ninety-five percent copper to be exact. But since production of such a coin was so costly, and the copper coating the penny was worth much more than its one cent value, they began to mint the coins in zinc. But this production didn’t start until February 27th, 1943. So the coin I picked up could have been made in January, thus making it far more valuable than a coin made in March. There’s this small window in 1943—not even two months—where a penny could be worth much more than it would be later on. This penny—the very penny resting between us—could be a strange anomaly in the U.S’s currency.” He looked up and saw her vacant expression knew very little of what he was talking about. “You don’t get it, do you?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Get what?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Abby, on one side of February 27th, 1943, this penny is worth something. It can be melted down and sold for a fine sum. Some might even say a respectable sum. But on the other side of February 27th, 1943, this penny is seemingly worthless. Children use it to throw into wells and make wishes their parents are too cowardly to tell them will never come true. But the thing about this penny, on <i>either </i>side of February 27th, is that it’s still just a <i>cent</i>. One measly, little, insignificant cent.” He spoke of the penny with such malice the vein in his forehead began to pulsate. “Copper or not, a cent is just a worthless object that isn’t worth my time bending over and picking up. You, Abby Harper, are one of the pennies of society. And I can’t believe, even for a second, that I wasted my energy picking you up off the street.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The air rushed out of her lungs. “What?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “How eloquent of you.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “…Why?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Even better.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “But…”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Only you, Abby Harper, can manage to stutter using one word sentences.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “But…you apologized…you called me last night and…you apologized…”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “An apology I immediately regretted. It was as if the words were independent from my mind. As they slipped across my lips I couldn’t believe they were real. And, yet, there I was, saying this nonsense I barely believed! How truly mad I must have been to trust such words, even though they came from my own mouth! How truly asinine!” </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Ellington, if I did something, I’m—“</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “No, Abby, that’s the problem. You don’t do <i>anything</i>.” Ellington Ross slid back his chair and stood. “You have my number, I suggest you lose it.” And, with that, Ellington Ross left the restaurant in such a fervor his red pants were nothing but a blur.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The waiter never returned.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Abby found it quite difficult to pull herself from the confines of her seedy flat. She would listen to LeRouche shuffling about downstairs, clanging pots and pans, slamming cupboards, yelling at stray cats that wandered too close to his door. Occasionally she would catch the fine smells of his dinners wafting in through her window, though nothing smelled quite as good as that stew. One night he made his way up to her door, knocked, and asked if she was all right. She sat silently in the dark and waited until his footsteps to disappear back down the stairs. As days drifted by, her clothes began to stink, her sink filled with dishes, and the clutter in her apartment became an epidemic. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> But one morning, after she woke, Abby sat down at her typewriter and began to write. At first, the words struggled to find the page, each one was like a disconnected symbol aimlessly stamped next to the other. She would write five sentences then promptly scribble them out without bothering to reread them. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Finally the words began to flow. She wasn’t sure what they would be or where they were going, but at least they were taking her somewhere. And somewhere was better than where she was. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The night slipped by and, before she knew it, morning made its way into the studio. The light stretched across the ceiling, drawing long shadows over her eyes, and by the time the room was illuminated she had typed her last word. She neatly stacked the pages, covered the typewriter, and crawled into bed, falling into a sleep so deep dreams were unable to find her.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The evening of Le Monde’s writing competition came. Abby was an anxious mess. As soon as she slipped on her dress her body felt so constricted she thought she might pass out. Her mind was elsewhere, but it was everywhere. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> LeRouche came up the stairs and wished her luck. She thanked him as she rushed down the stairs, not bothering to lock up. He shouted something else when she reached the front door, but she was already out of earshot and his words went unheard.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The cab ride to the Fouquet Barriere Hotel was a dizzying string of buildings and streets. She didn’t recognize any of the architecture, nor did she care to. The city became a series of flashes and when the taxi pulled up to the hotel she barely noticed she’d arrived. She stepped out of the cab and felt the stifling Paris heat lick her skin. The evening was unbearably muggy. A layer of sweat built up between her dress and hips and she was thankful for having worn black.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The event was on the terrace and when Abby stepped onto the patio she found more than a hundred guests milling about, each with a glass of champagne or Campari cocked nonchalantly in their hands.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Near the back of a terrace was a small stage, no more than eighteen inches off the ground. A podium rested in the center of the stage, six chairs behind it, three on each side. An older gentleman, white head of hair, white eyebrows, and white beard, stepped to the podium. “Good evening, ladies and gentleman, good evening.” The man’s voice was harsh and deep. “I’m Dalton Ross.” <i>Dalton Ross! </i>Abby’s eyes darted around the party, unsure if she wanted to see Ellington Ross or not. “I’d like to welcome you to Le Monde’s Junior Intern Essay Competition. If you please, I’d like to have all the finalists join me on stage.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Abby made her way through the crowd. She could feel the eyes of the other guests staring at her. Surely they must be staring at the other finalists, but it felt far from it. She took a seat at the end of the row and folded her hands in her lap, her eyes unmoving from the podium’s acrylic base.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Now, ladies and gentleman, before judging begins, we’ve asked the finalists to read a short excerpt from their essay.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> A lump filled the back of Abby’s throat. Read? She hadn’t been told such a thing. She looked to her left and saw the other finalists had their pages in hand, heads raised, eager to get to the podium. Surely this was some mistake. Perhaps LeRouche had forgotten to give her the message, perhaps it was her editor who had forgotten to relay the information, perhaps…</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> But all of her theories were extinguished when she looked into the crowd and saw the leering face of Ellington Ross. She no longer needed to speculate about whatever reasons there may have been why she didn’t get the information. Ellington Ross’ horrible face was answer enough. This was a trap.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Dalton Ross looked to Abby. “Let’s start with Miss Harper, shall we?” And when he said it she noticed he smiled, too, much like his son: evil, vindictive. “Miss Harper, would you mind coming to the stage?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Abby’s legs wobbled. Her dress clung to her body as perspiration seeped through it. A lightness rose in her head. And just as she was about to faint she heard the comforting voice of Monsieur LeRouche, “Madame Harper! Ici, Madam Harper. Vous avez oublie votre papier!” LeRouche was sprinting through the crowd, pushing anyone and everyone in sight. He was wearing that stained undershirt with that trademark cigar spitting smoke as he chomped on its end. His fedora was a bit off-kilter and his suspenders hung loosely at his sides. He was out of breath, his pot belly bobbing as he made his way to the podium. “Madame Harper, oh, Madame Harper, you forgot your paper!”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The guests, each donning a suit or dress valued in the thousands, watched a man worth no more than a hundred euros interrupt their sacred affair. Some were appalled, some were confused, nobody was impressed. Save for Abby Harper. A smile tore across her face and she felt a marvelous twinge of pain in her cheeks. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Monsieur LeRouche?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Madame Harper, how silly of me not to have reminded to you about your paper. A hundred apologies.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Dalton Ross glared at the slob climbing onto his stage. Abby thought he might step in to intervene, but he only watched with silent horror as the sweat-stained man handed Abby her essay. He winked and, in spite of his disheveled, perspiring state, she wrapped her arms around him and kissed his cheeks</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Merci, Monsieur LeRouche.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “It is the pleasure of my night, Madame Harper.” LeRouche sauntered back into the crowd and Abby stepped to the podium.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Bonsoir, I’m Abby Harper. And my essay is about the fundamental flaw in the establishment I call love and you call amour.” There were a few gasps and a few more sighs, but most guests blinked disinterestedly. “All right, well perhaps I’ll begin. <i>Love is a conceited bitch.</i>” A few laughs. Ellington Ross scowled. Dalton Ross next to his son, hand on his shoulder, as if he was a rabid dog in need of restraint. “<i>Love is an illusion, a magic trick everyone </i>thinks<i> they understand, but honestly have no idea how it works. I am a writer, but I am also a girl, and I found myself in the throws of love not long ago. But those feeling were tarnished as I sat in a restaurant with a boy named Ellington Ross.” </i>Nearly every guest turned to Dalton Ross and his son. Abby waited patiently for them to turn back. “<i>But Ellington Ross never had any intention of falling in love. All Ellington Ross wanted was to humiliate a girl in the most spectacular way possible. I had invested so much in him, and had believed he was the suave, debonair man I had first met. But the layers of his artificiality washed away after each meeting, until finally he was nothing but a core of hatred. He was belittling, he was arrogant, he was abusive, and he was a man who believed the world should be handed to him. I had believed things would be different up until the very end. But, on a stuffy evening in north Paris, Ellington Ross screamed, in front of fifty dinner guests, that I was nothing but a worthless bitch.”</i></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “That’s enough!” Dalton Ross’ voice boomed. “Miss Harper, step down from the stage this instant.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Abby didn’t move.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Miss Harper, I said step down!”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “No,” she said.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Excuse me.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I’m not stepping down.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Miss Harper, step down immediately!”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “The finalists were required to read an excerpt, sir, I’m reading my excerpt.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Get down.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “No!” she screamed.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “You’re disqualified!”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Be still my broken heart!”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “That’s not the saying!” Dalton Ross was a man possessed. Abby looked beyond him and saw Ellington Ross begin to push through the crowd. “You heard my father,” Ellington Ross cried. “Get off the stage you fucking <i>cunt!”</i></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Now it was everybody’s turn to gasp.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Still, Abby refused to move.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Didn’t you hear me you stupid cunt? I said get off the fucking stage before I pull your stupid cunt off my—“ But Ellington Ross was unable to finish his words. LeRouche grabbed hold of his three thousand dollar suit and socked him in the nose. There was a fantastic display of blood that shot into the air, spraying a few unlucky bystanders. Ellington Ross screamed, the noise tearing through the party. He tried to yell at LeRouche but his mouth was too full of blood. Abby thought she heard him utter another curse, but couldn’t be sure, for LeRouche clocked him again for good measure.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Security!” Dalton Ross called. “Ellington! Ellington, are you all right? Security!”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Ellington Ross began to cry; sob, actually. “He hit me, Daddy,” he said through his tears.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>“How dare you hit my—“ But Dalton Ross, too, was cut short. LeRouche had had enough. He slugged Dalton in chin, sending him sprawling onto a nearby bench. Unlike Ellington Ross, though, Dalton was knocked out cold. LeRouche removed the cigar from his mouth and stubbed it out. A woman standing nearby turned green and raced out of the party. LeRouche ran to the podium and grabbed hold of Abby’s hand. </span></span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He led her off stage, pushing through the sea of guests without an ounce of regard.</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">They made it to the elevator before security arrived.</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It was appalling and perfect all at once.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The elevator doors close and LeRouche said, “That was something.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Yes, it was.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> They listened to each other’s breathing as the elevator descended, the murmurs of Le Monde’s guests growing fainter and fainter. The party’s memory began to fade.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “So what now?” Abby asked.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> LeRouche smiled with those yellow, tobacco-stained teeth. “You’ll figure it out, Abby. That much of which I’m sure.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “How do you know that?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> He readied himself to respond but the elevator doors opened and they stepped back into the night.</span></div>
Ben Hasskamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351974191740258268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6783268646690857161.post-998610313621969262015-03-07T11:27:00.000-06:002015-03-07T11:28:02.255-06:00The Eastern Shore - A Fable<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> There were fires along the eastern shore; fires that burned bright and yellow. Because of these fires the eastern shore is riddled with plumes of smoke, thick and black, with heavy aromas of dried leaves, broken twigs, and hints of sulfur. The smoke is so deep it turns the days into night with very few dramatics. There is no warmth to these fire, only light that never died, never faded, and never escaped. The fires burn in shallow pits along the shoreline. These pits are separated by wet sand, each exactly 27 yards apart from the last, each burning with the same intensity. There is nothing but consistency clouded by black. The eastern shore is a collection of memories, memories that are lies, lies I am more than happy to believe. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The smoke deepens, the clouds hang, the wind never blows.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I watch these fires with blazing intent. I watch with fascination and sadness. There is no fondness in me, there is only emptiness. The fires burn and I watch them burn. I get up, walk the 27 paces to the next fire, and sit back down. I watch the fire of yellow with pockets of blue and white just near its base. The sand is wet and confused on my backside. The sea ripples passively. There are no waves, there is no high tide, no low tide, there is only listless water. The water holds many secrets; secrets I crave to understand. But the fire is my life.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I move along again, 27 more paces to the next fire. I listen to the silence of my ocean. I breathe in the acrid smoke. My skin wrinkles, my hair grays, my bones wither. But I move on. The journey is endless.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> In one of the day’s deep nights I stare off into the distance and pick out the fires waiting for me along the coast—waiting for me to watch them. The fires go on as far as my vision will allow, each one growing fainter and fainter up the winding coastline.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I touch the fire with the tips of my fingers and feel no burn. The flames lick me like the devil...and the devil don’t kiss so good.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The sea wanes.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I walk 27 more steps.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I sit down in the wet stand and fire crackles. A piece of wood shifts and a cluster of sparks kick into the sky. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I am old.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I watch the fire for days, waiting for another cluster of sparks, another shift of wood, but it never comes. It is only the same monotony and I start to doubt the wood shifted at all. My mind plays tricks in a world that was a mirror. My reality becomes a hallucination that somebody else had created and I am their eternal captive. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Clouds blanket the horizon, but they do not blanket me.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I am much older. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I move the next 27 steps much slower. And when I sit, I sit with creaky back. The sand is still wet, and the fire is still yellow, and the sea is still placid, but I am aged; aged and baffled.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> There is no sleep, there is no relief, there is no catharsis.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I see foothills to my left, foothills that look like paintings scrawled on a mediocre portrait. But I never go to the foothills, I never stray from the shoreline. I do not part from the wet sand and the docile sea. I am obedient to its wishes, subservient, submissive, pathetic.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> My back hurts, my feet hurt, my knees hurt, my eyeballs hurt. The fires grow hazier, the nights grow darker, the steps seem longer. Paces go on for days, and the 27 steps do not come easily. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Age waits to take me.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I reach a fire and watch as long as my eyes will allow. And then the fire goes out. I stare off into the distance and see the coastline begin to darken, each fire extinguishing one by one. I look back and see the others have gone out as well and I am cloaked in a sheet of darkness. The outline of the foothills silhouette in the distance and I consider going to them. Perhaps I will find asylum there. And then, for the first time, I hear the sea. I hear the great waves rush up on shore. The water slips beneath my feet and pulls the shallow fire pits into the sea. Suddenly, there becomes no evidence of their truths. There is only wet sand and an angry sea.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The tide turns high.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I drag my old bones from the prospects of the foothills and walk into the sea. I leave the eastern shore behind. The waves carry me away and I am consumed by its darkness.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> And then the sea becomes placid again and it waits for its next traveler.</span></div>
Ben Hasskamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351974191740258268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6783268646690857161.post-38189151013584262972015-02-26T16:42:00.000-06:002015-02-26T16:42:10.089-06:00Chicago - A Rant<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> I hate Chicago. I hate all things Chicago. I hate the Bears, the Cubs, the </span>Sox<span style="line-height: 200%;">, the
Hawks, and the Bulls. I hate the
food. I hate the noise. I hate the smells. I hate the lakes. I hate the architecture. Chicago is a condensed metropolis with
sprawling, disconnected suburbs. The
neighborhoods make little sense, and the people follow in suit, wandering from business to business with spectacular idiocy. Chicagoans are the droll version of New
Yorkers. They offer none of the Midwestern
pleasantries and possess all of the New York crass. They’re bitter, angry, vengeful. About what?
I haven’t the faintest clue.
Perhaps it’s the corrupt politicians. Perhaps it’s the city’s ultra violence. Perhaps the skyrocketing crime rates. The CPD's </span><span style="line-height: 32px;">ineptitude</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">. The bitter winters. The short springs and even shorter
summers. Perhaps people are so
calculatedly cold because they’ve been force-fed plates of marinated beef and
cheese all their lives. Mention a
vegetable to a Chicagoan and you’re likely to go missing a tooth. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%;"> Chicago
is as inexplicable as a city can get.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%;">
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%;">Best pizza in the world?</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%;">
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%;">Hardly.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%;">Since when is casserole
considered pizza?</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%;">Where’s the best
Italian beef?</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%;">Everybody has their own
opinion, each one prouder and more arrogant than the last.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%;">On one occasion, after a few too many, one
bar patron claimed the best Italian beef was found at a little establishment
called “Bruce’s Mighty Wings.”</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%;">It took
everything in my power not to cut out his tongue and use it as currency to pay
my tab.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%;">In Chicago, subjectivity is
considered fact and objectivity is considered weakness.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> I
spent a year in Chicago and never once did I stop feeling like a tourist. When I moved there I was overwhelmed by the
strength of my wistful dreams, but tortured by the never ending sea of its disappointments. I had convinced myself Chicago was the
answer, a mecca to cleanse my rotten heart; a heart, unbeknownst to me, that had been sentenced to death
and Chicago was its executioner. I say to
hell with the Man and to hell with Chicago!
To hell with those discombobulating city streets! To hell with those faceless strangers eating
their Italian beefs and thirty dollar casserole pizzas! To hell with it all!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> The second city was--and
continues to be--a hellish reminder of a life I had no business living. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Maybe I don’t hate Chicago.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Maybe Chicago hates me. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Either way, save yourself the headache and change course for Milwaukee.</span></div>
Ben Hasskamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351974191740258268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6783268646690857161.post-8875927108487910572015-02-11T19:40:00.001-06:002015-02-11T19:41:02.702-06:00Variance - Book 2: The Others, Issue #9<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">United Center</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Chicago, IL</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Four months after The Rise</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> And all the stars in the universe collided in a brash explosion of kismet as Russell Hughes—the man ordered to shoot down the C-17 Globemaster carrying Lara, Captain Blake, and Enrique—stood in a room with Hannah and Harry Phillips, the ones who had neglected to go back and save the dying passengers. The same Hannah and Harry who would eventually meet and save Dave Cash and Max Horwitz from an incensed Stevie Kohler; a Steve Kohler that had no idea that, as he shot Bill Phillips, a man named Martin Knight had already jumped into the fiery waters of Castle Rock Lake, where he would save twelve people—three of whom were still alive, and two of whom would stumble upon a woman named Annie Walker who had been buried in the earth for nearly four months. And while they stood in that makeshift laboratory perched high above the United Center arena none of them had a clue what any of the others had been through: whom they had neglected, whom they had killed, or who was a Variant.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Martin had sutured Enrique as best he could, but he had still lost a great deal of blood. As the group stood around the bloody operating table they analyzed his shallow breathing with sorrowful eyes. Enrique’s chest rose and fell with tremendous difficulty, and, at times, when his chest would contract, it seemed as if he would stop breathing altogether. But suddenly he would choke in a breath and life would continue on (for the time being, at least).</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The two separate groups stood in two separate tribunals, Enrique’s body acting as a silent moderator, the luxury box no longer exuding the glam and style it was once revered for.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Why don’t you tell us what you know,” Martin started.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Fuck that!” snapped Hannah. “You tell us what <i>you know!</i>”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Fuck you, bitch!” Lara snapped back.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Pipe down!” Captain Blake barked. His pipe was neatly tucked between lips, white smoke wafting up into his white beard.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Forgive us, doctor, but you’re the ones who stumbled into our house, so perhaps you’d be gracious enough to share was you know first,” Russell said with a calming presence.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “With all do respect, Lieutenant, you’re the ones who shot that boy from four hundred yards away, and you’re the reason he’s in the state he’s in” Martin said. “So forgive <i>me </i>for not feeling obligated to tell you a goddamn thing.” Martin’s eyes flashed with rage, an expression Annie was startled to see. She had normally known Martin as the cool and collected type, and to witness him in such a state was terribly unsettling. </span></div>
<div class="p4">
<span class="s1"> Russell’s eyes remained stern and unmoving, but he let out a long sigh and said, “Very well, doctor. I was stationed at an Air Force Base during The Rise. Before I wound up here, I learned two very important things. One: the cause of The Rise wasn’t because of an outbreak or disease, it was simply evolutionary.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “That’s impossible,” said Martin. “Nothing evolutionary happens at a rate like this.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I’m afraid it does,” Max chimed in. He was sitting behind Russell like a mousy liaison. “We found the CDC’s air quality reports; they did disease tests that ranged from the common cold to Ebola, there wasn’t a trace of irregularity anywhere in the country.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “But that doesn’t prove it wasn’t an outbreak of some new virus.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Actually, that’s exactly what it means.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Martin folded his arms across his chest and rocked back on his heels.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I’m sorry you don’t believe me, doctor, but I read the reports myself, and I’m happy to show them to you if you’d like. This was not an act of terrorism, this wasn’t a new strain of the flu, this was simply a shift in the evolutionary makings of man.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I don’t understand,” Annie said.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Of course you don’t,” Hannah muttered.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Max went on without acknowledging the quip. “Let me explain it like this: when ape evolved into man there were certain genetic variations that occurred: mutation, genetic recombination, gene flow. With these Variants, they simply evolved far beyond the genetic makeup of man. Unseen or unheard of during any periods of evolution. The Variants…they’re…”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Superhuman,” finished Lara.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Exactly. And what’s happening out there is natural selection at its finest. The Variants are simply doing their evolutionary duty and eradicating those who no longer belong: the lowly humans. Just like humans eradicated the Silverback Gorilla, Variants are eradicating us. This is a song that has played over and over for centuries, it’s just our turn to face the music.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “But how did it happen so fast?” Annie asked.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “It seems it didn’t. The genetic shifts had been happening over the past several years. The point at which a Variant realizes his genetic makeup varies from that of a human, so do their reactions. It’s as if a switch flips in their brain programming them to vanquish any and all human beings. Such as it is, some Variants shot their spouses, others drowned their children, it didn’t really matter. All that mattered—and <i>still </i>matters—to a Variant is those who no longer belong.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “And us holding up in here is just delaying the inevitable,” Dave Cash grumbled. Dave was leaning against the entrance door, arms folded across his chest. Up until this point he had looked disinterested, even annoyed. Now he just looked impatient.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “So why don’t you just go out there and get it over with?” Lara suggested.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Maybe one day I will. But until then, there’s one thing that’s keeping me around.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What’s that?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “The fact that I <i>love</i> killing Variants.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Finally somebody I can get along with,” Lara said, letting slip a smile for the first time in weeks.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What the second thing?” Martin asked.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I’m sorry?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “You said there were two things that you knew, the first being this whole thing is evolutionary. What’s the second?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Russell smiled at him, his front teeth reflecting in the light like a pair of Chicklets. “Well, for that, Doc, you’re gonna have to follow me.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Where to?” Lara asked. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “No,” Russell said. “Only the good doctor. Afraid it’s not safe for the rest of ya.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Martin’s eyes wandered over the group. He didn’t speak for a long time and Lara was sure he would protest. But then he said, “All right. But it’s only you, me, and your doctor. No one else.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Wouldn’t have it any other way. Besides, doubt the rest of ‘em would want to come anyway, afraid it ain’t exactly family friendly.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The looks on the others’ faces only confirmed what he had said. They had turned sullen and morose, and looked as if they’d all just eaten something rotten.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Martin, on the other hand, was stern, even fierce. He noticed the troubled look on Annie’s face, but tipped his head toward her, hoping it would give her comfort, and told Russell, “Lead the way.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
“It’s your funeral,” Dave Cash said as they passed by him. “It was nice knowin’ ya, Doc.” The words echoed in the room until they were gone, then the others were left in a sea of silence.</div>
Ben Hasskamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351974191740258268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6783268646690857161.post-18072810372746335412015-02-04T20:42:00.000-06:002015-02-04T20:47:55.351-06:00Variance - Book 2: The Others, Issue #8<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Somewhere over Canada</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Day 40 of The Rise</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Russell Hughes’ takeoff was smooth and unremarkable. It was the kind of takeoff he had done a thousand times without mishap or consequence. The plane ascended into the night, a bird of metal and lights streaking across the star speckled black curtain. He leveled the plane off at 19,000 feet. Wind streaked over the F-18’s wings in a kind of powdery fog. The nose of the plane was upturned in a petulant smile, mocking the night sky. All was serene and, for a moment, Russell forgot the malignant task he had set out to accomplish.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “This is base camp to Raven One, copy?” Dick Breadman’s voice sounded over F-18’s radio.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “I copy,” Russell replied. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “You all right up there, Lieutenant?” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Just peachy, sir.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Listen, Lieutenant…” Dick started, his voice suddenly quiet and grave, “you’re going to have to go dark soon.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Russell’s eye twitched, feeling a strange sense of delirium wash over him. <i> Go Dark?</i> That couldn’t be possible, especially for the Canadian Royal Air Force. Of course Russell had heard of such things in the past, but it was all circumstantial and hypothetical. Things like: Going Dark, Code Black, Beacon Hill, were phrases of legend. Not reality. Going Dark meant isolation. It meant he was expendable. Going Dark reminded Russell of old episodes of <i>Mission: Impossible</i> he had seen while visiting his aunt Becky in the States. Bob Johnson had ordered Peter Graves and his team to Go Dark and, if caught, their actions would be disavowed. <i>Mission: Impossible </i>made the frightening concept of Going Dark glorious, even sexy.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “I’m sorry, sir, transmission was jumbled, say again.” Russell’s hands were shaking.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “You’re going to have to go dark,” Dick said again, only this time his voice was commanding and forceful. There was no longer a fatherly tone behind his words. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Go dark? I’m sorry, sir, I don’t underst—“ Russell started.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “No questions, Lieutenant, just do as you’re told! You understand?” Russell pictured Dick standing in the control tower, a chewed off cigar dangling from his mouth.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Yes, sir…I understand, over,” Russell replied, almost inaudibly. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Good. Over and out.” Dick Breadman’s voice disappeared. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> That was it? <i>This</i> was it? During his training Russell had studied three instances where soldiers had gone dark—none of them had ever returned. Going Dark was a death sentence. Breadman knew that. Russell knew that. There wasn’t a soldier in the Canadian Air Force that <i>didn’t</i> know that. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Russell flew on at 400 knots without a soul’s whisper to keep him company. He maintained a level altitude, a level speed, and a level pitch. But at 1:35 a.m., half a dozen lights on Russell’s communication switchboard went out. He suddenly felt claustrophobic and helpless, as if the plane was controlling him and he was merely its deranged passenger. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> A while back, a few of the other pilots in camp had named Russell’s plane Black Betty on account she looked as black as a crow whenever she landed at night. They claimed they could never fully see the plane until her wheels screeched across the runway.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Betty dipped, catching a sudden air pocket, then steadied. Russell’s stomach jumped. He pulled the oxygen mask over his face and drew in a long, calming breath. His eyes closed and his pulse slowed to a steady <i>da-dum, da-dum, da-dum</i>. He pushed down on the throttle and the F-18 shot forward in a tremendous burst of speed. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> It was just after midnight when Betty and Russell crossed into U.S. territory. Some time later (Russell was unsure how long) flying a blipping green dot appeared on Betty’s radar screen. It was a welcome sight and sound for a journey that had been filled with painful silence. Russell swung the joystick to the right and veered toward that wonderful green beacon. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Betty rumbled through the puffy gray clouds, the green dot becoming more pronounced. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span><i> Beep! Beep! Beep!</i> The sounds became more consecutive. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Beepbeepbeepbeepbeep!</i></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Russell peered through the F-18s windshield, searching the night sky for the jetliner. The green dot was almost on top of him now. He pulled his thrusters back just as Betty whipped past the Boeing C-17 headed in the opposite direction. Russell’s head whirled around and he jerked the joystick left. Betty flipped over in one magnificent motion and Russell spun her around. He felt his stomach lurch again, but the wave of nausea quickly chased itself away. He straightened Betty out and pulled her into the C-17s crosshairs. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The jetliner had made no evasive maneuvers, no speed changes, altitude fluctuations. Russell had gone undetected. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> He adjusted the thrusters again, hanging back a mile or so from the jetliner’s tail wing. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">230 lives hung in Russell’s wake, dangling there like helpless puppets. And with the simple click of a switch, their lives would be eradicated. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span><i> Click!</i> And no more Variants.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> But then…</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span><i> Beep! Beep! </i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Two more green blips appeared on Russell’s radar. These two, however, were behind him. The dots were moving fast-much too fast for a jetliner or private aircraft. These dots</span> were gaining on him… </div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><i> So much for “going dark,”</i> Russell thought. The dots—whatever they were—had appeared for a reason. And that reason, Russell believed, was him. <i>The U.S. must have caught me crossing their border</i>, Russell thought, his nerves unraveling. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> He pushed down on the throttle and Betty shot forward in another wonderful burst of speed. The C-17 drew closer and Russell dipped altitude. Betty hung a hundred feet below the jetliner, matching the aircraft’s speed in an aerial game of Hide & Seek. Russell hoped the two approaching dots would only detect one radar source.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> The two dots grew closer, but he received no missile lock or detection alert. Suddenly the two planes went streaking by in a glorious display of speed. But what Russell saw was not a pair of United States Air Force jets, it was something much more haunting. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> He felt his jaw clench and his muscles tighten. His eyes were bulging so hard he thought they might burst. Flying past him Betty were two F-16s. But that was hardly the haunting part. Plastered across their tail wings were decals of the Canadian Royal Air Force emblem. Russell would recognize that thick, blue circle holding the brilliant red leaf even with his eyes closed.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><i> That can’t be,</i> Russell thought.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> But it <i>was</i> to be.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> And, to Russell, it all became so stunningly clear. The F-16s weren’t there to assist him; they were there to kill him. “Going Dark” was not a badge of honor, it was a death sentence. And his government—a government he had loved and protected and fought for for so long—was responsible for such a sentence. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Complete the mission then get shot out of the sky. It was that crude and it was that explicit.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> The F-16s curled across the sky, splitting in front of each other. They cocked their rudders, zeroing in on Russell and Betty. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Russell yanked back on the handbrake, cutting Betty’s speed in half, and the C-17 Globemaster he had been tracking so effectively vanished into the darkness. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> The two F-16s tried wildly to maintain control, but Russell’s maneuver was too sudden and too jarring. The planes tumbled through the sky, their wings spinning end over end.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Russell released the handbrake and punched down on the throttle. The afterburners exploded a dazzling orange, rocketing after the Globemaster.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Russell saw the Globemaster’s massive exterior reenter his crosshairs. The beast of a thing had taken evasive maneuvers, but because of the aircraft’s size, the maneuvers were trite and predictable. Russell followed with ease.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> It was around this time the first of three missiles ejected from one of the F-16s sped past Betty in a pressurized rush. Russell jerked the joystick and Betty curled over the missile unscathed. </span>Missiles two and three were launched simultaneously; one meant for the Globemaster, the second meant for Betty. </div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Russell pushed the throttle as far as it would go forward and the plane kicked forward like a bullet train. He neared the Globemaster’s tail and released flares from Betty’s hull. The flares dropped into the air like tiny droplets of fire. The first missile struck the flares and an explosion thundered through the peaceful night, erupting into a whirling inferno. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Russell never witnessed the second missile rip through Betty’s right wing, her engine releasing a guttering belch. Three master alarms sounded and flashing red lights bounced off the cockpit’s walls. The missile, however, failed to explode, continuing north on its journey. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> While Russell and Betty plummeted to the ground, the missile lodged in the back of the Globemaster and exploded through the plane’s backside. Passengers began to spill out of the plane’s recently constructed hole, falling to their deaths like sad lemmings.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> The F-16s departed at once, the rumbling of their engines fading into the darkness.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> The Globemaster lost power in engine two first. Engine one would follow shortly after. It dipped toward the ground, picking up speeds that nearly broke the speedometer. The pilots regained control (as much as they could) around 8,000 feet. But by then it was too late. It leveled off, but was still losing altitude, and when it crashed into Castle Rock Lake, just outside of Friendship, Wisconsin, nearly a third of the passengers would already be dead. Among those fighting for their lives would be Captain Richard Blake, Lara Holliday, and Enrique Vallenzuela. But such a fact would never be realized by the F-16s or Russell Hughes.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Russell would eject shortly after his dear Betty began her frenzied spin toward her imminent death. He would float into Sauk City, just outside of Madison, where three Variants would attack him upon landing, but he would dispose of them with three quick rounds from his sidearm. The Variants’ onslaught would be neither noteworthy nor alarming.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> That night Russell would make a fire and stare into its hypnotizing blaze with sad wonder, pondering thoughts that kept him up until the break of dawn. <i>Why had they not trusted him to do the job and return to base? Why had his country betrayed him? And why had they done it with such disregard? Such malice?</i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
The answer—an answer he had not yet discovered—was exceedingly simple: Russell Hughes was a Variant.</div>
Ben Hasskamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351974191740258268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6783268646690857161.post-80276029739173137292015-01-25T12:11:00.000-06:002015-01-27T21:53:56.766-06:00Four Nights with the Women in the Walls - A Short<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span><i> Stop! Wait! Did you hear that?</i></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Did you hear that creaking and a cracking above my bed? Did you hear the vibrations along the beams? The fluctuations within the walls? Did you?</span></i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The noise I speak of came in the night, and <i>only </i>in the night, particularly during my precious hours of sleep. I could enjoy a hearty breakfast, read the morning paper, write my letters, wash behind my ears, clean my clothes, take in a meal of whiskey, potatoes, and steak, and never hear the creaking and cracking rippling along those trusses. But as soon as I lay my head down on the cool side of that good pillow the noises about the home began its taunting charade.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The home I resided in could best readily be described as a split level Victorian with four cramped bedrooms, recently matted white walls, and newly-stained wood floors. Because of the new staining, the floorboards rarely creaked. Instead, I could hear the lovely shuffling of dust bunnies slip below my socks as I traveled about the house. The home, itself, was not my own. The owner was an older gentleman of about 70 who lived on the far side of town. His name: Marlowe (and though he was my landlord, his first name has always escaped me). Mr. Marlowe had very old hands and very old skin, but fantastically young eyes. They were a pale blue—almost gray—and painfully disconcerting. Marlowe had decided to move into a complex for the elderly three years previous, but never had the soul’s courage to part with the Victorian he called “home.” It was his intent to pass it on to his daughter, but his daughter, sadly enough, had passed away on Marlowe’s sixtieth birthday, and such a plan never came to fruition. Consequently, Marlowe decided to rent it. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> I met him at his complex the day before my residence was said to take place. We had spoken on the phone, and his voice was so weak, so alarmingly fragile, I was sure that when my eyes would first lay upon him, I’d witness a shuffling old man carrying a wooden walking stick or flimsy aluminum walker. But when Marlowe descended the apartment staircase I found him to be quite spry, lithe even. He bounded down those steps at an uncommon pace, sometimes two at a time. At one point I was quite sure he’d topple over, that gravity would get the best of him, but Marlowe safely reached the landing and gracefully made his way toward me. It was around the time he reached the third step (or perhaps it had been the fourth—time has muddle a few things) when I first noticed <i>those eyes</i>. <i>Those cold, grey eyes!</i> We exchanged keys and deposit without many words—words, even to this day, I have no memory of—and I left with a frosty feeling in my heart.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> I was not the first tenant of that Victorian, but I will most certainly be the last. I know this fact for a multitude of reasons, but such reasons would, at this particular<span style="background-color: white;"> juncture,</span> do this story little justice, so I will promptly move on from them. The six previous tenants had departed without warning and without cause. Some had even abandoned their belongings, as if they had left in a discombobulating haste. Among those belongings were an old record player, half a dozen books by various authors (none of whom I’d ever heard of), and a picture frame displaying the face of a young woman. The woman was so bland looking I could never tell if it was an actual picture taken by the previous tenant or if the portrait had come with the purchase of the frame. She had blonde hair that was so bright, looked almost silver in the picture’s light. Her irises were blue, her nose was pointed, and her skin was wonderfully fair. I kept all of the tenant’s belongings as I had found them. I never altered the placement of the frame, never flipped a page of one of those books, but had been known, from time to time, to cast an album or two on that rickety player.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> It was late when the creaking began. The record player had been properly stowed for the evening, a glass of water propped on my nightstand, and the curtains tightly drawn. But I awoke to the vibrations almost at once. I was roused from some dream, the content of which I can no longer remember. The house appeared to be leaning, tilting on its axis. I had the sensation of falling and grabbed onto my bed for support. The beams belched another shuddering vibration and I jumped from the comforts of my covers. There came another low, rumbling followed by several clicks. The clicks were quiet at first, but they soon amplified, as if somebody was pitter-pattering around in the attic. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> I fastened up my robe and made my way into the hall. An eager breeze ran up from the stairs, the likes of which made my teeth chatter. Above me was the attic door, a frayed hemp string dangling from the latch. I pulled the string and the attic door fell open, a set of discolored wood steps slid down and clunked against the flooring. I shuddered to think about the scratch I’d find in the morning, but before I had a chance to dwell on the thought I found myself ascending the attic steps. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The house let out another moan.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Before I reached the darkness of the attic the clicking footsteps stopped. The suddenness of it was so jarring I quite nearly spilled over. Thankfully, I managed to catch myself by the last sole of my slipper. I craned my neck toward the dark rectangle that was the attic’s opening and listened, waiting for the trusses to crack again, but the sound was no more. Instead, all I could hear was a shallow, restless breathing. But that breathing mussing the silence surely must have been the wind or the trees or the darkness… </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> I cinched tighter my robe and stepped through the opening, smelling the dusty air; it was thick with asbestos and mildew. There was another light in the attic, this much I knew, but I fumbled to find its cord. By the time I did find the little bastard I half expected to flip the switch and see a rotting corpse resting before me. But when I pulled the cord and the attic became apparent, there was nothing but empty light and two forlorn boxes resting in the corner, both sadly marked in bold block letters: Winter Clothes. I stepped toward the boxes, positive these flimsy cardboard constructs were the source of the creaking and cracking, but when I flipped open their tops I found nothing but poorly knitted sweaters and several women’s cardigans. It was so odd to feel such a sense of relief and disappointment all at once. I scanned the empty attic one last time and switched off its light. Another howl of wind happened outside and I convinced myself the house was just my imagination. I descended the steps feeling wonderful fogginess wash over me. I hit the pillow, relieved to find the sheet had become cool again, and waited for sleep to take me, my last memory being: I was glad that that insubordinate night was over.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> But the next night was still to come…</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> I awoke at dawn. I showered, dressed, went to work, ate dinner, listened to a record, drank a whiskey, listened to another, and traveled off to bed. The entire affair had been calm and easy. But when I put on my pajamas and untucked my sheets the vibrations came again. The house moaned, begging me to help it. Only this time the moaning was within the walls, not the ceiling. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> I jumped from my bed and ran to the window, flipping the blinds so hard they snapped. I looked out on a quiet street. Lampposts rested easily at the corners, pulsating their yellow light. The neighborhood was magnificently still.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Another creak resonated from the depths of the home and I dove back into my bed. I think I may have screamed, but there would have been no way of telling. The sheets mussed and rumpled, but I had little regard for that matter. Mr. Marlowe’s house was ready to topple over! I was sure of it!</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> But just as I convinced myself the thought was fact, the house settled and the vibrations tapered. I lifted my head from the covers and swear I felt the house sigh.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The next morning I did not wait for the sun to show its wicked face before I showered, shaved, and dressed. I ate a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, and jam and covered the platter in a hollandaise I had cut with double butter. I proceeded to drink three cups of coffee and slap four handfuls of aftershave upon my weary cheeks. But even after I did I found my skin was still bleak and sallow. My eyes were grotesquely sunken and frightfully dark, and though the scale would not corroborate my sentiments, I felt as if I had shed a dozen pounds after those two fretful nights. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Work was mundane and I struggled to keep sleep at bay. I returned home just after five, ate beans and biscuits, drank a whiskey, and read a book of no implication by candlelight. As soon as the sun went down I carried myself upstairs with a restlessness my body had never felt before. I took quite some time to dress for bed, delaying the inevitable. But when I slipped open those sheets and slid myself into their comforts, I heard no creaking and I heard no cracking. The house was spectacularly quiet. Nay! It was spectacularly still!</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> I waited one agonizing moment, sure the home’s final breath would result in one last moan, but neither came and I shut my eyes, convinced the previous two nights had been but a dream. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Alas, some wishes are not meant to be true, and just as I readied to extinguish the candle I heard faint signing echoing within the walls. The home, to my horror, was no longer creaking, and it was no longer cracking, the damn thing was singing! It was this horrible, dangerous melody that I wished would stop as soon as it started. The song was pleading and unrelenting. It was a wailing mess that droned on and on like a person’s cries in the blackness of a sea. No note carried even though every note screamed.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> I grabbed hold of the bed frame just as it began to shake, the singing reverberating around me, harassing my eardrums with its torturous notes. I cried to the heavens, begging it to stop! But no such luck found its way to my bed.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> It came time for me to jump from my covers; I nearly toppled over the nearby nightstand as I did. The cool night air met me and I realized my pajamas were soaked in sweat, my brow exceptionally wet. I crashed into the wall and felt its vibrations, they were violent and heavy, glaringly palpable. I pulled away from the wall with such a force I fell over, crashing against the slick wood floor with this splendid thud.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The singing morphed into harsh, broken screams and I covered my sensitive ears as I lie on that brittle Victorian floor. And then, just as suddenly as the screams began, they ceased. An echo of them disappeared down the hall and out one of the open windows. My breathing was thick, but painfully disconnected. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> All at once, the home turned exceptionally frigid. I turned to look at my bedroom window, and though we were in the midst of a heat wave that summer, frost began to line the window’s frame. At first it was slight, as if my eyes were deceiving me, but then the ice crystals expanded, little distorted mirrors weaving their way across the window. I exhaled and saw my breath accentuated by the candle’s light. It wafted into the air the way the first drag of a cigarette might look.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> And then came the tapping…</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The taps were intermittent, but calculated, sounding a bit like morse code coming from the soul of the home. Tap, silence, tap tap tap, silence, tap tap, long silence, tap tap tap tap tap. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> I curled up on the floor, bringing my knees to my chest. I was an animal in a kennel of hell.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Tap tap tap.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> My head was swimming. My body was shaking.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> I turned my neck at an odd angle and felt a twinge run along my jawline. I looked back up at the window and saw the frost was gone. I no longer could see my breath. And that’s when I realized the tapping had stopped. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> But my body was still shaking… </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> It would shake until morning came, but the house would remain still. After that, I have no idea how long I slept, or if I slept at all, but I never once removed myself from that perfectly polished, perfectly stained pine flooring. I was too afraid at what might happen if I did.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> I couldn’t bear the thought of work the next morning. As I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror it appeared as though I’d aged seven centuries in three days. There was a hollowness to me. I was a fragment of what I once was.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> I didn’t dare bathe. I didn’t dare make a breakfast. I didn’t dare dress. I sat in the comforts of my tautly upholstered chair until the morning paper came. Though, I didn’t dare go fetch it. I stared out the window, watching the day come to fruition, and when my neighbors began milling about, gathering their own papers, disposing their own garbage, heading off to their own jobs, I snatched up the phone and dialed Mr. Marlowe.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> He answered on the first ring and I was momentarily paralyzed by my relief as well as my foolishness. In a second I ran the entire story and events through my head and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or scream about what had happened. Was I to be deemed insane? Would Marlowe declare me a nut and have me committed? What could I have said that he could possibly respond to?</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Mr. Marlowe?” I asked carefully.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Yes,” his weak voice responded.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “This is John Hedge.” Marlowe didn’t respond so I offered a further nugget of information. “I rent the Victorian from you.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Yes?” he said without any sort of pleasantness.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Well, you see…the thing is…”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Yes?” he said with the same colorless tone.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I think there’s something wrong with the house,” I said abruptly, the words escaping my lips before I could snatch them back.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Oh?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Yes. I’m quite certain of it.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Is that so?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Yes, sir.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I’m sorry to hear that.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Well, what do you intend to do about it?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I’m sorry, dear boy, but what ever could be wrong with the home?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “There’s…I don’t know…there’s something strange about it. It’s making noises.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Making noises?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Yes, sir, <i>noises!</i>”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “My dear boy, I’m afraid I don’t understand.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Mr. Marlowe, the house is shaking at night. It’s creaking and cracking and driving me mad!”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> There came a low laughter on the other end of the receiver. “Oh…Oh my dear boy!” I could picture Marlowe wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes. “It’s a very old home. You yourself referred to it as the Victorian! Surely you know old homes such as those are bound to have a tad bit of creaking.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “But this isn’t a tad bit, Mr. Marlowe, it’s incessant! And then there’s the…” But my voice trailed away.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “There’s the what?” he asked, genuinely curious.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “There’s moaning…or something.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Moaning?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Or singing. Or both! Mr. Marlowe, I think there’s something genuinely wrong with your house.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Now you listen here,” he said with a sudden rage. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with my house! If this is some scheme to get your deposit back you can take it up with my lawyer. We made a deal Mr. Hedge, a deal you agreed to in writing. And for you to call and try and weasel a few hundred bucks out of me…well, I simply won’t have it!”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Mr. Marlowe, I haven’t slept!” </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I suggest you get to bed then!”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “But the house is screaming at me!”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Then the house and I have something in common! Good day, sir!” Marlowe slammed the receiver down and my ears adopted a heavy ringing.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> I sat back down in my armchair and looked out the living room window. Across the street a wife kissed her husband goodbye and he headed off to work. She sauntered back inside, ready to enjoy the comforts and serenity of her home. A woman who wasn’t destined to be tortured by the screams and insensibilities within the walls of Marlowe’s Victorian. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> My knees jumped, I chewed my fingernails down to their nubs, I would shiver, then clam, and then shiver all over again. When I felt my eyelids becoming heavy I would hop up from the armchair and dance about, feeling insanity sink in. I couldn’t take the sleep anymore, but the thought of facing the world’s reality with my two frightened eyes was even more debilitating. Being mortified to shut your eyes is one thing, being mortified to open them is another thing altogether. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> I poured a whiskey and drank it down, feeling myself go mad. I poured another and a dreariness hovered over me. I drank down the last of the whiskey resulting in this terrible knot in my stomach.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The morning light slipped away with little grandeur and the afternoon shadows crept across the drive. The concrete sizzled in the summer sun and I longed for the light to stay. The moon and the stars were my enemy and I would have given eight fingers to keep them at bay. But such fates are not meant for men such as me and the afternoon evaporated into a blackness that was darker than anything I had ever seen before. At one point, through a sleepiness I can describe only as haze, while gazing out my living room window, I noticed the street was perfectly black save for one streetlight stationed along the far curb. When first lit, the light was blindingly white, abrasive and harsh. But after it had been illuminated for some time the streetlight turned a soft shade of amber. I stared out at that black street and saw a figure standing below that amber hue. The figure’s silhouette was staring at me! <i>Staring through me!</i> I thought perhaps he was smoking, but that couldn’t be, for shadows do not smoke and never intend to smoke; shadows are lifeless, aloof.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> I drew the blinds and escaped up to my room with legs that had no business carrying me. My body was shot. And my mind (I believed because of that cartoonish shadow) was beginning to play tricks on me. The entire affair was atrocious. But with such a fragile exterior and deteriorating interior, I couldn’t help but let the weariness consume me.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Through nonsensical dreams of fantasy and myth I managed to find a pocket of unattested sleep. In my subconscious I waited for the dreams to end and the screaming to begin, but I was far too exhausted to be roused by such a trivial thing as a woman’s screams. Then in the caverns of those dreams I became lost, and during this abduction I convinced myself morning would come and the Victorian would settle.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> But luxuries never last as long as you wish, and at half past four in the morning I woke suddenly. I was sure there would be screams, reverberations, cracks, creaks, anything and everything. But as I turned my ear to the home I heard no such disturbances. And I was foolish enough to let a cautious optimism seep into me.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> It was around this time—the time when my heart swelled with relief—I heard a beating heart. At least I think it was a heart. It was hard to tell against the pounding of my own pulse.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> I threw the covers to the floor and lit the candle next to my bed. A long shadow cast over the room as the flame flickered, licking its surroundings with insatiable thirst. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> I jumped from the mattress with an energy I didn’t think existed. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Then the moaning came… </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> It was that abhorrent, incessant moaning I had heard the nights previous, but now it was mixed with that deranged heartbeat, making it all the more unbearable. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> I cried my protest to the walls, but my protests were met with soft knocks within the sheetrock. Something was calling to me, and for a brief moment I thought of the shadow in the street, the smoking man who stared at me from the incandescence with a startling patience.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span><i> Tap tap tap</i>, said the wall.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> I grabbed hold of a nearby lamp and thrust its base into the wall. Sheetrock flew, a fine mist of white powder dissipating into the air. I coughed, momentarily seized by the effects of the crumbling wall. But I refused to stop. With each strike a bit more sheetrock fell away and the wall’s mysteries became more evident. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The candle flickered again.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> My strokes became fiercer and fiercer. Finally, the base of the lamp broke off with this dull clink and fell to the floor. I promptly flipped it around and used the shade end to gorge the rest of the wall. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The candle continued to glow its gentle glow and my violent tearing never knew its end.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The moaning raged! The heartbeat pounded! The singing was a chorus of hell! But, still, I waged war on that wall. And by the time a four foot section of the sheetrock fell away, I felt almost guilty. My motives were astonishingly unclear. Was the only thing driving me my own madness? </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Stop! Wait! <i>Did you hear that?</i></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> I looked into the sheetrock’s gaping hole and saw her. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span><i> Her!</i> </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> She stared back at me with hollow black eyes. Her hair was still intact, brilliantly blonde, almost silver. But apart from the hair, it was only her skeleton my eyes could perceive. Her bones were grey and cracked, little bits of decayed skin still stuck to her cheekbones. Her mouth was slightly ajar and I could see one of her teeth was gold, the result of some accident or cavity. The corpse buried within the Victorian’s walls stared back at me with a potent and deadly friendliness. It did not take much inspection to realize the corpse was that of the woman in the picture frame I had found. I could never forget that face. I could never forget <i>her</i>.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> I remembered the clothes I had discovered in the attic and wondered if those might have belonged to her. But such a thought was cast away as I turned toward my bedroom door, realizing it had been unlatched. Standing before me, a hunter’s knife glistening in the candlelight, was Mr. Marlowe. His eyes gleamed with rage, furious at his tenant’s insubordination.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Mr. Marlowe?” I croaked.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> His mouth slipped open and he seemed to smile at me. It was a perfectly queer sight seeing that reckless smile next to the serrated hunter’s knife. There was an aura of darkness behind him, following like a forlorn raincloud, unable to keep up.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Mr. Marlowe…” I said again, this time pointing at the decomposed body within the wall. Though something told me Marlowe was all too aware of the woman from the picture. He barely glanced at her as he advanced on me. “Mr. Marlowe, what are you doing?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “You shouldn’t have been meddling, Mr. Hedge,” Marlowe said. “That woman was a meddler and she found the inside of my walls. <i>You shouldn’t have been meddling!</i>”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Mr. Marlowe…I…”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Did you find the others, Mr. Hedge?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “The others?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Did you find the others? What have you done with them? What have you done with my corpses?” Marlowe was screaming. A bit of spittle shot from his mouth and caught me in the chest. “You’ve found one, Mr. Hedge! Surely you have found the others!” Marlowe raised the blade above his head and swung it down in one furious motion. It breezed past my pajama tops, slicing through the fabric, but missing my skin. I jumped back, crashing into my nightstand. The candle tipped over onto my bedding, a bit of hot wax landing on the back of my neck. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Marlowe swung again, this time catching me across the forearm. I let out a horrific squeal and saw Marlowe recoil against the noise. It gave me just enough time to scramble to my feet.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Flames rose up from the bedsheets, engulfing the comforter in a matter of seconds. But Marlowe was hardly concerned with the fire raging in the room; there was a fire in his belly that was a far greater inferno. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> I clutched my arm and felt the warm rush of blood seep between my fingers. My eyes flitted toward the wound, but were quickly kidnapped again by the hunting knife slicing through the air. I leaned back, falling against the sheetrock, and the knife buried into the corpse’s skull. There was this shuddering crack as the knife broke through the woman’s cheekbone and her gold tooth rattled in her mouth.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Marlowe struggled to dislodge the weapon, but I was on top of him before he could manage. I thought one swift tackle to the ground would disarm the man of 70, but he barely lost a breath as we fell to the floor. The slickness of it caused us to slide into the doorframe.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> I felt heat lick my back and I turned to find the flames had spilled off the bed and onto the floor. The recent staining swallowed up those flames and raced across the shimmering wood, ready to gobble up whatever it could. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> I rolled to my right just as the flames reached Marlowe’s heavy work boots. He shrieked, swatting at them. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> I reached for the knife still dangling from the corpse’s cheek. Mercifully, the knife dislodged and I turned back toward Marlowe, the weapon raised and ready. But when my eyes found Marlowe he, too, was ready, back on his feet, the fire extinguished, his work boots a smoldering mess. The heavy scent of burnt rubber filled the air as the rest of the flames in the room began to work their way up the walls. Heat radiated all around us as the Victorian began to cede to the fire’s angry inquiry.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Stay out of my walls!” Marlowe screamed, diving for me.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> I brought the knife down, but Marlowe knocked it away in one stilted motion. It fell onto the bed, which was now engulfed. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Flames reached the ceiling, burning away the spackle with a rusty, coppery finish. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Marlowe pushed me into the bed frame but I managed to avoid the fire. He went to strike again, but I was too quick, jumping toward the wall next to the decaying woman. Her gold tooth flashed in my vision as I heard Marlowe scream. I looked back and saw his hands had collided with the fiery comforter. He screamed again as the flames peeled away his skin, his palms breaking out in crude formations of puss and blisters.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Marlowe turned on me, his eyes filled with blinding rage. He had had enough. He reached into the fire and carefully removed the hunter’s knife. The blade was practically glowing. He rushed at me a final time, a roar emanating from the depths of his diaphragm, knife raised, mouth open, tongue flapping against his cheek like a deranged woodland predator. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> I grabbed for the broken bedside lamp and swung it around, connecting with the side of his temple. The eyes rolled back in Marlowe’s head and the knife fell from his hand. He stumbled backward and fell onto the bed, instantly consumed by the flames. A scream tore through the room, but it was stifled by the flames running down Marlowe’s esophagus. His body snapped up from the bed, almost as if he’d been pulled by a string. The flames seemed to race down his clothes, but I realized Marlowe had inadvertently wrapped himself in one of the burning sheets and couldn’t procure a way out. The flames ran down to his feet and those smoldering work boots turned, once again, into burning work boots. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> But, still, Marlowe would not quit. He cried through his anguish and made a blitz for me. The flames, however, were too great, and Marlowe could no longer see. He fell into the woman’s smiling corpse and her head tilted, as if inspecting us. Marlowe spun in the sheet, struggling mightily to shed himself of the fire. But it was of no use. There came a low, howling groan—a groan I couldn’t tell came from Marlowe or the house—as he tipped toward the bedroom window and crashed through the glass. His cries echoed away as he fell three stories to the street below. And then there was nothing.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The sudden rush of outdoor oxygen fueled the flames, bewitching the rest of the room. I offered the woman in the wall one last somber glance before rushing into the hall. I looked back a final time to see the flames crawling across that beautifully stained wood floor. In a matter of minutes, that floor would be ash, and its beauty would be nothing but a vacant memory I thought I might have had once.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> I raced down the stairs and out the door. By the time I made it outside the Victorian was consumed by a fire so great, it was a wonder how we had lasted so long inside. I saw the body of Marlowe lying on the concrete, the sheet smoldering pockets of flame.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> As the flames tore away at the beautiful construct I wondered how many others were in those walls and in those ceilings begging me to get them out. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The fire fighters arrived some time later, but their attempts were pointless. Before the first hose rained its brilliant shower the home shook, emitted one final creak, one final crack, and collapsed in on itself. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> By morning the authorities would remove six bodies from inside that Victorian, all had been buried behind the walls, somehow preserved. When I asked the coroner if I could see the body of Mr. Marlowe, he looked at me with this devastatingly quizzical expression I could only describe as dumbfounded, and he told me, “Son, the bodies we found were all women. There were no men.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “No,” I said helplessly. “The man…the man who was lying just outside the bedroom window. The man who had been wrapped in the sheet. Mr. Marlowe! Surely you must have found Mr. Marlowe!” I was beginning to sound deranged, even in my own ears.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I’m sorry,” said the coroner, his voice bordering between sympathy and antipathy. “But there was no such man anywhere near this crime scene. Like I said, only women.”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “That’s not possible,” I said. “I watched him die. I watched Marlowe die!” My knees became weak and I had to grab hold of the corner’s van for support.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I’m just telling you what we found.” The coroner slammed the van door and he, along with the bodies of those six poor souls, sped away.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> I sat there until midday, eyes fixed on the remnants of the place I once called home, and waited for Marlowe to return.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> But Marlowe never showed.</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Mr. Hedge,” a woman’s voice came from behind me. It was my neighbor. Her husband stood behind her, hands cupping her shoulders. “Mr. Hedge, are you all right?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> I ignored her and turned back to the Victorian’s black ashes, tipping my ear toward its wreckage. “Stop! Wait!” I said. “Did you hear that?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Hear what Mr. Hedge?”</span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> “The creaking and the cracking…” </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I rocked back and forth, hugging my knees.</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“The creaking and the cracking…the creaking and the creaking…the creaking and the cracking…”</span></div>
Ben Hasskamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351974191740258268noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6783268646690857161.post-23125652157198941712015-01-23T17:40:00.000-06:002015-01-23T17:40:29.155-06:00Variance - Book 1: The Rise<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b>ISSUE # 1</b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Kitty Hawk, North Carolina</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">7 months after The Rise</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Had anyone seen the blonde woman and the boy together it would have been assumed they were mother and son. But, such as the circumstances were, no set of eyes fell on the pair, and these assumptions never came to pass. In truth, the blonde woman and the boy had been strangers whose fates collided by chance in a world that was no longer their own. They had run for days through the ruins of Kentucky, Tennessee, and the Tar Heel state, stopping and resting only when absolutely necessary. They had run with such urgency they took nothing but the clothes on their back. They had run, and all the while, unbeknownst to them, they were followed.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> As the early evening drew to a close, quiet finally settled over the coastline of the Outer Banks. The waves pulled back with the tide. The sun stood across from the ocean, tiptoeing on the horizon, waiting to be swallowed. The stars and the night poked through the purple sky. Even in the dying sun there was ample light and surprising warmth. The shoreline was exquisite, brandishing an array of homes, all perched on stilts overlooking the Atlantic, stenciled across an infinite canvas. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The blonde woman and the boy had taken refuge in a relatively pleasant three level home with two split balconies. It was painted a pastel yellow that seemed to glow in the morning sun. The home’s east wing rested on two massive stilts that dug into the soft sand on the beach below. There was a rickety wooden staircase, its steps stained by water and age, that led down to the beach. The steps were so fragile the woman couldn’t help but hold her breath when she saw the boy bounding down them, arms free, almost flailing. Tonight, however, he was standing peacefully on the sun-bleached balcony, his face upturned, breathing in the sky. “Come outside!” the boy’s voice called to the blonde woman. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What is it?” the woman called back. She stepped onto the balcony and found him staring beyond the ocean. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The boy smiled at her. “Nice, isn’t it?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> She looked out at the ocean, painted purple by the falling sun. “Yes,” she agreed. “It is.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I wish we could see the sunset,” the boy remarked. “East coast sunsets are so boring.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “We could climb up on the roof,” said the blonde woman.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Can we?” he asked eagerly.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The woman laughed. “Maybe when you’re older.” She rubbed the top of his head, mussing his sandy blonde hair. “Maybe when we’re both older…” and these words slipped away with a terrible sadness. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The boy was young, but not exceedingly so. He felt as if he’d just celebrated a birthday, but the days blended together like images in a dream—constant, but disconnected—and he was no longer sure when his special day had actually occurred. He was sure, however, that he was fifteen years old. That was not a fact that was not up for debate. He had a small scar running from the corner of his eye to the crest of his cheek bone. To the casual observer the scar was barely noticeable, but there was an abrasiveness to it that seemed fresh, unhealed. The boy didn’t the scar. It gave him age and character. He liked that.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The woman was quite striking, though she’d attained a fragile and lethargic energy over the past few months, as if she had worked eighteen-hour shifts every day for the last ten years. There was also something wistful about her, broken and inconsolable. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The boy looked up at the blonde woman. “What are you thinking about?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> She sighed, but said nothing.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The boy looked away and glanced down the beach. A single blue crab stumbled out of the water like the local drunk leaving its watering hole. It wandered sideways before a foamy wave slid beneath its claws and sucked it back into the ocean. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The boy didn’t know why, but it made him sad.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The sun gave once last shimmering breath before the ocean turned an instant black, erasing the golden waves and purple shades of tide. A cool breeze ran up along the balcony and the two shivered. She held the boy close and he squeezed her arm, reciprocating her reaction. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Come on,” she said, “it’s getting dark, we’d better get inside.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Can we light a fire?” he asked.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Not tonight,” she told him. “Come on, let’s go.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Without protest, the boy nodded and followed her inside. He patiently watched as she locked the door and fastened the blinds, and they both wandered off to their beds where they would endure another sleepless night.</span></div>
<div class="p4" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> A Volkswagon Gulf sat in the parking lot of the local grocery store. It was the only working working car in the lot, the rest had been abandoned over intervals unknown to the boy and the blonde woman. The boy sat behind the wheel, tapping on the steering console with impatient fingers. Through the Gulf’s windshield he saw the blonde woman exit the store carrying a lone plastic bag filled with bottles of water, canned beans, canned tuna, canned spinach, and jars of preserves. She motioned for him to slide over, and he did so willingly.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> When she got in she handed him the bag and he groaned almost instantly. “Same?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “For now.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “How was it in there?” he asked, nodding toward the supermarket. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The blonde woman’s face darkened. She looked back at the supermarket with gloomy, distraught eyes. She shook her head and said, “Buckle up.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The boy strapped himself in and the car pulled away.</span></div>
<div class="p4" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The waves were much louder the next day. They were hostile and relentless. The boy watched from the beach as the white foam settled on the rocks and disappeared into the cracks.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What are you looking at?” the blonde woman’s voice called from behind him. Her voice was loud and startling, but he didn’t flinch—he rarely did anymore. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Watching the waves,” he said, not turning around.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Exciting.” She sat down in the sand next to him.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> There was a long silence between them before the boy asked, “Where are we going after this?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> She didn’t respond and, at first, the boy thought she had not heard him. He went to repeat himself, but, before he could, she answered stiffly, “I don’t know.” She tried to offer him a warm smile, but it only came across as odd and disconcerting. “Don’t you like it here?” she asked.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “It’s fine,” said the boy. “It’s not home.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> She hesitated, seeming to have the words to answer, but not necessarily the courage. She opened her mouth to speak, but stopped when she heard the soft rumbling of a vehicle drawing near.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> They got to their feet and squinted up the desolate road, but saw no vehicle.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What is that?” the boy asked.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> She put a finger to her lips and motioned for him to follow her. They jogged toward the pastel-painted home, the boy staring up at the blonde woman as they went. He felt she was doing her best not to look panicked, but her efforts were haphazard and shallow.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What’s wrong?” he asked.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Nothing’s wrong, let’s just get up to the house.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> They were on the balcony before he had a chance to ask another question. The rumbling grew louder, like a storm brewing in the distance.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I’m scared,” said the boy.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> She looked down, but gave him no comforting eyes. And then she surprised him by saying, “I am, too.” She looked back down the road as the water mirage on the concrete spilled away and seven Humvees sped over the hill, washing away the mirage with one quick brushstroke.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Who’s that?” the boy asked.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “It’s them.” She grabbed the boy’s hand and pulled him into the house. “Go to your room and get your things,” she ordered. And for the first time since arriving at the Outer Banks, he felt the stabbing pain of fear wretch at his heart.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The boy asked no further questions and made no hesitation; he left quietly, sprinting up the stairs to the room he had called his for the past three days, and returned before he felt he had taken another breath.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The woman fastened the backpack around the boy’s shoulders and absentmindedly fixed his hair, unsure what to do with her quivering hands. He reached up and pulled her hands to her sides. “What’s happening?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> She looked at him with defeated eyes and said, “I’m sorry. I thought it was over…I thought we were away…But it looks like we’re going to have to start running again.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The Humvees roared up the driveway and screeched to a halt.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The woman grabbed the boy’s hand and they headed out the back, down that rickety, water-stained staircase, and onto the beach. </span>They were four houses down the coastline before the ones in the Humvees had made their way inside the home that was no longer the blonde woman and the boy’s.</div>
<div class="p5" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The sky was a rich black by the time they lit the fire. Darkness had always frightened the blonde woman, but the boy paid it little attention. In the days that would follow, however, he would come to mind the darkness very much.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The cove where they had made camp was small, but safe. The rigid rock formations provided them enough camouflage and the slight overhang of cliff would protect them from any inclement weather (there would, however, be no rain in that night). </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The blonde woman and the boy were propped up on their packs, staring up at the twinkling stars and the peaceful, wondrous space. “Guess that one,” he said pointing up at the sky.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Orion’s belt?” the woman asked, not entirely sure of her response.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “No,” the boy laughed, but it seemed disingenuous. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “You know that’s the only one I know!” the woman said. She paused a moment, considering her words. “Everything’s going to be okay; you know that, right?” But there was uncertainty in her voice, an uncertainty both could detect, but neither would admit. “Go to sleep,” she said before he had a chance to respond.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The boy pulled away and settled back onto his pack. His eyes were already closed when he heard the blonde woman stand and walk down to the water. She was alert, and he took solace in that. He opened his eyes one last time and saw her wandering farther down the beach, ready to gather more firewood or, with any luck, snatch a couple blue crabs for breakfast. He watched as the woman became a silhouette, then a shadow, then an outline, and then he saw only darkness. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">When he would wake, some hours later, she would still be gone.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> It would be three days before he would discover the Variants had come in the night and taken her. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> It would be another four until they came for him.</span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b>ISSUE #2</b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Coffeyville, Kansas</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Seven months earlier</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Day 1 of The Rise</span></div>
<div class="p7">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Sarah Morse returned her children’s overdue books to the public library at a quarter past five in the afternoon. Nancy Smith, the librarian for the better part of three decades, had already locked up, but, upon seeing Sarah, offered up a polite smile and reopened the doors. Nancy waved off the overdue fee (a measly sixty cents), news Sarah returned with a wide smile</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> (smile) </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">and a shake of the hand.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Sarah was home by 5:45. After she hung her coat and dropped her shoes, she filled a copper pot with water and set it to boil. Dinner was a traditional she loved, and she did it well. The vegetables came next. The market was stocked with fresh carrots, celery, zucchini, cucumbers and green beans. She cut them into a quarter inch dice and placed them in a Pyrex bowl, smiling</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> (a smile)</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>as she went. As she readied the garlic, her attention was displaced when her two children came bounding into the kitchen. Josh, the older of the two, was eleven and spoke with a slight stutter. The stutter was more pronounced in his younger years, a trait he countered by barely speaking. Sarah and her husband, Bruce, took Josh to a speech counselor, where he had gone every Tuesday and Thursday for ninety minutes a session. The appointments were tedious and tiresome, but they helped significantly. Josh still found a stutter slip off his tongue from time to time, but the occasions were grossly diminished.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Sam—or “<i>Samantha”</i> as her kindergarten teacher called her—was the youngest. She was short and sweet with a tangled mess of red hair and freckles peppering her face like disconnected raindrops. She was the spitting image of Peppermint Patty from the old <i>Peanuts</i> comic strips. She followed her brother around wherever he went, and they could often be seen walking up Main Street hand in hand. Josh had enacted this particular policy after Sam wandered into the street and was nearly hit by a passing vehicle. He ran to the edge of the sidewalk, snatched her hand into his, and pulled her back to safety. The car, as Josh recalled, passed by without so much as a glance. This incident, however, was something they had kept from their mother ever since. Rightly so.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Mommy, what’s for dinner?” Sam asked tugging at Sarah’s jeans.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Pasta,” she said.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Didn’t we have that last night?” she asked.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “No, sweetie, we had chicken last night.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Sam put a finger to her lips and scrunched her eyebrows, thinking long and hard. Then, satisfied with her mother’s response, climbed into her chair at the kitchen table and placed a napkin in her lap.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Sarah, in the midst of slicing the garlic, heard Josh rifling through the fridge. She looked and saw his white Nikes in the gap between the floor and the refrigerator door. “Don’t eat anything,” she told him. “Dinner’s in five.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Josh closed the refrigerator and took the seat across from his sister. They both had full glasses of milk already poured. He leaned forward and took a sip, placing his lips at the edge of the glass and slurping up the topmost layer. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> She mimicked him. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> He pulled his head back abruptly. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> She mimicked him again. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> They engaged in a brief game of “Mirror Image” before Josh made Sam laugh with his classic “Bulging Eyes” routine and milk shot out her nose. This made Josh, too, burst into a fit of laughter and the two giggled until they heard the sharp, splendid sizzling sound as Sarah slid the vegetables into the hot skillet. She gave them a quick stir, then went to the pantry to grab the pasta.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The three of them heard the front door open, then close, then footsteps. Seconds later Bruce Morse entered the kitchen dressed smartly in a grey suit and simple black tie. He set his briefcase down on the table, but pulled it back when he caught Sarah’s glare. He smiled his boyish smile—that smile she had fallen in love with twelve years earlier—and then kissed her on the cheek. “Hello, my love,” he said, rubbing the small of her back. “Smells good.” </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Bruce walked across the kitchen, kissed his children, then went to the fridge and retrieved a beer. Pabst Blue Ribbon was all he drank, but the mere smell of it when he cracked a fresh can appalled Sarah. In spite of her belief the beer had always turned rancid, she restocked him with a fresh six pack nearly every week.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Love.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> (A smile. (A splendid, splendid smile))</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Food was on the table by 6:45. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> As they ate, Sarah looked out the window above the sink and saw the sun had fallen behind the other houses lining her block. The effect produced a soft, orange glow in their neighborhood.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> (Another smile)</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span><i> What a lovely evening, </i>she thought.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> And it had been.<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Do we have any cheese?” Josh asked, his mouth full of zucchini.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Josh, don’t eat with your mouth full,” Bruce told him.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Lemme check.” Sarah pulled herself away from the table and went to the fridge. When she inspected the shelves she found the fridge was cheese free. “Doesn’t look like it,” she said, and sat back down.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> They ate in silence for the next few minutes before Sarah asked the table, “Do we have any cheese?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Bruce blinked and he heard his jaw click. “I’m sorry?” he asked, not sure if he had heard her correctly.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Do we have any cheese?” Sarah asked again.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “You just checked, sweetheart.” </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> There wasn’t a glint of recognition on her face. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “We don’t have any,” he finally said. He looked at his children who shared the same quizzical expression. “Sarah…” he said quietly. “Sarah, is everything…?” But his words trailed away.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> There was a bizarre (smile) on her face; artificial, yet profound and troubling. He couldn’t look away. And, while he wasn’t sure, he thought he saw a small, red flicker in his wife’s eye. The kind of red you see in photographs, though this was far less pronounced, and seemed to only circle the eye—like a faint ring—rather than embody it. But then, as soon as she blinked, he saw her warm, hazel eyes staring back at him. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span><i> No more red—if there ever was any,</i> he told himself.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Oh,” she finally muttered, and went back to her plate of food with that strange (smile) still coloring her face.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “How was school today, Josh?” Bruce asked, one eye still on his wife.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Josh didn’t have a chance to respond when Sarah slid away from the table, stood, went to the fridge, and opened the door.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Sarah?” Bruce asked.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Hm?” she responded.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What are you doing?” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I’m getting the cheese,” she said promptly</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> By now Josh and Sam were turned in their chairs, watching their mother as she hunted for the non-existent cheese.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Honey?” Bruce said.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Hm?” she said again, still with that same chipper tone.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Bruce left his dinner and went to his wife. Sarah had always had clammy hands. And warm. Oh, God, how they were warm. But when Bruce touched the hands he thought were his wife’s, he nearly shuddered. They felt like blocks of ice. He let go of them, almost startled. “Are you all right?” he asked.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Of course,” she said. And then those beautiful hazel eyes (smiled) back at him. “Would you excuse me?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Where are you going?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I forgot something.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What did you forget?</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I forgot something,” she said again.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “All right.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> That strange (smile) spread across her lips again. It was horrid and rotten, curled up as if two fine strings were yanking at the corners of her mouth. Sarah turned robotically toward the foyer, her joints suddenly stiff and rigid. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Bruce watched as she walked through the foyer and disappeared into the living room. A moment later he heard the garage door open, then close with an abrupt <i>click</i>. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What’s wrong with Mommy, Daddy?” Sam asked. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Neither of the children were eating by now. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Nothing, sweetie. Just eat your food,” he told. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> But she didn’t.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> They heard the door to the garage open again, then close that same abrupt <i>click</i>. Bruce could see the outline of Sarah’s shadow as she made her way through the foyer back into the kitchen. She was holding something, holding it with hands that seemed frighteningly powerful. He squinted to make out the object, but her shadow was much too dark. Bruce wouldn’t have to wait long, however, to see she was gripping his Nosler M48 hunting rifle. The gun had been a gift from Sarah’s father three Christmases earlier. Bruce had even gone hunting with the old man a dozen times since then. But as the seasons passed, the trips became more infrequent, and the rifle had rested comfortably in the Morse family garage for quite some time.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Sarah stepped into the light of the kitchen and her family stared back at her without a gram’s worth of understanding. She pulled the rifle close to her chest as if it was a nursing baby. Her eyes were unblinking and cold, lifeless even.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Sarah, honey, what are you doing?” Bruce asked. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> It’s quite possible that ‘doing’ had been Bruce Morse’s last word. It was hard to tell considering the groans and moans spewing from his bloody mouth. Sarah pointed the rifle at her husband in between the “hon” and “ey,” cocked it when Bruce said “you,” and pulled the trigger an instant after that.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The gun kicked back with such force Sarah’s arms flew up in the air, but her mechanical grip remained true to the gun.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> A shower of blood leapt out of Bruce’s back and splattered against the refrigerator door. He slipped down it, a smearing of blood trailing him like some horrible streak of paint. His final expression was that of shock and terror—and there was nothing more understandable than that.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><i> That wasn’t my wife</i>, he thought. And then the light left his eyes forever.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “M-m-m-mom, w-w-w-what are y-y-y—“ But that was all the stuttering Joshua Morse could muster before Sarah turned the gun on her son and fired another shot.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The force of the bullet sent Josh hurtling backward as if yanked by some invisible chain. The chair slid a full six inches before finally toppling over. The bullet had passed through Josh’s skull, tearing bone from the side of his head. When the coroner would arrive some hours later, he would remark that the boy’s face was nearly “unidentifiable.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Sam was different. Apart from reacting to the earsplitting gunshots, she had remained quite still. Her fork was still in her hand, though she wasn’t eating. The whole thing unfurled before her like some horrid stage play.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Sarah’s eyes hadn’t blinked since she left to retrieve the gun. And they didn’t blink when they shifted to her daughter. Sam stared at the barrel of the gun with this hollow sense of curiosity. Her arms and head were still, but her feet dangled from her chair, rocking back and forth like a metronome. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The third shot got the attention of the neighbors. A few had already wandered into the street trying to decipher where the shots had come from. The third left no doubt: something had happened at the Morse house.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Sam was dead before she hit the floor.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Calmly, Sarah leaned the rifle against the kitchen table and headed for the front door. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> When she made it outside she locked the top and bottom locks, stuffed the keys in her pocket, and took a seat on the porch steps.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Maggie Wallace, her neighbor from three doors down, approached Sarah with tentative concern. “Sarah…is everything all right?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Sarah looked up at Maggie, the hazel in her eyes sparkling in the streetlight that hung over her yard. Night had finally come. That soft, orange glow was gone. There was no more promising light. The world had gone dark. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Yes.” Sarah said evenly. “Everything’s <i>perfect</i>.” She craned her neck and stared up at the sky. The stars twinkled above her in a symphony of peace. She closed her eyes, soaking in the night that had come on so suddenly.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
And then she smiled.</div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b>ISSUE #3</b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Waco, TX</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Day 3 of The Rise</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Martha Lindgren was a math teacher. Certainly not a spectacular math teacher, but a decent one in her own right. She taught at Texas Christian Academy for thirty-four years, taught solely tenth graders, and taught solely advanced algebra. She never had a complaint filed against her, never a disruptive student she couldn’t handle, and had been nominated (but never won) Teacher of the Year in her district three times.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> On the last day before Christmas break, Martha Lindgren retired. She said she wanted to travel, to finally get out of Waco. While they were well aware she had not crossed the state line in over a decade, her colleagues took up a “Martha Fund” in order to chip in a little something extra for her trip to Italy. She and her husband, Hank, were going to fly into Tuscany, drive along the coast of the Mediterranean, hop a boat to Sardegna, find some crummy prop plane to take them over to Rome, and finish up in Emilia-Romagna where they would dine on fresh plates of lasagna and drink countless bottles of Lambrusco. They made no reservations, and hadn’t decided on how long to stay. They were just going. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> And they deserved it.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Earlier that month, Martha had made arrangements to meet with the local travel agent, Russ Buckner, before their trip. Russ wanted to go over a few restaurants where they could dine, give them a list of sights to see, and suggest a couple of hotels where they could lay down their troubles for the night.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> But there would be <i>no</i> reservations. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Oh no! No reservations at all!” Martha had told him during their first meeting. “I won’t hear of it.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><i> No reservations at all?</i> Russ played the thought over and over in his head. <i>How strange.</i></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martha’s meeting with Russ was at a half past two that day. She was running a tad bit late because she couldn’t find the right shoes to wear. And even though she was the ripe age of sixty-eight she still had the fashion consciousness of a fifteen year old on her first day of school.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Jus-hro-n-su-choo-n-go!” Hank shouted from the den. He had on the Rangers game and was hard to hear over the color commentary. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “What?” Martha called from upstairs.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Just throw on some shoes and go!” He yelled, louder this time.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martha rolled her eyes. “There are specific shoes that go with specific outfits, Hank! But I suppose a fashion maven like you already knew that!” </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Russ Buckner don’t care what yer wearing!” he barked.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “I don’t give a holy hell ‘bout Russ Buckner!” </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Ahhh!” Hank scoffed.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Ahhh yourself!” she shouted back, nose deep in her closet.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> They didn’t speak for a few seconds.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “I love you!” he called up to her.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “I love ya more, ya old grouch!”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> It took a few minutes more of extensive digging before Martha found the cream-colored Penny Loafers she was so desperately searching for. The shoes were nothing fancy, but against her lemon-colored sundress she found it to be a near perfect match. Russ Buckner—though unsaid—would have thought otherwise.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Back in an hour,” she told Hank as she took a step into the den.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> He looked her up and down then returned his attention to the Ranger game, “You look nice.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Thank you,” she said taking a modest courtesy. Martha slung her purse over her shoulder and left. </span>He didn’t watch her go.</div>
<div class="p4" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martha arrived at Russ Buckner’s office at a quarter to three. She hated when people were late and hated even more when she was the culprit. “I’m so sorry I’m late,” Martha said as she entered Russ’s office. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Russ was sitting at his desk eating with a newspaper laid out in front of him. Next to the paper was a Styrofoam container that housed two chili cheese dogs. Russ Buckner was short and squat. He had a round body, shaped much like a pear or a strawberry. The kids would often joke that if Russ fell onto his side you could roll him down the street the way they did with Violet Beaurgard in “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.” His hair was blonde and thinning and he wrapped it around his head in an unpleasant combover. He had thin spectacles propped on the edge of his nose, which he promptly took off when Martha entered his office. “It’s quite all right, Martha, I was just finishing up the paper,” he said greeting her with a firm handshake. “Did you read about what happened in Kansas last night?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “No, what?” Martha asked.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Mother of two shot and killed her kids and her husband during dinner. Cops can’t figure out what possessed her or what set her off. Damndest thing I ever read about.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Oh dear…” Martha brought her fingers to her lips and muttered, “How terrible…”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Husband must notta liked her cass’role,” Russ quipped.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Oh, Russ, you’re awful,” Martha said playfully slapping his arm.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “I know, I know, I shouldn’t joke. Please, have a seat.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Russ’s office was decorated in a predictably crass fashion. There were trophies of nearly every animal imaginable plastered against the sheetrock. Bucks, elk, bear, pheasant. There was even a stuffed armadillo in the corner nearest the bathroom. There was a Miller Lite neon beer sign propped on a faux leather sitting chair. And, while the sign was unlit, that did little to diminish its gaudiness. His desk was piled with papers so high they always seemed on the verge of spilling over. But they never did.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martha took a seat across from Russ. He shifted a few of his precarious papers out of courtesy, but its effect was minimal. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “So, I just wanted to give you this packet.” He handed her a thick, green folder. “In it you’ll find a bunch of places to stop along your route. Now, I know you were specific about no reservations, but I figured it might be wise to have a <i>little</i> research handy while you’re bombing down those Italian roads.” </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martha opened the folder and flipped through it with the same casual disinterest she had displayed when he pressured her about all those precious reservations. She figured it was because he got some sort of commission if they did, but she didn’t mind. Russ was a good guy, and an even better friend to her, Hank, and the community. But this was <i>her</i> trip, and for the first time in her life, she was going to do things exactly how she wanted them done.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Well thank you, Russ, I really app—“ But she stopped short of finishing when she saw Russ’s head twitched slightly. It was neither vivid nor pronounced, it was just there. At first, she didn’t think she had seen it correctly, and then his head twitched again. His brow furrowed in an expression of pain, and his right eye blinked at twice the speed of his left. After a few seconds, his smile returned and he stared back at her as if nothing had happened.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Are you all right?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “‘Course I am,” he said. “Why?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Russ…you were twitching,” she said in a low whisper. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “I was what?” he asked, almost incredulously.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “You were twitching, like you were having a stroke or a seizure or something.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “That’s impossible.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “I could call Dr. Northman, if you’d like.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Russ waved her off with a hand of “nonsense” and insisted she keep perusing the packet. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> And that packet in her lap was almost enough to distract her from Russ’s third tick. He clenched his fists, turning his knuckles white, and squeeze his eyes shut. When he finally opened them the forest green of his irises was still there, but Russ Buckner was not. He blinked and, when he did, Martha saw a sharp red circle surrounding those green eyes that now seemed so horrible. They pierced Martha with such a viciousness she felt like she were about to tip over in her chair. Russ Buckner had an emotionless grin stretched ear to ear. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Will you excuse me for a moment?” Russ’s hollow voice asked.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martha didn’t answer, but Russ pushed back his chair anyway and stood up. His body was stiff and rigid; the muscles in his body seemed suddenly new and unused. He moved into the bathroom behind his desk and shut the door.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martha considered leaving. She had Russ’s “research,” what more did she need? But what if he <i>was</i> having a stroke? Or a seizure? Or something much worse? She glanced at the exit, but then stood and rounded Russ’s desk.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Russ?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> There was no answer.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Russ?” she tried again.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martha inched closer to the bathroom door, her fingers trembling as she reached for its handle. “Russ, are you all right?” She turned the handle only to discover the door was locked. She took a step back, but found her hands were still trembling.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Russ, I’m going to call an ambulance." </span>She heard a soft whimpering coming from the other side of the door. It was low at first, but soon amplified into a wailing drone. “Russ?” Martha leaned forward and pressed her ear against the clunky plywood door. “Russ, can you hear me?”</div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> And Russ could hear her. He could hear her very, very well.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Even through the flimsy plywood door, Martha Lindgren didn’t hear the cocking of the .45 semi-automatic Russ kept above his medicine cabinet. Nor could she hear the low chuckle rumbling from Russ’s lungs. But she did hear the sound of the hammer dropping on the gun.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The bullet exploded from the barrel at approximately eight hundred feet per second. If Russ fired the gun from seven feet, how many seconds would it take to travel from the gun into Martha’s skull? </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Anybody? Anybody? Nobody in class knows? Nobody has any idea? <i>How very disappointing!</i></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martha was dead before she hit the floor, and that’s as much detail as the police would provide.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> But it was not the end for Russ Buckner that day. After he killed Martha, he exited the bathroom, finished his chilidogs as Martha Lindgren’s blood pooled under his loafers, and left. The mailman, Wally Beerman, saw Russ lock up his office before Russ turned on him and fired a single shot into his head. Wally’s eyes rolled back and he dropped to the ground in a crumpled mess.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">Russ crossed the street to where Mrs. Howard was sitting with her dog, Buddy. He fired one shot into her chest and another into her stomach.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> He let the dog live.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> By now there was panic in the street and people were screaming at Russ to stop. He walked past them with the same mechanical glaze he had shown the late Mrs. Lindgren only minutes previous.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">Paul Itna, high school football coach at Texas Christian Academy, stepped out of the Floyd’s barbershop. He still had a towel wrapped around his neck and fresh shaving cream lathered on the left side of his face. “Russ, what the hell you doing?” Paul Itna cried.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Russ fired a shot that entered Paul Itna’s left cheek and exited the back of his neck. The blood mixed with the shaving cream and ran into the street like a spilled strawberry milkshake. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">Floyd, the barber, tried to run for cover but Russ fired two shots, one into Floyd’s back, just above the kidney, and the other into his head. The glasses Floyd was wearing spun off of his face and he fell forward onto the sidewalk.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Russ would kill Jolie Daniels, Kyle Nelson, and Luther Gladden before his gun was empty. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> When police arrived to the scene Russ was sitting outside Floyd’s having a smoke. His expressionless face juxtaposed against the spinning barber pole was all that was needed to cover their arms in rich layers of gooseflesh.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Russ?” one of the policeman asked.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> But Russ said nothing. He inhaled and exhaled. Inhaled and exhaled.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
And then Russ Buckner smiled.</div>
<div class="p3">
And the wheel turned.</div>
<div class="p5">
<span class="s2"><b></b></span><br /></div>
<div class="p5">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b>ISSUE #4</b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Los Angeles, CA</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Day 3 of The Rise</span></div>
<div class="p5">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The production of <i>Camels to Africa</i> was six weeks past picture-lock, ten million over budget, and the picture’s star, Lila Craven, had locked herself in her dressing room for the third consecutive day. This was the twenty-eighth incident of the kind in her career and her agent, Rachel Greenberg, had had enough.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Lila hadn’t done a picture in over four years and, while she was once a promising young star, a nervous breakdown mixed with Quaaludes and tequila resulted in a court-ordered stint at rehab. Or, as the Hollywood-types spun it: “Lila is taking a much-needed break from the stresses and tribulations of her acting schedule.” </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> This “much-needed break” lasted thirty months and cost the actress a small fortune. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">Rachel had pulled every string and called in every favor she had left in order to get Lila <i>Camels to Africa</i>. When Lila read the script she told Rachel is sounded “trite and far-fetched.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “It’s Lawrence of Arabia, but with a woman!” Rachel cried in response. “It’s fucking <i>Lila</i> of Arabia and you are doing this picture if I have to drag you on set and deliver you to Ernie myself.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Ernie was Ernie Roland, the director of the picture. He was hot off his Oscar win for <i>No Sunshine in Brussels</i> and wanted to direct an epic drama with a gritty actress who had the talent <i>and</i> the town’s respect.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> What he got was Lila Craven. She lacked tremendously in the respect department, and her level of talent was undoubtedly in question. The New York Times called her portrayal of Mona Lisa in <i>Leonardo’s Game </i>“contrived and a total bore” and<i> </i>The Boston Herald referred to her performance in <i>Kites of Brooklyn as</i> “a true test for a young actress; one that barely gets a passing grade.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">And now Lila was on set for one of the biggest productions in studio history, and she was refusing to come out of her trailer.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Fuck Ernie! Fuck all of them!” Lila screamed from her bathroom.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Rachel was sitting outside on one of the lumpy couch cushions furiously sending emails from her Blackberry. “You don’t mean that,” she said without looking up. “Ernie’s a great director, he just gets passionate sometimes.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The accordion-style door to the bathroom slid open and Lila stood there, mascara running down her puffy, red cheeks. “<i>I’m</i> passionate!” she cried. “I defy you to find someone more passionate than me!”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Lila, listen,” Rachel said, finally setting down her Blackberry. She got to her feet and guided Lila out of the bathroom. “We’re almost there. We only have one more scene and you then you wrap. Please, I’m begging you, for your career…fuck, for <i>my</i> career, please clean yourself up and get back on set. I’ll talk to Ernie in the meantime, but please, please, please, just do this for me.” </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Jesus, fuck,” Lila said pulling away. “Fine, I’ll do it!”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Rachel squealed. “Yay! Okay, wipe that mascara off your face and meet me at makeup in ten.” She snatched up her Blackberry and left, clicking away at those little keys as she did.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><i> “Click. Click. Click,”</i> said the Blackberry.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Lila went back into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. She had purple sacks under her bloodshot eyes and there were thick trails of mascara breaking off into several roots near her jawline. She grabbed a towel from the rack and wiped her face but only managed to rub the mascara deeper into her swollen cheeks.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Ugh!” Lila grunted.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> She rubbed harder, but the color only deepened, embedding into her pores. She looked at herself again, more than ready to have another tantrum, when she was struck with a crippling headache. It was unlike anything she had ever felt before. Her nose crinkled and her jaw clenched, but then the pain promptly vanished.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The incandescent light above the sink accentuated the crow’s feet dotting her eyes and she suddenly looked thirty years older, like the shell of the young temptress she once was. Her skin was frail and bedraggled. As far as actresses went, Lila Craven looked like a monster.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
But Lila didn’t groan or scream. She didn’t cry out in a wretched “woe is me” howl. She looked thoughtfully at her features, even taking a moment to touch her swollen cheeks with the tips of her fingers.</div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> And then she smiled. It was a wicked, impish smile.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Lila blinked and heard her lids click against the moisture in her eyes. When she opened them she noticed a faint discoloration, something slight, just around the iris. But when she blinked again, the discoloration vanished</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> How peculiar? She thought. How very, very peculiar?</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The smile morphed into a grin…</span></div>
<div class="p4" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Lila arrived at makeup just how she had been in the bathroom: the mascara was smeared across her face, her lipstick was a splotch away from “clown mouth,” and her hair was a frazzled mess.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “What the fuck happened to you?” Rachel asked taking a clump of Lila’s hair in her hand. She held a few strands close to her face, inspecting it as if she had lice. “Lila, what’s the matter?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Lila said nothing. She only giggled a schoolgirl’s giggle and plopped down in the chair.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Are you high or something?” Rachel asked. “Lila, I thought we had this handled. You were clean. Fuck! You are clean. Jesus, what did you take?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Giggle. Giggle.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Lila!” Rachel slapped Lila’s cheek, smearing mascara across her palm. “What. Did. You. Take?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Giggle. Giggle.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “For fuck’s sake!” Rachel pulled out her Blackberry.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Click. Click. Click,” the Blackberry said to Lila, and she squealed with delight.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “What the hell’s wrong with her,” Ernie Roland asked venturing over to the two.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Nothing, she’s fine,” Rachel said frantically typing away.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Click. Click. Click.” More laughter.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Oh, holy fucking Christ! Shitting shit! She’s stoned as balls, isn’t she?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “No, of course not,”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Don’t lie to me, Greenberg,” he cautioned.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “I’m not lying. She’s <i>fine</i>.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Ernie looked over the wavering Miss Craven. Her eyes never met his. They danced around the soundstage with child-like amazement. He grabbed Rachel’s arm, pulling her away from Lila. “Picture’s up in five. If she’s not ready, I’m shutting this down!” He stormed away without looking back. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Lila was staring at the recently-built set. There were half a dozen straw huts depicting a small village. The huts were scattered across a thin layer of white sand, and a background had been painted on a nylon screen to make it look like a sprawling desert lay beyond the horizon.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The other cast members were milling about the “village”, all of them shooting Lila the same look of contempt.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Where’s fucking makeup? Makeup!” Rachel typed away at those clunky keys and left in search of the makeup girl. Lila was left alone, fiddling with her hair as she stared at the set that seemed so real. She hopped off the makeup chair and sauntered toward the back of the set. Behind the nylon screen that portrayed the expansive desert Lila found a varying array of art supplies: stacks of oil paints, dirty rags, brushes, thinner, extra nylon, and old bits of wood frame. And while the rest of the cast and crew were busy blocking the next scene, Lila was busy emptying the thinner and oils over every surface in sight. She splashed them on the set’s trusses, giggling every time they slopped on the floor.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Where’s Lila?” Rachel was yelling from the other side of the set. “Lila!” </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Lila held a finger to her lips as if willing herself quiet. She nearly giggled, but gulped the laughter back with a giant swallow of toxic air.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Lila! Lila!” Others were calling for her now. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Lila started for the back exit. She passed an HMI light on her way and tipped it over with a simple flick of the fingers. The light toppled over so casually, so easily, it was as though Lila Craven had the strength of a body builder.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The light crashed against the oil-soaked rags, igniting them into a smoldering inferno. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Lila’s eyes lit up as a brilliant orange glow streaked up the massive nylon background, the desert scenery disappearing into a fury of flame and ash. It was not long for the rest of the set to catch fire. The huts were set ablaze after the trusses tipped, igniting the straw with a kiss of its flame.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Lila pushed open the back exit, stepped out, and calmly closed the door. She took a vacant security guard’s chair and wedged it beneath the handle.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> As smoke filled the set, she could hear the others still inside pushing against the exit, but the door would not give. Their pounding came next, followed by of layers screams that Lila could not stop giggling at.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Later, the LAFD would estimate the soundstage had gone up in less than three minutes. All forty-seven people inside would perish. And Stage 6 would never be used again.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> They found Lila sitting on one of the golf carts they had used to shuttle cast around in. She was making gratuitous engine sounds and turning the wheel as if she were running the Indy 500. Smoke was pouring out of stage vents in a black stream so dense it looked like God had twisted a Sharpie across the sky.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Lila Craven?” one of the firefighters asked.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> She looked up at him with those child-like eyes, batting her lashes and smiling that innocent (but hideous) smile.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Are you Lila Craven?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “‘Click. Click. Click,’ said the Blackberry!” Lila wailed. She threw back her head and howled a fit of laughter that echoed off the studio walls.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
The world was covered in a layer of maniacal gasoline, and Sarah Morse, Russ Buckner, and Lila Craven had all just struck a match.</div>
<div class="p6">
<br /><span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<br /></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span></div>
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<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b>ISSUE #5</b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Potawatomi Woods, Wheeling, IL</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Four months after The Rise</span></div>
<div class="p5">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> A group of survivors raced across the desolate terrain, not bothering to stop for what seemed like days. Their legs were tired and their throats dry, but they pressed on. They had passed through abandoned town after abandoned town, picking up food and clean water whenever they could. But they afforded themselves very few rests, running on fumes for quite some time.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Illinois had been just as desolate as Minnesota and Wisconsin, and when they came to a preserve just outside Chicago, things were no different. It was completely deserted, not even the occasional caw of a crow could be heard amongst the eerie ripples of wind and rattling dead leaves. They had fled for the city, desperate for hope, for a savior, for anything. They had fled for safety, but the Variants followed. And they were not far off.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Hey, Lara—check this out!” Enrique Valenzuala’s words stuttered against his trembling breath. Enrique was short, stout and Mexican, and ever since he was a little boy, he had been self-conscious of all three. His mother preached sermon after sermon about being proud of their heritage, but he did everything he could to divorce himself from it. In one mortifying incident, his mother slapped the Chalupa out of Enrique’s hand after his ultimate defiance: skipping Sunday supper for a quick trip to Taco Bell. He never forgot the look in her eye, and it was the only clear memory of her his mind could muster.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “We ain’t got time for this, Enrique.” Lara stopped next to Enrique, though her voice was calm and maintained.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Enrique’s stomach grumbled as he bent down to retrieve a Hallmark card fluttering in the wind. The card was the only definable object that protruded from a mound of wreckage of what used to be a slew of temporary shacks or huts. Now, however, they were leveled into nothingness. How the destruction had come about was a mystery to them, but they had seen enough wreckage over the past four months to know not to ask any questions. On the cover of the card was a cartoon boy with a football-shaped head. He held a green birthday cake while fireworks exploded behind him. In the upper right hand corner of the card was a peculiar splotch of brown, something that looked like a grease stain, but was most likely dried blood.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What did I just say?” Lara yelled. “We can’t stop, Enrique!” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Lara Holliday was thin and pale, and her blonde hair only accentuated those traits. Her face was soiled with dirt and her breath smelled of Spam and canned chipotles. At her sides were dual .357 Magnums fastened securely in their holsters.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Enrique ignored her (as he usually did) and freed the birthday card from the wreckage. “Holy fuck!” he cried, stumbling backward and falling onto the pile of tattered shingles and blistered wood.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What is it?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “A hand! There’s a goddamn hand under there!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What the hell’s going on? Why’d you stop?” a gruff voice came from behind them. “Enrique, quit fuckin’ around.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Captain, get over here! You gotta see this,” Enrique said to the older gentleman approaching them.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Captain Richard Blake was old in age, but youthful in personality. His grey stubble had turned a vibrant shade of white over the last few weeks, and he exhibited a thick head of magnificent silver hair. If it weren’t for two tours in Vietnam and a brief stint in Desert Storm, Captain Blake would look ageless. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What is it?” Captain Blake asked, the annoyance in his voice transitioning to curiosity.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> All Enrique could do was point. At the edge of the rubble, protruding from a layer of shingles, was a woman’s hand. It was limp and motionless, an abandoned relic of what used to be. The nails were caked with dirt and a thin layer of dust had settled across the skin making the hand look hollow and waxy.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Hell! I reckon that’s the strangest thang I seen all week,” Captain Blake remarked.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> This was true. True, until the fingers moved, however.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Strike the last,” he corrected himself.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Enrique nearly toppled over. Lara held back a gasp. The hand flexed, moving stiffly after waking from a deep sleep.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What do we do?” Enrique croaked.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What do you reckon we do? Get her the hell outta there!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Enrique began to dig, heaving up splintered wood and crumbled trusses with marked ease. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Where’s the Doc?” Lara asked. She stepped behind Captain Blake and stared off into the clearing. It was empty, and painfully quiet, until a deafening scream ripped across the preserve and throttled their eardrums. It was a blitzing scream layered into a nightmarish harmony. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Is that <i>them</i>?” Enrique asked. A terrified look flashed in his eyes. He had momentarily stopped digging, trembling with fear. “That can’t be them, can it?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Doc!” Captain Blake shouted toward the clearing.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Two hundred yards behind them, a man emerged from the tree line. He was running, a visible sense of urgency in his steps.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Martin, what is it?” Lara asked</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “They’re coming,” was all he said.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Captain Blake stepped forward, the first to voice his pessimism. “That ain’t possible, Doc, we still got an hour a daylight lef’!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Doctor Martin Knight was dressed handsomely in black slacks and a white button down. Both articles of clothing were a bit dingy and dust-stained, but, otherwise, in perfect condition. When he finally reached them his breaths were heavy and plodding, and his shirt was rich with perspiration. He stepped to Enrique who was still knee deep rubble. “What the hell are you doing?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Check this out, Doc! There’s a goddamn woman under here!”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Another scream split across the preserve, this one more intense than the last. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “They’re gettin’ closer, Doc,” Captain Blake said, the southern twang in his voice suddenly more pronounced.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Pull her up!” Martin said. He crouched down, helping Enrique sift through the debris.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Are you crazy? They’re almost on us!” Lara’s protest was warranted, yet ignored.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Enrique lifted the last fragment of wood and cast it aside. He and Martin peered into the crater and saw the face of middle-aged woman within the hollow. Apart from a minor scratch on her cheek and a small bruise on her forehead, she appeared to be in reasonably good condition.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Enrique reached into the crater and the woman’s eyes suddenly opened. He jumped back, a small scream escaping from his lips. “Holy fuck shit!” </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The woman opened her mouth as if to speak, but no words came out.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Another scream in the distance. A rumbling. They were very near…</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martin and Enrique reached under the woman’s arms and pulled her up. Her hair was littered with soot and grime, and her fingernails were cracked and brittle. Her eyes darted back and forth between the four, unsure of what to do or say. Understandably so.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Are you all right?” Martin asked hastily.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The woman could only blink at them. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “What’s your name?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Another scream tore across the preserve.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Can you understand me?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The woman blinked again, but, this time, she seemed to grasp some semblance of comprehension.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “What’s your name?” Martin repeated.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Annie,” the woman’s voice croaked. “Annie Walker.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martin took her by the shoulders and looked deeply into her eyes. “Mrs. Walker, I’m afraid I don’t have time to explain what’s about to happen. All I can tell you is that we’re going to have to run; run as fast as we can’t. I don’t want you to look back and I don’t want you to ask any questions. All I want you to do is run. Do you understand me?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> There was a blatant look of pandemonium in her eyes. She didn’t answer. She gaped in awe at the shotguns in Captain Blake and Enrique’s hands, the Magnums stuck against Lara’s thighs, and the rifle strapped across Martin’s back.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Mrs. Walker!” Martin snapped. “Do you understand?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Yes…” she mumbled. “Yes, I understand.” Though, truthfully, she didn’t.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> A final piercing scream and they all turned to face the tree line. In the distance, a hundred bodies emerged from the wood, their features indistinguishable from the survivors’ distance. The figures were lined up in a meticulous row, like an army in attack position.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “What is that?” Annie asked.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “The Variants,” Captain Blake said cocking his shotgun in an absurd moment of surrealism.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “The what?” Annie asked. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Jesus, honey, what’d Martin just say?” Lara barked. “No fucking questions!”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martin interlocked his fingers with Annie’s and the five were off and running. “Get to that cluster of trees!” Martin shouted, pointing to a broad acreage of firry pines. Their trunks were as thick as Cadillacs and their branches were low and dense. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Their feet pounded on the dry grass, but the sound was drowned out by the pursuing Variants.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The survivors reached the tree line and traversed their way through the crowded wood. Annie glanced up at the tall pines as Martin pulled her along, his pace quickening.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “There! Up ahead!” The four followed as Lara made a slight left on a faux trail and emerged into another clearing, this one twice the size of the last. It was open, exposed.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> They were sitting ducks.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> On the far end of the clearing stood a small cottage, recently built considering the glimmering shingles and unfinished wood. Its unnatural location looked like a bizarre construct haphazardly placed inside an Edward Hopper painting.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Get to the cottage!” Martin shouted, now leading the way. Annie was close behind him, her hand still firmly clasped in his.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> They hustled up the porch steps and tried the front door.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Locked. <i>Quack, quack,</i> went the sitting ducks.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Enrique!” Martin called him to the door.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Enrique knelt down and removed a lock-pick set from his back pocket. Within seconds the pick took and the latch lifted. He pushed the door open and a shotgun blast landed next to his head, the sound piercing his ears. Wood exploded off the frame, unhinging the door. Splinters skipped into Enrique’s cheek, but he avoided the shell’s BBs. He toppled backward, gun in hand, and instinctively fired a shot into the house. A soft groan was audible from just inside the doorway.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Shit! Oh shit!” Enrique was on his feet and the first one inside.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Get inside!” Captain Blake ordered,</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Lara and Martin looked back at the pines wavering in the breeze. At the edge of the clearing, four-dozen bodies emerged from the wooded darkness.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Come on!” Martin grabbed Lara by her tank top and yanked her inside. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “I’m sorry man, I’m so sorry.” Enrique was sobbing over the body of an older gentleman. By the look of his wrinkled skin and fragile bones he couldn’t have been younger than seventy-five. A single gunshot wound stood out on his tattered white t-shirt. His chest was expanding and contracting with such difficulty Martin was sure the BBs had lodged in his lungs. Enrique had the old man’s head propped up on his thigh and was applying pressure to the wound as best he could.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Lara, secure the door!” Martin knelt down next to the old man.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Lara grabbed hold of a stained, blue couch, spun it around, and wedged it against the unhinged door. She toppled a nearby dresser onto the sofa, the drawers regurgitating out as she did. Inside the drawers were articles of clothing, both male and female, both young and old.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martin lifted Enrique’s hand from the wound and saw a deep hole three inches above his floating rib. The blood was fantastically dark and seemed unusually thick for an unclotted wound. “How you holding up?” he asked the old man.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “He shot me,” the old man coughed. His teeth were stained with blood. “The son of a bitch shot me.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “I didn’t mean to, man, I’m sorry.” Enrique wiped the tears from his eyes.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Enrique, go help Lara.” </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> He left reluctantly, his sobs continuing to fill the small cottage.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “They’re coming, aren’t they? The Variants?” the old man asked. He mustered a defeated laugh, then coughed again. Blood ran out the side of his mouth and collected on the unfinished wood floor. “Those goddamn Variants. I thought I’d be able to stay here forever. Goddamned fool, that’s what I was.” His breaths were becoming shorter and more constricted. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Outside the sunlight was diminishing and the remaining rays projected the Variants’ shadows against the cottage walls. They were long and daunting and stretched like something out of <i>The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari.</i></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Lara peered through the cottage’s lone window. “Jesus, they’re everywhere.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Listen…” The old man’s voice was now barely a whisper. “Under the rug…there’s a door…you can hide down there…until…” His words trailed away and his eyes fluttered.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
“Lara, check under the rug.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Lara snatched up a Moroccan rug exposing a small door cut in the floorboards. She pulled it open and the fantastic stench of death wafted up at her. Lara recoiled, dropping the door with a thud.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Shhh!” Captain Blake hissed.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Fucking smells down there!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Just go,” Martin told them.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Enrique and Lara were already in the cellar by the time Captain Blake had led Annie down. Martin put his hands under the old man’s armpits and dragged him toward the door in the floor.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Let go a me,” said the old man</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The front door shook suddenly. The couch blocking the door slid forward. The Variants would be inside soon.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “We have to get downstairs,” Martin pleaded.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Let ‘em come! I ain’t scared!” The madness in the old man’s eyes was dreadful.<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Martin tried again to slide him to the cellar door, but the old man continued to struggle.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The dresser on the worn blue couch rattled. Hands were reaching inside. It wouldn’t hold much longer.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The old man reached for his shotgun. Martin tried to intervene but the old man knocked him away. Martin fell back, tumbling through the cellar opening before landing six feet below the cottage floor. The air rushed from Martin’s lungs and he gasped for a breath.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Upstairs they heard the couch slide another foot, its legs skidding across the brittle wood. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Captain Blake jumped up, grabbed hold of the door in the floor, and slammed it shut, enveloping them in darkness.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martin heaved in his first true breath and the rich smell of decomposition ran up his nostrils. It was a familiar scent, something he had grown accustomed to during his semester of Gross Anatomy. Only this smell was of rotting corpses. No special care was taken, no embalming fluid had been used, no preservation of any kind. There had only been the summer’s heat to keep death’s company.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The front door exploded open sending the dresser clattering to the floor. Martin pictured the poor old man above him, staring in awe as the Variants hogged his doorway, paralyzed by fear and pain. “You filthy Variants!” he heard the old man yell. “Get outta my house!” </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> There was the unmistakable crack of a shotgun blast exploding out of the barrel followed by the futile attempt of the old man trying to reload. Footsteps thundered into the house. Tearing flesh and crunching bone was all they could hear from the cellar before the old man gurgled a final breath and was no more.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martin’s eyes adjusted to the cellar’s darkness and he glanced over to see Captain Blake covering Annie’s mouth with his hand. Tears were streaking down her face and settling on his wedding band, but Captain Blake seemed not to notice.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Lara hung from the cellar door, using every ounce of her thin frame to hold it shut. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The Variants lumbered around upstairs, pacing and breathing with ghostly depth. Then the footsteps turned and made their way out of the house.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> They waited several minutes before anyone spoke. When Lara did, she said, “At least it wasn’t as bad as last time.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
Annie broke down in an uncontrollable wave of sobs. It was the only sound any of them made until the rain mercifully came and drowned everything out.</div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b>ISSUE #6</b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Potawatomi Woods, Wheeling, IL</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Four months after The Rise</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The cellar’s light fixture was an old-fashioned incandescent that took Captain Blake only a few seconds to find after he felt the fraying yellow string tickle the side of his face. Once the room was illuminated they saw the horror they had previously only smelt. Three bodies, all neatly stacked, lay rotting in the corner of the room. A woman, no more than thirty-five, and two small children, ten and twelve, were the victims. The woman’s decomposition was the worst of them. Maggots had claimed the left side of her face and her cheek hung over her lower jaw like a thinly cut piece of steak. The children didn’t look nearly as bad. Their faces were cold and grey, but their eyes were closed in such a way that they looked surprisingly peaceful.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Mary and Joseph!” Captain Blake removed a black handkerchief from his back pocket and covered his mouth and nose.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Everybody upstairs,” Martin said.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> There was no protest.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Martin came up a few minutes after the rest. He told them the three had died of shotgun wounds to the chest, most likely, the old man’s shotgun.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Did he know them?” Annie asked. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I don’t know,” replied Martin. “I guess it doesn’t matter.” It <i>did</i> matter, but no one wanted to admit such a chilling reality. Maybe they were unlucky souls who stumbled onto the cottage. Maybe they had turned to Variants. Or maybe the old timer had just gone mad.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What should we do with them?” Annie asked.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “We ain’t doing nothin’ with ‘em,” Captain Blake answered. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “We can’t just leave them down there,” she protested.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Honey, if we stopped and buried every poor soul we came across we’d be as dead as him,” said Lara, pointing to the old man’s body.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Annie looked down and saw the old man’s chest cavity had been caved in, his right rib section lay next to him. His abdomen had been completely hollowed out, the organs carelessly discarded near his feet. Annie’s eyes floated over the grisliness and she turned her head and heaved. There was no food or water in her system, only pockets of air that painfully lurched up her esophagus and dropped to the floor. It was a wretched, cruel feeling that consumed every ounce of her. “What did that to him?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “The Variants, honey,” Captain Blake muttered. “It’s <i>always</i> the Variants.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Somebody get him out of here,” he said, pointing to the old man.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I’ll do it.” Enrique was staring solemnly at the body, his bottom lip quivering in a state of shock. He didn’t say a word as he gathered up what was left of the old man and carried him down to the cellar.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Lara crossed to the other side of the room where Captain Blake was preparing a fire. She handed him some kindle and they spoke in murmurs as the flame grew before their eyes.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Martin knelt beside Annie whose dry heaves had finally settled to staggered whimpers. She stared off into one of the corners of the cottage, her gaze a mad combination of disconnect and vacancy. Anyone observing her would have thought she was on the verge of hysteria—and, in truth, she probably was. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Let me take a look at you,” Martin said taking the bottom of her chin in his hands. He held one of her eyelids open and saw a large, dilated pupil staring back at him, a haunting island of black surrounded by a thin, pale green ring.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “You have hazel eyes,” he remarked.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Yes,” she said quietly, “always have had.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> He smiled, pleased she was responding.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What are you, a doctor or something?” she asked.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Something.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Something?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Neurologist,” he said. “Well…I guess I <i>was</i> a neurologist.” He put his fingers on her pulse, silently counting the beats.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Please,” she said, lowering his hand away from her neck. “I need to know what’s going on.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Martin sighed. “There’s a lot to cover.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> He sighed again. “Then let’s start with our cast of characters:” That’s Lara Holliday.” He pointed toward Lara, but her eyes were fixed on the fire. “And the pleasant curmudgeon next to her is Richard Blake.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “<i>Captain</i> Richard Blake,” the curmudgeon corrected. “Retired, of course.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Of course,” Martin said, “and downstairs is Enrique Valenzuela.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “And you?” Annie asked.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “My name’s Martin…Martin Knight.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “<i>Doctor</i> Martin Knight,” she corrected, a restrained smile finding its way onto her lips.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Martin nodded pleasantly. “And we, Miss Walker, are part of the three percent of humans who haven’t been affected by whatever those things are out there.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “The Variants?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> He nodded, his features sullen.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Why do you call them Variants?” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Because, as far as we can tell, they’re human.” He paused, letting it sink in. But her reaction showed neither acceptance nor confusion. “Or at least a slight variation of them,” he continued. “We were only able to study them for a few days, to understand their variance, but it wasn’t enough time. We were overrun and had to abandon the hospital. They had brought me in to study the brain and spine variations, but I couldn’t find any. We also monitored its trait behaviors. At first they exhibited intense rage, and possessed minimal speech and motor skills, but, as the days wore on, they began to talk, and act, like us. They adapted at an incredible rate. It would be like an ape had evolved into man in a matter of hours.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “But they’re human?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Super humans,” Enrique interjected. He trudged up the cellar steps, his shirt and pants covered in a dense layer of blood and gore. “They’re unlike anything you’ve seen before. Their speed, their strength…it’s unbelievable.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “So they’re like zombies?” Annie asked.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> She heard Captain Blake and Lara share a laugh and she immediately resented them.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> “No, not exactly,” Martin said calmly. “Zombies are the living dead, as in, they’re here by some supernatural force. Variants breathe like us, they eat like us, and their circulatory and nervous systems are identical to ours. They have tremendous communication and organization skills. Frankly, there’s nothing even remotely supernatural about them.“</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “But that old man was hollowed out,” Annie said, shuddering at the thought.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “His organs weren’t taken or harvested,” he said. “They were only discarded.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Basically they just rip ya to shreds,” Captain Blake said. He removed a worn corncob pipe from his bag and packed the bowl with a handful of thick tobacco leaves.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> “The Variants possess only behavioral differences, their lack of morality and remorse the two most notable.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Enrique sat down next to Martin, crossing his legs and staring up at the doctor as if he were telling some fireside ghost story. Annie noticed his hands were trembling. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> “Things started slow. I think all of us had seen it coming, though nobody wanted to admit it. People were getting shot in movie theaters and stabbed in line at the Post Office. It was ugly. And then all at once, the world just quit functioning.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Normally, that is,” Lara said. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “It didn’t affect everyone the same. While some turned into these maniacs, others went into cardiac arrest, or had seizures, or quit breathing. It was as if their bodies couldn’t adapt at the rate their brain wanted to. So while some became these monsters—the monsters that did that to the other man—others simply perished. And then there are those of us who…well…well, we hope are still human.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Hope?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “We’re still not sure what any of us are.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “But we’re gonna fight until we find out,” Captain Blake said, exhaling a steady stream of smoke.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “And take down every last Variant that we can.” Lara grinned and Captain Blake, and he returned the smile as he took another drag off the pipe.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I remember,” said Annie, and the others exchanged looks in such a fury she barely noticed it had happened.<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>“I remember people dying in the streets. The National Guard…I remember the National Guard. And then…” but her words trailed away as the memory struggled in her mind.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “It’s all right,” said Martin, though his words rang untrue.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Nobody said anything for a long while. The fire popped and crackled and Annie could feel its warmth on her back. Lara stoked at it, her gaze mesmerized by the soothing orange glow.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Mrs. Walker--” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Miss,” she interrupted.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I’m sorry?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “It’s Miss Walker, not Mrs.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> He sighed, but said nothing to acknowledge an interest. “Miss Walker, I’m afraid it’s our turn to posit a few questions.” </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> She first looked at Enrique, whose eyes, normally kind and amiable, were now accusatory and untrusting. Annie noticed the others shared the same sentiment. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What kind of questions?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What’s the last thing you remember?” The question was so staggeringly simple she hesitated to answer. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I was going to mail my son’s birthday card,” the words escaped from her mouth. “That’s when it started…I mean <i>truly</i> started…It was bad, and I think I noticed before…like you said…but didn’t want to admit the world had gone mad. But I needed to mail that birthday card…You see…I haven’t seen my son in several months and…I wasn’t really sure what to say…so…” Her words were clunky and fragmented, so she stopped in frustration.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Martin nodded, but she couldn’t tell if he understood or not. “And when’s your son’s birthday?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"> “May 28</span><span class="s3"><sup>th</sup></span><span class="s2">.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The others exchanged a grave look. Then, all at once, their eyes fell on her.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Miss Walker, to be honest, for a person to buried under that amount of rubble—the rubble we found you under—and emerge with only superficial injuries is a miracle in and of itself. But, to answer your question, we’re looking at you like this because this event we speak of—The Rise of the Variants—happened over four months ago.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Annie stared back at him with disbelieving eyes. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Now how is it, Miss Walker, that a woman of your size and stature could be buried, without food or water, for that amount of time, and come out seemingly unharmed?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “It certainly is peculiar,” Lara added.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Are you saying I’m one of them?” she asked incredulously. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “We’re not saying anything,” Martin told her. “We’re just trying to figure out what’s going on.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I’m not one of them!” she cried. “I can’t be!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> They were sitting around her like a tribunal deciding her fate. The fire flickered against their faces and the once pleasant glow was suddenly harsh and ominous.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I couldn’t be one of them…right?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Again, nobody answered. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Right?” Annie asked, though, now even she was unsure.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Of course not,” Martin finally replied. But she could tell the others didn’t share his opinion. “Don’t worry, we’ll know more tomorrow.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What’s tomorrow?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Last we heard there was a FEMA camp near downtown Chicago,” Captain Blake said. “Figure if we can get down there, we won’t be in such a hot pickle.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “And maybe there will be other survivors,” Enrique said helplessly.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “We should get some rest,” said Martin.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> They silently accepted his suggestion and moved about the room in preparation for sleep.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> There was a standard blue cot in the corner of the cottage. The fabric was worn and frayed. Lara staggered over and fell back on the thin layer of blue. She would be asleep in a matter of seconds.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> Enrique wandered over to a small closet adjacent to the cot and rifled through its contents. He removed a green flannel shirt that was two sizes too small for him. When he put it on, the bottom of his belly danced below the hem. He took a vacant spot on the floor and curled up, blanketless.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> “I’ll take first watch,” Captain Blake said. He picked up the old man’s shotgun and threw it over his shoulder.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> “Here,” Annie heard Martin say. She turned to him. “This belongs to you.” Annie looked down and saw her son’s birthday card in his hands. The boy with the football shaped head smiled up at her as the fireworks erupted behind him. “We found it shortly before we found you. I figured you’d like to have it back.” He crossed behind her and took a seat in front of the fire. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Did you read it?” she asked.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> At first, he didn’t respond. He sat in front of the fire’s light, transfixed. She considered asking him again, but then he said, “No. I didn’t read it.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Thank you.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> He nodded, but never turned to look at her.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Annie brought her knees to her chest, clutching the four month old clothes draped across her body. Outside, she heard the rain intensify, battering the side of the house in shallow musical notes. She listened to them as long as she could, and then sleep took her.</span></div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p4">
<br /><span class="s2"></span></div>
<div class="p4">
<span class="s2"></span></div>
<div class="p4">
<span class="s2"></span></div>
<div class="p4">
<span class="s2"></span></div>
<div class="p4">
<span class="s2"></span></div>
<div class="p4">
<span class="s2"></span></div>
<div class="p4">
<span class="s2"></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><b>ISSUE #7</b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Georgia</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Day 21 of The Rise</span></div>
<div class="p4">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The chaos was in full effect. Nearly half the city of Savannah had either fled or been killed. The ones who stayed were caught in a perpetual state of denial. They would not last long. People were dying. Or they were going mad. Between madness and death, the line was fine over the more desirable outcome. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> Things in Atlanta weren’t nearly as dire. The city limits had been quarantined by the National Guard, but the flow of information had stalled. Those inside the quarantine zone hadn’t a clue as to why they were being held. This did not bode well for the National Guard. As reports came in from other states that the National Guard was quarantining every major city, the panic evolved into universal cabin fever. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> The National Guard did the best they could, sending out troops during the day to bring back civilians by night. On one particular occasion, a team of six was sent out in the early afternoon. It was close to sundown, but distress calls suddenly came pouring in from Newnan and Peachtree City. The team was dispatched, almost at once, with very little hesitation from the commanding officer. It did not take long before the evening sun slipped below the horizon and the bright sky transformed into a dank grey. The team leader, Higgins or Hodgkins (something like that, though now irrelevant), radioed to base they had thirty civilians and were en route back to base. Three minutes later there was radio silence.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> It was nearly midnight when Higgins or Hodgkins wandered back to the quarantine zone. The ones there to see it said it was the most horrific scene they’d ever laid eyes on. Though the stories became muddled and exaggerated, the horror remained constant. When the perimeter guards saw Higgins or Hodgkins wandering through the night, he was holding his severed left arm with his right, his pale face a ghostly vision in what seemed like the blackest of nights. His screams were said to be more agonizing than the image, though many found this hard to believe. He ranted of the Variants cutting through the darkness, murdering the others, then vanishing like a cloud of smoke. He would be dead by dawn. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> The doctors claimed it was blood loss, though the terror in his eyes suggested otherwise. Fear took him from this world, and Higgins, or Hodgkins, or whatever the hell his name was, was said to be more than willing to go.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
Two hundred fifty miles away, at St. Joseph’s Medical Center in Savannah, Captain Richard Blake woke with a start. </div>
<div class="p5">
<br /></div>
<div class="p5">
<br /><span class="s2"></span></div>
<div class="p5">
<span class="s2"></span></div>
<div class="p5">
<span class="s2"></span></div>
<div class="p5">
<span class="s2"></span></div>
<div class="p5">
<span class="s2"></span></div>
<div class="p5">
<span class="s2"></span></div>
<div class="p5">
<span class="s2"></span></div>
<div class="p5">
<span class="s2"></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><b>ISSUE #8</b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Savannah, GA</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">Day 21 of The Rise</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> The room was listless and dark. Captain Blake could hear the gentle hum of a fluorescent light above him. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> Why is it dark, he thought? </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> And then he remembered: his <i>eyes</i>. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> He felt his hands were numb, the way they are so many mornings, as he fumbled for the bandages over his eyes. He patted the gauze and felt a soft stinging in his eyes. He wondered whether it was safe to remove them. How long had it been since the operation? His mind tried tallying off the days, but he got lost along the way. His concept of time was lost, but, hopefully, his sight had not met the same fate.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> “Hello?” Captain Blake called. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> Hmmmmmm, said the fluorescent light. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> “Hello?” he called again, this time a little more urgently.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> Hmmmmmm, responded the fluorescent light again.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Captain Blake’s tongue was dry and parched. He licked his cracked lips and felt a brief tinge of pain sear the outside of his mouth. His throat was so arid he suspected he must have been bedridden for days, maybe even weeks. He tried to swallow, but only the uninvited rush of hot, stale air clung to his larynx.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Can anybody hear me?” he called.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> He knew he was in a hospital, so shouldn’t there be traffic in the halls, or a nurse to check on him, or, at the very least, an occasional whir of an ambulance siren? But there was only his breathing and that torturous fluorescent light.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Captain Blake reached up and carefully removed the first layer of bandage, but no light came.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> How much goddamn gauze did they wrap me up in? he thought, a bit annoyed.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> He discarded the first layer of gauze then pulled another away. Then another. And, finally, there it was: a soft hue of white streaming through the remaining bandages. The excitement swelled up in his heart and he pulled with greater urgency. He clenched his eyes shut, wanting to savor the first time he saw the world—at least the first time in twenty years. The gauze around his head loosened. The time was close. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> Captain Blake felt the bandages give. The smell of dried blood passed by his nose as the gauze fell. He snapped open his eyes and was met by a ray of brilliant white. But then the white morphed into flashing colors, bombarding his psyche like a violent lava lamp. The flashing colors quickly subsided and he was nestled in a blanket of black. Though, this was no ordinary blanket. This one left him lonely and helpless. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> “Hello?” his voice cracked. “Is anybody there?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> Hmmmmm, the fluorescent light replied mockingly.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> His heart sank. Was nobody coming for him? Was he left to die blind and dumb?</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> But the darkness began to dissipate. The thick black transformed into a subtle grey. Ten more seconds and the grey became a mundane yellow. The yellow expanded, then contracted. And then, all at once, he could see. He could see that listless room he was in. He could see the dull wallpaper peeling from the walls. He could see the window in the corner, and the streak of yellow along the horizon, the morning sun returning to its post. And it was positively brilliant.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> “Well ain’t that gorgeous?” he murmured. “Ain’t that gorgeous indeed?”</span></div>
<div class="p3" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s2"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> By the time Captain Blake sat up in bed the sun was already hanging proudly in the sky. His sight had completely returned, apart from a slight blur in his peripherals. He swung his legs around the side of the bed and pushed up off the mattress. His bones creaked, but he managed to straighten his back and stand upright. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> “Helen?” he called, hoping his wife would return his query.<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> His last memory of Helen was faint and dream-like. He remembered her holding his hand as he was wheeled into surgery. She hung over him like this wandering angel and told him she’d be there when he got out.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> “Helen?” Captain Blake called again, working his way toward the door. But, still, there was no answer.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> He felt along the side of the bed, blindly reaching for the nurse’s button. He stopped and laughed heartily. He could see for Christ’s sake! The need to feel around a room, carefully maneuvering along sidewalks, searching for hand railings, none of it was necessary anymore.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> There, at the edge of the bed, hung a fantastically vivid red remote. Captain Blake snatched it up and pressed the round, white button. Above his bed, a small red light began to blink.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> He waited. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> Nobody came.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> “What’n the hell’s goin’ on?” he muttered.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> Only silence responded.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> Captain Blake pushed aside the thin blue curtain separating the two beds and made his way to the door. When he pushed on it, though, the thing barely budged. It felt as if somebody had welded it shut.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> “Goddamn it,” he cursed. He slammed against the door again, but it had little effect. Perspiration was seeping through his hospital gown making him feel sour and old. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> Captain Blake went back to his hospital bed and wheeled it around so it faced the door. After a few deep breaths and silent Hail Mary’s, he produced a running start and crashed into the door. The hinges gave as screws ripped from the wall, wood particles dissipating into the air. On the other side of the door, three hospital beds, stacked one on top of the other, crashed to the floor. The ringing of metal on tile rippled through the empty hallway.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> Captain Blake climbed over the hospital beds to find a hallway cloaked in black, save for two flickering fluorescent lights at its far end. There were no doctors, no nurses, no patients, there was only Captain Blake. The floors were littered with empty prescription bottles, blank script pads, bedpans, bed sheets, and blood. Deep, dark brown patches of dried blood smeared across the floor in zig-zagging patterns. But, as far as Captain Blake could tell, there wasn’t a single corpse in sight. There were no limbs, no organs, no heads; absolutely zero sign of death, apart from the faint smell of decay.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> Captain Blake looked around. Where the hell was everybody? This was, after all, a hospital, was it not? And who, for that matter, had barricaded him in his room? And more importantly: why?</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> At the end of the hall, Captain Blake could see the red outline of the Exit sign hanging from the ceiling. The letters were a hazy blur, but it was unmistakable.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> He started for it with lumbering steps. The first three steps were of no significance, but the fourth made him yearn for blindness. Along the east corridor, stretching for several yards, were the bodies; dozens and dozens of them. Fifty or so, Captain Blake guessed, though the severed limbs and pools of blood made it difficult to be sure. Nurses, doctors, patients, visitors, stacked on top of one another just as the hospital beds had been. They were young, old, black, white, their killer working without discrimination or remorse. Captain Blake had a strong stomach, he always had had, but the sight before him churned his insides like fresh butter. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> “Christ.” The word hung in the air, but Christ provided little support.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"><i> Boom!</i> The exit at the far end of the hall slammed shut. Captain Blake looked up, but saw nothing through the darkness.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> “Is somebody there?” he asked. His voice cracked, having not done so since the age of thirteen. But there he stood, a sixty-two year old man, stripped down to his skivvies, ready to shit himself.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> “Hello?” he asked the darkness. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> And then the footsteps came. Slow at first, as if the thing at the end of the hall was playing its own game of red light/green light.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> “Who’s there?” </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> The footsteps stopped. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> Captain Blake squinted through the black and saw the outline of a shadow standing under the Exit sign. He could hear its quick, rasping breaths.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> “Please, I need your help. These people…they’re dead…”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> Breathing.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> “…Say something, goddamn it!”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> But the thing said nothing. There were only the short, feverish breaths.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> Captain Blake reached over the counter into the nurse’s station and caught hold of a stainless-steel letter opener. It had an orange rubber handle with a smooth, rounded tip. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> “Stay away from me! I’ve got a…” Captain Blake considered the object, “…knife!”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> More breathing and then the thing at the end of the hall started toward him. The sound of its feet skipped across the tile at a tremendous rate. Captain Blake had never heard anything move so fast. It sounded more like a puma than a person. There was a flash of the thing’s face as it passed under the first fluorescent light, but Captain Blake only remembered the eyes, maniacal and deranged. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> He gripped the letter opener with white knuckles.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> The thing passed under the second fluorescent. <i>The eyes</i>. Those wild, demented eyes appeared again and, this time, Captain Blake noticed random, jagged streaks of blood running up and down the thing’s face—the face of a human. Or so it seemed. The thing appeared to be a man, no more than thirty years old, dressed in tattered slacks and a stained polo. But its face was not that of a civilized man. Its face was soulless and possessed.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> “Stay back!” Captain Blake threatened again.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> The thing leapt, arms outstretched, ready to strike, ready to pull arms from sockets and eyes from cavities. It wailed and howled and struck Captain Blake in the sternum. They stumbled backward. The letter opener nearly slipped from Captain Blake’s hand, but he held tight. They landed on tile with a thud, the thing thrashing with wild ferocity.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> He brought the letter opener up in one swift motion, jabbing it into the thing’s jugular. Blood exploded from its neck. He twisted the orange rubber handle and pulled down on the opener. The thing’s throat opened up, swaying back and forth like a mud flap on a big rig. Blood sprayed on Captain Blake in a shower of red. The thing gurgled a final breath before falling over into a motionless heap.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> Captain Blake sat up and spotted a drinking fountain just down the hall. He got to his feet, legs wobbling, and wandered over to it. He splashed a handful of water on his face and blood ran down the drain in a river of pink. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"> A psychopath had snapped and killed nearly fifty people, Captain Blake thought as he headed toward the exit.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
But the logic of that theory didn’t sit well with him. He hadn’t witnessed a horror like that since his days in the jungle of Khe Sanh. But this was beyond the reason of war.</div>
<div class="p3">
This was something else entirely.</div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s2"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b>ISSUE #9</b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Potawatomi Woods, Wheeling, IL</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Four months after The Rise</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Annie Walker’s eyes opened as a ray of morning light shone through the cottage’s eastern window. She had slept through the night, remembering very little of her dreams. The creaking of the wood floors roused her, though she moved very little upon waking, still consumed by fatigue.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “How can we trust her?” she heard Lara’s whispering voice ask.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Annie made a move to roll over, but braced her body when the severity of the words sunk in. They were talking about <i>her</i>. They were questioning <i>her</i>. She remained motionless, praying her thumping heart would fall on deaf ears. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What do you mean ‘can we trust her?’” she heard Martin ask.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Are you dense?” Lara hissed. “We find this woman who claims she’s been sleeping for what, four months? U<i>nderground no less!</i> And you just buy it?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “You gotta admit, Doc, what ain’t sittin’ right with us ain’t sittin’ right with you either,” Captain Blake said.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Now it was Enrique’s turn to chime in: “Maybe you should just give her The Test.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Annie blinked. <i>The Test?</i></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “And where do you suggest I do that?” Martin asked. “Here? Is that what you’re saying, Enrique? Maybe there’s a microscope in the armoire or slides in the cellar.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “We’re not getting anywhere,” Captain Blake snapped.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Silence filled the room before Enrique said, “Can we just agree that when we get to Chicago, <i>if</i> there’s a facility there, you’ll test her?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> It took Martin a long time to respond. Annie could hear him sigh. She could almost feel the eyes on him, the eyes that were looking through him. “Fine,” he said. “When we get to Chicago I’ll administer The Test.” She heard Martin stand and leave the cabin, his heavy boots dragging across the floor as he went.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
After he left, the others continued to speak, but only in muddled whispers too quiet for Annie to hear. Outside, she heard Martin pacing along the porch, a torturous wave of discontent prodding away at his thoughts.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p4">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p4">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b>ISSUE #10</b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Potawatomi Woods, Wheeling, IL</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Four months after The Rise</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"><b></b></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Lara found a decent sized backpack in the bottom drawer of the cottage’s armoire. She also found a pair of pants, two shirts, and a .38 revolver. She took everything unabashedly and stuffed the contents into Annie’s arms. Lara moved off with a disgruntled grunt.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Ready?” Captain Blake asked the cottage.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Just about,” Martin said. He opened Annie’s pack, placed the contents inside, and strapped the bag around her shoulders. “You okay?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> She nodded, but was shaking.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Okay,” he said. “Let’s move out. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> They headed southeast through the woods. By the time Annie finally looked back, the cottage was nothing but a distant speck, a fading memory she would never return to again. Four corpses had been left inside. Maybe the wolves would get them, maybe they wouldn’t. Either way, things were different now. Nobody rested in peace. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “You’re quiet,” Martin said. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> She shrugged. “This all feels like a bad dream.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “That feeling never goes away,” he said. And judging by the weariness in his eyes, she assumed he was right.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “If I’m one of those things—a Variant—then why wouldn’t I just kill all of you?” She asked the question with such simplicity Martin nearly lost his breath. It was so frank, yet so warranted. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “I’m not sure.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Clearly.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martin drew a long, methodical breath. “The simplest way I can put it is: Variants come in all shapes and sizes. They vary in personality, behavior, mood, everything. Some can be aggressive, while others are sneaky…like hunters. No two Variants are exactly alike.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Do you think I’m a ‘hunter?’” she asked.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Frankly, Miss Walker, we have no idea what you are. It’s quite possible that you’re like us. But until we can get some place where I can administer The Test…”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> (<i>The Test</i>)</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">“…we’re all going to have to live in the dark a little while longer.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Annie stuffed her hands in her pockets and slumped her shoulders. “So how did you all come about?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Well…” he sighed, “…That’s a long story.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “It’s a good thing we’ve both got time.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martin smiled. “I happened upon Captain Blake, Enrique, and Lara some time in Wisconsin. Got them out of a pickle.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “How do you mean?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Their plane crashed,” he said, glancing up at his three companions. “I just happened to be there.” </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Annie didn’t know what to say, but she spoke anyway, clumsily, “Well, that wasn’t too long of a story.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> He sighed and wiped the sleep from his eyes. “Come on,” he told her. “We should catch up with the others.” He quickened his pace and walked on ahead.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> They continued on their way, reaching Park Ridge by midday. The neighborhood was the poster child of suburbia. A never-ending sea of ramblers lined the abandoned blocks. Windows were broken in and some houses were now only broken trusses and old ash, casualties of some horrific fire and blast. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The morning was hot and the air was thick. Fatigue was setting in even though they hadn’t walked more than ten miles.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Can we take a break?” Annie asked.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Sure, princess!” Lara quipped.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Break would be good,” said Martin. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> They stopped near a small, green house. Modest, but nice. Paint peeled from its siding and a dozen or so shingles were scattered on the front lawn. The roof was a skeleton of itself. The white picket fence in the back had lost nearly half its planks, making it look like scattered matchsticks standing on end.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “What’s happened here?” Annie asked scanning the neighborhood’s broken homes. It was a suburban graveyard, shells of what used to be.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> He handed her a bottle of water. “A few weeks back, the President ordered airstrikes. He said it was so they could ‘contain the problem.’”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Created a goddamn panic, that’s what it did!” Captain Blake shouted. “President’s why we’re in this damn mess!”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Oh, get off it old man,” Enrique muttered.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Air strikes! What kind of a goddamn fool thinks that’ll solve anything? Killed some of the only survivors we had left!”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “They just killed everyone?” Annie asked.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “A couple days after the strike they said that civilian casualties were at a minimum,” Martin said taking a sip of water. “Though there’s really no way of knowing. We lost radio contact eighteen hours later. Ever since…nothing but static.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Thirty-eight stations of pure white noise,” Captain Blake said. He took out his pipe and stuffed it with tobacco. There wasn’t a droplet of sweat on him, and while the others gasped for air, he inhaled a smooth stream of smoke as though it were fresh oxygen.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “You haven’t gotten in touch with <i>anybody</i>?” she asked.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The others shook their heads. It was a miserable reminder to their current predicament. They hung their heads and drank silently for the next several minutes.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Everyone finish up. If we keep our pace we can be to the United Center by sundown,” said Martin, tightening the cap on his water.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “If we don’t, we’re as good as dead!” added Captain Blake, a bit more cheerful than the others would have liked. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> They were all busy securing their packs and finishing their waters that Annie was the only one to spot the fast approaching Variant. She originally thought she’d seen one of the matchstick fence posts move. But that was impossible. Another pocket of movement between the two posts. She got to her feet, her eyes never breaking from the posts.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Christ, sweetie, whatcho lookin’ at?” Captain Blake asked as she pushed past him.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Annie offered no recognition she had heard him. She stepped toward the posts, her eyes stern and transfixed.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Um…Doc…” Captain Blake said. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martin looked up and saw a hypnotized Annie floating toward the broken fence.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Annie?” Martin called to her.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> But the world was drowned out. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Annie, we need to stay together!” Martin shouted, louder this time.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> A plank suddenly exploded off the fence as a Variant erupted through its opening. The Variant, seven feet tall with pulsating muscles, charged at Annie. Its mouth was foaming and its eyes bulged with encompassed rage. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Annie tried to move out of the way but the Variant shoulder checked her across the sternum. She toppled over, an intense ripple of pressure crossing across her ribs. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The Variant reached down to grab her but suddenly went still as the sound of a gunshot vibrated through the air. A bullet hole blasted through the Variant’s torso and blood spattered across Annie’s chest and neck. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The Variant turned to face its assailant. Lara stood there, poised and pleased, her .357 wafting smoke.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “You fu—“ Lara started, but the Variant lashed out at her. His beefy arm caught her throat and she flew backward as if yanked by a string.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The Variant lowered its head and charged. Lara brought her hands to her face, refusing to witness the horror that was about to reign down on her. The Variant let out a wail, a thunderous howl that undulated through the empty streets. The others fumbled with their weapons. The Variant reached for Lara’s arm when a single gunshot cracked through the madness. It was just one shot at first, followed by five consecutive bursts.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The Variant wavered, its legs unsteady and fleeting. The others watched as blood seeped through its weathered grey shirt, the small bullet holes looking like indentations in a soda can. The Variant turned, its massive chest heaving, a glazed look in its eye. It stumbled backward and then fell over. When it fell, the ground shook and Captain Blake could have sworn the wooden fence rattled from its vibration. The Variant was dead.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The others turned around to see the last whiffs of smoke curling out of Annie’s .38. Though they were shaking, the gun was still clasped in her hands. She dropped the gun and her shoulders sunk. <span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">Martin was the first to go to her and take her in his arms. He hugged her and she began to cry. It was a quiet, whimpering cry. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> When he pulled away she wiped the tracks from her cheeks and steadied her quivering lip.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “You okay?” Martin asked.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
She nodded fervently. She <i>was</i> okay. A combination of shock, adrenaline, and relief surged through her heart and she felt nothing but exhilaration. The Variant was dead, and the others were safe. That was all that mattered. And that was all that would matter from there on out.</div>
<div class="p4">
<br /><span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p4">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p4">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p4">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b>ISSUE #11</b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Buffalo Grove, IL</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Day 18 of The Rise</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Crime had tripled in the last ten days. Karl Rose, a father of three, walked into Ace Hardware and shot the cashier. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> So it goes…</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Neighbors were breaking and entering each other’s homes, not to rob, but to kill. Carl Bard woke to find his neighbor Aaron Kohn standing over him as he slept. Before he had a chance to ask Aaron what he was doing, Aaron stabbed him in the chest with a gardening spade. Carl’s wife woke, saw the horror, and screamed so loud it’s a miracle her lungs didn’t explode. Aaron Kohn wrapped his hands around Mrs. Bard’s throat and crushed her larynx with his fingers. She drowned a dry death less than a minute later.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> So it goes…</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> There was a heat wave that week. And, during so many heat waves, news anchors and journalists chalked the recent behavior up to “extreme reactions to heat stroke.” This was nonsense. There are always signs of change, one just had to be patient enough to recognize them. One thing was true: the world was becoming a startling place. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Annie Walker woke on the 18th Day of The Rise to the sound of a Cardinal outside her window. It danced on the sill and pecked lightly on the glass. She had had the air conditioner on and Annie supposed the bird felt the cool of the window and was hoping to stop in. Just to say hi, perhaps, or maybe steal a glass of lemonade. It was, after all, that sort of day.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> She awoke that day, like so many days, a minute before her alarm was set to go off. She hadn’t slept well for many nights, and she supposed her diagnosis had been the culprit. Her diagnosis came three weeks after her husband left; left and took her son with him. It was an aggressive form of cancer that started in her Lymph nodes and eventually spread to her breasts, stomach, liver, and pancreas. The doctors were optimistic (they gave her six weeks). Though, in her heart of hearts, she knew she wouldn’t make it to the end of the month. If she made it to her son’s birthday, she'd be happy; content to leave the world celebrating his birth.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> So it goes… </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Annie threw the covers off her legs and got out of bed. Her abdomen felt cramped and tender, the vomiting had kept her up most of the night.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The C word hadn’t come up with anyone else in her life. She kept her illness private and if she ever felt the need to upchuck at work, she would politely excuse herself, yack, and return to the grind. Yack! She sounded like her son. “A kid at school yacked all over his Pumas today, Mom!” he announced one afternoon. “Actually, he yacked all over Jenny Malloy’s desk. It just dripped down on his shoes…hers too! It was wild!” Annie smiled at the memory of her son. She longed for a touch of that energy now. Just a nip of energy to take the edge off, right?</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Cancer. The word was dirty and tainted. Of course it was tainted. It was, after all, Cancer. Cancer with a capital “C.” But it was more than that. It was her life now. And, soon, it would be her death.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> So it goes…</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> She had spoken to her husband a few times since he left and they were amicable enough, though there was an emptiness in his voice; a sort of vacancy that seemed eager to get off the phone as soon as they started talking. In all of their conversations, Annie couldn’t muster the courage to say those three little words: “I. Have. Cancer.” Her first thought was that he would blame her; blame her for not taking care of herself or blame her for not getting checked. He played the blame game and she was always the loser. Her ex-husband wasn’t a bad man, just a selfish one. And a selfish man surely would do no good for a long lasting marriage. He was, however, a key player in their short-lived one.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Her alarm went off while she was staring out the window. It was set to 94.7 WLS-FM Detroit. The Detroit morning guy was named Dave Cash, and even though Annie found him a trifle obnoxious, his voice was soothing enough. When Dave had moved from Chicago to Detroit, Annie had even gone out and bought one of those nifty universal radios just so she could retain her audible relationship with Mr. Cash. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> She used to joke with her friends that Dave was more suited for 100.3 The Wave, where people call in and dedicate love songs. 100.3 was DJ’d by a woman named Michon Harris. Her voice was a calming, emblematic purr with a subtle note of sexiness. “This song goes out to Jonathan. Jonathan, Olivia says she can’t stop thinking about you, and she wants you to know she’s truly found her best friend and soul mate. If you can find it in your heart to forgive her, she’ll spend the rest of her life making you happy. Jonathan, if you’re out there, this one’s for you.” Usually it was the same trite dedication that made you roll your eyes, but, after a while, Annie would find herself invested in these invisible characters. “Are you kidding me? She doesn’t love you! She cheated on you,” she would yell while pounding on her steering wheel. Most mornings, though, were dedicated to Dave Cash.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Good morning all you 94 FM super fans! And what a beautiful morning it is. It’s a balmy 92 degrees out there in downtown Detroit, but the sun is shining and the lake’s a calling, so get on out there and enjoy your beautiful Friday morning!” </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Annie turned down the radio’s volume and switched on the television; the local news was wrapping up. Oren Hill and Sasha Guitierez sat next to each other, the Channel 11 logo displayed proudly behind them.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> While they spoke, Annie went to her nightstand and opened the top shelf. Inside, tucked inside the flap of a red envelope, was a birthday card. A cartoon boy with a football shaped head smiled up at her. Fireworks exploded behind him.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “We thank you for joining us this morning on Channel 11 Chicago,” said Oren Hill. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “We hope to see you back here again, tomorrow,” Sasha Guitierez said.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The television anchors faded away and an episode of “General Hospital” started. Some woman had just gotten facial reconstruction surgery and when they took off the bandages she looked exactly like the doctor’s wife who had died in a fiery car crash two episodes earlier. <i>But she was in love with his brother…who had been dead for ten years!!!</i></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> So it goes…</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Annie took a seat at the edge of the bed and opened the card. She held the eraser end of the pencil to her lips and furrowed her brow. The words were not coming to her. How could they? She hadn’t seen her son in seven weeks and, even then, it was transient and soulless. He had kept his iPod on and his expressions were unrecognizable to her. He seemed annoyed, bitter. She couldn’t blame him. The divorce had been difficult on him, much more than the separation. With the separation, there was at least the small hope of reconciliation. But the word ‘divorce’ offered nothing but absolute finality.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> She wrote the first word: </span><b>KYLE</b></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The word hung on the page. She wrote the letters, all in caps and regretted it as soon as she did. Now she would have to write the entire card in caps otherwise his name would look positively silly. She continued:</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p5">
<span class="s1"><b>Kyle,</b></span></div>
<div class="p5">
<span class="s1"><b>You have been my special guy since day one. Your father and I love you very much, and we’re so proud of the boy you turned out to be. I’ve struggled with how I should tell you this, but now the time has come since I don’t know how much time I have left. I have cancer. And it’s the kind of cancer that doesn’t get any better. It’s The kind that has no rhyme or reason IN life. I wish, so much, I could be around to love and protect you forever, but </b></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"><b></b></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The words suddenly stopped. There were so many things she wanted to see him do: get his driver’s license, come back from his first date, scold him for breaking curfew, graduate from high school, get his first college acceptance letter. Her heart felt ready to burst. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Annie stared at the words on the left side of the card. Particularly, the C word. That muddy, muddy word surround by a block of text she hoped Kyle would get through before tossing it in the trash. Kyle didn’t like to read much, he was one of those “postmodern babies” you hear the old folk whine about. The kids who spent most of their days with earbuds in and most of their nights downloading porn.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The television flickered and “General Hospital” suddenly disappeared. A quick “Breaking News” graphic flashed on the screen and then Oren Hill and Sasha Guitierez returned. While they both shared a look of mutual stress, Sasha Guitierez looked genuinely frightened. While Oren spoke, it appeared as though she was looking over her shoulder or glancing at the nearest exits.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt your currently scheduled program to bring you this breaking news report: The National Guard is ordering citizens of Chicago and nearby cities to be evacuated immediately. There have been terrible incidents at Northwestern Memorial and Children’s Memorial hospitals. We’re still getting details on what is actually happening. Whether it’s an outbreak or a terrorist attack, we’re not exactly sure. But, for now, citizens of Chicago, Lincolnwood, North Shore, Buffalo Grove, Oak Park, please follow the National Guard and evacuate!” Oren Hill’s speech was unwavering, but rushed. “I repeat, there has been some sort of attack on local hospitals that is spreading to the outer city limits and we need to evacuate immediately!” He was shouting now, and, in the background of the studio, a loud pounding was audible. It sounded as if somebody was slamming a sledgehammer against brass metal door.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Sasha Guitierez screamed and a loud commotion ripped through the studio.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Ladies and gentlemen, get out now! Get out now!” Oren was removing his microphone around the same time a Variant entered frame and ripped his throat from his neck. There was an explosion of blood that sprayed over the news desk and Oren Hill fell flat on his face, his body slumping in front of Sasha Guitierez.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Her scream curdled the blood of listeners all over the Chicagoland area. There were splotches of red on her dress and face. Her bladder let loose.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> A Variant, teeth gritted and eyes wild, ran up behind her and twisted her neck clear around. The microphone, still attached to her dress, produced a dreadful crunch. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The camera tipped over and the image disappeared into a cloudy grey screen followed by:</span></div>
<div class="p7" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><b>We are experiencing technical difficulties.</b></span></div>
<div class="p7" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><b>Please standby.</b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span></b> It had all happened so fast. Annie hadn’t moved. She watched the horror unfold, believing, at first, it was some sort of grotesque prank. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Annie grabbed the phone, but there was no dial tone. The service was busy. No outgoing calls. No incoming calls. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Ladies and gentlemen, please evacuate!” a voice came from the street, resonating over a megaphone.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Annie ran to the window and saw a man standing on the back of a Humvee, the National Guard decal stuck to the driver’s side door. “Always Ready, Always There” the insignia read. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Please evacuate now. We are here to help!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Across the street, Annie watched as her neighbor, Mr. Veverka, ran out of his house. Even from her distance she could see the crazy in his eyes. Veverka wore a blood-stained undershirt that hung loosely from his hefty exterior and was holding a nine inch butcher knife in his left hand. He ran at the Humvee with such purpose—as if his only goal in life was chasing that vehicle down.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The man on the back of the Humvee removed his sidearm and fired a single shot into Veverka’s head. Mr. Veverka, a man who had come by so many time to shovel off Annie’s sidewalk, or help mow her lawn, was suddenly dead.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The man on the back of the Humvee returned the sidearm to his holster and brought the megaphone back to his mouth, genuinely unfazed. Veverka was gone and he hadn’t batted an eyelash. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Please, ladies and gentlemen, you are not safe. You must leave your homes. We are here to help!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Annie was out the door before she had time to lace her shoes.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Here! Over here!” Annie called.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The man in the Humvee turned around, the megaphone still pushed against his lips.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Stop!” he yelled to the driver. “Hurry!” He called back to her. “They’re coming.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Annie glanced over her shoulder and saw a herd of people running up the street. It was a surreal and menacing sight. She didn’t know which ones were bad and which ones were good. But, more importantly, she didn’t care.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The man on the Humvee helped her into the back, pounded on the roof, and the vehicle sped away. The figures behind her grew smaller and smaller. The man on the Humvee continued to call people out of their homes, but realized his attempts were lost when a man named Crowley and his daughter, Laura, were the only other survivors they managed to pick up. After a while, he put the megaphone down and took a seat next to Annie.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “That’s it,” he called up to the driver. “Head back to camp.” He dropped his head in his hands. Sweat dripped from his greasy black hair. When he finally looked up at them he managed a small smile, but it slowly faded and she never saw it again.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Crowley held his daughter close. She began to cry over the roar of the Humvee’s engine.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Annie looked down at her hands and noticed she still had her son’s birthday card clutched between her fingers. She hadn’t taken a jacket, she hadn’t taken a sweater, she hadn’t taken a phone, but she had taken the birthday card.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
She leaned back against the Humvee’s metal frame and closed her eyes. The world has gone mad, she thought, the world has gone completely mad.</div>
<div class="p1">
So it goes…</div>
<div class="p8">
<br /><span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p8">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p8">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p8">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p8">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p8">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p8">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b>ISSUE #12</b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Potawatomi Woods, Wheeling, IL</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Day 18 of The Rise</span></div>
<div class="p8">
<span class="s2"><b></b></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Annie, Crowley, Laura, and the National Guard soldiers arrived at base camp 45 minutes after Veverka had dropped dead. The scene was dismal and bleak: four nomadic huts had been set up just inside the Potawatomi Woods. They were the size of old schoolhouses, but could be be put up and taken down in less than an hour. Soldiers used them during their service in the Middle East, and now the National Guard was using them to defend against the Variants. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The Humvee parked in front of the second hut. Annie noticed four National Guard soldiers standing in a semi-circle near a poorly engineered fire pit. All but one were smoking. The one who wasn’t smoking was a sickly-looking boy, no more than 19 years old. He looked terribly pale and shell-shocked. Annie could sympathize. Jesus, wouldn’t anyone?</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Everybody off,” the man on the Humvee ordered.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Annie helped Crowley and Laura down from the be and led them inside the hut.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “My god…” Crowley muttered upon entering.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The hut was crammed with dozens of survivors. It looked like a refugee hut, packed to the gills with broken, disparaged souls. Mothers held their children while fathers paced feverishly next to them. Some of the survivors had dried blood stained across their clothes. Others seemed to be in a catatonic state, rocking back and forth like laughing maniacs.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “This looks like a cattle cage,” Crowley remarked. He picked up Laura and propped her on the inside of his elbow. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Who are these people, Daddy?” she asked.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “These are people who need help, sweetie.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Do we need help, Daddy?” she asked.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Crowley looked at his daughter and cupped her left hand in his. He kissed her little fingers as tears formed on the inside of his eyes. “No, sweetie, we’re okay,” he told her.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Is Mommy meeting us here?” Laura asked.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Annie saw the tears that had welled in the pits of his eyes fall down his cheeks. It broke her heart. Crowley couldn’t formulate a response, all he could do was bury his face in his daughter’s neck and cry.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I’m going to find out what’s going on,” Annie said. “Try and find a place where she can rest.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Crowley nodded, wiped the tears from his eyes, and went off with Laura.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Outside, Annie saw the man on the Humvee speaking to the four soldiers by the fire pit. He, too, was smoking a cigarette, and, as she approached them, she could see the burning white stick quivering in his hand. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Excuse me,” Annie said.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The man on the Humvee turned to her, a grim look in his eyes. “Yes, ma’am?” She could tell the man’s patience was fading, and probably had been for some time. He tried to put on his best reassuring smile, but all that came out was a slight part of the lips and a gap where she could see his bottom teeth.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “I was wondering if somebody could tell me what’s going on.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The man inhaled, but said nothing.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Please, I’d really like to know what’s happening.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “So would I,” the man said.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “These people need information,” said Annie. “They <i>deserve</i> information.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The man looked at the four other soldiers, all of whom gave him the same noncommittal grunt.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Look, I just saw you gun down my neighbor in the place I call home—“</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “—Called home,” one of them interrupted.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Shut your yap,” the man snapped. He turned back to Annie. “Nobody knows what the hell is going on, sister. It’s like some outbreak. Only nobody can figure it out.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Is there anything they do know?” She took a step closer to him and dropped her tone.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Listen, you shouldn’t worry,” he told her. “The best thing you can do now is to go back inside and try and help out with the others.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “You’re not getting rid of me until you start giving me some answers, Mr…”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The man smiled. He placed the cigarette at the corner of his mouth and held out his hand. “Name’s Porter,” he said. “Pleasure.” He looked around at their surroundings and shrugged. “Well, I guess it’s only <i>sort of</i> a pleasure.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> She took his hand in hers. “Annie Walker.” Then she, too, looked around and shrugged. “Now please, Mr. Porter, I’d really like to know what’s going on.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> He sighed. She thought he might tell her to scram or get lost, but was surprised when he put his arm inside her elbow and led her away from the others. He stuffed out his cigarette and leaned so close to Annie she could smell the terrible smokiness on his breath. “The CDC is denying any sort of outbreak or epidemic. When all this started, they did a few atmospheric tests but didn’t find any irregularities.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “When did this all start?” she asked.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “On the record, a week ago. Off the record? Who fucking knows? All we do know is, people started dying—and people started dying fast. The murders caught CDC’s eye first, but what they’re not telling the public is that there has been a tremendous spike in aneurism deaths ever since the attacks started. They’re not sure <i>how</i> the aneurisms and the attacks are related, but they do know they <i>are</i> related. That’s what they’re trying to weed through now.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “So they’re still working on it? Is there a cure?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Porter took another cigarette from his pack and she saw that his hands were still quivering. He went to put the smoke in his mouth, but it fell from his fingers and hit the ground. “I don’t know, Ms. Walker. And that’s the god’s-honest-truth.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Annie glanced back at the huts. “So what now?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “We wait for the military to tell us what to do. Or the DOD. Or the CDC. Hell, we’ll listen to just about anybody at this point. Frankly, Ms. Walker, everybody’s scared shitless. We’ve never seen anything of this magnitude and nobody knows how we can fix it.” He bent down and picked up his cigarette. “One thing’s for sure though: things are fixin’ to get a lot worse, before they get better. I ain’t never been so goddamn scared.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> She looked deep into his eyes, but saw only small, black marbles staring back at her. The Hell Porter had seen over the last hour had snatched the soul from his body. He lit the cigarette with those awful, trembling hands. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> If the cigarettes didn’t get him, Annie thought, the Hell surely would.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
The cigarettes would be of little concern, however, because Porter and the other Potawatomi survivors would be dead by nightfall.</div>
<div class="p1">
And on and on it goes…</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b>ISSUE #13</b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Potawatomi Woods, Wheeling, IL</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Day 18 of The Rise</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /><span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> It would not be the commotion that would startle Annie Walker awake. She had fallen asleep an hour before sundown. The rest of the hut was still milling about, but exhaustion finally took her. There were no dreams to speak of, no night terrors, just darkness. The darkness, though, was interrupted when she felt a hot, putrid breath tickling the side of her face. She opened her eyes, curious of the source.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> When her eyes adjusted, she saw the demonic gaze of Crowley staring down at her. His fingers were caked in blood, with continuing splotches on his neck and chest. There was no longer any warmth in his eyes. He looked as though somebody had replaced his heart with a couple of double A batteries. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Crowley?” she said. But the Crowley she had met on that Humvee was no longer there.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The sound of her voice set him off like a branded horse. He yanked at her arms and lifted her from the cot in one swift motion.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> She let out a shrill scream and he slammed the back of her head against the wall. The room spun and a steady stream of blood ran down the back of her neck. The haze from her eyes lifted and she saw, behind Crowley, two dozen dead bodies scattered throughout the hut. Some victims had limbs that were torn clean off. Others were missing throats, chins, and eyeballs. Near the door, Annie saw Crowley’s daughter, Lauren, lying amongst the corpses. Her eyes were closed and her hands were resting on her chest. Death came quickly for her.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Next to her was Porter. He had not been as lucky. His right arm had been ripped from its socket and his jawbone was lying eighteen inches in front of him. He looked like some ghastly painting that had not yet been finished. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><i> Always Ready, Always There?</i> Sadly, no more, Mr. National Guard.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Though it was missing three of its fingers, there was a CB radio still clutched in Porter’s left hand.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Crowley, what did you do?” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> He grunted and slammed her against the wall again. He let out a long, deep gasp of air and Annie felt the stink of it. She tried to turn her head away, but he grabbed hold of her chin and snatched her back, gazing at her with curious eyes. Crowley somehow seemed different now, almost inquisitive. It was as if he had just been asked a riddle and couldn’t construct an answer.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span><i> Two coins add up to twenty-five cents. One of them is not a nickel. What are these two coins?</i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> He tilted his head to the right, didn’t like what he saw, then tilted his head to the left. His curiosity went on for days. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span><i> Two coins add up to twenty-five cents, damn it, and one of those coins is not a nickel. What are these two coins? WHAT ARE THESE TWO COINS, YOU SON OF A BITCH?</i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Crowley, listen, I don’t know what you did—“</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> He hit her across the face, splitting her lower lip. The blood was minimal, but it hurt like hell. He hit her again, this time just for good measure. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span><i> Don’t interrupt me while I’m trying to solve you,</i> his eyes screamed. <i>WHAT ARE THESE TWO COINS?</i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> In Annie’s back pocket she could feel the stiff cardboard of her son’s birthday card pressing against her buttocks. She slid her hand behind her, hoping Crowley wouldn’t notice. He didn’t. His eyes were unblinking on hers. She slipped the card out of her pocket.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What are you?” Crowley finally asked. His words were staggered, but clear. “What…Are…You?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> She stared back at him uncomprehendingly. </span><i>What am I? </i> She hadn’t the slightest idea what he meant. He seemed repulsed by her, yet, strangely captivated. </div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Air strike commencing in thirty seconds. Porter, you get those people out of there, copy?” The words echoed out of Porter’s CB radio with such a graveness Annie momentarily forgot about the birthday card in her hand.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Twenty-five seconds! Porter, status?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Annie squeezed the card with her thumb against the base of her index finger and raised it up. Crowley didn’t notice, his attention was fixed on her eyes.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What are you?” he demanded. “What are you? What are you? What are you?” Crowley was screaming. He blinked and Annie saw two red rings form around his eyes.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Air strike in twenty seconds,” the voice boomed. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Annie swung the birthday card through the air. The corner of it sliced through Crowley’s right eye producing a quick squishing sound. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> S<i>PPPPPLOSCH! </i>Crowley’s red-ringed eye screamed.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> He fell back, tripping over one of the bodies. Though, he didn’t screamed. He clutched his socket as the sclera dissolved into a mixture of blood and puss. Crowley writhed on the ground, kicking his feet against one of the bodies, but, still, he didn’t scream. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Ten seconds.” The voice turned ominous. “Porter, do you read me?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Annie jumped over Crowley, the birthday card dripping blood. He reached for her, but the laces of her untied shoes slipped through his fingers. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span></b> “Five seconds!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> She looked back in time to see Crowley getting to his feet. <i>What are the coins, for the love of God?</i> His eyes were desperate, longing for answers. But Crowley made no move to run after her, he only stood there, stoic and calm.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Three, two…”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Annie threw open the door and heard the jets fly over. There was the quick surge of air as the missiles disengaged and shot through the night sky. Then, the hut caved in around her like a dying star. Its brittle beams thudded against the fragile sheetrock and her last thought was of Crowley. She imagined the roof as it turned him into splatters of gore. She thought of the way he looked at her with such child-like curiosity. She thought of the frustration in his eyes. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> A nickel and a dime</i>, she thought as the darkness consumed her. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><i> A nickel and a dime.</i></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> When she would wake, four months later, Annie would be met by the panicked eyes of Enrique Valenzuela, Captain Richard Blake, Lara Holliday, and Martin Knight.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
The Variants would chase them into the clearing all wondering the same question. <i>What are you, Ms. Walker. What. Are. You?</i></div>
<div class="p4">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b>ISSUE #14</b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Park Ridge, IL</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Four months after The Rise</span></div>
<div class="p5">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The survivors lingered around the Variant’s body longer than any of them wanted. Annie was the only one who didn’t. She rested against the splintered picket fence hugging her legs against her chest. Tear tracks were visible along her dust-caked face.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martin knelt next to the Variant’s body and opened one of its eyelids. The pupil was small and black and the iris was a supple green. There was, however, a thin, discolored red ring around the pupil. Martin released the eyelid and opened his pack. From inside he produced a small syringe. He stuck the needle in the Variant’s neck, just below the jaw, and extracted a small sample of blood. Martin extracted the needle and held the vile to the sun. The blood was a vibrant red, almost shimmering, against the late morning sun. The blood almost glowed. When Martin pulled it away it transformed back into the dark, rich matter so often seen when someone pricks their finger or skins their knee.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Out of the light, the blood looked completely normal.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> But why shouldn’t it? Annie thought.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><i> Because it’s a Variant, </i>the other side of her brain countered. <i>It’s a rotten Variant that doesn’t deserve the same blood as a human. It deserves black in its veins. Dirty black blood. As black as oil. Black, to accompany its black beating heart. Black like the…</i></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Did you say something?” Martin asked. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Annie looked up, a little startled. <i>Had she said something? No, no, surely not. </i>“No,” she said. “I didn’t say anything.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martin nodded, but kept his unsure eyes on her. “Let’s get going, we’ve been here too long.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
Without a word of protest, the others gathered up their packs and headed east along Birchwood Avenue. They would be to Chicago in a matter of hours and the sun would not wait for them.</div>
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<span class="s1"><b>ISSUE #15</b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Chicago, IL</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Four months after The Rise</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"><b></b></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> It wasn’t until the survivors reached the shore of Lake Michigan that Chicago’s skyline finally came into view. Fog had rolled in, making the skyline look skeletal and morose. There was no more bustling energy, no vibrancy. There was only a cluster of buildings that had been forsaken by the world of tomorrow—The World of the Variants.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The survivors no longer walked in cliques. Instead, they trudged along single-file like some melancholy game of Follow The Leader. Martin was in the back, Annie a few feet in front of him. He watched her ponytail bounce back and forth with hypnotic rhythm. She hadn’t said a word since they left the Variant’s body in Park Ridge.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> They arrived at Lower Wacker Drive a touch after 6:00 p.m. Lower Wacker: built in 1926 at the cost of eight million dollars and named after chairman of the Chicago Plan Commission, Charles H. Wacker. The design was meant to alleviate traffic congestion at River Street and Rush Street and the double-decked roadway design was an architectural revolution at the time. Now, however, Lower Wacker was nothing more than an underground graveyard without the appropriate headstones. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> As they made their way past the decaying bodies—some still in their cars, some in the street, others hanging over the concrete barrier—Martin handed Annie a handkerchief to cover her mouth and nose. It was hard to tell through the eternal gridlock, but Martin thought there were anywhere between five hundred and six hundred souls who perished down on Wacker. It was a traffic jam of the foulest things he had ever seen. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Fucking stinks!” Lara said stuffing her nose into the crux of her elbow.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “What do you expect?” Captain Blake shook out his own handkerchief and cupped it around his nose.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Enrique didn’t use a handkerchief. He stepped through the lawn of bodies with a solemn respect. He never looked into their eyes, regarding each of them in his own right. It was this sort of quiet reverence his mother taught him when he was a child. A quiet reminder as to the gentle soul Enrique really was.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Ain’t there no other way we can go?” Lara asked.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “This is the best way,” Martin said. “Lower Wacker takes us directly under the city all the way to Lake Street. From there we should be able to make it to the United Center undetected.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Undetected?” Lara questioned with her usual skepticism.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Sun’s going down soon. If we can’t make it to the United Center by then, at least Lower Wicker will give us some sort of camouflage.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “And if the Variants are down here waiting for us?” Lara asked.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Then we’re already dead,” said Enrique. He was staring down at the body of a pregnant woman. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old. Her skin was pallid and looked like freshly cut leather, drawn taut. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Let’s just keep moving,” Martin said.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Nobody moved.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “I said ‘move out!’” he shouted with an anger Annie hadn’t expected.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Come on,” Captain Blake told the others. “You heard the Doc.” He climbed over a battered blue Cadillac leading the way for them to follow.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> They traversed their way over the first cluster of automobiles, silence their only companion. Sunlight spilled through the north end of Lower Wacker. It was a soft, dying sunlight that meant only one thing: nightfall was upon them. The Variants would be coming soon…</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Heeeeeellllllppppppp…” came a small voice from behind them. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Annie was the first to turn around. “Did you hear that?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Heeeeeellllllppppppppppp…” the voice waned.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “I sure as shit did,” Lara said, unholstering her .357.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Hello?” Enrique called down the tunnel.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Are you nuts?” Captain Blake stepped forward and slapped the back of Enrique’s head.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Oww! Watch it, yo!” Enrique cried.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Annie pulled herself onto the hood of an F-150 and climbed onto the cabin. She peered through the crippling darkness and saw, no more than a hundred yards back, the outline of a young girl. “I see somebody!”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Annie, wait!” Martin called. But it was no use. Annie’s motherly instincts kicked in and she was going back for the girl. Martin slid past the F-150 and followed after her.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “It’s all right,” she called to the girl. “We’re here, everything’s okay.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The girl was wearing a dingy white blouse and khaki capris. Her hair was greasy and black as if it had been dunked into a bucket of tar, then glossed in a layer of canola oil. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> And then there was the smile. That decrepit, ghastly smile of a girl who was no longer a girl. A girl who had been left to navigate the wastelands of the world without hope of returning to the innocence she once had. But a Variant like this little girl couldn’t help but smile at the trap she had set.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Annie, stop!” Martin yelled. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> But Annie had already met the girl, and now she could see the cracked, yellow teeth leering back at her. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “God…” was all she could muster before the girl leapt at her. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The girl’s mouth foamed as she threw punches into Annie’s chest and abdomen. Annie screamed and felt a chunk of flesh tear away from her collarbone. The girl grabbed a tire iron under a nearby car and raised it up, ready to strike, when her eye exploded out the back of her skull.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Annie looked back and saw Martin jump down from a nearby Toyota, his Desert Eagle leaving a trail of smoke as he did.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Come on,” he said helping her to her feet.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> There was a thundering of footsteps farther down Lower Wacker and Martin watched as a band of Variants emerged from the darkness. There must have been 200 large. The sun bounced off a nearby building and illuminated them for a brief moment. The Variants cringed at the star’s burning light, but didn’t waver.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> They’re adapting, Martin thought. <i>Christ almighty, they’re adapting.</i></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Go back,” Martin said and gave Annie a little push over the Toyota. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The Variants gave chase, their feet pounding over the paralyzed automobiles with thundering effect. The herd trampled over the windshields and sunroofs and emitted a rumbling battle cry like something out of a 50s war film. The ringing echoed off the tunnel walls and Annie suddenly felt entombed. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The survivors’ bullets came next, whizzing past Annie and Martin. Lara, Captain Blake, and Enrique were dropping Variants, but not nearly fast enough. The ones in front fell back and were immediately trampled by the other ravenous warriors.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Keep moving!” Martin ordered and didn’t stop to wait for the others.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Enrique was the first to turn and follow. Lara and Captain Blake unloaded a few more rounds then scampered after them.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Lara turned back every so often, dropping the frontline of Variants. She would turn and run, turn and run, like some modern dance she had created for this new age. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> She and Captain Blake passed an abandoned garbage truck. The driver in the front was dead, a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the temple. The name “Earl” was stitched on his navy blue jumpsuit and the glass on the driver’s side door had been blown out. Whether it was from the bullet or the Variants trying to break their way in, it didn’t really matter. Either way, old Earl got off easy. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Well done, Earl. Godspeed. We should all be so lucky.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Captain Blake and Lara took cover behind the truck’s massive wheels. Lara reached under the truck’s frame and fired off a single shot. She howled with pleasure as the bullet split through a small opening between a Jeep and a battered Lincoln and lodged in the brain of a front-running Variant. The race was over for that poor bastard.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Captain Blake flipped open the top of his bag and reached inside. Lara’s eyes filled with mischievous wonderment when he produced two exquisite looking grenades. The webbed green exterior was like a beautiful sculpture and they shared a smile as Captain Blake pulled each of their pins.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Fire in the hole!” he called and Lara howled like a wolf at the moon.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Captain Blake stuffed the two grenades under the garbage truck’s wheels and he and Lara took off, their legs kicking wildly at the pavement beneath them.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Get down!” Martin called.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> He, Annie, and Enrique dropped next to an empty city bus, wrapping their arms around each other in a faux group hug.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Captain Blake and Lara, now thirty yards away, leapt into the cab of a brand new Dodge Ram. Damn thing didn’t even have its license plates yet. Crying shame for that missing owner.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The Variants trampled over a small red Kia—its frame giving way to their tremendous weight—and rounded the garbage truck. The leader of the Variants was smiling when the grenades went off. The explosion ripped the skin from his face and his teeth exploded out the side of his mouth.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The truck flipped onto its side crushing a cluster of Variants. The explosion propelled another pack of Variants over the side of Lower Wacker only to be swallowed up by the depths of the Chicago River. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> When the dust and smoke settled, the dump truck and a few automobiles had been rotated in such a way that Lower Wacker was completely blocked. The scream of the surviving Variants was still audible, but their threat was no longer real. They were trapped in a tunnel of death, with only the entrance as a way out.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Hot damn that was good shit!” Lara said hopping out of the truck.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> When they reached the others, they noticed a foolish looking smile on Enrique’s face.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “What are ya grinnin’ at ya goof?” Lara asked, also smiling.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Just glad we’re all still alive,” he said.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
Captain Blake and Lara had let them live to see another day. Which, they supposed, was both a blessing and a curse.</div>
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<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b>ISSUE #16</b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Chicago, IL</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Four months after The Rise</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"><b></b></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> They ascended the tunnel to Lake Street and were met by a marvelous orange glow. Night hadn’t yet come. <i>They surely should have time</i>. At most, though, there would only be twenty minutes of sunlight, so the survivors quickened their pace. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The United Center was less than a mile away, but the Variants would soon be out in droves. Daylight had always meant the absence of Variants. At night the Variants moved in packs that were fantastically dense. Now, however, they were testing the waters, feeling out the boundaries of dusk and dawn.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><i> Adaptation, </i>Martin continued to wonder. <i>They </i>must<i> be adapting.</i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> They made it to the corner of Warner and Wood Street by 8:38pm. Night was beginning to drown out the day. The air was becoming dank and cool.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Adjacent to where they stood, across a sprawling parking lot, was the United Center. Behind them was William H. Brown Junior High School. Its cracked brick and broken windows made it look like an abandoned insane asylum. There were abandoned cars all around them, but the landscape was void of any military or relief vehicles. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Don’t look like no FEMA camp to me,” Enrique said.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Where are all the people?” asked Annie.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Her question was met with only silence.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> They could see a FEMA banner tied carelessly to the United Center’s marquee board. The top corner, having pulled free, was now whipping back and forth against the concrete. A series of metal barricades lined the stadium’s perimeter, though some of them were tipped on their sides or had crumbled to pieces, cast aside like old stones.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> A large, ancient-looking crow hopped down from the roof of the Center, swooped in front of the north entrance before perching on a downed power line. It cawed and flapped its massive wings. The sound swooped through the parking lot before disappearing into the empty city.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I don’t understand,” said Martin.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “What do you mean: ‘you don’t understand?’ We got had, Martin.” Captain Blake’s gruff voice was bordering on dejection. “We’re as screwed as screwed can get out here.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Well, this is just <i>fuckin’</i> great!” Lara cried.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “What do we do now?” Enrique asked. “Sun’s goin’ down and we ain’t got too many options, ya know?” He mindlessly rolled his St. Christopher necklace through his fingers.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Maybe there’s something inside the stadium,” Martin said.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Like what?” Lara challenged.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Like supplies.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “We don’t need supplies! We need fucking help! We need fucking answers!”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Either way, I reckon we get outta the dark. And get outta the dark fast,” Captain Blake added surveying the night sky.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Had they not stood around and argued for the next thirty seconds, things may have turned out differently for Enrique. Maybe if they had agreed on where to go or what to do sooner, he may have avoided the bullet that ripped through his pectoral muscle, just below his collarbone, and exited his back with a “pffftt” of crackling bone and shredded tissue. Sadly, though, that was not the case for Enrique Valenzuela on that muggy evening in Chicago.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
The bullet had barely made a sound. By the time they made it to safety, Captain Blake estimated the bullet came from the barrel of a Barrett M82 sniper rifle somewhere on the roof of the United Center.</div>
<div class="p3">
“Either the M82 or the M107,” he would tell them. “At that range though, either of ‘em could blow a man’s head into a flurry of brain paste. So I guess it don’t really matter.”</div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><i> That goddamn bird,</i> Lara would later realizee. <i>That goddamn crow swooped down cause some asshole climbed up on that roof and shot at us. Goddamn bird…</i></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Let’s just go inside. If we can’t find anything, we’ll stay here for the night and head out in the morning,” Martin said.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “I’m done taking orders from you. It’s only led us to one dead end after another,” Lara shouted. “Fucking miracle we’re still alive!” </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Lara, calm down,” said Captain Blake.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “It’s true! We’re better off on our own!”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> And that was the last of the argument. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> There was a quick puff of air, sharp and quick. They saw the blood next. It sprayed across the asphalt in a fabulous mist. Enrique’s body went taut. He looked like how a person does when they get jolted by a police taser. Enrique stiffened and then fell forward into that misty blood cloud.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> A second bullet flicked off the concrete just next to Lara’s feet.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Sniper!” Captain Blake yelled.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> What happened next had to have been the perfect recipe of adrenaline, luck, and frantic lust for survival. A teaspoon more of one or the other surely would have resulted in all of their deaths.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martin crouched and grabbed hold of Enrique’s collar. He felt the smooth rush of air lick his spine as a third bullet barely missed him. Enrique cried out in agony as Martin dragged him behind an abandoned school bus haphazardly parked on Warren Boulevard. A fourth bullet exploded through the bus’s rubber tire and shot a ghastly burst of old air into Martin’s face.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Captain Blake grabbed Annie’s hand and spun her toward him. The motion—had the tension not been so great—would have been considered a fancy dance move. A fifth bullet skipped past their feet. They rolled under the school bus and hugged the base of the curb.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Variants?” Annie screamed.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “That ain’t Variants, sweeting,” Captain Blake said. “That’s human.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Lara’s survival was nothing but luck. She had stood flat-footed for most of the ordeal. The whole scenario played out with such an inauthentic quality. But when she saw Enrique’s blood careening its way down the sidewalk her mind finally assessed the situation. She took an instinctual step backward as the sixth bullet exploded next to her feet. There was no urgency in her movements, just wise, calculated steps. A seventh bullet was a near millimeter miss. Later, she would recall the scorching heat of that bullet as it tickled past her neck. Lara took another step backward and did a half somersault over the curb and behind the front tire. She found herself next to Enrique. The blood was pooling around his head into a morbid sort of halo.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> He looked up at her, his skin colorless and his eyes glistening. A tear rolled town his cheek and she wiped it away as quickly as it had fallen.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “We can’t stay here!” Captain Blake shouted as another bullet blew out a second bus tire.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Let’s get him to the school!” Martin ordered. He and Lara picked Enrique up and made their way to the front door. The sniper bullets momentarily ceased. Perhaps they were finding a better angle. Perhaps they were out of bullets. Perhaps they were just biding their time.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Captain Blake shot the lock off the chain wrapped around the school’s front door and yanked it off in one swift motion. The others raced into the school, Captain Blake following close behind.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The last sound was the reverberating “ping” of the ninth sniper bullet splitting through the bus window and lodging into the school’s front door. If one looked closely, a small indentation could be seen where the bullet had struck. None of did, however, and the school’s recent renovation would go unnoticed. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The pain in Enrique’s voice shot out of him in a gurgling rage and wandered down the empty halls like a lost child.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Lara was near tears as she watched Martin go to work. Annie offered her a comforting shoulder, but Lara promptly brushed it aside and crossed to the other side of the room. Annie watched her go, but made no move to follow.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martin and Captain Blake placed Enrique on one of the wooden benches, the kind with wide slats usually reserved for those waiting for the principal. Blood dripped through the slats, collecting on the tile in a dense oval. Enrique cried out in another fit of pain as Martin applied more pressure.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Break that and give it to me,” Martin said, referring to a moldy mop propped against one of the lockers.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Captain Blake snapped the wooden handle over his knee and handed the smaller of the two halves to Martin. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Open your mouth,” he instructed.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Enrique did as he was told and Martin stuck the water-stained slab of wood between his teeth. He bit down with such intensity Martin could hear the dry sound of wood particles grinding against the enamel. He ripped open Enrique’s shirt and saw the blood loss was so severe, and the blood density was so great, it took Martin a moment to find the bullet’s point of entry. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Enrique’s breathing became strained and gurgled, the inhales and exhales painfully desperate. He pointed at his neck as if to indicate he was choking.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “What’s wrong with him?” Lara screamed.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “His lung’s punctured,” Martin said. “I need to alleviate the pressure.” </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “How?” Lara asked, now on the verge of hysteria.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “We have to get him to the United Center,” Martin said. And he said it so quietly, at first he thought nobody had heard him. Then he felt a gentle tugging at the back of his shirt. He turned and found Lara, eyes harboring heavy pockets of tears, but cautiously calm.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Are you nuts?” she asked in a harsh whisper. “I don’t know if you noticed, Doc, but a fucking sniper is raining caps down on us, and it’s another four hundred yards to the front entrance…At least!”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
“I know how far it is,” Martin said, grabbing hold of her wrist and leading her away from Enrique.</div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Lara ripped her arm away and stepped as close as she could to him. “Listen, if we go out there, then we’re all dead. The sun’s down which means the Variants’ll be coming. And if the Variants don’t get us, then that cheesedick with the rifle surely will.” She wiped the tears from the shallows of her eyes. “You’re just gonna have to fix him here.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “And I’m telling you, if we don’t get him out of here, then he’ll die. I <i>can’t</i> fix him here. That might not be a FEMA camp anymore, but it was at one time. And that means they’ll have medical supplies, a lab, maybe even an operating facility. I’m not asking for your opinion. <i>We’re going.</i> If you’d like to stay here, be my guest, but don’t expect any of us to come back for you.” The icy contempt in his voice was staggering. He turned his attention to Captain Blake. “Captain, you think you can hot wire that bus out front?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Ain’t a question of if I can, Doc, it’s a question of how fast I can.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martin nodded his appreciation. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Lara, c’m here,” Captain Blake instructed her. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> She did without a moment’s protest.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martin opened his pack and removed a soft linen towel. He placed the towel on Enrique’s wound, took Lara’s hand, and placed it on top. “Apply this amount of pressure,” he said showing her with his touch. Enrique groaned slightly. “If he tries to move, or push you away, gently push him back on the other shoulder and increase the pressure. Don’t lift the towel to check for saturation or even for your own curiosity, it’ll do more harm than good. Do you understand?” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Lara nodded.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The five minutes previous were hazy for Enrique. It was a kaleidoscope of disconnected pictures skipping in his memory like a scratched vinyl record. He remembered Captain Blake and Martin carrying him inside and setting him on an uncomfortable bench, a broom (or something like that), and the distant outline of Annie Walker as she disappeared down a hallway. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span><i> Nobody noticed her,</i> Enrique thought. <i>Where was she going?</i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<i> </i>“I know this place…” Enrique thought he heard her say. “I know this place,” she had said again. But nobody seemed to hear her except Enrique.</div>
<div class="p1">
His pain returned in a violent jolt, and the image of Annie Walker disappearing into the quiet dark of William H. Brown Junior High faded away like that last reel of a movie.</div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b>ISSUE #17</b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Sweetwater Creek State Park</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Lithia Springs, GA</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Day 39 of The Rise</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The basecamp where Higgins or Hodgkins or Whatever-The-Hell-His-Name-Was had returned holding his severed arm was made up of three separate barracks: the first for families, the second for survivors whose families were lost, and the third for military personnel. There was a small landing strip on the north end of the base where a Boeing C-17 Globemaster sat parked. While the runway was only 3,500 feet long, under normal circumstances it was more than enough length for the Globemaster to get off the ground.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The night the Variants overtook the basecamp at Sweetwater Creek State Park was the night Enrique Valenzuala arrived. It was also the night the Globemaster made its final takeoff from that narrow, uneven runway. While the takeoff would be successful, it would not have the luxury of landing.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The Army had marked off the base camp with temporary wire fencing. It was the kind that could be constructed in a day and taken down at a moment’s notice. There were four main lookout points with at least two Corporals stationed at those towers at all times. Each tower had 360-degree views of the camp, as well as the surrounding park and reserve. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The Variants would storm Tower One at a quarter past eleven that evening and kill the two Corporals. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Hell would follow shortly after. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Enrique arrived to camp by bus, as so many of them had. He sat in the very back even thought there were only six other passengers.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> When the bus dropped them inside the gate it was half past six in the evening. The six passengers filed toward the barracks in a single line. The survivors already at camp watched the new mess of “inmates” file in and Enrique felt a sudden tinge of nostalgic pain.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> When Enrique was thirteen he was caught shoplifting at the local stop-n-shop on the edge of Decora, the town he grew up in. Decora, Georgia was so small that when Sergeant Matthews asked the storeowner to describe the suspect he simply said, “Well…It was Enrique.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Enrique’s lack of remorse for the petit crime only agitated the judge presiding over the case, and he ordered him to remain at a juvenile delinquent center for no less than six months.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> He remembered what it was like when he arrived. Filing in with ten other delinquents, their heads hanging low. Ain’t so tough now, were they? The other troubled youths stared at them from their barren, whitewashed cells, gritting their fragile, yellow teeth. It was a hell unlike anything he had ever seen. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Now he was a 29 year old Mexican, having just witnessed some of the foulest shit anybody could ever see, filing off the bus like the naïve thirteen year old he once was. Hell had returned.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
There were looks of hope in the other survivors’ eyes, anticipating the arrival of lost loved ones. But there was no such hope to be found. “My daughter’s still missing, and this dirty wetback gets a pass,” one survivor muttered as Enrique passed him by. The man’s bludgeoning contempt almost knocked Enrique off his feet. He dropped his head and made his way to the sleeping quarters. </div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Enrique would manage a few hours of rest before the mayhem would begin. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b>ISSUE #18</b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Sweetwater Creek State Park</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Lithia Springs, GA</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Day 39 of The Rise</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"><b></b></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Captain Blake and Lara had arrived (separately, of course) to Sweetwater Creek basecamp three days before Enrique. They hadn’t said a word to one another. As far as Captain Blake recalled, Lara hadn’t said a thing to anybody. If you asked Lara, all she remembered of Captain Blake was “an old, wrinkly guy who kept muttering about his missing wife Hilary or Heidi or some shit like that.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> You didn’t have friends in the barracks. You had comrades. People would share a knowing nod or a tip of the cap, but that was the extent of it. There were no stories. No jokes. No “sit-around-the-fire” chit-chat. It was a murky reality and those who survived acted as if they were better off dead.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> When the alarm sounded signaling the breach on the north end of base, Enrique was lying in his cot reading the only book he managed to grab when he fled, <i>Travels with Charley</i>. He hadn’t gotten far in the story, and found himself reading the same page over and over. His mind was elsewhere. Whether his thoughts were on the whereabouts of his mother, the current state of the nation, or the way the Variant looked when Enrique pushed him out of a twelve-story window, he didn’t really know. All he knew was that his journey led him to the barracks with a book he didn’t particularly care for, and an alarm so shrill it rattled his eardrums. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Enrique popped up along with the 83 other souls in the surrounding cots. Next-door, the family barracks erupted in mass conversations of panic; 150 men, women, and children shouting over one another in incomprehensible tones. Enrique could see their shadows moving back and forth like spastic ragtime dancers. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Any idea what that alarm is?” Enrique asked the burly man next to him. The man had a thick with veins popping out like water-swollen roots. Enrique never did end up getting the man’s name. But, in the end, it was probably better that way.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Never heard it before,” the burly man said.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The loudspeaker crackled a momentary hiss and then an authoritative voice sounded over the camp, “This is Colonel Jackson. We have had a breach. I repeat: We have had a breach. All persons need to report to the military barracks immediately.” And then Colonel Jackson was gone.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Screams and shrieks ripped through the camp. Cots were tipped over, people were trampled as they made their way to the exit, one man even punched another in the jaw when they simultaneously reached the door. Enrique stupidly watched this unfold, unmoving, until a hand wrapped around his forearm. The grip was tight, but cold. His muscles twinged against the grasp.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Don’t just stand there ya dumb fuck!” And there was Lara Holliday, her dirty bleached hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. A dingy white tank clung to her body like wet paper and her already short shorts were rolled an inch higher than necessary. She pulled him toward the exit as the herd of frantic pedestrians pushed their way through the door. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Outside, they saw no Variants. Though the acreage of the state park was sprawling and massive, Enrique figured they’d see something…anything. But all appeared quiet in the night.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> They hustled to the military barracks and piled inside. Within minutes there were over 300 people jammed in a room that was only meant to hold a hundred.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Listen up!” Colonel Jackson yelled as he stepped up on a chair. “There’s been a breach on the north wall. Now, while there were only six Variants reported inside before we lost contact, it is our belief more will come. We need to evacuate immediately. Only problem is…” His words hung in the air. “Only problem is…” he said again, “…is that the plane only holds 230. What we got amongst us is over 300.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The murmurs of realization tore through the room and soon the murmurs morphed into shouts of protest. “Who would go?” “How will you choose?” and, “You have to take the children,” were just some of the things Enrique heard.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “We don’t have time to debate who goes and who stays,” said Colonel Jackson. “My men are passing out cards as we speak and that will determine who goes.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> More protest.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “The louder you yell, the sooner the Variants find us!” Colonel Jackson yelled.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The shouting softened to a low rumble.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Now, if anybody else wants to yell they can consider themselves excluded from the flight out of here.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> There wasn’t a sound.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “We’re passing out two cards at random: a green card and a red card. You get a green card, you’re on the plane, you get a red card…” his voice trailed off again, “…well then I’m sorry.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Enrique’s eyes flitted around the room until he saw one of the officers holding a small burlap sack. The soldier approached Enrique, sack open. He stared at Enrique with his marble black eyes and motioned for him to reach inside. “Take one.” The soldier’s voice echoed no notes of sympathy or remorse. Enrique clammed up. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “You hear me boy?” the solider asked.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Boy? <i>Boy</i>? The soldier couldn’t have been a year or two older than Enrique. He was just a boy himself. He was a boy who was passing out the fate of several hundred people.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span><i> Red light. Green light.</i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Hey! You hear me? I don’t got all day, boy!” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Enrique lifted a trembling hand and placed it in the burlap sack. Rigid construction paper slipped through his fingers and he thought he could detect the color of the paper by touch. This thought was quickly crushed when he grabbed at a piece of paper and pulled it out. He kept his eyes on the solider, studying his licorice skin with plain curiosity, anything to distract him from the destiny in his hands.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The soldier’s eyes fell on the paper first and then came back to Enrique’s. His facial expression was constant, but he held out his arm and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said and then stepped away.<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Enrique looked down at the paper and the flash of red danced like a maniacal bull. The devil had come to Georgia and his team color painted Enrique’s palm with mocking disinterest. He</span> looked around and saw they had finished passing out the cards. A vague sense of mourning crippled the room. Enrique saw Lara had a green card tucked away in her hand. She seemed almost embarrassed that she had been chosen, but also relieved. She offered him a sad smile and lowered her head.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “For those of you with red cards, I’m terribly sorry. We’ll leave all the weapons we can spare so you can defend yourselves.” Colonel Jackson’s voice cracked. “I wish we could have done more. May God be with you. May God be with all of us.” He stepped down from the chair and whispered something to the officer next to him. His name was Lieutenant Cole and he had a brooding, arrogant way about him. There was a small scar under his right eye and his skin was so rough you could rub his hands across a couple of 2x4s and have a table by dinner time.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Lieutenant Cole stepped up on the chair Colonel Jackson had just descended from and held his hands behind his back as he spoke, very military-like. “Those of you with green cards, you’ll have three minutes to collect your belongings before we make our way to the runway. If you aren’t outside the barracks in three minutes we will leave you behind. Is that understood?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
There were whispers of understanding, and then everyone filed out. The C-17 Globemaster was waiting. But so were the Variants.</div>
<div class="p4" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> When they got back to the barracks it was bedlam at its best. Those who had picked the green cards were hustling about, stuffing anything they could into bags whether it belonged to them or not. Those with the red cards sat on their cots, staring at their hands in mock reflection. Enrique neither sat nor hustled. He stood in the middle of the room as people passed by him without so much as a look. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Sorry ‘bout that, brother,” he heard a voice say.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Enrique turned and saw the burly man he had spoken to earlier. He was stuffing an oversized shirt into his pack. The green piece of construction paper was still firmly gripped in his hand.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Huh?” Enrique grunted. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I’m sorry,” he said again.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Enrique waved him off and stuffed his hands in his pockets.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “You’re goin’ be all right now,” the burly man said. “Ya hear?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Enrique nodded, but lowered his head. He had never been so sure in his life that he would <i>not</i> be all right. The Variants were coming. Lots of them. Did he really expect to fight them off with a military rifle and a few smoke bombs? He wouldn’t even have the luxury of retreating, the Variants would get him before that, and the burly man knew it.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Hey,” the burly man said lifting his head, “kill some of those sons a bitches for me, will ya?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Sure,” Enrique sighed.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Attaboy!” The burly man slapped him on the back. “Hey, watch my stuff for me while I hit the head, yeah? Don’t wanna be ten-thousand feet up, stuffed ‘gether like cattle and I gotta drain my lizard on some broad’s anklet, know whatta mean?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Enrique nodded and the burly man headed toward the back. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Two minutes!” Lieutenant Cole yelled. He was standing near the entrance, his arms tucked behind his back, looking as constipated as ever. “Hurry the fuck up!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Enrique looked at the burly man’s pack. It was neatly propped on the cot. In spite of how the burly man looked, he was very meticulous and well organized. Enrique glanced back at the bathroom. He chewed on his lip, contemplation getting the best of him. Finally, he grabbed a long, cotton towel from under his bed. It was what they had provided him when he arrived. The towel was a brilliant shade of white, but the material was flimsy and cheap. God bless the United States Government. He balled up the towel and headed for the bathroom.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Hey, where ya headed?” came Lara’s voice.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “What?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Lara was standing behind him. “I asked where you were headed.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Bathroom.” He continued on.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “I’m sorry you gotta stay behind,” she called after him.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Enrique stopped and turned, his eyes offering a small pocket of tears. He nodded.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Well…good luck,” she said clumsily.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “You too,” he said and then he made his way to the bathroom.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Military personnel kept the bathroom spotless. The walls were lined with immaculate blue tile and the floors were so pristine it was impossible to believe a hundred people used it on a regular basis. There were two stalls and three urinals made of polished white porcelain, and four sinks adjacent to the urinals that were polished to a glaring shine.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> When Enrique entered he noticed one of the fluorescent lights was out. <i>A rare oddity in the world of the bathroom</i>, he thought. He could hear the burly man still taking a leak. He was humming some tune Enrique didn’t recognize.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The door hadn’t made a sound when it opened or closed, and Enrique was thankful for that. He took off one of his shoes and wedged it under the door. He tested to make sure it wouldn’t open. It didn’t. So far, so good.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Enrique rounded the set of stalls and saw the burly man at the middle urinal, a steady stream still running between his legs. He took a step toward him and the burly man flinched. Enrique stopped, his feet locked to the ground as if stuck in mud. But when the burly man didn’t turn, he took another step closer. Then another. And another. Soon he was so close he was sure the burly man could feel his breath on the back of his neck.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The stream ceased and the burly man zipped up. Enrique wrapped the towel around his fingers and pulled it taut. He raised the towel and, just as he did, the fluorescent light near the entrance flickered back on. There was a momentary buzz and it illuminated. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The burly man looked up and, in his peripheral vision, saw Enrique standing behind him. “The hell you doing, Rico?” the burly man asked, more than a little peeved. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Enrique didn’t answer. He brought the towel up and over the burly man’s head and wrapped it around his thick neck. The burly man grabbed at the towel, trying to get his fingers between his neck and the fabric, but Enrique was too fast. Enrique tightened the noose and the burly man’s eyes bulged. He spun around and Enrique went with him.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> There was a brief moment when they caught each other’s eyes in the mirror. The reality right there before them. The burly man’s eyes turned red and glossy and a vein popped out on his forehead. His cheeks turned a violent shade of crimson then transformed into a dense purple.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> He reached back, trying to swat Enrique off. Enrique was momentarily lifted off the ground, but he held the ends of the towel as if riding a bull. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The burly man ran backwards and slammed Enrique into one of the urinals. He could feel the stainless steel handle click down as it jammed into his lower back. A rush of water cascaded down the porcelain as the burly man slammed him back again. Enrique pulled hard on the noose and he felt the fabric start to tear. <i>Flimsy fucking fabric.</i> <i>Fuck you, United States Government!</i></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> He nearly lost his grip on the towel, but managed to hold on by pushing his feet off the urinal and throwing them both forward. Enrique spilled over the burly man’s body and the towel twisted in such a way he could hear his neck crack. And then the fabric tore in half.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Enrique sat up and rolled the burly man over. His eyes were still bulging and the dead pupils stared up at him with haunting clarity. His short, thick tongue was hanging to one side and had swelled to nearly double its original size.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Enrique was surprised at how quickly he managed to drag the burly man to the second stall, prop him up on the toilet, and remove the green piece of construction paper from his back pocket. He stared at the emerald-colored paper with a genuine mixture of fascination, regret, and relief.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Death and life. <i>Red light and green light.</i></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Enrique nearly dropped the green ticket into the toilet when the pounding on the bathroom door started. He folded the burly man’s legs back, making it look like no one was inside, and left the stall. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<i>Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!</i></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> He turned on the faucet, splashed water on his face, and put a cool hand on the back of his neck.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><i> Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!</i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Open up!” came the thundering voice of Lieutenant Cole.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> On the floor lay the torn cotton towel. Enrique gathered it up and threw it in the trash.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Open up, I said!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> He gave one last look around the bathroom, removed his shoe from its perfectly wedged placement, and opened the door. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I’m sorry, sir,” Enrique said.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What in the hell you doing in here, boy?” Lieutenant Cole asked, his brow furrowed into a look of suspicion.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Just going to the bathroom, sir.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The fluorescent light flickered.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Takes you a helluva long time to go to the bathroom, don’t it?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “It was an emergency, sir.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Lieutenant Cole glared at him. “You think I’m stupid, boy?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “No, sir, of course not.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Lieutenant Cole cocked his head to the left, inspecting Enrique’s eyes. Enrique looked anywhere but at the Lieutenant, trying not to quiver.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Listen,” Lieutenant Cole whispered, “you gettin’ sick before a flight, especially one as rocky as this one’s gonna be, is understandable, but we gotta move, boy. Variants are right on our ass.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The muscles along Enrique’s jawline relaxed and he couldn’t believe he found himself half smiling. “You’re right, sir, you’re absolutely right, I’m sorry.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “You ready to go?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Enrique held up his green piece of gold and said, “You bet, sir!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Good man!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Lieutenant Cole stepped aside and let Enrique pass. “Let’s move out!” he shouted and headed for the entrance.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The only eyes that met Enrique’s as everyone was headed toward the exit were Lara’s. Her eyes saw that green piece of paper stuck between his fingers.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Enrique grabbed the burly man’s bag without breaking stride and continued toward the exit. Lara gathered up her own pack and sidled up alongside him.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What the fuck are you doing?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What do you mean?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “You had a red card…” she whispered. “…You had a red card…and now you have a green card…What the fuck?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I didn’t have a red card,” was all he could muster.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Where is he?” she asked, and Enrique knew he was caught. But <i>he</i> didn’t matter anymore. <i>He</i> was part of the past. <i>He </i>didn’t make it. A lot of people didn’t make it. So it goes…</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “There is no <i>he</i>,” Enrique responded.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
The burly man was dead. There were no two ways about it. His body was abandoned in the cleanest stall this side of the Mississippi. His tongue was curled up against the outside of his cheek and his lips were two purple crescents that were forever unmoving. People died every day. That’s just how it was. And the burly man was one of those unlucky to join their company. Being a religious man, Enrique hoped the burly man was a <i>good</i> man, the kind who donated to churches, who volunteered at schools, who gave twenty-five fucking cents a day to some scrawny refugee so she could eat a fucking bowl of fucking rice. <i>Anything!</i> <i>Everything!</i> Enrique’s thoughts pounded against his skull with such guilt he thought his legs might give out. He felt Lara’s arm tuck under his bicep and when he looked at her he knew he was safe. She knew he had done wrong. She knew he had killed a man, but that didn’t matter, at least not to her. The world was over, so they’d best get a move on.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b>ISSUE #19</b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Sweetwater Creek State Park</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Lithia Springs, GA</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Day 39 of The Rise</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The basecamp survivors were no more than a hundred yards from the plane when the Variants descended upon them.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Move!” Lieutenant Cole was out in front, waving his arm like a sputtering propeller, an AK-47 clutched in his free hand. The people followed, emitting soft cries of panic as their feed pounded across the preserve. The Variants were waging war, but this herd was set on survival. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The first shots were fired when they were nearly to the plane. For one silly moment, Enrique thought they would make it without any bloodshed. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Silly Enrique, happy endings are for kids.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Enrique noticed Lara had two .357’s fastened in two holsters and he wondered where she had gotten them. That thought was quickly erased when he saw her discharge them on two approaching Variants. Their heads exploded in a flurry of blood and they dropped to the ground without a further ounce of movement.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The four engines of the Globemaster coughed and sputtered before finally catching. They whipped with such fierceness Enrique thought he’d be sucked into the blade. Lara pulled on his arm and he was thrust back to reality. “We’re almost there!” she called over the engines.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Enrique was near the back of the pack. Those in front quickened their pace. They curled into the aft of the plane and Enrique had an ephemeral moment of hope. <i>He was going to make it.</i></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">Green light!</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> He couldn’t have been more than fifty yards away when a Variant grabbed his ankle. Enrique fell forward and when his chin hit the runway stars illuminated his vision. He barely remembered turning over and spitting out one of his molars.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The Variant was on top of him. Enrique saw a red flicker in the Variant’s eye and rage foamed at the sides of its mouth. The Variant tore Enrique’s right sleeve clean off and was clawing at his skin like a wolf.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> There was a gunshot and a shower of blood spurted from the Variant’s chest. The Variant cocked its head forward and stared at Enrique in stifled confusion. It fell forward, collapsing on his sternum with a dull thud. Enrique heaved a dry breath and rolled the Variant onto the tarmac.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Get up!” he heard a gruff voice say. Enrique’s mind was still spinning when he realized he was being yanked from the ground. “Y’all right?” he heard a man ask.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Enrique’s eyes clicked shut, then opened again in a haze of bewilderment. There, standing before him, was an astonishingly svelte old man. His hair and beard were white but his body was chiseled and youthful. There was an M-16 hanging loosely from his arm. He looked almost cartoonish.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Go!” the old man called pushing Enrique toward the plane.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Enrique was off, but his heart dropped when he saw the plane heading down the runway, picking up speed as it went. The faster Enrique ran, the farther away the plane seemed to get. The cargo load door was still down and sparks were spewing from the end in a glorious blaze. He could see the other survivors calling for him to run faster and he heard the engine groan another thunderous rush of power.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The plane was leaving. The Variants were coming. Death was imminent. Those were the only guarantees in life at that point.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Enrique had never remembered running that fast. His thirty-year old potbelly bounced up and down, his pudgy legs almost flailing. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Lara stood at the end of the cargo door with her hand out.<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>“Come on!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span><i> Red light, green light,</i> the plane said. <i>Or, Hurry up, motherfucker!</i> Either way, Enrique got the message.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> His strides lengthened and he felt his foot hit the base of the loading door. The jolt was so jarring he momentarily lost his balance. Lara reached out, grabbed hold of his dingy brown shirt, and pulled him forward. They tumbled to the ground, him on top of her.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Thanks,” Enrique grunted.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Get…off…” she said, her words strained by Enrique’s weight.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Come on, old man!” Enrique heard Lieutenant Cole yelling.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> He sat up and saw the lieutenant standing at the edge of the loading door. Sparks continued to spit up. The plane picked up speed. Enrique looked into the darkness and saw the old man who had saved him. A platoon of Variants ensued, and the plane that would make or break him was still ten yards away. The old man turned the M-16 around, fired off a couple shots, and then threw it to the tarmac. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><i> Red Light, Green Light. </i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The old man leapt forward through a shower of sparks and grabbed hold of Lieutenant Cole’s arm. They fell to the ground and the loading door began to close. Those inside watched as the Variants sprinted toward the plane with abandoned regard. The loading door had barely closed by the time the plane lifted off the ground. The Globemaster banked left, shook through a patch of turbulence, then steadied.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Throughout the plane, handshakes and hugs of congratulations were exchanged. Enrique, however, didn’t move. He lay with one leg cocked and his elbows stuck to the plane floor. He stared at the loading door half-expecting the Variants to pry it open and crawl inside.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Helluva night, huh?” Enrique looked to his right and saw the old man lying next to him.<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span> “Captain Richard Blake,” he said extending his hand. “Retired, of course.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> He took Captain Blake’s hand. Enrique thought he gave his name, too, but couldn’t say for sure.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The plane continued north, flying through the night sky with more safety than any of them had felt in weeks. There was only hope aboard that plane. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Splendid, profound hope. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> And for the next three hours, those aboard the Boeing C-17 Globemaster felt as if they were going to make it.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><i> Green Light</i>, the plane screamed. <i>Glorious, glorious Green Light!</i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> At precisely 2:17am, the Boeing C-17 Globemaster would be shot down and crash in Castle Rock Lake, just outside of Madison, Wisconsin. Of the two hundred thirty on board, only twelve would survive.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>Red Light.</i></div>
<div class="p4">
<span class="s1"><b><i></i></b></span><br /></div>
<div class="p4">
<span class="s1"><b><i></i></b></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b>ISSUE #20</b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Chicago, IL</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Four months after The Rise</span></div>
<div class="p4">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Enrique was dying. That much was clear. His skin had turned an ashen white and his hands trembled in shock. He would go in and out of consciousness, and, even when lucid, could only say through chattering breaths how cold he was.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “You sure you can do this? It’s not going to be easy,” Martin said to Captain Blake, leading him back to the schools’ entrance.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Doc, I reckon we wouldn’t be here if we didn’t thrive in situations involving high probabilities of death and little chance of success,” Captain Blake said.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Martin nodded. He turned toward Annie, but only an empty hallway met his eyes. “Where’s Annie?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I…I don’t know. She was here a minute ago.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Well she’s not here now.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I can see that, Martin.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Did anybody see her?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> They shrugged.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Martin gnawed on his lower lip. He was tense, and the others could sense every ounce of it. “Get out to the bus and pull it around back,” he said, his words echoing their usual notes of calm. “We’ll drive it to the north entrance and hope no sniper bullets clip us in the process. Lara, I need you to take Enrique to the south exit and wait for Captain Blake.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What are you gonna do?” she asked.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I’m gonna go find Annie. If I’m not to the bus in five minutes, just go, I’ll find some other way to the stadium.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “We’re not leaving you,” Lara insisted.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Yes. You are.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “But—“</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “This isn’t a discussion!” And that was the end of it.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Roger that, Doc,” Captain Blake said. “See you guys on the other side.” He threw the front door open spilling in a small amount of dying light. Martin and Lara barely had time to shield their eyes before the door shut and the latch caught. There was the faint sound of a single sniper bullet ricocheting off the crumbling brick, but then silence followed.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> All was calm.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What happened?” Lara asked. “Did they get him?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I don’t know.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Calm.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> And then they heard the comforting roar of the bus’s engine cough to life and relief poured over them in an awesome wave. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Get Enrique up and help him to the back, I’ll meet you there!” Martin disappeared down the hall before Lara had a chance to respond.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Along the school’s east corridor, adjacent to the gym, Annie Walker found herself standing in front of a glass display case. Half a dozen basketball trophies, along with the photos of their respective teams, rested proudly inside. Fine layers of dust collected along the chrome coatings, but, otherwise, seemed to be in decent condition. In the corner of the case there was a small bronze trophy, lined with cheap, poorly stained plywood. A meager gold-plated basketball rested on its dusty top. Engraved in the base was:</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p5" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><b>KYLE WALKER – MOST VALUABLE PLAYER</b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Behind the trophy was a picture of a young boy, thirteen or fourteen at most. He had a messy mop of dirty blonde hair and his blue eyes popped against the bright red jersey. He wasn’t smiling; he stared intently at the camera like so many athletes do: looking serious, tough. But the eyes wouldn’t lie. This was a happy boy, full of life.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Annie drew her fingers across the display, her greasy hands smudging the immaculate glass. The edges of her eyes took turns dropping tears like a metronome of sorrow.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Annie?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Annie turned and saw Martin standing at one end of the hallway.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What are you doing?” he asked. “You shouldn’t go off alone.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I…” she began, but her attention returned to the photo before a set of words could satisfy his inquiry.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What is it?” he said.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “My son…” she said pointing to the picture. “My son went here. It was only for a year. Before…before his father took him.” Her voice dropped. She sighed heavily. “This was his school. I had forgotten. I don’t know how or why, but…I just did. But then we got inside, and like some miracle, here he is. Like some sick, <i>cruel</i> miracle!” Her words pierced the silent hallways. “Goddamn it!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Annie snatched up the garbage bin next to the display case and threw it into the glass. The shards erupted into the air in a cacophony of <i>clings</i> and <i>clangs</i>.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martin hadn’t jumped, as if half-expecting it. Annie’s breathing was deep, but controlled. She reached into the case and ripped down the picture of her son in one, aggravated motion. She held it thoughtfully in her hands, stroking the edges as though it had the fragility of a newborn. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “I wasn’t able to grab any pictures of him when…when it happened.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martin nodded.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have gone off like that.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “We should go,” was all he said.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Annie nodded in agreement, but didn’t move. “It’s just that—“</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The double doors behind her exploded open. Running toward them in a surge of violent lust were fifty Variants. Behind the Variants, hanging in the night sky, was a freshly painted yellow moon. Night had come and so had the Variants.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martin grabbed Annie’s wrist and yanked her in the other direction. They rounded a corner in time to see a second herd of Variants running toward them. They were cornered. The Variants had executed their plan marvelously. <i>Clever devils.</i> </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Go back!” Martin veered her to the left and they crashed through a set of double doors into the gymnasium. Annie lost her balance and she slid to the floor. Her head snapped around and she saw him throw his shoulder into doors, slamming them shut. Before it latched, she saw a Variant’s arm thrust through the narrow opening, just above the lock; its wild fingers straining to grab any piece of Martin. He threw his weight against the door and the arm snapped, producing the most horrendous sound of crunching bone and twisting cartilage. The Variant screamed and hissed as its arm bent in a horrid direction. The veins turned a pale blue, pounding and pulsating. The Variant managed to pull the arm from the opening and Martin latched the door. The Variants pounded the other side of the door. The hinges squeaked ominously.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Annie got to her feet. “What do we do?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “I don’t know.” </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “How are we going to—?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “<i>I don’t know!</i>”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> There was an exit on the other side of the gym, but that only led back out to the street, where they would surely become sniper bait. They could wait and try their hands at the Variants, but there would be too many of them.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
The noise outside intensified as the number of Variants grew. Martin and Annie were trapped, and the door would not hold for long.</div>
<div class="p3" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> On the south end of the school, Lara was making her way toward the exit, Enrique’s arm slung over her neck. Apart from a stifled groan or two, Enrique was mercifully silent.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> They had not heard Annie’s tantrum near the display case. They had not heard the Variants inside the school. For all they knew, everything was going according to plan. Oh, how terribly wrong they were.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Lara kicked open the exit and they were met by a ripple of crisp, night air. Propped against the night sky Lara saw Captain Blake leaning against the side of the bus, his pipe lit, smoke pouring from his nose. “Taking a break?” she asked, her question coming out in little heaves as she steadied her weight against Enrique’s.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Captain Blake smiled and a cloud of smoke escaped out his nostrils. He bit down on the end of the pipe, sauntered over, and helped Lara carry Enrique onto the bus.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Captain Blake checked his watch. “It’s been seven minutes.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “He’ll be here.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Doc told us to leave.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “I don’t care what he said; we’re staying.” </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> They waited another agonizing minute, but still no Martin or Annie. Lara pulled away from Captain Blake and headed for the entrance. He grabbed hold of her wrist. “Sweetheart, if something’s wrong—like some Variants clawed their way in—the last thing I reckon we do is go traipsing back in there like a couple’a wanderin’ cattle.” </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “<i>Then what are we supposed to do?</i>”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
“If the Doc and his lil’ girlfriend won’t come to us, then we’ll go to him in style.” He took a long drag and tapped the side of his pipe against the rusty, yellow school bus.</div>
<div class="p6">
<br /><span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b>ISSUE #21</b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The United Center</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Chicago, IL</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Four months after The Rise</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"><b></b></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The gymnasium was disproportionately large for a junior high school. There were banners on the walls proclaiming things like “Colts Are #1!” and “William H. Brown High Rules!” Martin supposed the gym had been rented out for some high school games. There were sets of pompoms on the floor and empty paper Coke cups scattered forlornly amongst the open bleacher seats. It was as if a mass exodus had happened in the middle of a game.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The Variants continued to urge their weight through the door and, a few times, Martin thought it would give. It didn’t, though he knew the inevitable was waiting around the corner.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “We need to take our chances with that,” Annie said, pointing to the Emergency Exit behind them.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “We won’t be more than three steps outside the door before our brains are on the pavement.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “If we stay here we’re dead anyway. At least if we go outside we have a chance. No matter how small…”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> She was right. Martin knew that much. He took Annie’s hand and they crossed to the Emergency Exit. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “If we don’t make it through this, I’m sorry I wandered off,” she said. He smiled, grabbed the door’s broad, metal handle, and pushed down. “Wait!” Annie said suddenly.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “What?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Do you hear that?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Hear what?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Listen.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> They pushed their ears against the cool metal. On the other side of the door they heard the undeniable sound of a bus blaring its horn.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Captain Blake, you gorgeous, gorgeous man,” said Martin.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The doors on the other side of the gym burst open. The latch exploded off the frame and bounced across the glossy, waxed floor. Variants surged into the gym like a cloud of angry bees.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The horn outside grew louder. The bus was nearing.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martin threw open the Emergency Exit and saw the bus hurtling toward them. It swerved slightly to the right before Captain Blake regained control. They broke for the bus.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><i> Pfft!</i> A sniper shot whizzed past Martin’s ear.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Captain Blake spun the wheel and the tail of the bus skidded sideways. Rubber shredded and melted, and the thick smell sprang into the night air. The bus turned ninety degrees to the left and came to a screeching halt.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Another sniper shot ripped through one of the bus windows just as Martin and Annie took cover behind the its back wheel.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Uh oh,” Captain Blake said.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “What is it?” said Lara.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Captain Blake pointed at the Variants spilling through the gymnasium’s Emergency Exit and into the street. He stuck his head out the driver’s side window, “You guys mind hurrying yer little keesters up!”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martin and Annie made a break for the bus’ back exit. Lara threw up the emergency latch and kicked open the door, cracking the base of glass with her foot. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> A Variant rounded the bus just as Martin was helping Annie in. It grabbed Martin’s arm and he felt his elbow hyperextend. An extreme jolt of pain ran up to his arm and he cried out in pain. The Variant twisted again and just when he thought his elbow would pop from his joint, a sniper bullet tore through the Variants skull. It convulsed, then toppled over. Suddenly the sniper bullets shifted and were raining down on the Variants. Lara held out her hand and pulled Martin inside.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Go!” she yelled.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Aye Aye,” Captain Blake called back in a mock salute. He threw the bus in reverse and gunned the engine. The vehicle rattled up and down as it crushed a handful of Variants. Other Variants clanked against the yellow siding like massive chunks of hail. He shifted gears and let loose on the accelerator. The tires spun and the muffler choked up a plume of smoke. They rocked briefly as the bus fishtailed to one side and then hopped a curb. Enrique cried out in a fit pain.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Out the back window they could see a hundred Variants, maybe more, all tearing after the bus. They all replicated the same unwavering look, their incensed expressions perfect copies of one another.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The bus crashed through the chain link fence surrounding the United Center parking lot and slammed into the side of a Chicago police cruiser. The car spun to one side before coming to rest in a crumpled heap.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Captain Blake let out a little roar of delight.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “You want to focus?” Martin yelled to him.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Doc, this is the most focused I’ve been in weeks!” He upshifted and they all jolted back in their seats. “Hold on!”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martin had just enough time to peer through the windshield, see the north entrance of United Center growing before them, and dive on top of Annie.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The bus crashed through the doors in a masterpiece of destruction. They were surrounded by a violent sonata of shattered glass, screeching tires, and crippled metal. Some of the bus windows exploded in, shards raining down on them. The thick frames of the United Center doors grabbed hold of the bus and held it hostage in its entryway. The back half of the bus was protruding outside the United Center while the front half was lodged inside.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The Variants descended on the bus’ back exit.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Captain Blake yanked the accordion-style door open and a cloud of concrete dust floated down from the ceiling. Chunks of the United Center rattled against the hubcaps and layers of insulation blanketed the bus’ hood. There were still Chicago Bulls jerseys stacked clumsily on wire racks in front of the bus. Now, they were covered in a thin layer of debris that made them look tired and old.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Last stop!” Captain Blake shouted.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Annie and Martin pulled Enrique from the back seat and dragged him toward the front of the bus. Lara and Captain Blake were already off by the time they were out. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The Variants rocked the massive vehicle back and forth, the wheels squeaking violently on its axis.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Watch this,” Captain Blake said to Lara. The corners of his mouth curled up like a deranged Cheshire cat. He reached into his backpack and removed his four remaining grenades. He pulled their pins and tossed them toward the back of the bus. “We should probably take cover.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> They did, alarmingly fast.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> When the bombs went off nearly 100 Variants had surrounded the bus. They pounded on its yellow sides as if hoping the unwanted obstruction would magically disappear. It was a haunting moment (as to be expected) when their screams suddenly vanished, cut off by a deafening blast. Most of the explosion ripped through the sides and rear of the bus. Concrete crumbled from the ceiling, landing on the bus and clogging up the United Center’s entryway. The moonlight on the survivors’ faces suddenly evaporated and they were cloaked in an abrupt world of darkness.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> For a while, the only sound was Annie Walker coughing against the freshly fallen asbestos.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Everyone all right?” Martin finally asked.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Fresh as knickers.” Captain Blake shook a mess of dust from his silver hair. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Well…we…made…it…” Enrique croaked.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> They all turned to look at him. He was on his feet, leaning heavily on Lara’s body. His skin was so pale it seemed as if they no longer needed the moon for light. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Enrique was up. He was struggling, yes, and it looked as though he aged thirty years over the course of that parking lot. But he was up. They had hope again. The Variants were blocked from the entrance and they had shelter. Nightfall had come, sure, but it hardly mattered, they could move on in the morning.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “We’re all right now,” Martin said.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Goddamn, Doc, I swear we jus’ keep cuttin’ things closer and closer.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Don’t you fuckin’ move!” a booming, authoritative voice came from the darkness.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “And…of course,” muttered Captain Blake.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
It was either the voice or the cocking of a gun that came first. Later, everyone would have different accounts.</div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b>ISSUE #22</b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The United Center</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Chicago, IL</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Four months after The Rise</span></div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martin turned to look for the source of that alarming, booming voice, but stiffened when he heard, “Don’t you dare turn around or I’ll clip that head of yers clean off!”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “All right,” he said. “It’s all right. We’re just here to—“</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Shut the fuck up, pretty boy!” the voice interrupted.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Martin raised his hands above his head (the voice didn’t need to ask). Everyone else followed suit, except Enrique who looked as if he was ready to puke.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “You in a world a shit now, sunshine” the voice said. “Turn around so I can see ya’s faces.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Great,” said Lara. “We survive an all out Variant attack only to be murdered by some unhinged Chicago Bulls fan.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “I told you to shut ya mouth,” the voice hissed. They heard the crack of knuckles as he tightened his grip around the gun. “Why don’t you start by telling me what you’re doing here?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “That’s a very long and <i>very</i> complicated story,” Martin said. “I’m going to turn around now.” He waited for the voice to respond, but when it didn’t, he said, “If that’s all right.” Still, the voice said nothing. Slowly, Martin turned toward it, half-expecting a gunshot to ring out and to fall dead in a pile of Scottie Pippin paraphernalia. But when he got fully turned he was startled to find the owner of that voice was closer than he initially thought. Standing before him was a tall and broad African American man. His shoulders would rival a Volkswagon and his features were sharp and jarring. He held the gun (which looked cartoonishly small against his massive shoulder) close to his eye, Martin’s forehead pinned in his sights.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Long story?” he questioned. “Something tells me we all got time.” The man lowered the gun to his side. “I take it you ain’t Variants then.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “No shit, Sherlock!” Lara spouted. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Thank fucking God for that,” said the black man, ignoring her.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “You the one firing at us from the rooftop?” she demanded.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “No…” he said softly. “No, I wasn’t.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Musta known who it was, though,” Captain Blake said gruffly. “You clipped our boy here!”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The black man’s eyes came to rest on Enrique. He was still propped up on Lara’s shoulder, his shirt a blurry mess of clotted blood.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “I see,” the black man said steadily. “Let’s get him upstairs.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “What’s upstairs?” Lara asked.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “This man’s last chance for hope.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “We’re not going anywhere with you!”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Lara, calm down,” Martin told her.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “I didn’t shoot yer friend. You can believe that. Now, if you want to save his life, I suggest you follow me.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The black man turned around and Captain Blake noticed the pale green Air Force fatigues he was wearing. Though, they were not American military. They were rumpled and filthy, and ripped in several places, but they were fatigues nonetheless.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “What’s yer name, solider?” Captain Blake asked.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The black man stopped and peered up at Captain Blake. His eyes were dark and alarming. He stood there with his back arched and attention ready. “Lieutenant Hughes,” he answered. “Lieutenant Russell Hughes, Canadian Royal Air Force.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Goddamn pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant,” Captain Blake said holding out his hand. “I’m Captain Richard Blake, United States Army. Retired, of course.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “‘Course.” Russell took Captain Blake’s hand in his. “Now let’s get him upstairs. I’d hate for him to die on my watch.” He paused, surveying his audience. “Or by our hands.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Are there others upstairs?” Annie asked.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Yeh,” he grunted. “Four more. C’mon, I think we all got a lot to talk about.” Russell waved his massive hand and led them to the elevators. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> By the time the elevators started moving, Enrique had passed out. Lara had managed to slow the bleeding, but life continued to pour out of him at a snail’s pace. The purple bags under his eyes made his sockets seem hollow and old.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> When the elevators opened on the second floor, Russell led them to one of the luxury suites overlooking the basketball court. Inside the suite were three exam tables, a cabinet full of antibiotics, syringes, bandages, and antiseptics. On the far wall were half a dozen microscopes, hundreds of slides and petri dishes, and a computerized display chart for testing. Everything inside had the blue and white CDC sticker plastered to its side.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Help me get him on the table,” Martin said. He and Captain Blake propped Enrique up and tilted him back.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Can you help him?” Lara asked.<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I don’t know,” Martin said. “Lieutenant Hughes—“<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Russell,” he interrupted.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Russell, I need you to bring me any bandages you have, any gauze, peroxides, antiseptics, things like that.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Russell nodded and, while Martin was cutting off Enrique’s shirt, he went about the room retrieving anything he could find.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “What the fuck is this, Russell?” a woman’s voice came from behind them. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Lara spun around, her .357s cocked and readied. Across the barrel of the guns was a striking young woman, twenty-one or twenty-two. Her blonde hair was recently shampooed and brushed, and her skin possessed no traces of dirt or grime. The clothes on her body were freshly washed and pressed. And from where Lara was standing, she could faintly smell the woman’s anti-perspirant. Slung over the woman’s shoulder was a Barrett M82 sniper rifle.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Behind the young woman was a young man, seemingly the same age as her. They had similar features and their hair was nearly identical in color. He had broad shoulders and a thin, goose-like neck. His blue eyes fell to the floor and he stood behind the young woman the way a child does when their parents introduce them to an adult for the first time.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “You’re the one who shot Enrique,” Lara said.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> The young man stepped in front of the young woman and removed his sidearm with the quickest of draws. Lara barely had a chance to blink by the time his gun was pinned on her.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “This your muscle?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “He’s my brother,” the woman said, noticing Enrique on the exam table.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Harry, put that away!” Russell yelled, handing Martin a first-aid kit. “And Hannah, how many times do I gotta tell ya to shut the fuck up?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Hannah’s eyes widened in humiliation. Harry looked to his sister who nodded at him with her eyes, and he holstered his sidearm.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I thought you were Variants,” Hannah said.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Well, we’re not, you twat!” Lara snapped.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I saved your lives!” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “We wouldn’t have needed savin’ if your dumb ass hadn’t sent a hollow point through my friend here!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Lara, please! I need to focus!” Martin snapped.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Lara looked over and saw Martin start to work on Enrique. His wound bubbled as he poured fresh peroxide on it. The white foam mounded up like stiff peaks of meringue then transformed into a mountain of pink bubbles.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Why don’t we go next door?” Russell suggested. “We’ll grab a drink. You all right in here, Doc?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> Martin nodded, but never looked up. Russell headed out of the suite. Hannah and Harry followed after him.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “I don’t like this, Martin,” said Lara.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “Just go hear what they have to say,” he instructed.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “<i>I don’t trust them!</i>”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span class="Apple-tab-span"></span> “<i>I said, ‘go!’</i>”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
Nobody wanted to be the first to move. But, eventually, Annie stepped around Captain Blake and left the room. He and Lara followed silently, casting one final glance back at their fallen compatriot.</div>
<div class="p1">
The survivors’ world was changing. They were in the hands of the others now.</div>
<div class="p6">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">
</span></div>
<div class="p7" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s2"><u>END OF BOOK ONE</u></span></div>
Ben Hasskamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351974191740258268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6783268646690857161.post-23287759332626398722015-01-21T10:12:00.000-06:002015-01-22T12:31:15.971-06:00Variance - Book 2: The Others, Issue #7<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Day 39 of The Rise</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">CFB Cold Lake Canadian Air Force Base</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Cold Lake, Alberta, Canada</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> A snoring Lieutenant Russell Hughes was the solo occupant of the barracks when the alarm sounded. The other soldiers were in different locations across the base, pacing around the quad, smoking feverishly in the common room, listening to their radios in the men’s stalls, cleaning their cockpits, testing their instruments, the mundane list of things solders do when they are nervous. But not Russell. Russell liked his sleep. And if it was bedtime and the world was burning, he’d strip off his shirt, climb into the nearest cot, and pull the sheets across his eyes.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> However, on this particular day, as the alarm sounded, Russell’s feet hit the floor before his discarded sheets did.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Russell Hughes, report to your station,” a droning voice instructed over the base speakers. “Russell Hughes, report to your station immediately!” </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> CFB Cold Lake Base was—and is—the busiest Air Force Base in all of Canada. Following the Variance situation in the United States, all resources were consolidated to Cold Lake while the other ten Canadian bases were promptly shut down. In its nearly sixty years in existence Cold Lake has seen some of the finest and most courageous fighter pilots the world has ever seen. Sven Polly (1963), Simon Little (1977), Michael Budman (1985), Nick Northfor (1988), Kyle Olney (1999), and Ken Thornhill (2003). While their flying styles and skills were unrivaled at their respective times, they paled in comparison to Russell Hughes. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> And even though the situation was contained along U.S. and Canadian border, Russell knew it was only a matter of time before the Variants broke through and hell spread to Canada. After Canada, maybe Europe, then Africa, then Russia, the far East, the islands… </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> …And so on, and so on…</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> The untied laces on Russell’s shoes bounced against the shiny leather with little pitter-patters of abandonment. He was running so fast he thought he’d fly right out of his shoes. But there was a Variant breach threatening Canada and his country was calling on him to right the wrong.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<i>O Canada, we stand on guard for thee,</i> the words danced in Russell’s head like some sick brainwashing trick. And he believed every word. <i>God keep our land glorious and free! </i></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Hughes! Get over here!” Russell heard his commanding officer, Dick Breadman, bark.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Dick was a burly man. He had meaty, calloused hands that made him look more like a farmer than a military man. His chest seemed to go on forever and his shoulders looked like two anchors propped upon his torso. His neck had a constant web of veins that pulsated with his every breath. Dick liked to talk with his mouth full, usually of donuts or some type of pastry. The remnants of his breakfast, lunch, or dinner had sprayed on Russell’s face on more than one occasion. But, tonight, there was no food in Dick’s hands, and his ghostly skin and grave eyes made Russell shiver.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Yes, sir?” Russell said.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Dick noticed the untied boots and Russell felt his Adam’s apple bob strenuously against his throat.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Lace up those boots, son, and follow me,” Dick said, his words coarse and direct. He turned and headed toward the hangar. Russell haphazardly tied his laces and double timed it after him, nearly tripping over his own feet.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “What’s going on, sir?” Russell asked. The uneasiness he saw in Breadman’s eyes left him cold and troubled.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “We have a situation, Hughes.” Dick held his hands behind his back as he walked, shoulders pulled back, taut and rigid.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “I’ve gathered that, sir.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “I’m going to be frank,” Dick said, stopping. “We have an inbound aircraft on its way to Winnipeg from Sweetwater Creek State Park, just outside Lithia Springs, Georgia.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “What’s the problem, sir?” </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “It left an American military base with military personnel and civilians. They took off shortly after a Variant breach…” Dick’s words hung in the air. He looked longingly at Russell as if he hoped he would finish his thought. But Russell only stared back at him with vacant eyes and Dick let out a long, full-bodied sigh. “Are you understanding what I’m saying, Hughes?” </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “I’m afraid not, sir. What does an American aircraft have to do with us.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Intelligence suggests the aircraft carries at least one of these…Variants. And if there’s one, there could be two, and if there are two, there’s no telling where this could stop. The Canadian military has done a damn fine job containing the problem. We’ve worked too long and too hard to let the Americans curse us now. Are you understanding me, Hughes?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “I think so, sir.” Russell gulped down saliva in an anxious jerk, but dry air clogged his throat and he nearly burst out into a coughing fit. “May I ask where the other officers are, sir?” </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “This comes directly from the Prime Minister and, needless to say, is highly classified.” Dick placed a fatherly hand on Russell's shoulder and Russell felt a surge of warmth rush to his cheeks. Dick had yelled at him, had ordered him around, had inadvertently spit toast and bacon in his face, but he had never touched him. But there they were, on the brink of war, and his tenderness was a welcome change. “You’re our top pilot, Hughes, everybody knows it. You’re more gifted than any soldier I’ve instructed and it has been an honor watching you grow. I’m as proud as any commanding officer could be, and that’s why we need you now. This is a delicate situation that needs to be handled with the utmost discretion. There won’t be any record of the mission nor any flight log recorded. This is completely off the books.” He took his hand off Russell’s shoulder and dropped his voice to a low, raspy whisper. “We need you to shoot that plane down, Russell.” His words were stunning. “We need you to shoot it down before it crosses the border. If you don’t, this God-forsaken thing will become an epidemic nobody will be able to control.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “But how do you know there are Variants on board, sir?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Do your job, Hughes, do you understand me?” Dick pushed a finger toward Russell’s face and those fatherly intents suddenly vanquished. “<i>I need to know you understand.</i>”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Yes, sir. Of course. I understand.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Dick lowered his head and nodded. It was as if he didn’t believe what Russell was doing was right. But Russell had his orders. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> And Dick Breadman had his. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> And Dick’s commanding officer had his. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> And so on and so on and so on…</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> It was a never ending cycle that Dick Breadman would never fully understand, not even on the day he would die (which would be exactly three weeks later).</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Godspeed, Hughes.” Dick saluted him. It occurred to Russell this had been the first time his commanding officer saluted first, and it took Russell a jarring moment to clap his feet together, right his back, and flick his wrist. Their eyes met, both possessing a hint of sadness. It was as if they knew they would never see each other again. It was an enigmatic truth that they both understood, but neither knew why.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “It has been an honor serving for you, sir,” Russell told him.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “The honor has been mine, Lieutenant Hughes.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Russell placed his hands behind his back and hurried toward the hangar.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><i> With glowing hearts we see thee rise, the True North strong and free,</i> Russell thought, the words repeating over and over in melancholic rhythm. </span></div>
<div class="p4" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="s1">*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>*</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Russell climbed into his neat, organized cockpit. Long after the other pilots stowed away their jackets and reattached their seat buckles, Russell could be found wiping down the glass, dusting the controls, and polishing the board with such meticulous style he had often stopped and marveled at his own obsessiveness. But soon Russell would cross out of the blue and into the black.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Y’all right, Lieutenant?” he heard a meek voice ask.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Russell’s thoughtful eyes left the dash and landed on a pale, sickly soldier named Bobby Brodeaur. Bobby stood on the ladder next to the F-18 staring at Russell with a tremendous fondness, as if Russell was a celebrity he had idolized for years. Bobby was one of those hypochondriacs who had miraculously found his way into the service. His skin was an ashen gray and his eye sockets were practically hollow. He was a good kid, Russell knew that, he was just afraid Brodeaur’s meager body would crumble to dust if handled the wrong way. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Yeah, Bobby, just fine,” Russell said, his deep, calming voice having a visible affect on him.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Y’all set?” he asked.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Russell drew in a breath and exhaled in a solemn consistency. “All set.”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Bobby smiled. He placed his foot on the aircraft and reached toward Russell. There were three metal fasteners that he pulled down over him. One of the fasteners caught Russell at the side of his eye, causing him to flinch. Bobby’s eyes grew and his mouth curved into a funny “O” shape. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “I’m sorry, Russell, I just—“</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “’S’all right.” Russell patted the side of Bobby’s face with his massive brown hand.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Bobby smiled again, reassured. He fastened the three straps across Russell’s chest and yanked on the shiny polyvinylidene strap just above his waist. Russell felt the strap go taut and then slacken as he let out a long breath. Bobby handed Russell a hard, gray helmet with a sticker of the Canadian flag encircled by a thick blue ring. The red leaf looked ablaze atop the dull gray exterior.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Good luck, sir.” Bobby offered him a salute.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> “Thank you, soldier. See ya on the other side, yeah?”</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Bobby nodded, though he didn’t know why. He descended the ladder and rolled it away from the plane. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Russell pressed a few buttons and the Plexiglass dome lurched forward, sealing him in. The aircraft whirred to life with a gradual, yet thundering spur.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Two faceless soldiers pulled open the hangar door and Russell pushed down on the throttle. The plane jerked as the wheels gripped the concrete and rolled forward.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Russell’s eyes dropped to Bobby once more, who watched, transfixed, as the F-18 crept by him like a monumental float on the 4th of July. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> It would be the last time he would ever see Bobby Brodeaur alive.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> Though it would be much disputed, Bobby Brodeaur would be the first recorded Variant to set foot on Canadian soil. After Brodeur’s attack, a slew of Variants would soon follow. Bobby would be shot and killed outside his barracks moments after tearing Dick Breadman’s tongue from his mouth. Breadman would die in the hospital four hours later, the final of Brodeur’s 12 victims. How and why Bobby Brodeur became a Variant would forever go unsolved. </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"> As for Lieutenant Hughes, he would not have the misfortune of seeing the madness unfold in the country he loved so much, as he would never again cross the border back into Canada. Russell Hughes’ journey within the wasteland that was now America was set to begin.</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><i> God keep our land glorious and free, O Canada, we stand on guard for thee…O Canada we stand on guard for thee, stand on guard for thee, guard for thee, for thee…</i></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<i> </i>And the record stopped.</div>
Ben Hasskamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351974191740258268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6783268646690857161.post-20534920765645487022015-01-16T09:36:00.000-06:002015-01-16T09:36:14.741-06:00Variance - Book 2: The Others, Issue #6<div class="p1" style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, FreeMono, monospace; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.4799995422363px;">
<span class="s1">The Wisconsin River</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, FreeMono, monospace; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.4799995422363px;">
<span class="s1">Lewiston, WI</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, FreeMono, monospace; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.4799995422363px;">
<span class="s1">Day 41 of The Rise</span></div>
<div class="p1" style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, FreeMono, monospace; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.4799995422363px;">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “So they’re called Variants, huh?” Stevie grunted. The color in his face had gone and his voice was weak and broken. He craned his neck, trying not to look at Max suturing his calf. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Look a little pale there, pal,” Dave said, a little bemused. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Fuck off!” Stevie snapped, and the color returned to his cheeks in a flash of rage.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Kid’s got a temper, huh?” Dave said, turning the Harry. </span>Harry lowered his head, choosing, instead, to stare at his dirty fingernails. “Cat got your tongue?” Dave asked. Harry shrugged it off and took a step toward Hannah.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “He doesn’t like strangers,” Hannah said quietly.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Who does?” Dave reached into his back pocket and removed a crumpled pack of Marlboro Mediums. The gold font kicked up a bit of morning light and streaked across Hannah’s face. He shook the pack and a cigarette tipped out. He stuck it in his mouth and lit it with a shiny, silver Zippo. Hannah watched him curiously, and when his eyes met hers he offered her the pack. “Want one?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> She shrugged.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Is that a no?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “No,” she said. “I think I will have one.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “You don’t smoke,” Harry whispered.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “He speaks!” Dave cried. “Thank God almighty the boy speaks. It’s a miracle, I tell ya! It’s a miracle.” Dave’s voice took on his radio persona. He raised his arms to the heavens, shaking them in mock lunacy. Hannah took a step toward Dave and he handed her the pack. She clumsily withdrew a cigarette and stuck it between her lips. Dave couldn’t help but smile at her awkwardness.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “What are you grinning at?” Hannah barked.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Nothing.” But, of course, that wasn't altogether true.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Just light it.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Dave flicked open the Zippo and clicked back on the thumbwheel. A flame kicked up from the wick and he held it to her. Hannah leaned toward it, captivated by the dancing flame. The tip kissed the end of the cigarette and she inhaled. Her lungs contracted as the smoke worked its way inside of her and she choked on a breath. Then heaved. She lowered her face and her tongue fell out, saliva spilling across the dirt in a disgusting line. It took nearly a minute for her breathing to normalize again. Her back and chest felt tight and sore and the cigarette continued to burn between her fingers.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “You all right?” Dave stuck his cigarette between his lips and took a long, patronizing drag.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Fine…” Hannah muttered. She put the cigarette back to her lips, took a quick breath in, and immediately blew it out, not daring to let that foreign smoke torture her lungs again.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “All done,” Max said placing a fresh piece of gauze of Stevie’s calf. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Okay.” Stevie hobbled to his feet.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “The way the world’s going, sounds like we all need a break.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Stevie nodded. “Well, then I’m sorry.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Sorry for what?” Max asked, zipping up his medical pack.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Stevie cocked the .22 and pointed it between Max’s eyes.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “What the hell’s this?” Dave shouted. The cigarette, which had been dangling from his lips, fell from his mouth and rolled into the dirt.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “We’ll be taking your packs now,” Stevie told them.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Excuse me?” said Max.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “You heard me! Hand it over.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Listen, friend—“</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “I ain’t your friend!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Stevie, what are you doing?” Hannah screamed.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “We might need their packs!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “We might need <i>them</i>!” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Doubtful.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “What are you gonna do? Kill them?” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “If I have to.” Stevie’s words were so cold and definitive they seemed to knock Max backwards.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “You don’t mean that,” Hannah said.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Hannah, just shut up and take the bag!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “You don’t want to do this, son,” said Dave.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Shut up!” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Stevie!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Stop yelling or I’ll shoot all of ya!” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Silence tore through the group and Max shook the bag off his shoulder. The strap fell lazily to the crux of his elbow and he wiggled it to his fingers. There was a moment of hesitation, maybe contemplation, before he extended his hand to Hannah. “Here.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Hannah lowered her head and stepped to him. She took the leather strap in her fingers. “I’m sorry.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Max nodded his recognition then averted his eyes. Sweat lined his brow in tiny droplets of glimmering terror. Stevie’s finger danced over the trigger with anxious energy.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> When the gun would go off—some seconds later—the bullet would exit the barrel in a thunderous flash, whiz so close to Hannah her hair would flutter and skip over Max’s shoulder fraying his tattered, wool sweater. The bullet would eventually lodge in one of the pines fifteen feet behind them, splintering wood and tearing bark in the process. That first bullet, however, wouldn’t draw any blood. “Now I want you two—“ Stevie started. But the hammer dropped on the .22 and the bullet exploded out of the barrel. Stevie’s eyes went wide. Hannah dropped to the ground. Max clasped his hand to his right ear. But Stevie knew they came out unscathed when he saw the pine trunk spray a cloud of bark dust.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> With Stevie’s eyes fixed on the recently executed pine, Harry snatched up a broken tree branch lying near his feet. Dave saw him grab it and witnessed Harry’s forearms flex and pulsate as he swung the branch like a baseball bat. Stevie’s ear twitched when he heard the rush of wind as the branch cut through the air. The top half of the branch struck the side of his face. There was a quick thwack as they heard the crunch of Stevie’s teeth dislodge from his gums and rattle around his mouth. The end of the branch caught Stevie on the forehead, just above the eye, slicing open his skin and drawing blood. A river of red flowed into his eye, stinging him.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Stevie screamed a horrifying, gut-wrenching scream and he lost his grip on the gun.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Harry wound up and struck him again. The branch connected with the other side of Stevie’s face and there was another crunch, this one originating from his nose. It flattened and made a sound like somebody stepping on a Twinkie still in its bag. Another scream sound amongst the pines. The scene was such a gory mess it would have otherwise made Harry puke, but his adrenaline was so immense his stomach wouldn’t cooperate. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Harry raised the branch over his head and brought it down on top of Stevie’s. This time there was a clunk, like a poorly struck golf ball, and Stevie dropped to his knees.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Harry began to hit Stevie with short, efficient strokes, each one drawing a small amount of blood, shooting out in quick spurts. Stevie’s body was fetal, his eyes clenched shut. He screamed in pleading bursts, but Harry refused to stop. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Harry…” Hannah said warily. But she found she didn’t want him to stop. She wanted Stevie to suffer for what he had done to their father, for what he wanted to do to Dave and Max, and for what he probably would have done to her and Harry.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> There was a clink that resonated after the final blow, Stevie’s bottom teeth connected with the tops and his head snapped back in one furious motion. Stevie’s body rolled off the bank, bouncing across the prehistoric roots, and splashed into the river’s shallow water. There was the brief sound of bone connecting with rock and then the current swallowed him up. Harry thought Stevie might float, even surface for a moment, but he didn’t; he was sucked into the depths of the river like some sort of evil vacuum. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Harry stood there, staring at the water as it settled back to its original, peaceful flow. Blood dripped from the end of the branch and formed an irregular puddle on the soil. His massive, broad chest heaved in and out with he gasping breath, but he perspired very little.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> At last, Harry’s breathing slowed and he looked up at the others. Hannah’s eyes were the only ones that met his, Dave and Max were staring at the bloodied branch still clutched in his hand. Hannah was crying, but it wasn’t out of fear or sadness or anger, it was simply an emotional outburst she no longer could control. She would’ve liked to have swatted Stevie a few times herself, but that wasn’t how things had unfolded. And it was just as well. Harry dropped the branch and went to his sister. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. Tears fell on the side of his neck as her sobbing intensified. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Jesus, son, you sure do know how to give a licking,” someone finally said (Harry thought it was Mr. Cash), his words breaking the silence as well as the tension.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “He killed our pa.” Hannah's words shook as her crying tapered off. Dave and Max asked no questions and provided no inquires, they simply nodded their acknowledgement. “I’m Hannah. And this is my brother Harry. And I truly can’t tell you how pleased we are to have come across you.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Pleasure’s ours,” Max said shaking their hands. “Now then, why don’t you tell us what you’ve seen out there. Seems like we’re all gonna have stories that’ll unsettle more than a few nights of sleep.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> And that’s what they did, swapping stories for the next few of hours. The tales of horror and macabre seemed artificial and staged, nobody could truly believe the things they were saying. Though, all knew the stories were true and the terror was real.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> They went on talking until it was nearly midday and then hunger struck them. Max opened a can of garbonzo beans and a pouch of tuna packed in water, a feast which they all shared. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> After lunch Dave lit another cigarette and went on talking about a Variant who had entered the radio station, and how his producer, Larry Kling struggled with it until they both toppled out the twelfth floor window, landing in a bloody heap on Washington Boulevard.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> When the beans were gone and the tuna pouch licked clean, they zipped up their packs and got into the boat. Harry drove the thing down the river while the others sat up front. And though he never said it, Harry traversed those waters half expecting Stevie to explode from its depths and pull him under like a savage crocodile. That, however, never happened.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
Harry Phillips and Stevie Kohler would not cross paths for another twelve weeks, when a very alive, very bitter, very incensed Stevie Kohler would shoot Harry Phillips in the chest. </div>
Ben Hasskamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351974191740258268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6783268646690857161.post-23887730077082352312015-01-12T17:11:00.000-06:002015-01-12T17:11:31.184-06:00Variance - Book 2: The Others, Issue #5<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The Wisconsin River</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Lewiston, WI</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Day 41 of The Rise</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s2"><b></b></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> When dawn arrived, Hannah’s tears had subsided, her body shaking with the slightest of vibrations. Harry hadn’t moved or taken his hand off the throttle. He gripped the handle so tight his palm had clammed into a white and translucent prune. He could feel the sweat tickling the insides of his fingers, but he wasn’t willing to adjust for comfort. He kept his eyes fixed on the villain that was now Stevie Kohler. Stevie occupied in the boat's middle seat, staring out at the water that meandered around bend after bend. He had become fantastically pale, and the sun beating down on him made his skin almost sparkle in the morning's new light.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> And then a voice, eager and expectant, called from the riverbank. It was a faint and dying, but unmistakable, “Hello…!” that echoed away into the trees.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Harry's hand slipped off the throttle and the motor sputtered to a halt.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Hello…!” the voice came again.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Stevie got to his feet, the .22 rifle cocked and ready. The boat wavered against the current and Hannah stifled a sudden rush of nausea. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Who is that?” Hannah whispered.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Hello over there…!” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Under the tall pine branches Harry saw a pair of faded jeans and a pair of ragged slacks walking along the shoreline.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Hello!” Harry called back.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “What are you doing, Phillips?” Stevie hissed. “Shut the fuck up!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “They might need help. Or maybe they can help us.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Or maybe you just wanna rat me out for what I did to yer daddy?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “So what if I do? What’s gonna happen? They gonna send you to jail? In case you hadn’t noticed, <i>Stevie</i>, the world kinda ended.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Stevie’s eyes wandered over Harry with a mix of skepticism and intrigue. “All right,” he said. “But, even still, you mention one word about yer daddy and I’ll kill all ya both.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Harry pulled back on the throttle and headed for shore. </span>The boat’s metal underside slide across the bed of rocks. Hannah jumped out and helped pull the boat onto the saturated sand.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Go on,” Stevie told Harry, motioning with the rifle.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Harry hopped out and Stevie followed. There was a small section of eroded shoreline next to the boat with massive, prehistoric-looking roots protruding from the earth. One by one, they used the roots to climb to where they had seen the jeans and slacks. Even with the rifle and his injured leg, Harry and Hannah were surprised at how nimble Stevie was at maneuvering the eroded shoreline. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Anyone here?” Harry called.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Over here!” The voice was very close now.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Harry crouched and saw the jeans and slacks traversing through the dense pines.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Goddamn it, we just came this way!” Harry heard one of the voices hiss.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Are you sure?” the other voice asked, his tone a little meeker than the first.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Stay there! We’ll come to you!” Harry called.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> The voices continued bickering and Harry followed them like a pair of comical compasses. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb were lost in the woods, ready to strangle each other; how perfectly strange.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Harry emerged from a cluster of pines and saw two men standing before him. The man wearing the jeans was tall and slender. He had sandy blonde hair which was thinning to the point of non-existence, and his smile was blisteringly white, almost harsh in the morning sun. There was a gray North Face backpack, stuffed to the gills, slung around his shoulders. He was wearing a 94.7 WLS-FM t-shirt that was coated in a fine layer of dust but, otherwise, in good condition. Had Harry been a Detroit resident (or owned a radio for that matter) he might have recognized it was “D.J. Dave Cash In The Morning” staring back at him. But, since neither were the case, such a realization never came to pass.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> The man sporting the slacks was much shorter than Mr. Cash. He had thick, black rimmed glassed propped on the bridge of his nose making him look a bit like Squints Palledorous. He was quite portly and seemed to waddle rather than walk. There was a black leather attache case strapped across his chest, which, at first glance, looked more like an expensive purse. Both of their eyes doubled in size when they saw Stevie aiming the .22 at them. Their hands went up and Harry could see the yellowing pit stains that blotched both of their shirts.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Look, we-we-we don’t want any trouble,” the man with the glasses said.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Stevie, put that down,” Harry told him.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Stevie lowered the gun, but kept it at the ready. His eyes were quick and untrusting, and all of them were more than aware of it.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “You all right, buddy,” Dave Cash asked.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Stevie nodded, but kept the frown, his eyes unwavering and tense. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “What are you two doing out here?” Harry asked.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Found him coming up from Chicago,” Dave said. “I was coming down from Detroit. Told him ain’t worth going up there. City had been taken, so I just got the fuck out.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Jesus,” Hannah muttered.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “You said it, sister,” Dave grumbled.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “My name’s Max. Max Horwitz,” the man with the glasses said. “This here is Dave Cash.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> There was a look in Dave’s eye as if he expected recognition, that they would all fall to their knees and praise the glory that was DJ Dave Cash in the Morning. But when only somber, sullen eyes glanced back at him, he knew he would get no such attention.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “What you got in yer bags?” Stevie asked.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Medicine,” said Max, adding, “I’m a doctor. Managed to round up what I could.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Think you can fix up my leg?” Stevie said limping forward.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Max’s eyes fell to Stevie’s leg and he saw the sides of his knee were sickly and blue. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Jeez, that sure looks bad,” Max said uneasily. “Come and sit over here.” Max patted the base of a fallen tree and Stevie limped to it. He took a seat and lifted his leg. Max squatted next to him. “What kind of gun is that?” Max asked unzipping the pack. Inside were all the tools a doctor might need to perform a craniotomy on the go, fixed with scalpels, syringes, bandages, peroxide, antiseptics, pills, and sutures. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “None of your business,” Stevie said.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Just making conversation,” Max said throwing the end of the stitch through the tip of a needle. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “You believe what’s going on out there?” Dave asked.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “It’s awful,” said Hannah.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Government’s calling those things ‘Variants.’”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “How you know that?” Stevie barked his question with blatant suspicion.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Dave went on, seeming not to notice. “We got a radio. Most of the stations are shut down, except for one: the Emergency Response Station. It’s only a recording, but knowing the government did something is better than radio silence.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “What’s it say?” Hannah asked.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Well, here…” Dave unzipped his backpack and removed out a small, bedside radio. He flicked it on and held it out so the others could listen. “Runs on a loop. Been running for days now—“</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Weeks,” Max interrupted.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Yeah, weeks, I guess…shit…The recording’s just wrapping up.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “…life under any circumstances. Good luck and Godspeed,” the voice on the radio said. There was a long pause of white noise and the radio’s female voice came back. The woman’s slow, calculating, robotic voice chimed in with such strange apathy Hannah thought it had to be computerized. But, somehow, there was a sense of terror in the voice, computerized or not. “This is a special bulletin from the United States Government…”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Ain’t nothing special about it, Hannah thought.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “This report is in conjunction with the United States Military, the Center for Disease Control, and the Federal Emergency Management Agency,” it continued. “By now you all know we have been attacked. How this terrible tragedy has started, we are not entirely sure. What the CDC can confirm, however, is that this is not a disease outbreak. From what we have gathered and studied over this short time, those initiating the attacks are—as best we can tell—still human, only a slight variation. Because of this, the CDC is calling the murderers: Variants. In spite of their behavior traits, their genetics appear unchanged. It is unclear if the variation has to do with the nervous, cardio, or endocrine systems, but we are continuing to exhaust all the possibilities. Contrary to initial reports, these Variants are not what some are calling ‘zombies.’ Variants possess no cannibalistic tendencies of any kind.” The woman’s voice wavered, suggesting a bit of humanness, and the horror in her voice grew. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><i> Cannibalistic tendencies</i>. A shiver ran up Hannah’s spine and her body turned to ice. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Their only true motivation appears to be rage. The United States Military is working contain the problem and are assuring everyone there is no reason to panic. If you come across a Variant or they are outside your home, lock the door and stay inside. Don’t approach or antagonize them. Stay safe and out of their way. Again, please rest assured the CDC, FEMA, and United States Military are working tirelessly to stop the madness…”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><i> The madness</i>.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“…currently plaguing this great country. As long as everyone stays calm and alert, this problem will be resolved shortly. The military is discouraging any and all types of vigilantism. Anyone caught intervening will be prosecuted to the fullest extent. There are to be no attempts on the Variants’ lives under any circumstances. Good luck and Godspeed.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> The report finished and the white noise returned before the woman’s voice started all over again, “This is a special bulletin from the United States Government…”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
Dave switched off the radio and the wind rippling the water and rustling the trees suddenly became still.</div>
Ben Hasskamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351974191740258268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6783268646690857161.post-29365663021051391842015-01-04T11:21:00.002-06:002015-01-04T11:21:52.910-06:00Variance - Book 2: The Others, Issue #4<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Castle Rock Lake, Adams County, Wisconsin</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Day 40 of The Rise </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> At first it did not seem real. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> The sound was so jarring the four felt a simultaneous wave of discombobulating terror. There was a screeching whirr that tore across the river bed, shaking the river’s steady current. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Hannah covered her ears and gritted her teeth. She cocked her head and looked up at the darkened sky. There were hundreds of sparkling stars, but no source of the sound. She looked down at Stevie who was lying in the bottom of the boat. His ears were uncovered but he, too, was searching for the violent sound. Hannah’s eyes flicked over to her father and Harry. The expressions on their faces were identically docile, as if they hadn’t heard the foreign noise. But they did hear it. They threw their heads back, inspecting the dark sky with the same degree of calculation. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “What is that?” Harry shouted as the sound exploded around them.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> And then they saw it.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Hannah’s eyes bulged, the whites shimmering against the glowing moon. Above them, no more than two hundred feet up, they watched as the outline of a jetliner streaked across the sky. The tail of the plane passed over them as the aircraft’s nose dipped down. Hannah saw a fire on the hull of the plane, black smoke pluming out in a cataclysmic cloud. The boat rocked as the plane’s engines sucked up the air around them and waves rippled across the dark water nearly capsizing their boat. The plane’s left wing tilted left and struck the top of the lake, the achy metal twisting in the unforgiving water. The tail slid back and forth in one succinct motion and then the front end of the plane appeared to topple forward. For a moment, the plane looked like it would roll over onto its side like a sick Labrador, but it only skipped across the water in three successions. Fire erupted from the tail and metal exploded out one of the sides. The left engine, engulfed in flames, exploded into a billowing fireball. The engine whistled a furious tune as it disappeared into the star-filled sky before its smoldering mess landed on the shoreline a hundred yards away. Gasoline peppered the water and ignited into a manic ring of fire. The battered plane gave one last cough of concession as it was sucked into the abyss of an angry maelstrom of death, waiting for Castle Rock Lake to swallow it up. The plane settled, then the noise settled, and then the screams came.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Christ!” Hannah heard her father say as the ringing in her ears dissipated. “Harry, turn this thing round.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Stop!” Stevie shouted.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “You nuts, boy?” Bill shouted, alarmed.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “We can’t help those people,” Stevie said pulling himself up off the boat’s floor.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Like hell we can’t!” Bill said.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “If we go back for them, then we’ll all die.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “That’s ridiculous! Come on, Harry, turn ‘er around.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Harry went to turn the rudder, but stopped when he heard Stevie cock the .22. He looked up to find him pointing the gun at Bill.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “What in the hell you doin’, son?” Bill asked, not an ounce of fear in his voice. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “We’re <i>not</i> helping them. The only reason we’re alive is because we never went back and we sure as hell ain’t starting now!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “That ain’t no Variants! That’s a plane! And people are gonna die unless we go an’ help ‘em!” Bill was angry now, his voice no longer calm or fatherly. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “How do you know there ain’t Variants!” Stevie cried.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Put the gun down!” Hannah screamed.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Stay outta this!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Don’t you talk to her like that,” Bill told him, his voice thundering around them. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Bubbles began popping all around the sinking plane as if it was being sucked down.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Keep going Harry,” Stevie said, his eyes never leaving Bill.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Don’t listen to him,” Bill said.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Do it!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “No!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “If you help them, I <i>will </i>shoot you Bill.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Hannah could see Harry’s mind spinning, crippled by the peril that stood before him. His hand was shaking on the rudder, but his eyes were steady and focused. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Move over,” Bill said to Harry.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Harry did as he was told and Bill pulled back on the throttle. The boat leaned back as the motor roared. The engine’s sound was so loud it nearly drowned out the gunshot that followed. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Nearly…</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Blood spattered across Harry’s face and neck in a quick burst. Bill’s body slumped back against the motor. The small red dot on his chest expanded into a splotch of dark maroon. Bill’s eyes locked on Stevie’s with a look of mixed horror and disbelief before rolling back in his head. His eyelids fell and then Bill Phillips became still. The death had happened so fast Harry had not been able to move. But Hannah was quick to rush Stevie.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> If she hadn’t screamed, she may have gotten him, but her rage was too flagrant to go unnoticed. Stevie swung the rifle around and the end of the barrel caught Hannah’s right cheek. Pain surged up her face stinging her eye. She fell back striking her head against one of the oars. The world spun and hazed all at once.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Stevie spun back around as Harry was getting to his feet and cocked the gun in one brilliant motion. </span>“Uh, uh, uh…” he muttered. “Take a seat, Phillips, and get us out of here.”</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Harry stared at him, incensed. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “I did what I had to do,” was all Stevie said.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Harry could still feel the warmth from his father’s body next to him and he stifled the urge to cry. On the floor of the boat he could hear Hannah’s soft whimpers, but they were suddenly drowned out by another throaty rumble from the dying plane.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Shut up!” Stevie shouted at her. “Now, get us outta here or else I’ll shoot yer sister, too.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Harry pulled back on the throttle, but only barely, spurring the boat to life again. Stevie climbed over the middle seat, the gun pinned on Harry. He reached down with one hand and grabbed hold of Bill’s plaid shirt, now soaked in gruesome layer of sticky blood.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Don’t touch him!” Hannah screamed.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “You wanna join him?” Stevie asked.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> This silenced Hannah.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Harry watched as Stevie pulled up Bill from his collar and dumped him over the side. There was a shuddering gulp as the water sucked Bill Phillips down and then there was nothing. Harry turned back and watched the ripples of the water settle as the boat traveled away.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “…You hear me, Phillips?” Harry heard Stevie yelling.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “Wha’?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> “I said move! That plane explodes we’ll all be ripped to shreds!”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> Harry thought he nodded, but it didn’t matter. He felt himself pull back on the throttle and the boat sped away. The screams echoing from the plane churned Harry’s gut and he thought for a moment that he would vomit. But he didn’t. Stevie was sitting in front of him now, the .22 clutched in his hands. He wondered if it possible to let go of the throttle and tackle him before Stevie had a chance to react. He just had to be quick. All he had to do was get the upper hand. That’s all there was to it. He would knock him out and go back for his father. He would dive into the dark and pull him from the watery grave. He would get him back in the boat and find a way to save him. He would go back for the others on the plane and pull them to safety. He would save them all…</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> But the boat roared along, pitter-pattering on the waves, leaving the plane entombed in its spectacular ring of fire.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
Hannah would whimper until morning, not knowing that it was the Globemaster C-17 carrying Captain Blake, Lara Holliday, and Enrique Valenzuela that was being devoured by the depths of Castle Rock Lake.</div>
Ben Hasskamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08351974191740258268noreply@blogger.com0