Springsummer 6. Mindy Updates Carlisle

Springsummer

6. Mindy Updates Carlisle

Mindy Watkins lay prone on her queen sized bed basking in the glow of Carlisle's slow but efficient love. She fluffed the pillow that was adorned in a liner that celebrated the original cast of “Crime and Justice.” “This was a wonderful evening, Carlisle.”

“It sure is ending nicely,” Carlisle purred. He was wearing only his plush purple St. Martin robe. A man of many interests, Carlisle busied himself in the carriage house kitchenette refining a herbal tea recipe. Carlisle had started with the Kurt Saxon base of skullcap, chamomile, valerian and hops and had personalized it over the years. He added minute doses of cayenne, ginger and sugar to the blended sludge. Sometimes he ate the freshly-blended concoction with a spoon but tonight he was steeping the oven-dried mixture to make an aromatic tea.

“Your brew doesn't have that medicinal herby smell. It actually smells pleasant tonight,” Mindy Watkins commented on the formula.

“I might have found the ingredient that could upgrade all herbal tea,” Carlisle responded.

Mindy crossed her arms and waited. After a playful silence, she spoke. “Oh excuse me. Did I miss my cue to say 'whatsoever might that secret ingredient be, Sir Carlisle?'”

“You did indeed miss your cue. You need to study your lines a little closer, my love.”

Mindy repeated the question with even more dramatic flourish. “Tea,” Carlisle answered. Old fashion commercial grade pekoe tea.”

“Doesn't tea contain caffeine?”

“Yes, and minute doses of caffeine promotes a more restful sleep.” This was followed by a sort of scientific lecture as to the mechanics by which caffeine can induce relaxation.

This is the man Mindy Watkins had fallen in love with. Smart but never smug. An active mind that always challenged itself and playfully challenged everyone around him. Still, Mindy Watkins no longer enjoyed sleeping with her husband.

A couple years back, Carlisle had started expelling flatus in the deeper clutches of slumber. His snoring had gotten worse and his skin no longer felt sweet. It didn't smell bad, it just didn't smell like it used to. Sleep was a solitary pursuit and Mindy Watkins had grown to appreciate that fact. She enjoyed her one night a week with her husband but one night was plenty.

Mindy cleared her throat which Carlisle recognized as a change for the serious. “I want to bring you up to date on things before we drift off to sleep. We got the right inmate on the table, this Duncan fella. Unfortunately, he hasn't responded just yet. Dr. Wu suspects brain damage that might interfere with his receiving and processing microwaved signals.”

“Well that's too bad. But the good news is that the checks cleared for all six members of the Nelson family who are seeking political offices.”

“How many of them do you think will win?”

“None.”

“Not even the brother...”

“Not even the brother who holds an incumbent office.”

“I want to be a political consultant in my next life.”

“It's the perfect profession, My batting average is smaller than my hat size and every year my business grows.” Carlisle handed Mindy a “Crime and Justice” mug that featured the original cast of the first spin-off and he placed his “Crime and Justice: Animal Patrol” Season Three on his nightstand and crawled in next to his wife. The kissed gently and then reviewed their perfect evening together.

It was so rare when the entire family could do things together. Carlisle and Mindy could juggle their schedules but the kids had fewer options. On this evening Sarah would perform with her bassoon quartet and everyone else would dress up and enjoy the show.

Sarah had turned 15 two days earlier and there wasn't much of a celebration. Mary and Elizabeth both had golf matches and Jason had a competitive debate as his high school team had moved on to the Regionals. There was a late nigh “Happy Birthday” with a few gifts and some ice cream and cake but it was all so obligatory. A weary epilog to a busy day.

The bassoon concert was not called a recital because a recital was something people were expected to attend whereas a concert was something people wanted to attend. The audience might include more than faculty and relatives. Sarah attended the newly founded William Faulkner Academy. Her music teacher, Louis Armstrong Mason, had done a masterful job of rendering a bassoon quartet accessible to a general audience. He reworked some Vivaldi, some pop, some Coltrane and some Clifton Chenier to fit his group. Of course, he gave each performer multiple solos to satisfy even the most fickle relative.

Sarah was the youngest and most talented of the foursome and Mr. Mason had stated that she had an excellent chance of winning a scholarship. This information was given to Carlisle shortly before the start of the concert and brought a big smile to his face. “Now if we can get someone to pay for her wedding,” he said with some sincerity.

Shortly after Jason turned 13, he started accompanying his father at various civic functions—County Council meetings, planning boards and the like. Sometimes father and son would play “Who said what?” on the drive home and Jason had become adept at remembering verbatim patter. Carlisle insisted that his children learn Gregg shorthand and Jason had become proficient at it. He would proudly read back transcripts of School Board meetings and include coughs and yawns.

One night at an annual county library board meeting as the assembled awaited the commencement of proceedings Carlisle turned to his son and whispered, “You can sit there like a dipshit adolescent or you can work the room.” Carlisle had already made introductions to the gentle patrons and Jason had seen his father break ice at every function he attended. On this night, Jason's time had arrived.

Despite the fatherly tutelage, Jason was not a mingle prodigy. At Spelling Bee, Science Fair or Talent Night, people seemed confused if not annoyed at the child with the extended hand. But flesh was pressed and skills were honed. He assisted his father in file keeping and printed up some business cards that read:

Jason Watkins

Political Consultant

The cards listed Jason's personal email address, his MyFace account, his personal phone number and his father's business website. Following his father's advice, Jason only handed out cards to people who requested contact information but he did flex that policy a bit with teenage girls.

Tonight was the night it all seemed to jell. Flanked my Mindy and Mary on one side and Missy and Elizabeth and Jason on the other side, Carlisle craned his neck and shot his son the look. Jason sprung to his feet and got to work. Why this night when a child no longer looked childish?

The newly-constructed performance hall was impressive by almost any standard. Varnished wood with serrated walls and jagged ceilings and plush burgundy curtains and comfy burgundy seats. A perfect backdrop fro the wizard's apprentice to work his crafted magic. In his blue suit and white shirt , diagonal-striped robin egg over lemon tie and his thick tufts of dark hair, Jason looked the part of a young man with an enviable future.

Jason found his way to the first row on the audience's right. There, he struck up a conversation with a stately brunette in a full length indigo gown who would later be revealed as a 22 year old grad student intern. Mindy pressed Carlisle's left hand and Missy squeezed his right. Then the lights were dimmed and Jason seated himself in the front row next to the intern.

Petite Mary and chubby Elizabeth were dispatched to slip in front of the stage and snap photos of their poised brother. Each time Sarah performed a solo the intern touched Jason on his shoulder and pointed to the stage. The sisters would be perfectly positioned to capture each episode of contact with their phone cams.

After the show the sisters joined the adults where they had been seated as Sarah loaded up her instrument and Jason did his wrap-up schmooze. He introduced himself to Mr. Mason and complimented him on bringing out the best in his younger sister. Sarah would confer with the other performers backstage and watch glimpses of the show that had already been posted online. She would catch up to her family in the locker-lined hallway where she would study Jason's craftsmanship. They would be the last civilians to leave, escorted out the door by the custodian, Hank Hankins, who chuckled at Jason's witticisms as he locked the door behind them.

In the van, Carlisle waited on Jason's announcement before turning the key. “Sarah, your hard work and perseverance have paid dividends. I will never have your talent but I am so very proud to be your brother. I thank you for inviting me to your performance.”

Carlisle and the twins purred with pride. They savored the lone moment of silence and finally the driver said, “Does anyone have anything else to say?” Elizabeth congratulated her older sister and the grown-ups scoffed at her awkward verbiage.

Then Mary said something cute and everyone but Elizabeth laughed. The ignition ignited and “Crime and Justice” was piped through the screens for the ride home. The perfect evening.

Mindy's eyes were growing heavy. Carlisle was already snoring. The tea had done its trick. She knew she was headed for a sleep so restful and so pleasing and so refreshing but she wanted to hold on to the evening. The perfect evening.

SpringSummer 4 Khalid Is Warned

SpringSummer

4 Khalid Is Warned

Khalid Christopher had slept for roughly an hour when he got a call from his brother, Ahmed. “Call me back on this number from an untraceable.”

Khalid climbed out of bed and transcribed the number into a mini notebook that he kept in the nightstand drawer. He said “Give me a couple,” to his brother and ended the call. Khalid dug into a satchel hidden in the bottom dresser drawer and removed one of the three disposable phones.

Groggily Khalid Christopher stumbled into the TV room and fell onto the loveseat. He powered up the throwaway and secured pad and pen. A proprietary jingle and the phone was ready to go.

Ahmed picked up on the first ring and apologized for calling so late, yes he was aware of the time change, this is important. And Khalid meekly responded,"Yes” and Ahmed proceeded with the purpose of the call. The Organizers could find themselves in a civil war. A faction of the South led by Rabi Dog had decided to break away from the California mother ship.

That explains why Rabi Dog would do something so brazen as to Rob an Organizer bank. That explains why he he had gone missing. It explained a lot of things. Ahmed also warned his brother about T Rex.”Act normal. Don't let anyone know you got your heads up. There is only one man you can trust, Pharaoh.

Khalid was familiar with Pharaoh. He was a squat, dark-skinned guy originally from Sacramento. He was now second in command in Mississippi. “Pharaoh's on our side but he's playing Blunder and T Rex for the time being. Pharaoh will introduce you to everyone you can trust. In the meantime, act like nothing's wrong. “You keep this together and you might be back in the Officer's Club. I'll be in touch."

Khalid knew he would not be going back to sleep. Too much to think about. He realized he would be a target being Ahmed's brother. It might happen sooner or it might happen later. The rebels were probably still too disarrayed to clean house.

Khalid turned off the lights and sat near the room's only window and stared into darkness outside. All in all it was good news. Yes, there would be bloodshed but Rabi Dog would pay for what he had done in those narcs who buffaloed his love would pay-- one way or another-- and Khalid would once more be able to buy nice things for Kathy.

Khalid lifted himself off the loveseat and bounded back to the bedroom with the floors squishing beneath his feet. He was sick of this house with its low ceilings and spongy floors and zigzag layout. He hated the mildew and he hated the memory of the robbery and the cloud that hung over this dwelling ever since.

More than anything else, Khalid hated the trash. What kind of place doesn't have a trash pickup day? And why the hell would someone build a house so far from the road? You had to pack a lunch to check your mailbox, much less bring your trash to the curb.

Khalid was of the strong opinion that serious men did not clean houses are empty trash. Cathy's head injury soften him on those subjects. He patiently waited for the toilets to get scrubbed. It could be months until she felt better. No use stacking dirty dishes in the sink all that time. They would just have to eat off paper plates until that day arrived.

The trash could not wait much longer. Khalid had wrapped their garbage in Hefty bags and threw them in the backyard. That worked well enough during the cold weather months but now it smelled and rats and mice scampered across the colossal waste pile.

Khalid had recruited an online task contractor from the Internet and paid him handsomely to carry the dozens of trash bags to the roadside where he hoped garbagemen would retrieve it. But a week passed in the nine-month accumulation of black trash bags remained where it had been piled. Khalid called the nearest municipality and got a voice-mail recording. He called more numbers and they referred him elsewhere until finally he spoke to a woman at the County Clerk's office who seem to talk in slow motion. “You gotta take it to the dump.”

What dump? How y'all get there? No I don't have a truck. Turn at the road at that place where you brother used to work? No I don't know where that is. No I don't know where that is either. Which Walmart you talkin about? I don't go to no church. A dumb sticker? Oh, a dump sticker. Where I get that? It cost how much?

Khalid called the same worker to return to putrid mass of trash bags to the backyard. A middle-aged white man with a Santa Claus beard wore no work gloves or special clothing. He just smiled and drag bag after bag to the backyard and there he somehow managed to stack them neatly.

Stealthily, Khalid put the phone satchel back in its drawer without turning on the bedroom light. He tiptoed over to Kathy and kissed her left cheek as she lay sleeping. He slipped out of the room and gently closed the door behind him. With a grin in his step he pranced out to the foyer to see his other baby.

There she was! A solid black Silent Runner motorcycle. An ad caught his eye and Khalid manged to scrape together enough cash to buy a used Silent Runner. The Silent Runner was an engineering marvel still struggling to find its marketing niche.

The Silent Runner could be used off road or on. It wasn't designed for motocross launchings and landings but it handled mud and turf and hardened sand as well as anything on two wheels. It wasn't as quick as racing bikes but the SR could top out around 100, a little higher if you tweaked the motor. But who needs to go 160 to get away from a cop only to find another cop waiting down the highway and then another and then another?

With and SR you could cut across a foot trail, a golf course, a highway median, a vacant lot, a cemetery, or a suburban lawn and leave the police cars behind. An advantage that any motorcycle had over any automobile was its off-road mobility. The SR was the most versatile two wheeled vehicle in history.

In Khalid's view anyone who fancied himself a gangster knew how to ride. Even more important than mobility was the stealth factor. Anyone can identify a car by the chrome logo and a lot of people can even give you the make and model at a glance. Most people cannot identify a street bike. They might be able to pick a chopper or a Ninja out of a lineup but good luck describing a nondescript black bike zipping by in the night. It gets even trickier if the rider puts colored tape around the wheels and gas tank and removes the tape when he gets home.

License plates are smaller on motorcycles and easier to forge. Most states track motorcycle sales differently than they track cars and trucks. You can build a car from the ground up but it is an order of magnitude easier to build a bike from scratch.

A player can hide a bike in bushes or shrubs while he takes care of business. Try doing that with a drop-top Benz. But the very best stealth feature is mandated by law in some states. Full face helmets make identification damn near impossible. A riding suit and gloves will keep skin tone a mystery.

Feeling energized, Khalid his black helmet, black gloves, black boots and black overalls out of a hallway closet. He pulled a box cutter from a kitchen drawer and squished back to the TV room. He threw his riding gear onto the loveseat and dressed in a ritualistic way. Dressed and ready to ride, he silently pushed his bike outside.

Khalid stood in the dark with his helmet and night visor on. He had not ridden in the dark for a long time and he knew he had to retrain his eyes. He crept around the backyard and removed a large black trash bag from the Hefty Wall. He Returned to the Driveway and Started the Silent Runner.

Khalid had forgotten how much fun riding at night could be. There was hardly any traffic on these back roads but there was some fog. Khalid eased the SR in a series of S-patterns watch full of debris and potholes.

At 1.2 miles from his house, Khalid spotted a primary school he often drove by. The entrances to the parking lot were sealed off by lock and chain suspended for metal posts. This might keep a car or truck out but Khalid darted his bike between a steel pole and a line of trees and seconds later he was on the playground.

On the ball diamond, Khalid idled his SR near home plate. He removed the box cutter from the left front pocket of his coveralls and cut the garbage bag lengthwise. He then gunned the two wheeler down the first base path and down the right field line. The object of the game was to scatter the garbage as thinly as possible without getting much refuse on himself and getting none at all on the bike.

Khalid returned home seven times and grabbed seven more trash bags. As a matter of Organizer and personal policy, Khalid always shredded anything that had his name or address on it prior to tossing it in the trash. Leaving eight trails of fetid litter ranging from home plate to various points in the outfield, Khalid imagined a bunch of mean old white men on their hands and knees, looking to his chicken bones and coffee grounds in search of identifiers.

Khalid wrapped up his mission about an hour before sunrise. He washed the SR with a garden hose and wipe down his riding gear with alcohol pads he did not feel even slightly tired they took a prescription stimulant anyway, just in case he got groggily later in the day.

Khalid and pulled a foldout lawn chair from the shed so that he could enjoy his breakfast next to his Silent Runner. The sun rose in a cloudless blue sky. Over microwaved chili dogs and nacho chips he spoke ever so gently to his new love. “There will be other evenings. There will be other targets. You will make me a happy man.”

SpringSummer Chapter 3: The Changeling

SpringSummer

Chapter 3: The Changeling

“Yes, I will sign a confession stating that I conspired with members of the Mexican Alliance to distribute tons of methamphetamine throughout Mississippi, Alabama, Tennessee and beyond...

“Yes, I did personally distribute more than one hundred kilos...

“Yes, I did deliver an ounce of methamphetamine to James Charles Pearce on two separate occasions...”

Dr. Wu worked his persuasive magic on the inmate strapped to the table who admitted to running an Escobar-sized operation. Wu's team would have to scale back the details of course. Meantiwhile the confessor admitted to conspiracy, to running an ongoing criminal enterprise, showed a willingness to implicate other conspirators, a willingness to firm up the cases against a few convicts who wanted to appeal their convictions ...another giant leap for Dr. Wu, or so it seemed.

The problem, which would not be discovered immediately, is that Dr. Wu had the wrong inmate on his confession table. Delbert Wayne Duncan, inmate # 101793, was the intended subject of the confessional. Instead, inmate # 107193, Delmore Wade Duggin, was having his cranium bombarded with horrific images.

Mr. Duggin had received many diagnoses over his twenty seven years but two recurring terms were “schizoaffective” and “paranoid.” For reasons unclear even to the perpetrator, Delmore had returned home after a lengthy psychiatric hospitalization and immediately took an aluminum bat to the stained glass windows of an Episcopalean church. He was instantly remorseful to the point of cutting his wrist in a sincere suicidal effort. How could a man who loved his Savior and who prayed to him incessantly, commit such an act of barbarity? No one could explain it.

As the changeling experienced visions of Delbert Wayne Duncan's sons burning in Hell with accompanying sizzles and screams and pleas of “Daddy help me!” the genuine Delbert Wayne Duncan studiously consumed video material on The Unit's new and improved Education Ward. There, he was captivated by images of his childhood head flawlessly graphed on the neck of a child actor as the tussin-tenor voice-over filled his triangular cell.

“Remember when you tasted your first bowl of AM Cereal and every kid wanted to be your friend?”

Yes, it was coming back to him now. In those days children were told to stay away from kids whose fathers were in prison and young Delbert Wayne often played by himself. Then his mother brought home a box of “American Morning” cereal and every kid in the world wanted to play with him.

The screen cut to his adult head flawlessly gumped on an athletic body reading the label of an “American Morning” cereal box. His shopping cart is overflowing with giant turkeys and hams and apples the size of cantaloupe and extra-yellow bananas...Delbert Wayne Duncan places the titanic box of cereal into the depths of the stainless steel cornucopia with a blissful smile on his face...cut to an exterior of a large, luxurious house...cut to a bright, sunny dining room where a smiling Delbert Wayne Duncan sits at the head of a sprawling table. Seated next to him is his wholesome model wife, a handsome teenage son and two daughters on the cusp of womanhood. The child models are all within ten years of his wife model.

The family is enjoying American Morning cereal and Happy Start pastries. Delbert Wayne Duncan silently pledges to devote himself to his family and stay out of trouble. His older son had grown into a fine young man. Not sure where his younger son might be. Hope he isn't in trouble. His wife must have been pregnant with twin girls when he got sent away. They all want to see their father and enjoy American Morning cereal with him.

“Things will be different next time around,” Delbert Wayne Duncan said aloud. “Things will be different.”

SpringSummer Chapter 2: Smith On Leave

SpringSummer

Chapter 2: Smith On Leave

“We Mr. Smith will not be here today,” Thomas Weldon announced to the man who seated himself across the table.

Walter McVey studied the man across from him. He was a few years older than Walter and smaller in stature but they shared a lot of Irish features. Thin skin, round heads, rounded noses that have grown bulbous, they would have blended in at each others family reunions. They even lost their hair in a similar pattern-- frontal recession concluding with a tuft and similar scraggly crowns.

" Is this Bilderberger week?” McVey asked half jokingly.

Weldon smiled. "It is not but I suspect it's something like that."

McVey paused and said in an observational way, "You guys always have plenty to talk about. Excuse me if I feel like a wallflower."

Weldon turned serious. "It's Trig Dynamics. There is never an Isosceles for very long. That's why love triangles are so fragile. But you have become our hypotenuse, my friend."

"Did you major in bullshit or horseshit?” Walter McVey asked with mock sincerity.

Weldon chuckled. "Accounting is my specialty. I take safety in numbers."

“So, Mr. Smith liked your depreciation formulas and ask you to construct a depletion allowance that would keep America safe from foreign aggression."

Weldon shot Walter an expression a high school teacher might reserve for a loudmouth pupil who just called Shakespeare “dumb." “I retired from the IRS,” Weldon recited mechanically. “Then I went into consulting. It was there that Mr. Smith made his acquaintance. He has opened a lot of doors for me. He has answered questions no one else could have answered. He has shown me things I never would've seen on my own.”

“You talking secret handshake?" Walter McVey asked sincerely.

“Handshakes plural." Weldon replied smugly.

With that Weldon shifted the topic to John Joseph, the Eclectic Party and Mississippi. “I have seen the Eclectic Party game plan. They want to use hacks to win a few elections but their long-term goal is to displace one of the two major parties."

“Which one?"

“Probably the Republicans but could be the Dems. They believe they can get the number three party to merge with the Eclectics. Of course by that time they will call themselves the Progressive Party.”

“Why do they insist on calling themselves progressive when it's just rehashed libertarianism?"

“Joseph, the old man, says Progressives don't deserve that label. He calls them retrogressive."

“Bloom is anything but libertarian.”

“No, but then again, Joseph isn't ready to challenge the big boys. He is friendly with the president and wants to see him re-elected. He is not necessarily chummy with the rest of the Republicans, especially the vice president. Have you met John Chissel?”

“Walter McVey shook his head."

“He's a good man. He shares our values. He's one of the few Republicans I would ever vote for."

“Does Bloom think he has a snowball's chance?”

“No. But he's shrewder than he's made out to be. He will run as the Eclectic, get national exposure, take a few votes away from the Democratic candidate and then switch over to the Dems after the election. Then he'll grumble about the wacky Eclectics, say if you mea culpas for helping to re-elect Walker, and then gear up for the Democratic nomination. It's all scripted."

“Do you think John Joseph will run for president?" Walter McVey asked sincerely.

“Maybe someday. But in four years his party will probably run Eva Marie Taffy. Which is why they are trying so hard to dress up Mississippi."

“By legalizing drugs?"

“By pouring a ton of money into the state. By inflating test scores and income statistics and employment stats. Joseph has broken ground on the world's largest shopping mall just off I-20 and he will open as many as nine sports stadia strung along I-55.”

“And we can stop him?"

“Why would we? Mississippi might just be his downfall. The Josephs might pour in their cash and if these things start to bleed red ink, they'll pour in more and more and then there's a scandal here scandal there and boom! The disease strikes when the host is weak."

“Walter McVey shifted in his seat and chose his words carefully. “I'm not asking this question myself. Let's just say there's another person in this room and he wants to pose a question.”

“A hypothetical question from a hypothetical person? I can provide a hypothetical answer if that's what he wants."

Walter McVey paused, leaned forward and crossed his hands on the table.”Hypothetically, can we be a little more forceful?"

Weldon shifted in his seat and started to answer and then paused and started over. His face grew red and he said in a forced whisper, “You people just don't get it...”

Walter's interest froze at the infliction of the term "you people." Did he mean DEA, narcs in general, cops in general?”You people” was never an inviting term.

“... The last thing we want to do is make John Joseph a martyr. Hell, we got a national holiday for a plagiarizing preacher thanks to James Earl Ray. Even if John Joseph fell victim to an accident, it would raise all sorts of conspiracy theories. Capitalism could use a martyr and we're not giving them one."

“You got more patience than our hypothetical friend.”

For the first time since Walter McVey started coming to these meetings, someone was raising his voice.”Patience! It's all about patience! You people don't have any damn patience!” Weldon bellowed.

Weldon arose, removed a bottle of water from a dorm fridge and returned to the table. He seated himself as he twisted off the cap and then took a big schlook. He continued his sermon.

“Brute force has its place but not like promoting one textbook that extols the merits of the Great Society. I reject the primacy of bureaucracy nonsense that the Josephs blather about. This idea that bureaucracy is an unconscious impulse, that we're all bureaucrats at heart and we want to waste people's time because that is what we are programmed to do. It makes me want to scream.

“I do support what the Josephs call the bureaucratic agenda. What is wrong with an elite, educated group of compassionate people nudging the less fortunate in the right direction? What's wrong with that?”

Walter McVey was unsure if he was expected to answer the questions. At any rate Thomas Weldon stood up before he could respond. “I have had some intestinal problems recently. I got to cut that short."

He stood up and took small, quick steps toward the exit.”Patience!” He grumbled as he turned the doorknob. “Patience. Patience. Patience.”

Chapter 19: Dr. Wu

Chapter 19: Mindy Watkins Visits Dr. Wu

Like a lot of Southerners, Mindy Watkins was sensitive to cold weather. With the temperature in the mid-thirties, high winds and light rain, Mindy critically evaluated the heating unit of the People Car Sedan and she concluded that it kept the driver's seat warm and toasty.

This was Mindy Watkins first electric car and it still felt funny to drive. She readily admitted that she had been taken in by the half hour infomercials where John Joseph himself touted the advantages of the People Car.

“Most Americans fail to reach financial independence because they spend too much money on automobiles...not just the purchase price but the maintenance as well...would you consider comfortably driving a car that might outlive you? A car that you might pass on to your children? And they might pass it along to their children?...Not planned obsolescence. Planned permanence.”

Inspired by Volkswagen Beetle, the People Car maintained the same style every year. The plan was to correct minor flaws every five years while maintaining the same exterior. The People Car came in six colors with three interior styles. No sunroofs, moon-roofs, T-tops or rag-tops. No special editions.

For a multitude of reasons the People Car was the cheapest car to purchase and the most economical to maintain. Except for the audio system, there were no microchips inside the car. It was manufactured in Alabama in conjunction with the Kikuchi Auto Company, a small Japanese bus, truck and motorcycle establishment. The design costs were minimal considering there was only one design.

Electric cars generally had lower maintenance costs. The heat involved in internal combustion caused the heartiest metals to warp and change shape over time. The dependence upon electronic regulators from emissions to cabin temperature jacked the price of new cars and made repairs difficult and pricey. A crank-handled door could be repaired for under a hundred dollars whereas it cost three to ten times as much to repair a push button window.

The Joseph Motor Company planned to expand into tour buses, school buses and trucks. They had a two door People Car and a minivan that didn't look like a minivan on the drawing board. For now, they hyped the People Car, a model that became a blockbuster in its sixth year.

Meanwhile, the high end electrics sold well but the retrofitted combustible electrics underperformed and now undersold. The dinosaur dealers were married to the “One Gas Tank” model. One power source that took a painfully long time to recharge.

The People Car offered a large battery and five smaller batteries. The smaller batteries could be swapped out in minutes. Joseph Motor Company was currently offering recharge franchises at one hundred mile intervals along US Interstates as well as along Canadian highways. As the ad said, the age of People was here and Mindy Watkins now drove a People Car.

As Mindy Watkins pulled in front of Greener Pastures gated community, a guard holding an umbrella greeted her. “Good afternoon, Ms. Watkins,” the tall middle age man said in a deeper than average voice.

“Hello Deputy Cummings,” Mindy Watkins replied daintily.

She let the engine run and the giraffean man opened the driver door and shielded the VIP with a gray umbrella. Deputy Cummings offered Mindy Watkins his arm and he escorted her into the cramped guard house. He then returned to park the people Car in the designated parking area.

Greener Pastures Forensic Housing was Amerijail's first venture into secured living. It was a gated and secured twelve house community with a common area, a horseshoe that culminated in a cul de sac. Despite the exorbitant rents Greener Pastures charged government agencies to house witnesses and refugees, it was still a bargain because the renting agencies did not have to provide their own security.

Break even was somewhere between forty and fifty per cent occupancy and Greener Pastures currently rented ten of twelve units. One of the two vacant houses was rented to R and D superstar, Doctor Richard Wu and his two Chinese houseboys to offset what Mindy Watkins acknowledged was undercompensation for his enormous contributions.

At ten acres, Greener Pastures could still add a few houses should the need arise. No one used the tennis court or ball diamond or picnic tables. That could be two more units. Greener Pastures was a gold mine and Mindy Watkins dreamed of spreading the model throughout the American South.

At an idling speed the Octaroon deputy with the gray Hitler mustache gave Mindy Watkins a tour of the compound. They drove past the home Department of Justice rented for James Charles Pearce and his family. From the backseat of the SUV, Mindy Watkins peppered her chauffeur with questions.

Officer Howard reported that the Pearces were quiet people. The kids were being schooled online and rarely left the house. They had not attended church ever since their patriarch was shot during a service. Mr. Pearce had been in and out of the hospital. He almost lost his life a few times but he's been home for a few days now.

The CIA-sponsored Amal family also kept to themselves. The occupants sponsored by the US Marshals had been moved to parts unknown. That woman sponsored by the FBI liked to drink white wine and she too was quiet and kept to herself.

Parked in front of Dr. Wu's extended ranch house, Mindy Watkins asked her driver his opinion of electric cars. She would be surprised at his detailed answer. If he had money to burn, Officer Howard might buy a “movie star electric.” But on his budget, the only reasonable choice was the People Car.

“People Car people are people people,” Officer Howard explained. A cult had been formed around people Car customization. A guy from California had removed the back seat and put in extra batteries. He could go fifteen hundred miles without recharging. “Try doing that with a gas burner,” he cued his passenger.

He continued. “Hippies like em. Rednecks like em. Brothers like em. Wrenchheads like em. People who hate cars like em.” Officer Howard explained how Joseph Motor sponsored People Drags and bands played over their silent engines and he emphasized the diversity of humanity who turned out. Joseph Motor Company offered hefty cash prizes for speed records and sponsored intercollegiate competition. “The People Car is a pallet for mechanical artists,” Officer Howard summarized, lifting his description directly from ad copy.

Deputy Howard then pointed out the flaws of the competition. Skimping on steel to compensate for weak engines, electric fires, fatal shocks, sudden mysterious mechanical failure, high recharge times....Mindy Watkins had to cut him off. She dialed Dr. Wu from his driveway.

“OK. I'll send Rue to meet you,” Dr. Wu said softly.

A delicate Chinese man in a blue flowered kimono pranced out the front door and approached the SUV. Officer Howard opened her door and held the umbrella for Mindy Watkins. The dainty Chinese man bowed and said, “Wehrcome Miss Watkin.” Officer Howard walked them to the front door, protecting his wards with an umbrella. He returned to the SUV and putted back to the guard house.

Mindy Watkins entered the four bedroom dixie ranch leased for a dollar a month to Dr. Wu. She paused in the parlor to remove her shoes. The blue kimono host gently took her hand and guided her over thick, springy carpet. Mindy was taken by the strong incense, the muted lighting and the artificial fog. The fog resembled movie set fog where the actors are obscured except for their shoulders and necks and faces.

A second young Chinaman in a pink flowered kimono appeared out of the fog and raised his right hand above his head like he was expecting a high five. Mindy offered her free hand, her left, and submitted to the leadership of Dr. Wu's girlboys. Had she not signed their paperwork and had she not known that Lou was from Singapore and Ron was from Hong Kong, she would have guessed thy the two young men were twins. “Dr. Wu is known for his exacting taste,” Carlisle had commented on his worldwide search for talent.

“What you dwlink?' Lou asked ever so politely.

“Just water,” she answered and instantly the blue-kimono man returned with a tray that held a bottle of Perrier, and a glass of ice adorned with a lemon. With a hand flourish above his head, he instructed Ron to lead their guest and he followed behind them as they waltzed through the fog. They stopped outside a bathroom and the pink-flowered escort floated out of the fog to hand Mindy an Ole Miss sweat suit. He gently commanded her to enter the bathroom and to remove her pantyhose and to don the sweats.

Mindy closed the door behind her. There was no fog in the bathroom. It was neat. Meticulous like a hotel bathroom that had just been touched up. Fluffy pink hand towels, pink pump soap in a pink-flowered dispenser. She removed her pantyhose and draped them over the shower curtain. She sat on the toilet and urinated. She flushed, washed and climbed into the Ole Miss sweat pants.

In the foggy hallway Ron gently took her left hand and gently guided her ten feet to a darkened room and closed the door behind them. Lou gently guided Mindy into a fluffy chaise lounge. He poured her Perrier and handed Mindy the glass.

With the urgency of an Indy car pit crew Ron washed Mindy's feet with a heated wash cloth. “This for you, Miss Watkins,” Lou purred as he placed a heated mask ever so gingerly on her face and a heated bonnet on her crown. Headphones were placed over the bonnet and they fit snugly over Mindy's ears.

At first the headgear was a distraction. Even more so as the tonal symphony commenced. Soon the focus was back on her feet. No such thing as a bad foot rub. A lobster could do just fine if he concentrated, Mindy reasoned. But Ron was clearly schooled in one or those arcane Oriental practices that Westerners never learned.

Mindy Watkins did not know or care what sort of Eastern esoterica was being applied to her heels. She knew that he pressed on the ball of her right foot and she felt intense pain simultaneous to the release of all pain and suffering. Something was leaving her grasp.

Ron shifted his attention to her right heel. He rubbed superficially and then applied pressure. Mindy Watkins found herself in a floaty, dreamy, foggy place. She felt like a fish in warm water but there was no water. She saw the contented face of her father and she felt even warmer. She spotted her mother floating above her as aloof now as she had been on Earth.

Mindy felt a coziness in her chest when she saw the family dog she had grown up with. “Am I dead?” she asked herself. As soon as she posed the question she saw her twin sister and Carlisle. Then she saw her son and her daughter-nieces floating ever so comfortably. Then there was dark, restful bliss.

When she reviewed the evening Mindy Watkins would not recall finding her way to the dinner table. She remembered sitting across from Dr. Wu at the opposite ends of a long dining room table. She remembered the fog that filled the perimeter of the room but did not encroach on the dinner table. She remembered Dr/ Wu's two houseboys drifting in and out with tasty victuals prepared in the kitchen.

Dr. Wu informed his employer that Lou was an aspiring chef in the Corsican tradition. Mindy Watkins would not be able to elaborate on the soup and salad and choice entrees except to say how great they were. She would, however, have a box of pastries to take home to her family.

Mindy Watkins had meant to review a half dozen points of business with Dr. Wu but she fell short of that goal. Mostly she stared at his kind face and bald head and wondered why some ethnic groups could wear baldness well and others could not. In a state of high satisfaction Mindy Watkins listened once more to Dr. Wu lament his unappreciated talents.

The FBI had Dr. Wu on referral but when he a religious zealot barricade himself in his cabin with hostages, the good doctor wanted to plant religious commands in the zealot's head. The FBI chose instead to burn his cabin down. The CIA wanted to stick to their bloodless torture techniques that were not half as effective as the Doctor's. Naval Intelligence, the Army, the Air Force: they would listen to Dr. Wu and toss him a bone and then ignore him. It was demoralizing.

Mindy Watkins informed her genius in residence that she procured a contract for an inmate named Delbert Wayne Duncan whose confession would help the careers of a lot of good people and spare the taxpayers the burden of a prolonged trial. Dr. Wu nodded and switched the topic to the artificial Samadhi machine she had experienced earlier. “Is it mahlketable, Miss Watkins?” he asked sincerely.

Mindy Watkins said she would look into the consumer demand and shortly thereafter she would be driving her People Car back to Lake Wily. Yes, in the person of Dr. Wu, she had a latter day Edison on her hands. Just had to find a way to bring his talents to market. For now, he was accepting lodging and a small wage but if Greener Pastures filled the last two vacancies Dr. Wu and his boyfriends would have to move on.

With the last remnant of Pseudo-Samadhi drifting from her head, Mindy Watkins stared at the highway in front of her and pondered the words of her departed father. “The hardest thing in business is to turn a cash steer into a cash cow.” She never knew what that meant but it seemed to make sense now,

Chapter 18: Night At The Abbyshire

Chapter 18: Night At The Abbyshire

One night at a fancy Mississippi River casino where Christina Roy would be introduced to the Gougers and the Delveccios. The three couples would gamble and drink and dine in luxury. Unbeknownst to the ladies, the gentlemen would be filtering some of their ill gotten gains into the light of day.

Ronnie Delveccio and his pudgy cherub of a wife, Jackie, picked up Steven and Lauretta in Jackie's king size SUV. Ronnie completed the leg to the Roy residence at an average speed of 72 miles per hour, counting the time spent at two stop signs and a red light. The passengers would shower compliments on the tall raven-haired beauty who happened to be Roger Roy's wife and mother to three of his children. Steven had met her a couple of times before and did not eye her as closely as Ronnie.

In many ways Christina balanced, if not contrasted her husband's presentation.. She had dark hair and pale skin. Roger had white-blond hair and an always ruddy complexion. He had coarse manners and hers were refined. He was loud and she spoke softly. His was a cracker accent and hers was southern aristocrat. In a long, royal scarlet skirt and black and scarlet top she stood apart from her pastel companions. Her black riding boots did not exactly complement her darker than coal Mary Hartman pigtails, but they certainly captured one's attention in a not offensive way.

The party of six poured back a pitcher of margaritas. Roger yelled at his kids and spoke softly to his mother-in-law who would be staying overnight at the Roy house. Then the revelers were off to the Abbyshire Resort and Casino.

The Abby, as it was referred to even before its opening, celebrated the Edwardian Era. Britain at her proudest. Pomp and frills and oversized paintings of fox hunts and croquet matches. Lots of faux antiques and portraits of stately geezers. The bedrooms were ultra-modern by contrast with king-size beds and jacuzzis that could saline or glycerin or proprietary-comfort bubble baths.

The guests would check into their rooms, toilet and muster on the floor of the Lords and Ladies of Linen Casino Parlor. The ladies would split from their husbands and wander as a trio deep into the jungle of flashy-splashy slot machines. The men would stay huddled at a kiosk of progressive slots. All three had tried to explain to their wives the advantages of progressive jackpots and all three had failed in their edification. Never mind that one could actually find a casino game that puts the odds in the player's favor. The girls would rather search for machines that engaged their attention with graphics and catchy ring tones.

As soon as the ladies wandered off, the gentlemen increased the stakes. Their first choice in progressive machines, a sixteen feed that paid homage to Kikuchi Motorcycle Company by displaying a model crotch rocket and cranked acceleration noises through each machine's speakers, seemed to be monopolized by a team of prog chasers.

The trio would settle for a nine feed kiosk that was on the cusp of break even. Prior to arrival they had consulted the Joseph-affiliated Mondo Investor website in search of positive return machines. One feed was in positive territory and two almost there. Rather than trying to sell cusps and positives to the wives, the boys emphasized the quaint charms and luxuries of Abbyshire with its TV series tie-in, a series the ladies all enjoyed.

They played a cramped row of Virtual Janitor machines, a tie with the surprise blockbuster developed by Joseph Games. With the deez and doze grumblings of bald-headed Frank in the foreground the astute gamblers took full advantage of their wives absence to discuss matters of discretion.

Steven Gouger worked the middle box, leisurely feeding the max bet via his new Abbyshire card that was wedged into the provided slot. Ronnie Delveccio also fed the max and he slid to his right to whisper to his friend, “We failed,.” referring to his and Jackie's in vitro efforts.

“So did we,” Steven Gouger said flatly. “Let's have some fun tonight.” Then he added, “Roger's having some problems with his friend. I'll bring you up to date.” Ronnie Delveccio collected a thousand dollars from each of his comrades to cover the upcoming celebration of his fake win and he left for the blackjack tables.

Of the three wives, only Jackie handled household finances. Steven and Roger could hide their cash here and there and pay monthly bills from their stashes. Ronnie did not pay household bills so he falsely won money to clear things with his wife. For all of her common sense Jackie was naive on things related to gambling.

Ronnie found his way to the Fox Hunt Blackjack Den where he seated on an imaginative piece of furniture that combined the best features of an executive chair and British saddlery. There he would exchange fifteen thousand dollars in cash for table chips. He would guzzle margaritas and play wildly until he hit either the ten thousand or twenty thousand dollar mark or until his wife caught up with him. He would tell Jackie that he started with a thousand dollars and a few hours later the chips had bred faster than Brooklyn hamsters. He would tell his cohorts that he could count cards even when he was sloshed and that is what always threw the pit bosses off his trail.

Back at the progs Roger Roy discussed his problem and Steven grew concerned. He unnamed informant blew into Mississippi a little over a year ago with “GANGSTER” written all over him. Roger and his buds tripped him up and Roger was able to use his influence to classify him as a “covert informant.” Off the books, so to speak.

The informant knew what he had to do which was to lad Roger to criminals with cash. Of course the CI was reluctant to give up his fellow gang members so he outed a few drug dealers his people had sold to. Still a dangerous proposition and one that his people would certainly view disapprovingly.

The prior jobs were small and the CI contented himself with a finder's fee. He knew the job he set up on Khalid Christopher was large and he wanted a cut. “How much?” Steven asked. Roger mouthed the figure.

“Ain't gonna happen!” Steven roared.

Roger nodded then added. In a whisper, “It's worse than that.” He paused and and once more pressed the “Maximum Play” button and turned back to his colleague. “He was supposed to get the hell out of Dodge. His people aren't stupid. They are going to figure out who set up their Bozo and then they will come after my guy.”

Steven's machine registered three push brooms. Not the progressive jackpot three plungers would have yielded but it put him up a few thousand dollars. “What's your plan?' he coolly asked Roger.

“When I met this guy he was clean. Tox screens confirm that. But I been around a while and I know cokehead confidence when I see it. He figures he's got as much dirt on me as I do on him. Maybe he's right. But I don't have a whole gang of California Negroes breathing down my back like he will. Not yet I don't.”

“Things could get messy if his people come after him,” Steven whsiper3d about the janitorial sound effects of scrubbing brushes and flushing toilets.

Roger's machine hit three push brooms and placed him in the “Up” column. “I thought about it, believe me. There could be a public dispute and he gets nabbed. What's he got to lose? That's when he writes his tell all.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Steven asked as his machine lit up three cleanser drums, assuring that the evening would be prosperous even if he missed the progressive jackpot.

“Actually there is,” Roger purred and held the silence to enhance the drama. He grumbled about a streak of machine spins and then spoke deliberately. “My man says he has a golden goose. But he wants to play on the team. Four way split.”

Steven let loose a long, slow, deliberate groan accompanied by the “Piece of Cake” declaration from Frank The Janitor. “The deal was....”

“I know what the deal was,” Roger cut in. “This guy is already in. He doesn't need to know your identity. We'll do one more gig and then he'll leave town.”

“And if he decides to sick around?” Steven asked in a soft voice.

Roger Roy took his fingers off the machine and turned directly to Steven. With a cold stare that reminded his colleague why he was a feared and fearsome presence, he deliberately stated, “Then I will solve the problem all by myself.”

Steven nodded. “It has to be unanimous and I'm not much of a salesman.”

Roger returned his focus to his machine. The big jackpot would elude them but they would both come out a few thousand ahead and they would legitimatize a few thousand more. The ladies would check in from time to time. Jackie and Lauretta would each lose a few hundred and Christine would gloat about the forty two dollars she was taking home.

When Jackie caught up with her husband he had twelve and a half thousand dollars in chips on the table. He left the dealer a generous tip with the stipulation that he back up his story that he started with just a thousand dollars in chips. Jackie would not question his success. She would throw herself into her husband's arms and kiss him deeply. “Dinner's on me!” Ronnie announced triumphantly.

The genuinely British concierge arranged for a party of six in the Kipling Suite. The ladies had packed their evening gowns and shoes as had Steven and Ronnie. True to form, Roger Roy ignored his wife's instructions and forgot his suit. This would cause a brief shouting match in the Argyle Room with Ronnie acting as peace maker.

Somehow sensing Roger's forgetfulness on matters not related to work and also anticipating spilled cocktails, Ronnie packed a second suit. Like the one he would be wearing, it was a traditional cut coat with a starched white shirt and tepid tie.

In Ronnie and Jackie's room Roger Roy tried on his duds. Perfect fit! The waist. The hem. The sleeves. The men were skeletal twins except for their feet. Ronnie wore size ten and a half and Roger wore twelves. No way. No how.

Once more, Mr. Bristle, the stuffy but affable concierge solved the problem instantly. He had a pair of size twelve black Wingtips sent to Roger and Christine's room and the delivery man placed the shoes on Roger's feet using an ivory shoehorn that featured a handle of bas-relief honoring the finer equine specimens of the Edwardian Era. Roger paid handsomely for his room service kicks and still found something in his wallet for the shoe guy and Mr. Bristle.

In their classic, toned-down suits the gentlemen could have been cast as extras in almost any decade. Christine would steal the show with a florid design that accentuated her stature. Her Southern grace would have an opportunity to shine and it would light up the room.

Lauretta attempted to look less perky and girlish with a dreamsicle orange and white gown that made her look extra perky and extra girlish. She too, would display a subtle Southern grace challenged at times by abundant libations.

Jackie chose a plum gown that suggested the word “prom.” “It's a beautiful shade pf plump,” a perky and inebriated Lauretta Gouger pronounced ever so innocently. Jackie's Malden manners would reveal themselves throughout the evening and the pretty plum gown would serve as a catch basin for food and drink and one wayward sneeze.

It would be a night to remember conceptually if not in detail. At the Kipling Suite a chess piece of a waiter the party appetizers none of them had ever heard of. They would drink cold beer and frothy margaritas and guzzle fine wine during dinner. They would all order variations of beefsteak, potato and salad. They would sip and then chug a brilliant liqueur. Finally, they would be treated to a Brandy Broadside dessert. Twelve variations on sugar and butter and pastry and cream with the common denominator of Snidingham Exquisite Brandy soaked into every morsel. They tipped exorbitantly.

Mr. and Mrs. Roy would be golf-carted back to their room via the VIP elevator. The Gougers would be next. The Delveccios, the unofficial host and hostess would find themselves in their room as the sun rose over Mississippi.

Ronnie Delveccio would sleep face down on the carpet. Roger Roy vomited repeatedly and begged his wife not to tell anyone. Steven Gouger would lie in bed with his wife cuddling him. “If I die right now, I will be a happy man,” Steven declared.

“You can't die,” his tired wife said softly. “You're all I got.” She kissed him and they both fell asleep.

Chapter 16: Delbert Wayne Duncan On Remedial Education Unit

Chapter 16: Delbert Wayne Duncan On Remedial Education Unit

Delbert Wayne Duncan did not know that he was circling in a holding pattern, awaiting the outcome of negotiations concerning his being subjected to Dr. Wu's advanced interrogation techniques. The inmate was mesmerized by the wallscreen in his cell that showed a nine year old Delbert Wayne Duncan celebrating his birthday with a large family he had seemingly forgotten.

“Prison is the last great venue for advertising,” Lamar Watson liked to tell his adoring daughter. Of course there were obstacles to bringing Madison Avenue to The Big House. Bundled And Fortified Fiber Optics revolutionized the “delivery process.” Jailbirds would be able to watch a treasure trove of commercials that streamed through ultra-low energy interfaces as culinary odors were piped through the vents.

With their messaging refined if not perfected, the problem for Mindy Watkins and Amerijail turned to recruiting sponsors. Not surprisingly, vendors were not enthusiastic about marketing their products to a population on a trajectory that did not forebode a high volume of consumer decisions. The ever resourceful Amerijail responded by developing heir own product lines. Precious Memories, a wholly owned subsidiary of Amerijail, utilized a packaging firm that dumped their generic cereals into house brand boxes. To date, Swan Song Foods had packaged six cereals and three toaster pastries for Precious Memories. Precious Memories was also negotiating with other packagers to market dinner products that had been developed at Amerijail's Western Tennessee Unit.

The face of a nine year old Delbert Wayne Duncan had been lifted from the Internet and set onto a nine year old body using a process called Morph-Vid originally developed by Joseph Productions. James Joseph once oversaw a production company called “the virtual network” because of the volume of content they cable stations and networks. The cash-soaked Josephs sometimes swapped their crisp new shows for the rights to old, unmarketable movies. What would conglomerates want with moth-eaten fodder that were not even considered classics?

Morph-Vid to the rescue. An old cheesy Western serial was colorized and given a hip hop soundtrack and the faces of contemporary actors were sewn into the new product. The old thirteen part “Tumbleweed” series retold with black heroes and Caucasian villains were a direct to video sensation. “Tumbleweed Remix” sounded the tsunami alarm for an epoch of small screen and theatrical releases produced for a fraction of the cost of a conventionally made movie.

Morph-Vid would find its way into other venues. Pornography had traditionally held the attention of a largely male audience but women who were shown hardcore vids with their own faces grafted on the head of female actresses became loyal, if not fanatical customers. Their enthusiasm spiked even higher when voice emulators substituted their own voices for the actress's voice. Men who did not enjoy traditional porn frequently paid top dollar to watch a better-bod version of themselves perform with a beautiful partner.

Advertising was the next frontier for Morph-Vid. Consumers might open their wallets to watch a version of themselves in a porn vid or even an old Tarzan flick but who wanted to morph into a commercial? Amerijail transported its inmates into the future. Delbert Wayne Duncan sat on the cot of his cell slowly chewing on a Precious Memories blueberry toaster pastry.

Delbert seemed to have forgotten that when he was nine he won a croquet tournament that saved the whole town from eviciton and his Uncle Wilbur and Aunt Sarah rewarded him with Precious Memories Corn Flakes. He seemed to have forgotten that when he was nine, he saved a baby from a flooding river and the townspeople rewarded him with a parade and a serving of Precious Memories Fudge Crispies Cereal. He seemed to have forgotten that when he was nine, he rescued a family from a burning house and Uncle Dave and Aunt Ruby rewarded him with an assortment of Precious Memories toaster pastries.

Now as Delbert leaned against the wall that abutted his vinyl cot, he closed his eyes to focus his attention on the rapturous flavor of his Precious Memories Strawberry toaster pastry. Life was good.

Idolatry vs. Ideology

Idolatry Versus Ideology

The news media do not usually cover news media. They are a club. They are perhaps the most insular profession in America. There might be pecking orders and rivalries and jealousy but they are good at keeping their grievances in-house. They like to refer to one another as colleagues.

Bernard Goldberg reminds us that there is no secret handshake. None is needed. In this finely-screened guild, dissidents are not recruited or welcomed. They often graduate from good schools but nonetheless they do have dimwits in their ranks. They are not necessarily stupid but they will consciously promote stupidity when duty calls.

Members of the news media are haughty and cavalier and every word in the thesaurus for both haughty and cavalier accurately describes them. No exceptions. They are parochial and provincial and every word in the thesaurus for both parochial and provincial accurately describes them. No exceptions.

Smugly superior, tirelessly loyal to their clan, secular in the extreme. Secularists are notoriously vulnerable to cult leaders. Offbeat religions have much better success recruiting at Harvard or Yale than at Brigham Young or Oral Roberts. The Cult of Obama would find the ranks of the secularist media to be their Happy Hunting Ground.

Observers might denounce media bias but they often mistake loyalty to proper noun for loyalty to principle. In the case of Barack Obama, idolatry is often mistaken for ideology. The Obamacist media practice unconditional love for their beloved leader.

A purely objective press has never existed. We have discussed press prejudices and how they have evolved over time. Yes, there has always been a bias against dissent, an endorsement of pack journalism for the good of the pack. What was absent until 2008 was an ongoing consensus on behalf of matters related to one man and his agenda.

The news media might have been chummy and sniffy but they were also independent. Even during times of war—World War II being the possible exception—news media expressed diverse viewpoints. That is no longer the case.

“Mysticism is unifying. Reason is divisive. “ So says Thomas Szasz. Ideology has its limits. An idea as simple as “the government should help the poor” immediately encounters an obstacle course. How do we help the poor? Should we first help those who help themselves? Should we first help those who cannot help themselves? Should we first help those who will not help themselves in hopes of lifting their spirits? Should we help poor people find work or just give them cash? Would it be better to give poor people food stamps and free education and subsidized housing than to give them cash? Should we help intact families more than single mothers or vice versa? Reason divides.

George Patton said, “If everyone is thinking alike, then somebody isn't thinking.” To that, our news media reply in unison “Yes we can!” For many journalists, Obamacism is their first religious experience. For most journalists, Barack Obama is the only deity they love and revere. For all members of the Fourth Estate, Obamacism is the only religion that matters.

Issues do not matter to the Obamacist. Candidate Obama excoriated President Bush for his profligacy, “two wars on a credit card...Bank of China credit card...” more references to credit cards, calling deficits unpatriotic, etc. President Obama would ultimately spend more rapidly and more recklessly than any president in history, arguably with little or nothing to show for it. The press are behind their deity all the way, They are zealots, not ideologues.

President Obama bears no resemblance to Candidate Obama in 2008 or even Candidate Obama in 2012 when the press adroitly assisted the incumbent in running against his own record. Republicans. The Tea Party. Congress. His rivals who acted as rivals. Rush Limbaugh. These entities all served as scapegoats for the Administration's ongoing failure. Never is anything the president's fault. Never.

The Obamacist media mob praised the Affordable Care Act without reading it. Through executive order and Secretarial fiat, the ACA morphed and shape shifted and evolved into something much different from its legislative form. The chorus backed their deity every step of the way. Changes in law were but words on paper. Love and worship of their leader is all that mattered.

Previous executives waffled or flip-flopped. Barack Obama pivots and grows and evolves. Never indecisive, always reflective. One Obamacist even coined a term to prop up their divinity: He leads from behind. Unconditional love. Unending loyalty. Consensus achieved.

Obamacism is a media-created, media-generated, media-fed religion. A land of skeptics found its savior. Finally, there was someone worthy of their deference. We will examine the techniques of persuasion and deception that made Obamacism possible. We need to reemphasize Obamacism's universal support from the Fourth Estate. Their unanimous, total and unending loyalty has made the impossible a reality.

Chapter 14: In Vitro Efforts

Chapter 14

In Vitro Efforts

Steven Gouger followed the white-robed med assistant to the tiny room and tried to ignore the blaring fragrance of isopropyl alcohol. He watched the silent pawn spread a sheet of medical paper across the aqua-colored vinyl cushions. Steven Gouger focused on the gray bun that jerked like a fish bobber as she robotically set the stage. She pivoted and turned the doorknob with her gloved hand and exited the room, slamming the door ever so slightly.

Steven Gouger locked the door and settled settled himself on the starchy white paper. He opened one of the many crisp issues of “Playboy” to the centerfold and placed it on the couch next to him. He liked looking at Hef's girls—who didn't? However he found the dainty lookalikes a little too distant to be employed in a utilitarian manner.

To help him complete his mission, Steven Gouger removed an inactive mobile device from his pocket. The phone capabilities of the phone had never been activated. Steven Gouger used this secret vault to view slide shows of Lauretta's younger sister, Julie, Lauretta's good friend Sherry Cummings, a neighbor's daughter who was a cheerleader at Ole Miss and Lauretta's nineteen year old cousin, Riva.

Steven Gouger would also remove his daily cell phone that contained slides of his wife in various stages of undress. He knew he would later be quizzed on where his eyesight was focused prior to the completion of his duty. He wanted to be able to tell his spouse without hesitation that he was unable to take his eyes off of her in her black negligee stroking her Teddy Bear ever so suggestively. He knew he would make his wife blush and smile.

Steven Gouger briefly reflected on the nature of women. Yes, they were smarter than men but they could never understand men. Then again, why would they want to? With his jeans around his ankles, Steven Gouger started the slide show. Had anyone ever jerked off to an image of his wife? Was it even possible?

The tiny screen overflowed with images of his 22 year old sister-in-law Steven Gouger had lifted off her MyFace page. Julie had been a lifeguard in high school and college and she posted dozens of photos of herself in an array of swimwear. Her tan, wet skin. Her sleek bod. The dirty blond Julie. The fade to brunette Julie. The blond highlight Julie. The bottle blond Julie.

Close but no fiesta. Steven Gouger switched to Sherry Cummings. What exactly made this woman so erotic? The low cut blouse helped but it was her inner confidence that exuded sex through every pore...seconds later it was Wendy Johnson, the cheerleader and seconds later...Riva also had dozens of photos on her MyFace page. She too had been a cheerleader. She too, owned several bathing suits but it would be her graduation photo that would allow Steven Gouger to roll the credits. That heavenly face. So smooth. So gentle. So creamy.

Steven Gouger rested briefly, pulled up his jeans and placed both cells into his pants pocket. He carefully applied hand sanitizer ever so cautious not to disturb the contents of the plastic cup. He glanced at himself in the mirror and walked the cup down the synthetic hardwood hallway where it would be received by an impassive Vietnamese man in a lab coat who would quietly thank Steven Gouger without making eye contact.

On his way home from Music City Steven Gouger darted his old truck in and around and through slower traffic. It was mostly interstate between Vanderbilt and the homestead. The landscape was dreary brown and there were hints of fog here and there.

At 90 miles per hour he reflected once more on the unending nightmare. Initially Lauretta was subject to early stage miscarriages. She was told she might have had a few more miscarriages without even knowing it. Doctors and copays and time and treatment seemed to solve the problem. But Lauretta would not get pregnant.

Along the way, Steven's sperm count had dropped from slightly low to significantly low. And he would find himself in the office of a urologist who would grip his scrotum tightly as he glared at his patient. Dr. Antaramian was new to Mississippi Urology Associates and thus his name did not appear on MUA's website or any of their literature. Had he seen the name Antaramian, Steven Gouger would have sought treatment elsewhere.

Just two weeks prior, the DEA had shut down a pain clinic run by another Dr. Antaramian. The urologist's older brother had been shuffled off to jail and his assets, including his house and vacation cottage, were seized. The clinic had not excessively written pain scripts but but the local office had fallen behind schedule in the prescription abuse department and someone had to take the fall. Besides, Steve Antaramian had been rude to DEA staff.

Peter Antaramian knew that Steven Gouger was a DEA agent and though he did not mention his brother's ruination, he did not hide his contempt. He was rough. He was gruff. He was rude. Steven Gouger still held the opinion that the younger Doctor Antaramian intentionally misdiagnosed his problem. He remained convinced that he had concealed the presence of a varicele. So humiliated by one office visit that Steven Gouger waited a full year to undergo a second opinion. The new doctor was gentler and kinder and took the requisite steps for corrective action.

A degrading surgery was performed and Steven Gouger's sperm count would elevate but not as high as he had hoped. Now Steven and Lauretta took turns driving back and forth to Nashville in hopes of conceiving through artificial insemination. Lauretta had insisted that they sue the urology practice for misdiagnosing the varicele but Steven would have none of it. No amount of money could make him relive his humiliation. Telling his story to a lawyer and then another lawyer and depositions and more depostions and then what?

Steven knew of people who had faked injury and ultimately became crippled. Walking with a cane was no longer optional. And if they played the role of victims of infertility...

Steven's memories would be interrupted by the blue lights of a Tennessee State Trooper in his rear view mirror. His heart raced as he fumbled for his Mississippi State Police badge. He would wait patiently for the trooper to aproach and then wave his courtesy in a manner equivalent to a secret handshake.

Had the snarling trooper not been cooperative, he would have produced his DEA credentials. Both Tennessee and Mississippi issued phony creds to Federales so as to not blow their cover. True to form, the Faberge-reeking pug backed down but not before issuing a slight admonishment.

“Ninety seven? I will extend professional courtesy but you are pushing your luck, sir.”

Steven Gouger promised to slow down and thanked the grimaced officer. It would take him about four hours to get home and it was dark when he pulled into his driveway. In the old days he and Lauretta would have gone to the bedroom and he would remark how the second time always felt better. No more. Infertility was now the elephant in the room and their intimacy was limited to reproductive efforts. They would not want to bother just a few hours after ejaculation.

Tonight the Gougers would sit on the couch and watch “Crime and Justice” reruns until bedtime. They would both remark that even if their dreams were ultimately broken, there was always “Crime and Justice” and for that alone, life was worth living.