Jericho — Season Three — (“Cincinnatus”)

(Flag of the Allied States of America)

“Jake, you still don’t seem to get it.” Jake Green’s grandfather turned slowly; the heat of a Kansas summer heavy in the air as he walked over to the shade cast by the barn. Jake’s father, Johnston, sat on an overturned stock-tub, whittling at a piece of wood in the shade.

“Remember I told you – whether it’s Ravenwood, or Hessian mercenaries, the answer is the same – revolution.”

“But I can’t risk the whole town, Grandpa.”

“Son, the whole town is already at risk. The whole country. Everything I fought for; everything your father fought for; everything we both believed in – until we both died.”

The word died echoed in Jake’s mind as he woke up.

Jake was sleeping on a cot in a hospital in San Antonio, Texas. His neighbor, friend, and now fellow – revolutionary? – Robert Hawkins, was in ICU, fighting for his life. Shot by an EMT in Cheyenne, Wyoming, it seemed like a year ago – but in fact it was yesterday.

He’d dreamed about his grandfather – who’d fought in World War II and who told him the tale of General McAuliffe’s response of ‘Nuts!’ to the German general surrounding the city of Bastogne – not long ago, when Major Beck, the military commander of the two counties comprising Jericho and New Bern, held him as a prisoner for several days.

Beck was trying to find the whereabouts of the other Jericho Rangers. Jake hadn’t given them up then – he hoped they were all right.

Jake looked at the clock. 4:30AM. He’d fallen into bed, exhausted, a little after 10 the night before. He was fortunate that his prior assignment with Ravenwood (subsidiary of Jennings and Rall) had given him an opportunity to learn to fly – otherwise, he and Hawkins would have never gotten as far as they did.

He put on the hospital-scrubs he’d been issued when they took his clothes, and opened the door.

“Well, look who’s up!”, said a nurse at the duty-station. “Want some coffee?” Her thick Texas accent was at once foreign and welcoming.

Coffee in hand, Jake said, “How’s Mr. Hawkins?”

“He’s out o’ surgery, Jake. He’s still critical, but stable. Doctor says he’ll make it.” She added, “Jake, I just want to say ‘thanks’ for what you boys did. Word’s all over the hospital. You boys are heroes.”

Jake shifted; if there’d been gravel to kick, he’d’ve looked down and done it. “I don’t want to be a hero. I just want what’s right.”

“Well, we’re a long way toward that now, ‘cause o’ you.”, said the nurse, going back to her perch behind the desk. “Shower’s down that way. Laundry should have your clothes back later this mornin’.”

“Can I see Hawkins?”

“When he wakes up. Not ‘till then, I’m afraid. Could take a few hours.”

“I need to make a call.”

“Phone’s over there, hon. It’ll call long-distance, if Cheyenne hasn’t cut the lines ‘tween here and the Outside. Might want to use your cell-phone; we have service here.”

“It’s dead.”, said Jake. “Do you know where Mr. Hawkins’ phone is?”

“Probl’ly with his clothes and other ‘personals’. I’ll have one of the LPN’s help you.”

Retrieving Hawkins’ phone was easy – Jake reflected on the ease of how things were done here – part of being in a truly free country. It was still hard to think of Texas as a ‘country’, but those were the rules now. He was already adapting to two governments, and being fifteen pounds lighter than he’d been before the Bombs.

“Gray?”

The voice on the other line was still sodden with sleep. “Jake?”

“It’s me. I’ll have to be fast; I don’t know how long we can talk. Hawkins is fine; he was shot yesterday, but he’s fine. We got the bomb to San Antonio.
Austin is working on joining with Columbus. I’m fine; tell Mom for me. How’s things on your end?”

“Jake, Major Beck’s come over. His officers joined him. About three-quarters of his troops joined him, too – the rest were disarmed and given safe-conduct to Cheyenne. The word has spread to Camp Liberty, and we’re seeing a LOT of defectors – although we’re anticipating they’ll land on us with both feet after all this. Tell Hawkins –“

The line went dead.

“That was better than I expected,” thought Jake, as he closed Hawkins’ cell phone.

______________________________________

Gray Anderson, the mayor of Jericho, rolled over and looked at the clock. “4:50”, he thought. “Might as well get up”.

Coffee and toast, and at least hot water to shower. He thought about the small things which now seemed so important.

He’d just returned from the ‘Constitutional Convention’ in Cheyenne at Jake’s behest. While he had no idea what Jake had done until a few minutes ago, he was clearly surprised to see him in Cheyenne.

“Cheyenne”, he thought. “Jake’s comment was right.”

He remembered Jake, looking out the new Cheyenne Marriott’s window and saying, “It didn’t take ‘em long to build their own country,” after seeing the new 22-story Jennings and Rall headquarters, and the new national Capitol Building still under construction in the background.

“Twenty minutes of discussion, and the second amendment is history,” thought Gray. “I was right, the other day. Doesn’t take much to keep a population in line if they can’t shoot back.”

It was the same with the First Amendment – ‘freedom of speech’ was subject to ‘congressional directives guaranteeing national security’ – whatever that meant. What it really meant was this – -the government could tap your phone, break up your church-meeting if they thought it was ‘subversive’, or tell a town-council that it was dissolved. The newspapers were, with that addition, under government control, as was any other form of media.

He was fearful of what was going to happen next. The Cheyenne government had sent the Jericho school district new textbooks, and had all-but-insisted on their use. Emily Sullivan, the high-school social-studies teacher, refused.

“Doesn’t matter much now. We haven’t held school in over a year.”

Then, he had another thought. Suddenly, there was no time to lose….

____________________________________________

Stanley and Mimi woke up at dawn; the habit of farmers the world-over and a habit Mimi had only recently acquired. Stanley had not slept well for over a week; he cried out at night; Mimi hadn’t mentioned it during the day, but she slept fitfully also, worrying over him.

They’d buried Stanley’s sister Bonnie only yesterday – the victim of a Ravenwood mercenary ‘action’ bent on clearing up the paper-trail from their financial corruption. Mimi was still nursing a bullet-hole in her shoulder as a result.

It was hard for her not to feel guilty. The Ravenwood operatives had come for her, not Bonnie – and it was Bonnie – who couldn’t hear, but who bought Mimi the precious time to hide in the pantry – and paid for that act with her life.

It was hard for Stanley to not feel a twinge, also – he’d been the one who’d brought down the Wrath of Major Beck, after shooting the man responsible for his sister’s death. Three residents of Jericho had been killed resisting Beck’s “relocation” orders, and the town was still dealing with the aftermath of the near-riot which had happened later.

“Stanley?”

Stanley’s eyes opened. “Yeah?”

“Good morning.”

He put a hand behind her head and pulled her down to kiss him. “Good morning, Mrs. Richmond,” he said.

Mimi giggled.

“Yes, we did that yesterday, didn’t we?” She smiled at the memory of yesterday’s impromptu ‘vows’ which they took before walking, hand in hand, down from Bonnie’s raw grave.

“How does it feel to be a ‘country girl’ for real, now?”

“Just fine, Mr. Richmond!”, Mimi said, looking at Stanley’s sunweathered face.

Up; Stanley was outside, doing barn-chores while Mimi did her best with a one-handed breakfast. When he came back an hour and a half later, she’d managed coffee, bacon and eggs after a fashion, and some toast. It would be at least two weeks before she could consider working full-time again; the effort of making breakfast had taken quite a bit out of her, and she sat down hard, catching her breath.

“Look at that!”, said Stanley. “Breakfast and everything!” He dug in, almost greedily. Food was a priority; farms usually did well, but it wasn’t without effort. He still had a day ahead of him after breakfast, and it wouldn’t end until dark.

“Did you hear about Beck?”, said Mimi.

“No; what?” Stanley looked alarmed. It was Beck who’d put a price on his head, and tortured Jake Green to give up both he and the other Rangers.

“He quit Cheyenne.”

“No!” Stanley’s eyes grew wide.

“Yes!” Mimi continued, “His officers did the same. I got the call from Trish after you went to bed. Nearly the whole outfit went over, including Colonel Hoffman. Tanks, trucks – those funny airplanes that shoot at tanks – all of it.”

Stanley had seen, up close and personal, those ‘funny airplanes’ – the A10 ‘Warthog’ – drop napalm between the New Bern army and the citizens of Jericho who had turned out to defend the town against New Bern’s attack. If the two companies under Beck’s immediate superiors hadn’t shown up when they did, it would have been a lopsided fight – New Bern had raised nearly a thousand men, intent on stripping Jericho of supplies.

“Stanley?” Mimi waved her hand in front of Stanley’s face. “You there?”

“Yeah. A lot’s happened, is all.” Through with breakfast, Stanley ‘policed’ his own dishes and stayed to help Mimi wash them.

“What happens now?”, said Stanley.

Mimi paused, considering the enormity of the situation. Beck had sent the nearly 1/3 of the battalion who hadn’t broken with the Cheyenne government back on foot with five days’ rations. The trucks they could have taken were needed, and sorely, for what was sure to come.

“Well, Camp Liberty is now affiliated with the Columbus government. Colonel Hoffman has gone back to Columbus with his second-in-command, a Lieutenant-Colonel. Beck’s in charge of what’s left, as he’s the ranking officer. I suppose I could go to the Jennings and Rall office and see what they’re doing.”

“Is it safe?”

“There’s so much I just don’t know. I don’t like not knowing. As soon as I can clean up a bit, I’m going to town.”

_______________________________________

Major Beck lay on his cot in the camp outside of town, where in a brief ceremony the day before, Colonel Hoffman had hauled down the flag of the Allied States and replaced it with the old 50-star U.S. flag.

He had to brief Jericho’s mayor on what was happening worldwide.

China had officially recognized the A.S. So had Germany, and about half the E.U. England, on the other hand, had recognized Columbus, along with Ireland, France, Italy, and even the opportunists running the Russian Federation.

Asia, apart from China, was split pretty much along the lines they’d expected. Japan, anxious about the A.S. attitude toward the rest of the world, had recognized Columbus. So had Thailand, Taiwan, and South Korea.

Several Asian nations had remained neutral. Australia and New Zealand had recognized Columbus, and were actually proposing aid.

Mexico had remained neutral, in spite of being courted by both sides, (and being warned by the Independent Republic of Texas that any incursion into Texas territory would be considered an Act of War.)

Beck considered this ironic – his original family name was Hispanic; his grandfather having come from Mexico to Santa Fe in the 1940’s during the years of the bracero program. Grandfather had picked crops and maintained farm machinery.

His father had the gift of good eyesight and a quick mind; he’d gotten an ROTC scholarship to the University of New Mexico, and flown combat-support missions in Vietnam. On his return, he married, and bought an old Stinson biplane, which he e
mployed as a cropduster, caring for the crops of white and Hispanic farmers alike. He’d been given the English name “Edward” by his father (rather than the Hispanic ‘Edwardo’, who (over the strenuous objections of his abuelo) had taken the family name “Beck”, in order to blend in.

He’d also drilled it into young ‘Edward’s’ head to learn proper English – it was, he felt, the only way to get ahead in an English-speaking country.

Beck’s mother had died when he was three.

Child-care wasn’t an option. His father simply strapped him to his lap when he went up, and as soon as Beck was old enough, taught him to fly.

This had all paid off. He’d won a slot at West Point eighteen years earlier, and had graduated in the top third of his class. His first choice had been Air Force, but he’d failed the physical; the family-eyesight hadn’t quite been passed down to him.

Beck considered all this while he shaved, showered, and got ready for reveille. Of greater concern was Gray Anderson’s return, and what to do about it.

He also had nearly 1,200 men plus support personnel in this camp, and there was no way he was going to let them fall into Cheyenne’s hands when the column dragged back into the outskirts of the new capitol with their story of mass defection.

Striding into the conference tent, everyone came to attention. Beck motioned them to sit down, saying “As you were!”

Walking to the whiteboard, he wasted no time. “Men, you’re all good officers. Some of us attended the Academy together. I’m not going to kid you. We’re all in trouble, one way or another. Cheyenne will consider us all traitors. If captured, we won’t be given the courtesy of a trial; we’ll likely be shot or hung, and our troops imprisoned – if they’re treated that well.”

Some of his junior officers shifted in their seats at this. They understood what was happening. Most had taken the oath to the new government the moment it showed order and authority under President Tomarchio; now that the government had shown its true colors, they felt no obligation to honor that oath – but they also knew Cheyenne had other notions of its validity.

“The mayor of Jericho contacted me at 5:30AM this morning and requested a meeting tonight in their town hall. The nature of that meeting is unknown. I will brief you on its outcome tomorrow. Until then, gentlemen, it’s business as usual. Drill your men; keep their minds off what’s going on. You know the problem with idle-time. Calisthenics for all not on watch or other duty; rifle drill by-rotation starting at 08:00. Dismissed!”

The sudden bustle of men standing up from folding chairs filled the tent. Beck turned and walked out. He had some preparations to make for a meeting which agenda he didn’t know….

_______________________________________

“This meeting of the Jericho Town Council will come to order!” Gray Anderson’s voice boomed over his microphone, causing some momentary feedback.

People began to settle down. “Funny thing about a town meeting”, thought Gray. “Even if we don’t have a way to let everyone know about it, everyone still finds out.” He looked at the audience; nearly the whole town was there.

“I’ve called this meeting to call for a vote. First, I need to let you all know what’s happened.”

Gray paused, then continued. “Yesterday, Major Edward Beck of the 10^th Mountain Division tendered his resignation to the Cheyenne government.” Some people gasped; others stood silent. The word had evidently not gotten out to everyone.

“You all noticed Johnston Green’s flag – the one from his office wall, which says ‘Don’t Tread On Me’ flying outside the town-hall. I don’t need to tell you what that means. Jericho is considered a town in open insurrection by the Cheyenne government – and Major Beck’s resignation doesn’t change that.”

He paused to let that sink in. “We’re on our own, people – but we have some help. Colonel Hoffman of the 10^th Mountain left today by air for Columbus. His itinerary is unknown, but we won’t know if he made it until we hear from him. Until then, there are elements of two battalions outside of town. They are fully armed, and are under Major Beck’s command.”

Stanley Richmond spoke up. “My farm’s well outside things, Gray – you know that – can they protect me if something happens?”

“Stanley, just wait ‘till I finish.” Gray smiled; he was clearly a different man than he was when he left. The impatient insurance-agency owner and part-owner of the town’s salt-mine had vanished; in its place was a man humbled by events and circum
stances – a man worthy at last to take Johnston Green’s place.

Everyone chuckled nervously at Stanley’s question. He was right to be concerned; it was his farm that bore the brunt of the brief fighting between New Bern and Jericho, and it was likely his farm that would see the brunt of it again – only this time it would be between Cheyenne’s forces and whatever Major Beck had to-hand to fend them off.

Gray continued. “Major Beck informed me yesterday that he has given his parole to all the troops who did not reject the Cheyenne government. He has sent these troops on-foot back to Cheyenne with rations and survival gear; they do not have their weapons.”

“As you know, I returned yesterday from Cheyenne. The Constitution, as we know it, now only exists east of the Mississippi.” He waited for this shock to sink in, then continued.

“Freedom of speech; freedom to own a rifle and hunt; freedom of the press – -these are all gone if we allow Cheyenne to have their way. I do not intend to allow this to happen to Jericho.”

Pausing again, he finished. “I am forwarding two motions tonight with the Council’s approval. One is that Jericho officially recognize the government in Columbus, Ohio, as the legitimate government of the entire United States – the second is that we appoint, for the duration, Major Edward Beck the military governor of the Jericho district, subject to the approval of the town by popular vote.”

“Cincinnatus,” thought Beck, who was sitting at the end of the Council dais. “Only I don’t know the duration. End of the war? End of my life? Which comes sooner?”

Beck didn’t hear the vote. He was still thinking. In fact, until Gray motioned him to the podium to say a few words did he realized he’d been confirmed.

Again, he wasted no time. After walking to the podium, he looked over the faces he’d come to know and respect – Stanley and Mimi; Eric and Mary; Mrs. Green (Johnston’s widow, who kept herself busy now at the local hospital); Dr. Dhuwalia; Emily and Heather….

“Folks, thank you. I won’t promise you anything but this – whatever happens, we face it together. I’ll do my best.”

The hall erupted in applause. Beck tried to walk down the aisle to the door, but was surrounded by people; shaking his hand; patting him on the back; even hugging him. Eventually, he made it to the door, and into the night.

He’d had a long day, and 04:30 came early. He had a lot of work to do.

.— . .-. .. -.-. …. — / .. … / -… .- -.-. -.- / – — / … – .- -.–

Jericho – A Season-Three Writing-Contest….

Sometimes, writing is the best way to get something out of your system.

As most of you were aware, I’m a huge fan of the show “Jericho”, having been turned on to it by another reader last fall when I posted my series “Dancing the Apocalypso”.

With its cancellation, there’s a huge hole in what was a damn good storyline.

One of my fellow-bloggers wrote me offline and asked me, “Will – how’d you like to tackle writing Season Three? If anyone can do it, it’s you, and we’ll likely never see the show picked up by another network – and it begs a real conclusion.”

I’ve never done this before. Right now, I don’t know how many of you are still the readers who appreciated the series I’ve written (not just the one referenced above, but some of my alternate-histories and other futuristic tales), but I’m game to do this if you’re game to really read it.

There’s a poll here. Let me know.

(The Backstory: “Jericho” is a small town in Kansas which is in the middle of a ‘safe’ zone after the detonation of 13 nuclear weapons in major American cities. The series starts with a little boy playing hide-and-seek with his sister – and he sees one of the bombs detonate in Denver, which is about a 100/150 miles from Jericho.

The first season dealt with the town coming together to deal with life with no phones, electricity, cable TV or internet. The second season dealt with the aftermath of a border dispute between Jericho and the neighboring town of New Bern, whose ‘leader’ attempted a power-and-land grab.

While the new ‘government’ in Cheyenne, Wyoming has brought a form of ‘peace’ to the region, the military commander, Major Beck, has broken with Cheyenne after discovering some serious governmental corruption.

The nation is now split down the Mississippi – Cheyenne, heading the “Allied States of America” rules the states west of the line, while the United States government was reestablished east of the line in Columbus, Ohio. Texas declared its independence, and is considering which side, if any, with which to align.

Texas now controls most of the nation’s energy reserves and refineries, plus has 13 ports, including the deepwater seaport of Galveston.

The nation, now divided, is poised for a Second Civil War.)

Obama, and Clinton, and Paul (Oh, My)….

(Barack Obama spoke at a rally in my hometown here in Portland, Oregon yesterday. During that rally, he was publicly endorsed by Bill Richardson of New Mexico, who in my opinion was one of the better candidates along with Dennis Kucinich.)

Folks, I’m confused.

Obama began his campaign by pandering to Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson, hardly paragons of virtue and service; while he’s distanced himself somewhat from Oprah (a good move in my opinion), there’s still the nagging question of whether or not he’s running as a candidate for the whole country, or whether the black vote is something he’s seeking at the expense of other things.

He’s said, ‘Race is not an issue’, and I want to believe him – because it looks more and more as if he’s going to be the Democrats offering in this latest of American popularity contests, and his alignment with Richardson speaks well of his recent decisions.

Pardon me for being jaded here — but is this for show to The Rest Of Us?

How much does this matter?

I’ve concluded that it really means a lot to me.

Case: I have a very good friend who’s Vietnamese.

He came here with $5 in his pocket in 1972 – the year I got out of high-school. He’s about six years older than me – he’d flown C-130’s for the Vietnamese Air Force – of course, that counted for nothing when he got here – no one would hire a former Vietnamese pilot.

Instead, he went to work in a restaurant.

Rather than complain about being ‘put down by the man’, he learned the restaurant business. Now, he owns four sandwich shops in the area; he’s fed both myself and the folks I’ve hired to do landscaping (yes; I hire day-labor!) on many an occasion.

He and his gracious wife have catered a couple of events at my home since I’ve finished the restoration – and quite often he’ll drop by at her behest, “…because it’s not right you’re alone up here. Someone should check on you.”

He’s an immigrant. To me, he’s the best kind of American.

I hope I’ve made my point here.

I’m hoping Obama isn’t going to be unduly swayed by ‘the man still keeps us down’ rhetoric.

Because slavery is the past – and the future is ‘thataway’.

__________________________________

Now come we to Ms. Clinton.

I understand she’s already making plans for a New Clinton Library.

What?

I’m sorry. Her papers can bunk with Billy-Jeff’s in that glorified double-wide he built in Arkansas. It’s a tradition. Live with it.

I’m stupefied by the presumptiousness. She hasn’t been elected yet, let alone generated the Stuff of Government (paper) in any quantity worthy of a damn library.

Personally, I’m hoping she loses enough primaries where this won’t be an issue – because I remember the First Clinton Regime – Travelgate; Whitewater; Blowjobgate — all too well.

The kind of nonsense the two of those brought to the halls of government should rightly be remembered as a national disgrace. In any other era, she’d’ve been ashamed to stick her head outside her home in the Hamptons (or whereever), rather than run for the Senate.

It’s said that there’s no shame in politics — and Ms. Clinton is living proof of that.

Sorry; I’ll pass.

_________________________________________

Which brings me now to Mr. Paul.

I had great hopes for him – and for America. Of course, I did what every other voter did; I viewed America through my own eyes, which imbued my fellow countrymen with too much common sense and removed over fifty years of civic illiteracy – I just failed to see that the old saw is true: Common-sense isn’t common; Presidential elections aren’t logical choices; they’re popularity-contests, purpose-built and engineered by the two large political machines to spoon-feed candidates who will perpetuate the insular elitist gravy-train in Washington.

Short of revolution, that’ll never change – I’ve said this before, and still I believed: Ron Paul could win.

Of course, he didn’t.

The Neocons hand-picked the best of a bad lot – an aging senator, carbon-copied in duplicate from the last President’s original; he’ll do his best to keep things Just As They Are.

I like Ron Paul. He makes a lot of sense to me. But, while he’s the best of the Republican offerings, the cards are well-and-truly stacked against him to do anything but (perhaps) influence a plank or two of the Republican platform this summer with his modest clutch of delegates.

____________________________________

It’s a sad mess we’re in. We’re beyond the Age of Aquarius; peace and harmony remain an illusion, and the dreams most of us had in the boomer-generation have turned to dust. We fought the law, and the law won.

Sic semper imbecilis.

In a perfect world, there’d be either Richardson or Kucinich
, squaring off against Paul in November, and giving us a shot at genuine change.

What I fear is neither major candidate will fully appreciate the fact that – as I’ve said so many times before – we’re more polarized than we’ve been since 1860; the last three Presidential elections have been decided by the narrowest of margins, and whoever we put in office is going to have to heal that great divide, plus end a war we should have never entered.

With war’s handmaidens tugging at his coattails (recession and overseas hatred), the new President is going to have to tread the path between both polar-opposites in this country with the skill of a rock-climber.

I don’t know as any of them are up to the task.

Opinions, anyone?

A Poem For Eostar

(From a year ago)

Remembering Olaf Tryggvason

I’m given to wonder

Of old Olaf Tryggvason

Minus his left arm;

Stump tied with rawhide.

Standing, pale

In the stern of his longship

Sword tightly clutched

In his right;

His right to the Afterlife.

And I wonder

If Astarte

For whom the day is Named

Stood side by side with Odin and Thor

And smiled at his passing.

And I wonder

How many preachers

Overfed, and tanned,

Shaven and oiled,

As the priests of Amun in His Day

Having written their homilies

This Thor’s Day

Will send me to their Hell

Inadvertent and unthinking

Upon delivery

This Sun’s Day.

And I wonder

If Astarte

And Odin, and Thor

and Olaf

Will welcome me

And smile.

“Remembering Olaf Tryggvason”

© WDN III – 2007

Passages; and a Monolith….

Farewell, Mr. Clarke….

Carl – and Cincinnatus….

(According to the legend, Cincinnatus was a Roman consul who, in 460BCE, was asked by the Senate to assume the powers of dictator, or absolute ruler, in order to defend Rome against a neighboring enemy.

At the end of his rule, he laid down his robe of office and returned to his farm.

His selfless act has often been cited as the ultimate service of the public good combined with the ultimate self-sacrifice – giving up absolute power after achieving victory).

I’m calling him ‘Carl’.

He’s the son of a neighbor of mine, who just returned from Iraq. We recently had a conversation, which prompted me to post the “Appeasing Islam” video by Pat Condell on another part of this site.

His parents held a welcome-home party for their son, an army Lieutenant. It was there that I spoke with him at some length about the real state of things in Iraq.

He was never so glad to be home.

“We can’t get the job done”, he told me. “Every book on tactics says we need twice the number of troops on the ground to defeat an insurgency. That’s why we’re using outfits like Blackwater. Thing is, they’re not beholden to the same laws; they don’t have the same leadership – which is why we use them for support tasks like guarding convoys.”

I reflected on a situation where we were having to ship everything through the Straits of Hormuz which couldn’t be flown in – and with the cost of fuel rising, I wondered about the Iraqi oil – which was supposed to fund this escapade.

“Insurgents find a way to disrupt oil flow every time they manage to get something back up and running. The Iraqi government can’t defend its assets – so the bottom line is that there’s only a trickle where there should be a flood. There’s no oil getting through to speak of.”

“How about the people? “

“Will, they hate us. We give away candy bars and soccer balls – but the adults know better.”

“But we got rid of Saddam.”

“Look, Will – during Saddam’s regime, they had lights, running water, and no crime. Now, they have car bombs, everyone has guns, the country is in anarchy, and death is an every-day occurrance. How would you feel?”

I saw his point.

“So, the people hate us?”

“They want us gone. They don’t know what happens afterward – but they figure it can’t be worse. The wealthy ones want us to stay, because they know they’ll benefit.”

“Can we get out?”

“No. We’re stuck. Leave, and the place falls apart. Stay, and we’re going to have to feed the beast.”

With no real exit-strategy and no end in sight, I figured morale had to be low. The answer was what I’d feared.

“Imagine doing the worst thing in the world – slowly walking or driving through streets, waiting for trouble to come at you from the rooftops; open windows; stuff like that. Imagine that no one wants you there, and you can’t win. Imagine doing all that carrying fifty pounds of gear, and in full-battle-dress. Then, imagine it’s about 120 degrees. That’s what it’s like.”

He continued, “None of us want to be there. None of us. The story the guys in front of the cameras tell has been written for them.

We’re stuck there. Forever. It’s like a big, bad videogame-from-Hell.”

I reflected on all this – the insurgents; the fact that culturally, these people have been killing each other for sport for centuries — violence is literally ingrained in their culture now; a far cry from the Islamic cultures of some centuries ago.

We can’t appease them. We can’t leave. We can’t win.

We’re about to send our current ‘leader’ back to his ‘farm’ — there’s just one problem:

He’s no Cincinnatus.

He’s gotten us into this mess – and there’s no way out.

Fight Club…..

The MotoGuzzi growled underneath me; the lady on the back with the vague accent kept telling me to go faster – I was on an Oregon country road which was showing signs of coming up on a small town; the trees were giving way to broken-country, and the occasional house (complete with pickups and travel-trailers in front) were becoming more frequent.

Around a corner at sixty MPH, I saw the roadblock.

The roadblock seemed to dematerialize from two vehicles and an agglomeration of building-materials into a couple of civilian Hummers and a handful of backwoods hooligans. One of them stepped in front of the bike as it was moving; I didn’t have much choice but to hit the brakes.

Stopping almost too effortlessly, I saw his shotgun.

Pushing the kickstand down, we both got off the bike. He leveled his shotgun at the two of us and said, “Now, you won’t mind if’n we takes that bike, now, will ya?

I looked at him. Yellow teeth, and an inbred-look not unlike that of the character of “Billy” in ‘The Green Mile’. I wasn’t too worried about the niceties of his looks – I was more interested in his upbringing, as it were, because of the aging shotgun he carried.

“Will! You didn’t tell me about this!”

I looked around.

“Mila?”

“Yes! What? You don’t remember?” Mila was understandably irritated; the bike-ride had turned into a version of “Deliverance”, and I didn’t seem to remember her getting on the bike at all.

Just then, some gunfire from behind us.

“Down!”, I shouted. We dropped. Two of “Billy’s” companions dropped, howling – Billy dropped his shotgun and ran. Two uniformed men caught him not far from the roadblock. They dragged him back to me. One of them motioned to my side.

I was wearing a cheap five-shot .38 – the kind people in unsavory parts of town buy for $10, and which will blow up if you use overpressure-ammunition. They’re called ‘Saturday night specials’ in parts of America where aliases are common and the ‘commerce’ is in items which can net hefty prison terms.

I drew my pistol, and looked at “Billy”. “Where did this come from?”, I said.

“Does not matter.”, said one of the men in halting English. “Shoot.”

“You can’t.”, said Mila, matter-of-factly.

“Hell I can’t,” I replied. “He was going to shoot me.” I did a double-take on the men in the uniforms – they were Waffen-SS.

“Where did you guys come from?”, I said, getting more confused.

“Does not matter.”, repeated the first man, who I now knew wore the uniform of an Obersturmfurher. “Shoot.”

I drew my pistol, aimed it at “Billy’s” chest, and pulled the trigger.

It clicked.

I pulled four more times, with the same result.

“I told you,” said Mila. “You can’t.”

“Fight Club?”, I said.

“Ja”, replied the Obersturmfurher. “Remember the rules.”

“The rules?”, I said.

“The rules,” said Mila, flatly. “Rule number one. You don’t talk about Fight Club.”

“Fight Club…”, I said, trailing my thought off, now more confused as ever.

“Rule number two. Nothing works in Fight Club.”

“Nothing works?”, I said, now even more confused.

“Doesn’t matter, Mein Herr. Get on bike. Go.”, said the Oberst. “You have home to get.”

The road went on. Towns passed; the sunlight went from noon to afternoon; the dappled light of sun through trees gave way to more open country, and a road which went up a hill. I saw my house there.

“We’re home!” Mila was excited.

“Home….”, I trailed off. This was strange. The landscaping was different…..

Walking through the front door, we divested ourselves of helmets and jackets. I turned, hearing an odd sound. The bike was gone. Only the pavement of the car-park remained.

“We’re home!”, said Mila. Mark was the first to greet me.

“Hi, Will! Your spotter is fine, but I’ve been messing with your Meade. I think you’ll find it works better now.”

“Thanks,” I said, more confused than ever. “What is that going on downstairs?”

“Must be Agi. He’s in your cellar.”, said Mila. “I’m going to make a drink. Want anything?”

“Uh. Whatever. I’m going downstairs.”

I take the staircase down, and hear some rustling and commotion in the wine cellar. There, I find Agincourt, with a Bunsen burner, a propane tank, some beakers and other assorted gear. He’s cooking something.

“Oh, hi, Will. You didn’t have any decent Gin. I’m making some. It’ll be ready in a bit, but we’ll have to let it chill. You never told me you had a couple of magnums of Moet in here. I sent ‘em upstairs with Adrianna.”

“Uh. Well. Uh. Make yourself at home. Come upstairs when you’re ready.” I head back upstairs to see what I’ve yet to learn.

Outside, there are about fifty munchkinlike creatures, busy with the landscaping. There are palm trees where the big specimen-maples were. The pond is finished, and they’re working on planting a variety of hibiscus and other tropicals. It’s much to take in, so I didn’t see what was going on in my kitchen.

“Will!”

I turn around, and Adrianna is standing there with Mila. Mila has two drinks in her hands; Adrianna is already busy with one, herself.

“Martini; dry; two olives, a little ‘dirty’”, says Mila, handing me a drink.

“I just know you’ll love the new landscaping – it’s so much more in keeping with the house, don’t you think?” Adrianna was busy, it seemed with two or three projects. “I’m sorry for turning you into a zombie – well; no, I’m not – but you have a cute house; it just needed a few things. Can we use this as a ‘sanitarium’ annex?”

“What’s going on in the kitchen?”, I said, now a bit overwhelmed.

“I’m making breakfast. Did you know you’re out of eggs, ham, bacon, peppers – anything to make a decent breakfast? I have a list. Would you run to the store? I’m trying to feed this mob, and it’s not going to be easy with what you have around.” Adri handed me a list. Meantime, I heard the strains of an electric guitar.

Cal was on my rooftop deck with my black Gretsch Electromatic and my Vox Valvetronix.

“Hey, pal!” Cal walks over and gives me a big hug. “I’ve changed the strings. Dunno what you were usin’, but they didn’t sound good at all. Tunin’ her right now. Nice axe. I’ll get some music up in a bit.”

Mila walks out to the deck and hugs Cal. “Serenade in person this time,” says Cal. I do a double-take – I could have sworn the table was empty, but now there’s canned salmon, crackers, three or four types of cheese, and a couple of bottles of wine on the table.

Now, everyone’s having a good time. Adri has by some magic created Mimosas with the champagne Agi sent upstairs.

I look in the car park. There’s a ’65 Mustang and a couple of Facel-Vegas there; the unbroken vista is now to the ocean; I’m feeling a bit disoriented….

_________________________________

I wake up.

I look outside. Trees are where they should be off the deck (bonus – they’re the right species); everything else seems to be in place.

Getting up, I remind myself that Lebanese food just before bed is not a good idea, no matter how good the leftovers taste….

Right now, I’ve been up for several hours. There’s a lemon-yellow MotoGuzzi, a giraffe, and the leftovers of a cat-food lunch on my rooftop deck – or not; I’m afraid to look.

If I find some new gin in a clear bottle, I know who to thank.

Credits:

This dream could not have occu
rred last night without the assistance of several of my blog-buddies as well as several corporations. I mention them below:

Home-Depot (propane; etc.)

Bombay Distilling

Moet and Chandon

Yasmen Lebanese Cuisine

The State of Oregon Film Commission

MotoGuzzi Motorcycles

Gretsch Guitars

Meade Telescopes

Vox Instruments

The City of Cedar Hills, Oregon

The Portland Zoo

Mila: – Bike company; general assistance; martinis

Adrianna: – Zombification; breakfast; landscaping

Cal-El: – Guitar maintenance; soundtrack

Mark (SDAstroguy): – Telescope maintenance and technical assistance

Sir Agincourt: – Chemical engineering; distillery manufacture; gin production

No animals – not even “Billy” – were harmed in the making of this dream. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is one helluva coincidence; don’t’cha think?

A Rumination on Relationships (again)…..

It’s early – so I’m doing a brain-dump on a favorite topic — try to enjoy….)

I’m often quoted as worrying about the future of humanity, because we seem to be bent on allowing our own personal savageries to rule us (religion; etc.) – and because of that, we seem to be equally-bent on blowing ourselves off the planet – unless we allow those self-same savageries (say that three times, really fast!) to simply breed ourselves out of a place to sleep and three squares a day.

However, that may not be the case.

We’re likely – within three to five generations, if we last that long – to isolate ourselves by an ever-bewildering set of expectations which will eventually violate even the biological imprimatur. Enter the Relationship of the New Millenium (which, in many ways, is the same as the old, only refined with New and Better Rules): The Rules-Based Relationship.

I’ve had this thought going ’round in my head for a bit now – it’s been nagging me since I had a brief conversation about the topic with another blogger – there was mention that ‘the other party’ had ‘better remember ‘x’, ‘y’, and ‘z’ — or ‘they were in trouble’. Now, before anyone comments, I don’t view this as gender-specific (although it appears women are more bent on this sort of thing than men, the male of the species seem to have its own unspoken ‘rules’ for relationships as well – they just don’t involve dates on a calendar; they involve specific actions).

My response to that one was direct and to the point, and by way of a warning — if she’d found someone who was actually tolerant of all that, then consider yourself lucky and hang on to him – because there aren’t many of his kind any more, who are willing to be subject to a set of arbitrary rules about calendar-dates.

Now, understand — I’ve been happy for some years up here on the Hilltop, and I see no plans to change. I’m observing this from a distance – and what I see doesn’t make me want to jump back ‘in’ any time soon.

Case in point – the Size Queen.

A couple of years ago, I was convinced by yet another well-meaning friend to meet a gal for dinner. She was ‘this, that, and the other thing’, and I was going to have a good time; yadda-yadda.

I met her. She was well-dressed; obviously professional – until the first thing out of her mouth:

“How big is your penis?”

Now, the way I was raised, there are some things which are simply not said in a public venue, and this is quite definitely one of them. I had three choices – (1) I could appear shocked, (2) I could appear interested, or (3) I could do what I did.

In my best dead-serious-and-deadpan, news-anchor/Tom-Brokaw voice, I said, “It’s actually rather pathetic. It’s about two inches long. I rarely have an erection.” Then I just looked at her.

She got a sudden vacant, wide-eyed look – much as she would have if I’d pulled out a 9MM and put a ‘tap’ in her forehead.

A moment later, she collected her things and left, without another word.

________________________

“Robert, I’m sorry. The lady will not be joining me for dinner after all. Values disagreement, as it were. Now, what’s on the fresh sheet tonight –?”

I went on to have a very fine dinner. I did chuckle to myself a couple of times — but in reality, I was more than a bit unfair. Picking on her was a lot like kicking a poor little three-legged dog.

There are rules, all right. Some of them measure what you can’t see. We’re an odd lot; us humans. Whether it’s dates-on-a-calendar, dinner-on-the-table-by-six, or the size of personal equipment — I’m convinced that not long from now, we’ll all be standing around wondering why we’re not ‘with someone’ – because we’ve created so many damn rules and hidden-agendas that relationships just don’t work any more.

Gradually, the population will shrink. With that lack of familiarity, I can only hope that we’ll begin to value each other for what we are, rather than for what we have, or can do/remember.

(Meanwhile, it looks to be a foggy if reasonably dry day. I think I’ll dig in the garden….)