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Warriors’ Respect: An Acquaintance Remembered – Ironsides Fiction

10 Friday Jan 2020

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Warriors’ Respect: An Acquaintance Remembered

[Current Events Fiction]CLICK4PDF]

 

Six Pence Pub, Blowing Rock, NC, Tuesday, January 7, 2020, Evening…

 

He sat at the bar, almost wincing as the fool next to him ignorantly pontificated. What had started as a friendly “how ya’ doing, fella?” had morphed into a boring diatribe about brine and snow. Now, the geo-political malarkey deepened. 

‘That thar boy was a murderous thug! He was a-plannin’ mo’ of them em-i-nent attacks. He alreddy dun kilt that thar ‘Murican soldiers and attacked our embassy with his militias. Cain’t have no more hostages from them Irans! Trump had to kill that boy and we dun did it! Ain’t nothing them tarrists can a do bout it now. Ha! But I’d love to see ‘em try. Wouldn’t you, buddy? We whoop they azz-’ His new friend, some fat, balding boomer, allegedly in town to sell the city road salt, babbled incessantly while pointing to the television news, featuring a dull rehash about a Tweet about the assassination.

‘Excuse me,’ Tom politely interjected, ‘But you’re a fucking idiot. You have no idea what you’re talking about. Please keep your profound stupidity to yourself. Thanks, buddy.’

‘I dun seen it all on tha news! Hannity, and Limbaugh, and good ole Binny Shapiru!’ The man exclaimed, taken aback as indignation strove against his copious alcohol consumption. 

‘Everything you’ve heard, I won’t say read, is a lie,’ Tom instructed. ‘Everything you just blathered out, while it would certainly please the ears of your controllers, is utter horseshit. You wouldn’t know a terrorist from a Saint. Please, do shut up.’

The obese man sat stunned before his belligerence overcame his shock. ‘You- Well, fuck you, mister! You’se a liberal! I knew it! I sits down and sez to muhself, “I hope this feller ain’t no faggot.” But, shore as the Pope worships Mary, you is! You talks to me like that again and I whoop yo azz, fag! I dun served in Vietnam. The jungle! You probably a draft dodger or somethin’. Lemme tell you whut we dun did to-’

Tom listened for a minute more, grinning and quietly flipping through his phone. When bubba paused to gasp for air, Tom turned and showed him a picture of Carmyn licking his face at a party. ‘That’s my girlfriend. She’s an actress. You probably used to jack off to her. You know, back when it still worked, I guess.’

The tubby retard, still gasping and now red in the face, turned it up a notch. He most unwisely grabbed Tom’s free arm near the wrist and pulled in closer, imparting some of his beer and garlic-scented breath. ‘Smart azz, huh?! I’m bout reddy ta hit yo purdy mouth, boy!’

Without breaking his concentration on his phone, Tom quickly reversed gripped the man’s flabby forearm and wrenched hard, cranking his elbow into a painfully awkward wrong-way bend. The man’s squeal was met with a “shhhh” as Tom rolled to another, older picture. He held it up to his buddy’s face. ‘And, this is me and General Soleimani, uh, the murderous thug. Back in 2001, in Afghanistan, when we were fighting the Taliban together, excuse me, fighting them thar tarrists.’ Releasing his grip and still being mostly polite, he tried to explain just a little of the unkind world to the loud drunk.

 

Hotel Romandy, Geneva, Switzerland, Sunday, September 23, 2001, Late…

 

A somber, sinister group of men walked through the terrace seating area outside the conference room, headed towards the bar. Two tarried behind the others, the two most dangerous-looking characters of the company. It was the admittedly tenuous beginning of a delicate working relationship. On that occasion, without any coordination, they were attired in understated fashion rather than suits or uniforms, both happened to be wearing black leather jackets. Tom thought of some way to soften the mood. He got an idea from glancing at the mountains surrounding the city, now illuminated beautifully by the waxing moon.

‘I’d really like to visit your country properly, General,’ he began slowly. ‘I’d love to ski up north of Tehran. Maybe Darband or Abali, isn’t it?’

Qasem Soleimani was as gracious as he was deadly. ‘I myself am more fond of the area even further north, around Alvares, which you may know, is also near to the Caspian. Of course, if all goes – I won’t call it well – you and I could cross the border back into Persia and visit Shirbad. It’s just west of Herat, where we may have some … business. Wonderful snows.

‘I know this must feel a little off, Colonel. You’ve been to Iran previously. We have a rather extensive dossier on you. Kill on sight orders, in fact. Uh, those I have, of course, belayed for the time being. You know, we missed each other a few years ago. These are, I must admit, better circumstances.’

‘Have you ever skied in America, General?’ Tom asked while thinking about, almost rueing his last vicious visit to Iran.

‘The White Mountains. Ages ago, before the revolution. It was, for me at the time, the chance getaway of a lifetime. My family had so little money; it was a great luxury.’ The man laughed at the faded memory. ‘If I remember right, that’s your, what you call,  neck of the woods, no?’

‘Well, we might have missed each other then too.’ Tom said and chuckled at the smallness of the world. ‘Maybe some things are best left on the powder.’

‘Undoubtedly, they are. Now, soon our men will need to- Oh, we’re stopping again.’

Following a few perfunctory words with Crocker and the departing team from State, the lethal pair eased up to the bar, alone for the first time.

‘You’ll need to help me, Mister Ironsides, but Glen-mor-angie – the Scottish is always a jaw-breaker for me.’ The General studied the bottles on the shelf behind the bar, pointing to one.

‘Well, I didn’t know you guys partook of the single malt! Excellent choice though.’ Tom said.

‘Social settings and good company sometimes require good liquor. Allah is merciful, most forgiving at times and of good causes.’ The General studied a bottle closer.

‘And an interesting choice of words. Jawbreaker is our callsign for the initial operation.’ Tom said while trying to read a label.

‘I know. We’re not so completely in the dark.’ Soleimani said with a smirk.

‘Well then, know that we’ll be inserting, likely on Wednesday night. I’ll be there with the SADs and the Deltas. Who can I expect from your Quds? Maybe someone else willing to overlook past indiscretions, I’d hope.’ Tom did look a little hopeful.

‘I should be able to join you and our men later. For now, immediately, look for my-’

The men talked and drank deep into the night. Plans were made, logistics explored. Soleimani was, as promised, a walking encyclopedia of the terrain, the local tendencies, and the ways of the enemy. They shared multiple strategies and a few misgivings. They talked about Hammurabi, Solon, and Caesar. They spoke of family relationships, of children, spouses, and parents. On matters of state and religion, they agreed and they agreed to disagree. A tedious friendship was born. Respect flowed haltingly with a burn like the whiskey. They did, in fact, meet again twice – once soon after in the hills of Afghanistan and once years later in Baghdad during a meeting that Washington denied ever happened. However, they never did rendezvous on the slopes. Even after his retirement, Tom followed the general’s quest to defeat ISIS in Iran, Iraq, and Syria. A worthy defender of his nation and people, he thought Soleimani. He’d cursed the administration aloud the week before when he’d heard the news of what he considered plain murder and a despicable war crime.

 

Back in Blowing Rock, another bar…

 

‘So, just shut up about it, already,’ Tom said at last. He was finished with his unheeded educational lecture and was now checking his email and something else. His new friend still didn’t grasp any of what he’d heard.

‘All that thar tells me is that you’se one a them tarrists! And, whut do you know, you lying shit?!’ The dim visitor demanded.

‘I know the shit is already hitting the fan,’ Tom said as he again presented his phone. ‘Watch this.’

‘Whut in tha hell that is?!’

‘That is live satellite feed from over Iraq, over Ain al-Asad Air Base. You said you’d love to see them try. Well, they’re trying right now. The news up there will have it in an hour or so once Langley puts the right spin on it. Watch now if you’d like the uncensored version.’

‘Whut am I a watchin’??’ The tubby man growled as he squinted at the little screen.

‘Those flashes are missile impacts. Probably Qiams or Fateh-one-tens. Latest generation guidance. Extremely accurate. Pinpoint, I’d say. Right now, every time one flashes, they’re hitting our hardware. I’d guess they’re knocking out the drone hangers, the smaller ones clumped here and there, center. That base is where the strike last week came from. Makes sense. What I would do.’

‘Whut you’d do?! I know you. You’se a Democrat or something! Love nuthin’ better than helpin’ yo tarrists friends, huh? Stand up! I’m bout to beat some sense into yo liberal azz!’

‘No, you’re not.’ Tom said, looking down at his glass.

‘I’m a-gonna do it!’

‘No. You can’t. Sorry.’

‘And, YOU’RE DONE, sir!’ yelled the pretty bartender at the heavy, sweaty, woefully-overmatched moron. ‘You don’t know what you’re messing with, with this one.’ She gave Tom, who was unconcernedly addressing his Oban, a wink. To the fat drunk, she instructed: ‘Before you get yourself killed, get out! Don’t come back. Now!’

Tubby mumbled something about a town full of queers and sympathizers and shuffled angrily out into the light evening snow.

‘That fat bastard didn’t even leave a tip!’ The barmaid announced with a hint of regret.

‘I got it. Mine too, in a minute,’ Tom replied.

‘So, professor, is this World War Three?’ The young woman asked with slight concern in her voice.

‘No. Don’t be too alarmed, darling. It’ll all blow over, for now,’ Tom reassured. ‘It’s not world war, unless something utterly stupid gives way between now and morning. This was, is a very measured response. Making a point or two. They’ll be done in a few minutes, although CENTCOM just registered something odd on domestic air radar around Tehran – probably nothing. The missiles are a show of force, directed at our equipment, not our men. Neither has any business being in-country anyway. Maybe this is the beginning of a withdrawal. Hell, I’ll have my last toast to that. That, and Qasem. Maybe not the best man – none of us were – but maybe the one his people needed. Salute!’

After paying off his tab and leaving two tips, Tom mosied outside. From the sidewalk on Main, he heard the old jungle fighter yelling incoherently from down the street. Gotta give that one credit for persistence, Tom thought as he raised a one-fingered salute over his shoulder. Next, he heard a city police officer ordering the old drunk off. He slowly walked on towards his little rental flat. It was getting cold. His phone rang. Carmyn was watching the breaking news. He soothed her nerves and thanked her for a lick while requesting another at her earliest convenience. Just before he reached his door, Vicky called. He was calming her fears as he walked into the living room, where Ari and Maddie were waiting with the television blaring. Upon hanging up, he directed his placidity to them, first asking them to turn off the tube. 

‘Uncle Tommy, do you know what’s going on?’ Ari pressed.

‘Yes. That foolishness on the talking screen is only more propaganda bullshit. Some ancient Greek once said, “Whom the gods would destroy they first make mad.” Some say it was Euripides, though I’m not so sure. Anyway, watch that stuff and you will go as mad as your President and the Iranians. What it’s designed for. Maybe Qasem was mad to go in like he did, to keep this up for so long. No, we’ve all of us got enough madness.’

‘What are you talking about, Tom?’ Maddie asked as she turned off the set. ‘We know you have to know A LOT about what’s behind all this.’

Tom was tired and tried to move towards his room, several wistful thoughts plaguing his mind. ‘Goodnight, girls. Of the business behind it all, I know more than I care to repeat this evening. Respect for the dead.’

On Trump and Iran – from TPC

07 Tuesday Jan 2020

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IF and IF NOT: New Year, New War?

(About the Iran Debacle)

This is perhaps the third completely rewritten version of a column I started on Sunday evening, after a refreshing impromptu luncheon with MB and Da (most delightful gentlemen, both). Part of our conversation veered to The Trump, Iraq, Iran, and the fate of the world. None of us, like everyone else, had any definitive answers for certain recent developments. Here follows, in admittedly imperfect form, what I can muster at this point; you most assuredly know the news as reported.

Preliminary Matters

On Friday, January 20, 2017, Donald John Trump stood on the steps of the Capitol and proudly, brashly proclaimed: “From this moment on, it’s going to be America First. Every decision on trade, on taxes, on immigration, on foreign affairs, will be made to benefit American workers and American families.”

In an earnest moment of clarity, he went on to say: “We will seek friendship and goodwill with the nations of the world – but we do so with the understanding that it is the right of all nations to put their own interests first. We do not seek to impose our way of life on anyone, but rather to let it shine as an example for everyone to follow.”

Later, towards the end of his speech, he embraced the Wisdom of King David (Psalm 133:1): “The Bible tells us, ‘how good and pleasant it is when God’s people live together in unity.’” If I remember correctly, at the time, I found the words refreshing, inspiring even. With all due respect to the Lord, the great King, and the unified People, I’m tempted to ask what the hell happened? I know just enough to resist the temptation. Instead, I offer “If” and “If Not” philosophical scenarios.

Also: virtually everything you’ve been told about foreign affairs and modern history by the government in Washington and by the CIA, I mean by the mainstream media, is utterly false. Most of what you’ve been told about the history of the past two centuries is largely fictitious as well. Three things of late to consider: ISIS, a mercenary, and a mob. Regardless of what lies you’ve been fed, ISIS was created by and is funded, equipped, armed, trained, and directed by the CIA and to a lesser degree the DOD; its purpose is to destabilize the Middle East for the benefit of Israel and Saudi Arabia. A US mercenary, called by some a “contractor,” was killed while serving as an advisor to ISIS, the blame being placed on Iranian General Qasem Suleimani. Suleimani is credited with keeping ISIS out of Iran and also with defeating or nearly defeating ISIS in Iraq and Syria. For his trouble, the US Empire killed him last week. But first, he was blamed for another lie – the mob siege of the fortress-like US Imperial Embassy in the middle of the damned green zone in Baghdad. That attack, I am convinced, never happened. What was shown on television, a crazed cowboys and indians show, was a scripted performance, not unlike a scene (also in Iraq) that deceased German journalist Udo Ulfkotte described in his book, Gekaufte Journalisten (Bought Journalism). The drone strike on Suleimani was unfortunately real. It’s the “why” that everyone is having a hard time with.

IF

Around the time of my first drafting of this article, I began to hear rumors of Machiavellian, or Trumpian, nature. That 4-D underwater chess stuff the Q brigade is always “patriots stand!”-ing about. What if the rumors are right? What if all this fuss and the assassination of Suleimani was orchestrated not to start a war, but to prevent (or end) one.

…

THE WHOLE THING AT TPC

 

UPDATE: Looks like a real shooting war.

https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-7862453/Multiple-rockets-hit-Taji-military-base-Iraq-American-British-troops-based.html

https://www.foxnews.com/world/missile-attacks-target-us-forces-in-iraq-senior-military-source-says-iran-suspected

I’d suspect they are targeting offensive air capabilities. If they immediately go after the carriers and also have S400s, then this will get very dicey. Thank you grabblers.

Synthesis

06 Monday Jan 2020

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I’ve submitted this TPC column, in which I do my best to break down the GREAT volume of what I’ve read and heard about the Iran mess. The facts will likely shift before and after publication. So be it. That, here, when it hits. Standing sentiment – nothing is as it seems.

Happy Birthday, Old Man

02 Thursday Jan 2020

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It was on this day back in 1965 that Mr. and Mrs. Ironsides welcomed their second little bundle of joy.

Happy 55th birthday to Tom Ironsides!

(I imagine he’s still shunning the AARP card)

Soon, and very soon, he gets his second and then third major literary outings. FOR NOW! Here’s a special birthday short just for the old blog!

ALSO IN PDF:Drive Fifty-Five

Drive Fifty-Five?

Carmyn Larck’s Quiet Little House, Highlands, NC, Thursday, January 2, 2020…

The slamming of the front door woke him up. The giggling and the expeditious girl talk got his attention. The loud banging sound and the laughter prompted him from the sheets. While he yawned and fumbled his way into some old USMC sweats, he heard the patter of feet and furtive whispers. He thought something was crinkling. About the time he reached the bedroom door, the house became altogether silent. He looked down the hall and then slowly proceeded towards the front of the quaint 1930’s bungalow. A clinking drew him into the kitchen. Something in the living room almost caught his eye, but it had been a blurry New Year’s season already. He walked into the galley and found Carmen’s daughter standing by the Keurig machine, facing him, waiting.

   ‘Good morning, Tom!’ the young woman said as she extended a large mug his way. ‘Coffee, just the way you like it!’

   ‘Thanks, Jessica, morning,’ he said while squinting. ‘Need some. Uh, what was that fuss a minute ago? Where’s your mom?’

    ‘What fuss?’ Jessica immediately deflected with a sweet, if slightly deceptive up-speaking. ‘I didn’t hear anything. Anyway, Mom had to run out for a second. Said she’d be right back. Some party last night, huh?’

   ‘Urm, yeb,’ Tom slurred as he sipped a near-scalding mouthful of strong, black café français. The girl (and the K-machine) knew coffee. And, she was right about the party. He was then aware that he’d skipped his morning dose of Advil. ‘So, uh yeah, happy new year, again.’

   ‘Happy, happy!’ she sang oddly. ‘Hey! Let’s go sit on the sofa and chat until mom gets back.’ Without waiting, she grabbed his arm and started tugging. He had little choice but to move along, carefully balancing the hot liquid as they jostled through the rooms. He was still concentrating on the drink when she shouted, ‘TA-DA!!’

   Tom glanced at her wide-eyed and then settled his gaze on the enormous gift box sitting on the living room rug, the coffee table and a chair pushed aside to make room for it. It looked to be a cube with roughly six-foot sides. It was covered in a hodge-podge of birthday (and Christmas) paper. A huge bow sat neatly on the top. A large label, which might have been cut from a pizza box, hung prominently on the front. It simply read: “TOM.” He was about to say something – anything – when Jessica carefully took the cup out of his hand and set it a safe distance away from them. Then, she nudged him towards the giant present. She made sure to usher him in front of the oversized couch, seemingly checking as if to measure distance. She turned and checked twice as he mumbled incoherently about “a big-” or another. Putting her arm around his shoulders, she turned to face the massive favor. She kind of squeaked while bouncing up and down once and said, ‘Go, girls!’

   Tom gasped as out of the front of the box, through the mismatched paper, burst a foursome of now babbling and chortling women. He saw more than heard the collective roar of “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” before they were on him. Vicky hit him high and left, while Carmyn went low and right. Ariana and Maddie completed the vicious gang tackle, driving from behind the other two and forcing them all onto the readied sofa. Jessica piled on the heap for good measure. 

   The hugs, kisses, squeezes, hair- tussing, poking, and a pinch(!), accompanied by various calls of “happy birthday,” “daddy,” “Tommy,” “lover,” and “old man,” gave way to a jumbled silliness, with sighing chuckles and obligatory head-patting. No man anywhere was fonder of the opposite sex, but given the sheer mass and weight of the situation, he could only manage a rather muffled and labored ‘thankfs.’ Mercifully, the top three girls removed their addition to the burden, as if peeled back by referees after a heroic goal-line stand. His girlfriend and his daughter weren’t quite as courteous, still latched tightly. 

   Forcibly twisting and turning, he gained the pivotal advantage and wrested his way upright, carrying the armloads of fun with him. Following another minute of fussing and teasing, they parted and clung one to each of his sides. The others pressed in from the outside. Aright and once again breathing properly, he saw two large balloon number fives attempting to float on ribbon strings from the remains of the box. The women repeated the praise of his birth. Jessica returned to him his java.

   ‘Wow, girls, wow!’ he exclaimed upon partaking of another healthy swig. ‘What a way to start a new year. Love you all!’

   More hugs and congratulatory talk followed. Ariana and Maddie explained how they raced over to Charlotte, picked up Vicky, and hightailed it to Highlands in the dark. A partial, if confused, explanation of the box was provided. The ribbing about someone getting older was generous. Contrary to reality, Tom felt more like five than fifty-five. But that ominously repeating number was the subject of jokes aplenty. One of the lovelies, probably Ariana, mocked, ‘Now he’s gotta drive fifty-five.’ The rest found in mightily amusing if plausibly unrealistic. 

   Presently, along with a few gifts of ordinary stature and some more coffee (which one of the vixens saw fit to adulterate with Bailey’s), a short stack of birthday cards was given to the man of the morning. They opened each one and presented it to him. At last, there was but one left – one that none of his gift-wrapped captors could properly identify. Ari delved into its origins: ‘This came to you in the mail the other day in Blowing Rock. Knowing what we had planned, we thought to hide it until now. So, dear OLD Uncle Tommy, who’s Velina??’

   ‘Velina?’ Tom replied with mild confusion. ‘Huh?’

   ‘Well – hope this isn’t another special someone – let’s just see,’ Carmyn said, taking the card. ‘Velina Walker, Sealy, Texas! So, he’s got him a cowgirl!’

   Through their snickers, Tom uttered, ‘Oh! Sealy. That’s got to be-’

   ‘Hush, boy,’ Maddie said. ‘Please continue, sweet Adrestia.’

   Carmyn opened the card and read its short message aloud: ‘Dear Tom – DEAR Tom! – Thank you so very much and we welcome our partnership. Ooo, so formal, girls. As you know, this will be our first … new … mid-engine Z(?) … and we are beyond excited that it will be yours. I spoke to Mr. Hennessey and he assures you and I that twelve-hundred horsepower … will not be a problem, in fact, likely being the lower bound of what’s possible. What tha?? The CIA-connected armorer has already been in touch regarding those special modifications you mentioned. Oh, Lord. We now only await your shipment from Chevrolet. Huh? You’re going to be very pleased. So, Happy Birthday, Tom! Sincerely, Velina Walker, Hennessey Performance Corvettes.’

   With blank faces and open mouths, the women passed the card around amongst themselves, along with the enclosed 2020/1 Corvette mini brochure previously enclosed. And the purchase order from Chevy marked “pre-paid.” Several mumbled either ‘oh my’ or, possibly, ‘oh shit.’

    Drinking deep of the Irish-French concoction, Tom smirked, ‘Yeah. Happy birthday, me! This old man don’t drive fifty-five.’ He really don’t.

A very happy birthday to Dr. Thomas “Fast Tom” Ironsides!

 

 

Best of the Blog, 2019

31 Tuesday Dec 2019

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What a year! Previously, when I’ve had the time, I’ve gone through and looked up the most popular or most prominent posts for each of the twelve months of the waning year. No time for that now. (I do think that my favorite would have to do with THE SUBSTITUTE and the turn towards fictional literature). However, you can make your own calls, here. You can simply start pressing the “older posts” or “previous posts” buttons and take a gander through hundreds of submissions. Alternatively, you can look through the index, sidebar left, and select the months for inspection.

Thank you all for the views and (very few) comments. Here’s to a great 2020! See you then. -P

The Wealth Tax We Need (but will Never Get) – from TPC

31 Tuesday Dec 2019

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Taxes…

Wherein Perrin PROPOSES a Tax

I know. I was shocked too. But, it’s a new year (happy 1998!) and we must all change with the times. Everyone can agree that if America needs something, then it’s a privatized college football league. If there’s anything else, then it’s another tax. All the cool politi-critters are a squeaking away about it – like fat stupid rats locked in the cheese factory. If the peeps could be roused from the sofas and the Netflix-Sackler Family comas, then they’d be on-board too. And, this is not an idea that I come to lightly. Careful study of the articles even here at TPC gives credence to the popularity of the phenomenon.

MB lamented both the death and the fiscal failings of The Textile Man: “There’s so many folks out there that bust ass every October & December to make those property tax payments & here he was just not paying them.” Our esteemed editor, just last week, pondered why the home county folks “don’t pay their damned property taxes…” Seriously, you scofflaw slackers! If you don’t turn over your money (and, is it really ever “yours”?), then how can the good Sheriff continue to pay Commy Traig or whomever hundreds of thousands of dollars per year!? Any and all local political corruption depends on your financing. Do your damned jobs!

Da hit the national tax scene hard, heavy, and nobly with his Letter to the 2020 Democratic Nominee: “we still need a wealth tax for the good of us all.” Here, here! You darn tootin’ we do!

I have not spoken with Bess, Kayla, Fred, the Sheriff, or the Sharif about this, but I know for certain they are all in agreement.

Da was right – we need a wealth tax. It’s time for the truly wealthy to pay their fair share. And, truly, who’s wealthier than … The Federal Reserve? Back in October, I replied, in agreement, to Mr. Millsaps heartfelt thoughts as follows: “How about a 100% tax on all Federal Reserve assets, real, fake, and potential? I’ve got an idea…” Well, I do. Here it is…

ALL AT TPC…

End of the Year Fiction Update

27 Friday Dec 2019

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A few things, by way of update:

The reviews of THE SUBSTITUTE are slow to come, but they’re all good. The most recent from Amazon:

Jenn

5.0 out of 5 stars Glad I bought The Substitute

December 25, 2019

Verified Purchase
Surprisingly Delightful!
After seeing the unusual cover picture, I did not know what to expect. The author did not disappoint, it was an interesting read for me, for sure. His writing style and characters remind me a bit of Stuart Woods – I’m glad I bought this book!

 

Thanks, Jenn!

I have some edits prepared and underway to make the reading a little easier. Look for those soon and when you see them. Also, I am happy to announce the following tentative progress:

AURELIUS: Coming early in 2020; a Tom Ironsides (first person) novella and prequel to THE SUBSTITUTE; about 1/3 – 1/2 finished and rapidly gaining ground.

THE HUNTING OF ???: Also for 2020; another Ironsides’s adventure in the run-up to THE SUBSTITUTE (and AURELIUS); a novelette or shorter novella; about 1/2 finished.

SANGUINIS LEX: Another substantial novel that I hope to have out in the coming year. It’s a blended-genre book set in the Ironsides’s world, though only very briefly featuring him (and Dandy and the Bass Slayers…); the expression of an idea I have had since very early in the Century. It’s a dark and dangerous ride into a most uncomfortable subject. But hey, half the blending is romance, so there’s that. “Sanguinis Lex” roughly translates to “the law of the blood,” if that helps give any hints. This one is purey in draft form – they’re all in draft form – and it’s about (maybe) 1/5th complete, in an incomplete way. A most pressing literary endeavor.

As always, there will be more drivel here, perhaps with a few structural changes (like I always threaten); and look for the first TPC column of 2020 next week – a return to non-fictional views on the affairs of the nation, unique and interesting to be sure.

Much more to come.

A Gift After Christmas – Fiction from TPC

25 Wednesday Dec 2019

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The following was recently published AT TPC. It’s a continuation of the Roland-Maryanna saga from last week. These stories combined form a loose chapter in the slowly evolving and developing SANQUINIS LEX, a forthcoming novel of some note. More on that later.

For now, please enjoy the charming story.

HERE, AS IT MIGHT APPEAR IN A 5X8″ BOOK FORMAT

Or, below in whatever format the WP gods see fit to allow:

*****

A Gift After Christmas

Reagan National Airport, Washington, DC, Late Saturday Morning…

Roland zipped up his jacket against the cold late December wind as he walked out of the terminal. He watched his breath float off in a cloud, furiously punctured by small flakes of dry snow. For a moment, he turned his head and looked up at the control tower, jutting into a grey sky above the arched canopy. Then, he looked south, down Aviation Circle. He saw her little Honda Civic dart between buses as it lurched towards the inner lane. In a few seconds, she stopped at the curb, hazard lights flashing. Clutching his lone bag to his body, he hastily descended into the passenger seat. Her incredible face was waiting and smiling eagerly.

‘Hello, beautiful,’ he said sheepishly.

‘Hello, handsome,’ she answered. ‘I brought you a Starbucks. And an Uber, with that kiss.’ While pointing to the capped cup with a green stir stick, she leaned over and planted one on him, long and deep. She tasted like Strawberries. Winter ceased and the world halted for a moment as they indulged fresh new love. It would have continued but for an angry honking from behind.

Withdrawing, she glanced in the mirror. ‘Alright, jerk. We’re moving. So, how was your flight?’

‘I almost missed the connection in Charlotte. They have all these rocking chairs, and it was so early, so tired, I almost fell asleep in one. My eyes were closing when they gate-called. But, otherwise, everything was fine. Hope you didn’t have to wait long.’

‘No,’ she said, as she eased them into traffic. ‘Been here about forty-five minutes. The cell lot is under construction or something, so I just snuck here and there around short term. Checked some emails. Got a heavy one from Father A. I had breakfast with him earlier this morning and he said he’d send me, send us something. And boy, did he. We’ll look at it at your place. He gave me – hang on.’ 

She started the tortuous process of merging onto the George Washington Parkway. Roland looked at her while he sipped his coffee. Then, he spoke softly and thoughtfully: ‘I love you, Maryanna. I love you.’ He smiled and sighed. ‘It feels even better saying it in person.’

She laughed as she accelerated into the travel lane, making eye contact with him for a split second. ‘I love you, Roland. Hmm. It does feel better like this.’

They both chuckled. He took off his glove and lightly brushed his hand down her long hair. ‘I don’t want to distract you, but I really, really am glad to see you again.’

‘Really, really?’ she asked with a laugh. ‘You’re the sweetest. How did we meet again?’

‘If you remember, you kept calling about legislation,’ he answered with a smirk. ‘What’s the Senator thinking? When can I interview him? How much opposition is there? Do you have leadership support? Have you spoken with the White House?’

‘Yeah, I was happy to get through the gatekeepers to you. I didn’t know you were so cute.’

‘Ha! I knew about you – in a good way. After your twentieth call in two days, we – Senator Few and I – looked you up. He said, “Look at her! Boy, you better call that one back. You do it, or I’m going to have to.” Jesus knows I’m glad I did.’ He stopped talking but kept staring at her. Then, he leaned over and kissed her cheek.

‘You! I want… Ah, heck. Hang on!’ she said with sudden, ardent determination. With a move that surprised both of them, she pulled hard right and they careened off the freeway and into Gravelly Point. In a minute, they were parked and frantically making out the way high schoolers used to when America was happier. After maybe an hour, after the ninth or tenth inbound jet rumbled directly overhead, they slowed. She cuddled into his arms, smelling his cologne and rubbing his shoulder. His arms were tight around her. Without coordination, their joint gaze wandered over the Potomac and to the golf course on the other side. His eyes held the view while hers closed. She inhaled and purred.

‘How are your parents? The rest of the family?’ she finally asked, still lost in the placid embrace.

He lowered his head onto hers, nuzzling and smelling her hair. ‘They’re all great. Everyone had a wonderful time. I think they’re as in love with you as I am. Glad one of us finally has a real, decent romantic interest. Mom framed your picture and put it in the hall with the other family. Won’t stop talking about you and us. How’re your folks and Corby?’

‘They’re good. Very good. Corby had a great Christmas. He’s feeling better. Mom and dad seemed a little preoccupied with something that they wouldn’t talk about. But otherwise, we all had a great time. Like the old times when I lived at home. It was so nice. The only thing missing was you. Of course, you were all they, all of them wanted to talk about.’

‘Did you get any questions about work?’ he asked.

‘A few. But, I think they know not to pry too much, even if they don’t know why. You?’

‘Yeah. A couple of times. I’ve found the best way to divert away is to get into the arcane details. Bore them with policy.’ He almost laughed about it.

‘Yeah. I have the old editorial process and MLA style to bore them into submission. But, they kind of understand things have gotten – you know. Without knowing.’ She was looking up at his clean-shaven face.

‘I wish we didn’t know, sometimes. I wish that a lot actually,’ he said.

‘But, we do,’ she answered as she leaned back into her seat. ‘At least we have a few friends to confide in. A few allies. That reminds me. Open the glove box.’

Roland looked inside and removed an envelope and a small white box. Turning to Maryanna, he asked, ‘Do you know what’s in the box?’

‘I do,’ she said. ‘Read the card.’

She waited while he slowly read the missive from Father Alojzy, a kindly-worded message of Christmas joy, laced with encouraging remarks. Finished, he remarked, ‘He’s a true man of God. Wonderful. Why do I feel like I’ve always known him?’

‘I know, right?’ she said with a smile. ‘Meeting him – and it does feel like reconnecting with an old friend – was the most pleasant thing, after meeting you, that is. I think he was sent to us. Or us to him.’

‘When should I see his email?’ Roland asked.

‘At home, not here. Not just yet. I don’t want to darken our mood,’ she answered.

‘Is it that bad?’ he asked.

‘No. Not… Well, yes, this is all bad. But, he did get some information. He heard back from his friend, I guess, in Rome, from the AIE.’

‘Hard to believe they’re real, now, isn’t it?’ Roland interrupted.

‘I know. But, they sent him a wealth of research on both the movement and those behind it. Ancient stuff. And – this is where it gets even heavier – our giant new friend sent some confirming material along with a few plans of action. He’s fully analyzed everything off of the poor nurse’s phone, and much more. He sent it all encrypted to Father A. Like in a spy novel or something.’

‘Hard to believe he’s real too. What do you think we should even call him?’ Roland interrupted again.

‘If I understand Father’s hints correctly, then the big guy is about to start putting a little pressure on them. Directly and in the way one might guess he’s really good at – even against their kind. I think the nickname is appropriate. I looked it up. It’s a Tolkien character, the mightiest of the Valar sent to battle Melkor in a time of desperate need. Kind of fitting it seems to me. Or, we could just keep calling him a friend. God knows we need one like him.’ She was staring out at the water again.

He took her chin gently in his hand, diverting her attention into his face as he pressed in close to hers. ‘We need them and we need us. I thought about this the whole flight. The whole vacation. God sent us to be together. And, I think we were chosen to do this, this work. We need all the help, but we also have each other.’ He rested his forehead on hers.

Caressing his head, she sighed, ‘A reward. Strength. Whatever you are. What we are. I’ll take it. And the friends, yes. Father had some stern words for me – his own and from Big T. Neither are still all that happy about my little West Coast getaway.’

‘Yeah. That kind of surprised everyone, you little sneak,’ He softly whispered. ‘But hey, I’m not so sure that you weren’t meant to have that experience, however, uh, silly it might have looked. Or, how dangerous it really was.’

‘You mean to say how foolish, not silly, I think,’ she said sorrowfully, distantly.

‘No. Whatever it was, it wasn’t foolish,’ he kindly reassured. ‘You survived and you helped us better understand things. Maybe you even put them on the defensive for once. Call it the Holy Spirit working through you.’

She held his face in her warm hands and gifted him one small kiss. ‘Thank you. They both kind of concluded the same thing, if reluctantly. Your kindness- Oh! Would you believe that the Hell’s Angels called me on Christmas day to check in?! Martha and Rick and all the boys wanted to wish me a happy holiday! I have friends in very high places!’

‘You’d make friends anywhere with anyone,’ he said as he stroked her hair. ‘Someone’s plan in action. I think they were purposefully in the right place at the right time. Tattooed protection!’

‘And! Speaking of that – open the box, boyfriend!’

‘Boyfriend?! We’re moving a little fast, now, aren’t we?’

‘You’re stuck with the title until we can bump it up a notch,’ she rejoined with a devilish grin.

‘Is this a ring or something?’ he asked.

‘Open it, dork.’

Roland opened the box and removed from it a slender silver Crucifix on a silver chain. He held it up and examined it thoroughly. ‘It’s-’

‘He gave me an identical model,’ she said as she lowered her turtleneck and pointed to the glimmering necklace.

‘Pretty. Very pretty on you. Is this one of the legends that turn out to be true?’ he asked.

‘Yes, it is. Pretty or not, you need to wear yours. Father Blessed them both in front of me, for us and especially against, you know- He said to put it on and to never take it off.’