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Another Fiction Update

20 Thursday Jun 2019

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Two items:

1) The first Tom Ironsides novel (yes, novel, as in full-length book) has grown to around 120-125 (paperback) pages. It needs a ton of work and there’s probably another 200-ish pages to go. I’m getting there and having fun with it.

2) I recently debuted an additional set of characters in a different story set in the Ironsides universe. THIS ONE. I intentionally released it here and sent it to three reviewers. Two have responded. The first said it was excellent and left little doubt as to the evil nature of the subjects and their programs. The second, a very good fiction writer, was more nuanced: “Quite remarkable, disturbing,… well, it defies easy description” He later gave me the difficult description. He warned me about mixing genres, which I get and will work to smooth as that story develops towards bookhood. BUT! He said the style reminded him of H.P. Lovecraft. My first horror/Sci-fi bit was compared to Lovecraft. So, any day after I pass away, I should become a millionaire. Yay?

Thanks. More to come. P

 

Saturday “Gothic” Fiction

15 Saturday Jun 2019

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Dark Law and Innocent Blood: Shadows, Disperse!

 

***Today’s column is another short work of reality-based fiction, partly inspired by recent legal news, including a Supreme Court ruling in late May 2019. This is the first expression of an idea my mind has circulated for some years. Note: the unnamed observer herein is not Tom Ironsides. Rather, he is possibly a former (and perhaps future) associate of the spook turned teacher. At present, even I know little about him.***

 

IMG_20171120_111621403 - Edited (1)

Glimpsed through walls of stone… (Picture by Perrin Lovett).

 

The first images told him these foul things had recently fed. Without the living blood of others, they were almost invisible to all electronic eyes, even the most sophisticated. And, his device was the most advanced in existence – especially for this range of work – a melding of six different reconnaissance systems, powerful but portable. He toned down the GPR to the lowest possible functional setting, reminding himself of the ghouls’ certain sensitivities. Even with his unique invention, the moving shapes glimpsed through walls of stone were little more than shadows – shadows with horrid eyes: pallid points, tiny barely lit windows set atop undead waves of dark contour. There was one exception: the portly but fully alive body of Harvey Kohen, counselor to congresses and slavish servant of hell, practically glowed. And it trembled in their presence.

 

He strained to watch the other bodies, finding it far easier to monitor the movements of furniture, clothing, and other physical objects. The visage fit the occasion, spectral and ghastly. At any rate, thanks to a small, high, and unshielded basement window, the laser mic worked perfectly; there was no question regarding the audible conversation. The mood was easily read too; the monsters, for all their power, seen and unseen, were disturbed by recent developments.

 

He listened more than watched, now that the chanting and incantations to Lucifer had subsided. Their speech was a combination of hisses and wire grating on slate, evil made hearable. The first voice spoke slowly and gravely, low and drawn out with somewhat of an accent which, from the living, might have been construed as thick. Slavic? By the voice, by the movement of a chair at the head of the table, the folds and flaps of a coat, by a floating chalice, he surmised an elder male addressed the gathering:

 

‘My brothers, sisters, the time of our decision likely approaches sooner and faster than we had desired. Our hosts, if unaware of us or our purposes, nevertheless begin to move – ungainly as ever – against our interests. The Indiana decision this Tuesday…’

 

Another male, maybe younger, if these beasts reckoned age, interrupted, ‘Again, I do not see this mortals’ ruling as a concern. Were not the base practices held legal by the measures of men? Why not entertain us with a living feast rather than stoke phantoms of fear unreal?’ This younger hiss held less accent but more rasp.

 

‘Know your place and your time, Slyonious,’ coldly answered the elder voice. ‘Know the intentions, all of them, of the cattle. And, pray, do learn to read in full.’

 

‘The case is a disaster!’ A female version of the first speaker joined the debate with alarmed avidity. She sat at the right hand of the table head. Her voice and the waving of long hair and robes gave away her sex (though none, he deemed, might call it “fair”). She continued:

 

‘If Indiana buries or burns our supply … if other states follow suit. We, we shall be starved!’

 

‘The Georgia law…’ added another, older male, ‘And, Alabama, Mississippi, the Southern States. For us to maintain supplies, we must have sources. We stand, right now, to lose our only remaining collection center in all of Missouri! Everywhere, too many are in danger of being entirely shuttered from business.’ “Business” was hissed with a vehemence which stung the ears.

 

‘Most of those laments, the courts have tied up – for now,’ another male, midway down the table and with a distinctive British accent, interjected. “I do not share the flippancy of youth,’ the voice spoke towards Slyonious, ‘I do recognize the importance of this week’s happenings. I would concentrate on understanding Indiana.’

 

‘There is little to understand, then!’ screeched the hag. ‘Let more states follow the lead and we shall see our precious yearly million incinerated without the benefit of drinking the first drop. And, the million! … That count drops each year. This century, we have averaged less than sixty gallons apiece per year. These numbers may soon be halved. Then they will wither entirely. We shall be starved!’

 

He adjudged the Court ruling in question was Box v. Planned Parenthood of Indiana. The Supreme Court, in its limited wisdom, had side-stepped a direct challenge to infanticide but had allowed the State to legally mandate that a tiny murdered child be either buried or burned following his untimely demise. He had thought this expression of common decency had shocked the living progressives! Hearing the account of this meeting and the shrieks of the wraiths, the wheels turned and he realized that his two young friends were indeed on to something of hellish proportions. He listened further.

 

Another female shade added, her voice high and shrill though dismissive: ‘These are the renegade states, are they not? We have New York, California, Virginia. So many. And, as to these rebels, their protocols, as with all positive laws, may simply become circumvented in due time. I too call for, long for, a living feast in lieu of misplaced apprehension.’

 

The first voice replied in a commanding tone: ‘My younger compatriots, one state here, one there, would be of little concern. Yet, the tide, the whole sentiment of a people, seems to swing in the wrong direction. Our Master himself has put forth his call. HE demands…

 

‘Too many of these … unborn,’ here, his voice came low and fell, ‘escape our goblets. Not yet do we starve. But, in the near future… Who can say?’ He paused and then turned his unholy gaze on a squirming Kohen, ‘And what of your Congress? The rumors of a new, national law. Of an assault on the sacred writ of Seventy-three. What say you, thrall?!’

 

Kohen, chief legislative counsel, ardent mover and shaker, purveyor of darkness, and self-appointed ambassador to the High Court, shifted uneasily where he sat. ‘My Lords, Ladies,’ his voice quaked. ‘Your report on this boy, on young fool Roland Hubbard, and any associated hesitation, is misplaced. He and his charming lady friend, his harlot, have no power, no influence. They will be roundly ignored. And, I assure you that the committee will table, will kill, any bill placed before it which threatens, in any way…’

 

‘So much you assured before!’ snapped the leader, ‘“The Court, composed as it is, will disallow any attempt to halt our processes,” you said. The same arrogant stupidity blinded you to the States in rebellion! Now, as a defense, you offer the feeble idiocy of a committee? Of wretched human men?!’

 

‘There is something to young attorney Hubbard,’ interposed the elder female, ‘He sees far and fears little, with his righteous determination. With his … faith. And, that girl! She is dangerous!’

 

Kohen continued weakly, ‘We work hard beyond the Capitol, liege. A petition has already been signed by over one-hundred leading businesses.  Uh, H&M. There’s … Slack. Whelp, I think it’s called. Progressive companies. Popular with the millennials and zoomers…’ He paused and glanced around the table, into a host of cold, hostile eyes. ‘As for Georgia. Uh, Disney and Netbox have issued … certain threats, which I believe will…’

 

‘WORSE than your political counseling!’ The elder female howled, her claws raking the tabletop. ‘You pin our salvation – our very survival! – to the same children who but only lately slipped our net. A cartoon circus company! WHELP! So should you, bloated vassal!’

 

Another male added, with dire menace, ‘Next, Master Kohen would advise us to move on to the Orient. Has that not long been planned as a following ruse and scheme?’

 

Kohen stumbled, now searching for words to placate their growing wrath, ‘China is, China has both demography and the practices to serve us. To, to serve you. While a move might be … premature, an exploration might…’

 

‘China is closed to us!’ The British voice thundered. ‘It has not been a choice since the last days of Chongzhen Ming. Do I not know of this? Was I not there on a time?’

 

The elder leader rose now and slowly circled the table towards Kohen, who, if optics were to be trusted, soiled himself. He condescendingly rebuked the wretch: ‘No. No. No. China is not an option. Indeed, how goes your peoples’ plan to drift East, Master Kohen? As you have been rejected, so should we. No! Here, we are and here we shall remain. In straights familiar, in shadow, or arising amidst a falling world. Seen or unrevealed, loved or feared … we remain.

 

‘Hubbard and his pretty strumpet we shall monitor more closely. We shall do this. For our conventional work, we require those of greater fortitude… Thank you, so kindly, dear weakling, for your, for your dedicated service. It, and you are no longer required.’

 

With the speed of a striking cobra, his cold hand seized the fat lawyer by the neck. A “crack” resonated clearly over the audio channel. With vast strength the elder hurled his newly terminated servant across the room; the corpse was nearly embedded in an adjacent wall. Well, the watcher thought, at least that’s justice, true if unlooked for.

 

‘We shall increase our vigilance, my beloved,’ the elder’s voice softened, touched with mirth if that was possible, ‘Did I hear requested a feast? Shall not a morsel of dessert do in its stead?’

 

Presently, between two loathsome shadows, dragged as it were, there appeared another glowing living body. It was far shorter, far smaller than those of its captors. Struggling in vain, a little girl screamed through her tears, “Noooo! Mommyyyy!”

 

He had been warned about proximity, warned that the banshees literally smelled fear. He gathered from their present ignorance of his presence that they did not smell rage. No! A child! Where did? How did they? There may be more children within! Without hesitation, he prepared to attack. He counted a clean dozen though he reckoned more might lurk unseen. Admittedly, he probably couldn’t take them all, not with their unnatural abilities. But … he could make them suffer. And rob them. The girl at least would escape while he played.

 

But even without hesitation, he was no match for their speed.

 

His thoughts were silenced as he watched them fall upon her just as an iron trap closes on some unwary creature. In an instant, the poor, doomed little body, pinned by claws of steel, lost its glow. The living brightness was transferred into the assembled throng as they lurched and stooped over her. In a disgusting spectacle, he watched as coursing streams of blood were drawn up and into the leeches. Their appearance lightened with the infusion. Then, in his instant, mastering what few emotions he had, he tilted the scope down, boosting all power. Their sensibilities be damned! There was, he saw now, a sub-basement, a dudgeon, previously unknown. It was empty. The whole building was devoid of life. But they. They sensed the hum, the digital pulse, inaudible to human ears, of the combined radar, x-ray, and spectrographic scanning. And they turned towards it.

 

Like actors at the end of a theatre production, they slowly, curiously addressed the audience outside, physically concealed by a curtain of rock. They stared, bewildered, in his direction. But, as is eventually inevitable with any troupe on stage, this was their final performance. In a flash, he raised the Javelin to his shoulder. His eyes, which might have frightened even their dark lord, blazed through the sites, a gaze alone that might have pierced the ancient granite facade between them. A snarl and a squeeze and another of his custom contrivances deployed – a peculiar warhead of frangible steel and silver, lately Blessed for just such an occasion, raced toward the satanic target. They were not quite so fast in the end…

 

The long, rolling BOOM of furious justice shook the whole night. Nearby windows rattled and shattered. Car alarms engaged. Sleepy neighbors suddenly stirred in fear even in the heart of their safe, elite Washington enclave.

 

The concussive wave had only just washed over him when he again raised the all-seeing scanner. A whirling, blinding field of white undulated before his eyes. He dialed the IR down considerably. There, among the flaming ruins and falling debris, he caught an entirely new sight. Moving shapes, previously only hinted shades of midnight clouds in a moonless sky, now shown iridescently, burning far brighter than the flames around them. Some of them wailed, a sound of unmistakable misery. And they faded, melting into a haze of dark dust, dispersed in the consuming inferno. Six. Seven. Die, damn you all! Join your master! Eight. Nine…

 

Had three somehow escaped? Or, were they merely atomized or crushed beyond recognition? He had to be sure. The launcher and other equipment slung across his wide back, he raced across the road and vaulted the iron fence. He carefully z-scanned the burning wreck, first with the sensors, then with eyes that missed nothing.

 

Those three! Which ones were they? Was the elder male among them? Even then, when he desperately wanted a physical confrontation … or a hunt, he knew he must withdraw. Ordnance detonation in Georgetown would almost immediately summon a tsunami of the Metro’s finest. He did not relish the thought of fighting through them. Not yet. He preferred to remain, like his late victims, invisible for a time. And, he did. He had to warn brave Roland and bold Maryanna.

 

More than two hundred witnesses were interviewed in the following days by Metro detectives, by the FBI, the ATF, lesser-known alphabet agencies, the press, and more. They uniformly reported the same peace-shattering blast. None, it seemed, had ever actually met their former neighbors. And, not one could identify or say they even imagined seeing a perpetrator. Nor could any of them, even if they self-admitted, explain why, despite the tragedy, they suddenly felt a little more peaceful in their homes. It was almost like shadows had departed.

 

***

Grimmer than fiction our realities be,

 

Waves of dark blood upon a dark sea.

 

No overt phantoms of spirit maligned,

 

Could do worse than we do to us.

 

Small voices cry out, “Avenge us, Dear Lord!”

 

And what will become?

 

Roar of hellfire? Or laughter, delighted?

 

Choose.

A Review of “A Fatal Mercy, The Man Who Lost The Civil War,” by Thomas Moore

15 Wednesday May 2019

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A Review of “A Fatal Mercy, The Man Who Lost The Civil War,” by Thomas Moore

 

The boy had it right in quoting his grandfather: “courage and fortitude are never in vain … no good cause is ever lost because all good causes are lost causes.” Even if he didn’t exactly understand the last part of it, that quote expresses an oft-felt theme, if not a rule, of life and of a higher civilization. It is the theme of his grandfather’s story from 1863 through 1913.

 

Was Drayton FitzHenry the man who lost the War for Southern Independence? The man himself certainly thought so, perhaps with good reason. Then again, the reader can, likely will, come to understand that there may have been a good reason behind the losing. The story is simple in its complexity, and visa versa.

 

Moore has really written two books in one. A Fatal Mercy is an in-depth study of the human condition and of Christian morality, Western in origin – Southern by the grace of God. On the one hand, the book is a stirring rendition of The War. In that alone, it is fantastic martial fiction, at once woven by an elegant and commanding imagination and steeped in painstakingly researched history. The story is compelling, riveting.

 

That is especially high praise from me. Unlike my father, I am not a “Civil” War buff. As a child, the old man dragged me from battlefield to battlefield, constantly uttering information gleaned from his (separate) War library. I certainly gained a respect – and the good manners to at least phrase “Civil” with those all-important quotation marks – but I never developed the … obsession. This book, all through its 727 pages, engendered some of that. This is a work my father would have read – and liked. Those of you who knew him, know that is higher praise.

 

Perhaps highest of all, is what that aforementioned history and the associated culture, presented alive and burning, generates with regard to what I see as the second grand interpretation, a thoughtful, reasoned, and unapologetic defense of relevant antiquity, classical knowledge, honor, and the grandeur of Western Civilization.

 

I am a student of classical Greco-Roman tradition. Here, Moore writes as well and true as any: “One reason we study the Classics, apart from the value of the knowledge itself, is for what they may teach us about our times.” With this sentiment, Cicero concurs: “To be ignorant of what occurred before you were born is to remain always a child. For what is the worth of human life, unless it is woven into the life of our ancestors by the records of history?”

 

Today, most Americans, Southerners included, are ignorant of history, children easily led astray from their ancestral heritage. Moore addresses this issue, with direct examples, slightly dramatized, through the eyes of his protagonist. Drayton’s book-long dilemma revolves around a momentary eye of the storm at Gettysburg. Rather, around the eye of the fish hook, as Shelby Foote put it if we stretch Foote’s geographic definitions to include Little Round Top (and it is, topography-wise, a sub-eye). See: The Civil War, a Narrative, Stars in Their Courses, p. 479, Random House, New York (1963).

 

Of that terrible battle and its defining outcome, Bruce Catton wrote: “There was no pattern to any of this, except for the undesigned pattern that can always be traced after the event.” Never Call Retreat, Encounter at Gettysburg, p. 186, Doubleday, New York (1965). If this is true – and who doubts Catton – then Drayton’s dilemma is understandable. Drayton lived out the maxim: “Iniuriam facilius facias quam feras – Easier to do a wrong than to endure one.” – Syrus, Maxims. As he refrained from the former, so he endured the latter. Both counts are attributable to – and tribute to – his wisdom and honor.

 

And, there is an honor, and a wisdom, about Drayton FitzHenry that is rare among literary creations. Odysseus has it, as does Frodo. That wisdom moves beyond the narrative of the War, the horrors of Reconstruction, and into the following age. Along with other, innumerable truths, a lesson and a warning speak directly to us. It finds different ways of expression:

 

  • The kindly nature of a freed slave towards her former master;

 

  • The correct realization that the War ended the original American Republic, freeing one class of slaves only to create another;

 

  • Understanding the force and effect of the demonic legal trilogy of 1913: to this end, three separate quotes, conjoined (by me, for my purposes): “Power transmutes into Empire. Empire begets hubris. Hubris brings ruin. … [O]ur virtues will be needed by America, perhaps even the world, more than ever. … We must do the best we can and leave the consequences to God.”

 

Moore’s articulate, enrapturing characters witness the end of a Republic. We stand at the very possible end of an Empire. Then, in the fable, and now, in our reality, both intelligent free will and resolve to honor Providence properly combine. Sayeth the poet: “Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo – If I can’t move Heaven, I’ll raise Hell.” – Virgil, The Aeneid, VII, 312. The men at Gettysburg, of both sides, did exactly that. A Fatal Mercy does the same, does both in fact, recalling the horror and heroism of combat while instilling pride in the genteel, the cultured, the learned, the respecting, and the respectable. It is all of powerful magnitude.

 

The Author states: “My principal goal was not just to write the best contemporary novel of the War, but also to place my protagonist in an excruciating moral and emotional dilemma and see how he would resolve his inner conflict.” Moore has done that, and greater still. This book is a timeless Classic.

 

Also: The letters… The burning of the letters, Chapter Seventeen, moved me. The reader will, I trust, understand soon enough.

 

(Picture: Amazon/Green Altar Books – Shotwell/Moore)

 

A Fatal Mercy, The Man Who Lost The Civil War, Thomas Moore, Green Altar Books, Columbia, SC (2019).

Who was the Man Who Lost the Civil War?

11 Saturday May 2019

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Did you ever have a feeling about a college professor? Maybe a classics professor? (What is it with those, here and at TPC, lately???) Anyway, did you suspect some old man might have, say … lost the War Between the States? Probably not. But, it could have happened. Such is the premise of,

A Fatal Mercy: The Man Who Lost The Civil War

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Amazon/Green Altar Books – Shotwell/Tom Moore

Tom Moore is a friend of mine. He is a man of the West, dedicated to more than mere Southern culture, to measured, educated civility itself. And, by “dedicated,” I mean actually willing to resolutely walk where Angels fear to tread. For that alone, I would recommend his novel. Yet, only a modest way into the 727! pages, I am already hooked, materially.

As I told Tom in an email, I really think this is the first Civil War fiction I’ve read since The Red Badge of Courage, some 35 years ago. Fatal Mercy has a Crane feeling about it, maybe something Faulkneresque. This is historical fiction with a high degree of historical accuracy, not unlike the “can’t believe it’s NOT fiction” work of Erik Larson. In other words, it’s a story you don’t want to pause. There’s also another speculation in my mind about Lieutenant Drayton and his titular (in)action. Might his mercy affect the War of Southern Independence as Bilbo’s did the War of the Ring? I have no idea at this point. But, again, this point is very early on. Join me and let’s find out what happens.

Consider this another of my famous book review previews – more to follow, here, maybe at TPC, and on Amazon (5 Stars are a given). Order your copy today – click the above link and/or picture – and get started. She’s $4.95 on Kindle and $19.95 for a trade paperback.

Saw you a-marchin’ with Robert E. Lee;
You held your head a-high, tryin’ to win the victory.
You fought for your folks but you didn’t die in vain;
Even though you lost, they speak highly of your name.

– “Johnny Reb,” Kilgore/Horton (1959)

Winged Justice From Cuba: A Tom Ironsides Story

10 Friday May 2019

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As originally published at TPC

*******

Winged Justice From Cuba

A Tom Ironsides Story

 

Author’s Note: The following is partly based on true events, a blended, fictional account of several independent and real stories. Names have been changed, omitted, or dramatized so as to protect the innocent, the guilty, and the dead. The resemblance of any character or entity in this tale, to any person or entity, living or dead, is mere semblance only. Please, enjoy.

 

Sometimes the mind wanders. In daydreams, a man can relive what he found harrowing as well as those pleasant times that feel now, as they did then, just like dreams. Sometimes, if one isn’t careful, the two meld together. Tom’s brain turned back the calendar to another stage in his life’s journey.

 

Tom stood in the door of “his” Dassault Falcon 7X, peering into the gloom above a dark, tropical landscape. The absence of the sun (and the moon) rendered the ordinarily green fields of cane a deep shade of midnight blue. It was after midnight. Technically, it was 12:44 AM on a Friday – Tom had just consulted his Submariner. And, technically, he did not like the feel of this particular night.

 

The cane…, Tom muttered in his mind, They cut down every cane in the fields.

 

And, they had, except for two narrow strips, one on each side of the rural roadway. He saw it, even in the dark, as he landed, smoothly, on crumbling, gravelly, barely-there asphalt just South of Sierra Morena, Cuba. The wingtips were literally touching the closest stalks on either side. Now Tom kicked himself for the placement – those cane screens and several stands of trees – out there, just a little, but just a little too close.

 

‘Why do I feel like this is a setup?’ Tom asked aloud to the night air.

 

‘These are the coordinates, boss,’ came an answer from the bottom of the stairs, barely audible over the three idling Pratt & Whitney turbofans. The answer came from “Oak,” a giant of a Team Six NCO, with a beard, biker tattoos, and the Devil’s poker face. He wore his shades despite the near total darkness. ‘Give the boy a few minutes. He knows what he’s doing.’

 

The “boy,” was Clandestine Services’ new wunderkind, some dazzling experiment out of Air Force Special Ops. He was good with computers. He was twenty-six, good-looking, and gregarious. He did something in Afghanistan. And, he spoke Spanish.

 

‘They were supposed to be waiting for us. Damn! This baby makes a lot of noise. Castro, hear us roar,’ Tom grumbled to no-one in particular. Then, he cocked his head and spoke over his shoulder, ‘Birch, how long have we been sitting here wailing like a Banshee?’

 

“Birch” was Tom’s own guy, picked out of Recon support and run into logistics for the Special Activities Division. He was the only man on the team older than Tom; they had to bend some rules to get him the job but it all worked out very well. The least Jarhead-looking and least Company-looking person imaginable, Birch was a lifesaver.

 

‘Six minutes, Tom,’ Birch replied with his usual nonchalance. He then called to the remaining support team in the back, ‘We got FLIR onboard? I think we should scan the hedge and the fields.’

 

As the men began searching for heat-ID equipment, Tom scanned the horizon. He had a pretty good view from the hatchway. He went over the mission in his head, still confounded and, if he admitted it, a little shaken. This is the damndest and sickest waste of resources I’ve ever even imagined, he thought, engines running on an open road, in a hostile country, boxed in by sugar cane … all of our lives on the line for what?

 

The “what” behind this particular overnight excursion into danger bothered Tom to his core. He strongly considered the short time he had left before they could magically blend retirements together and let him walk.

 

The plan, as best he understood it, was a simple prisoner exchange – an exchange organized at the behest of friends of the current administration. The Company, for its part, was in country to return a convicted terrorist, maybe the last of the anti-Carriles gang, based on the personal request of Senor Presidente Castro. He had been convicted in, was serving a life sentence in, the US, for terroristic activities against the people of America. The low-life they were picking up was wanted in both countries. The Cubans currently held him on substantial charges of child sex trafficking and some of the vilest allegations of child sex abuse Tom had ever heard. And, Tom had spent the past 25 years hearing the worst the world had to offer.

 

The pedo-queer, as Tom called him, was wanted in the US in connection with a notorious Florida billionaire’s sex slave island. A few years back, Sugar Daddy Warbucks had been given a light criminal slap on the wrist and sent on his way to the Virgin Islands. It paid to call a former President your buddy and alleged “customer.” Tonight’s loser was wanted for the civil trials, just heating up if the news was to be trusted – a huge if. The thing that kicked Tom hard in the guts was that Mr. Pedo Bear was wanted as a material NON-witness. Someone wanted this degenerate so he would NOT have to testify about the island nor stand trial on his own! Wanted so “they” could keep him out of court and, consequently, out of the reach of true justice.

 

Cuba was getting a hero back, to keep in cigars and rum through his old age, a dangerous hero released from lawful US custody. In exchange, America’s crooked elites, via the Company, were getting a disgusting threat to children hemisphere-wide that the Cubans probably planned to hang. Both men were escaping justice. Bullshit! doesn’t even come close, thought Tom as he white-knuckled the hatch flange.

 

Two men descended the stairs and went to either side of the plane. They had found the FLIR scopes. But, maybe there would be no need… Before they even took up positions in the cane rows, Oak rapped on the side of the stairs. Tom followed the big man’s outstretched fingers and his bellow of ‘ten o’clock.’

 

Just beyond the tip of the port wing, just off the road, came a rustle and some voices through the hedge. Oak leveled a “borrowed” AK-74 in the voices’ direction. Tom fully cocked his H&K .45 and dropped the safety. From behind, Birch flipped the fire selector on an MP-5.

 

Out of the cane walked four men. “The boy” led the way, followed by a disheveled heap of a bearded, Berkeley professor-looking fellow in a worn tweed sportcoat. Professor Tweed was flanked, closely, by two slightly smaller, plain-clothed cookie-cutter copies of Oak.

 

Wunderkind spoke (yelled), a little too loudly even over the whine of the engines, ‘Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! We’re the good guys.’

 

‘You’re the loud guys,’ Tom growled, ‘Get that piece of shit on the plane and let’s get the hell out before hell breaks out.’

 

The young Opium War hero stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He called up to Tom, who was just turning towards the cockpit, ‘It was a lovely place. Nice folks too. None of them seemed to work for the regime. Ha! But, they didn’t have your Belicosos finos; I did score you some Soberanos.’

 

‘Great,’ snorted Tom, ‘you did good kid. Now, get everyone onboard. Now!’ He thought just a moment and added, staring hard at Dr. Pedo who was being led up to the door, ‘Make our guest comfortable. We’re forbidden to interrogate him about … what he knows. But, I want to know everything about him. If I ever need to look, I want to know where to find him anytime, anywhere on God’s Earth.’

 

The younger man looked confused and almost defensive. He replied, ‘We … we weren’t supposed to…’

 

‘Oak!’ shouted Tom, ‘Find out for me. And only for me.’

 

‘You. Got. It. Boss.’ Oak both said to Tom and sneered to the Tweed Dweeb. When Oak had first read the mission dossier, he had left a basketball-sized dent in a steel file cabinet. Tom half hoped for a repeat performance with a living object.

 

Just then, hell did break out.

 

‘We’ve got company!’ screamed the FLIR man off the left wing, on the side the boarding party had just come from. Over the JP-fueled noise of whirling aluminum and steel, he had caught multiple voices, maybe a vehicle engine revving. Here and there, lights shone out in the field.

 

Yep, a trap. They’ve double-crossed us, Tom thought, can’t blame them one bit.

 

‘Move your asses! We’re going, now!’ Tom thundered as he raced to the cockpit. Birch was right behind, slamming himself into the right seat. Tom didn’t even wait for the door to close. As soon as he heard “all in,” he pushed the throttle forward, flipping switched deftly but madly.

 

Lurching, then rolling steadily forward, they were departing in a hurry for Tampa. Maybe it wasn’t hurrying enough.

 

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

 

It seemed that “customs” didn’t approve of something in their departure plan, or, maybe, their cargo. Tom was painfully aware that his aircraft was taking small-arms fire. The hiss to his immediate left told him the bird’s skin was compromised. The burning in his left arm, just above the elbow, told him his was as well.

 

‘GAH! Hang on!’ He looked down. Blood on his arm. Blood on his shirt. His lap. Some on the controls too. He didn’t feel pain, just a hot, numb sensation spreading from his shoulder to this fingers. Despite whatever was the damage, he gripped the yoke, firm but steady, with his left hand. His right rammed the throttle ahead all the way – actual balls to the bloodied wall.

 

They were off the ground before the door was fully shut. A few more ominous CRACKS reverberated through the cabin but it appeared they had escaped. But, at what cost?

 

‘Everybody okay? Anyone hit? Is anyone hit?’ Tom yelled back through the cabin, his voice drowning the automated alarms that broke out at almost the same moment.

 

Birch quickly scanned the cabin. ‘We’re good. It’s just you, Tom,’ he said, leaning over to take a better look at the latest addition to Tom’s work-related injuries. ‘That doesn’t look good,’ he said, the nonchalance easing just a tad. He turned back and shouted, ‘Bleeding kit up here now!’

 

‘I’ll live. Gotta bigger bird to fry at the moment,’ Tom said with a slight wince, his eyes alternating between the dark horizon and the instrument panel.

 

The Falcon leveled off as it crossed the beach. Florida in a flash but alive too, thought Tom as he adjusted the trim and eased back on the throttle. He had climbed to almost five-hundred feet over land. Within a few seconds, now that the Straits of Florida streamed darkly below his windshield, he dropped. Two-hundred feet. One-fifty. One-hundred. Accompanied by further electronic cries of impending disaster, he stopped the descent at what he reckoned was about seventy-five feet. Low altitude came with increased danger but it cut radar visibility. Now, he had to address all the alarms…

 

Triage, normally a welcomed rite on the battlefield, was a severe inconvenience at the moment. The team medic visually assessed the wound. He leaned around, forcing himself between Tom and the seatback, a fit tight and awkward. ‘I need to get a tourniquet on,’ he said matter of factly.

 

‘I need to keep us in the air,’ Tom replied as he worked through a list of automated warnings, he added to himself (maybe to Birch), ‘this thing isn’t as pitch trim friendly as you’d expect.’

 

A few grumbling protestations from the pilot and his blood stopped squirting out. ‘I’m gonna hit it and then give you a shot, sir,’ said the medic.

 

‘Fine. Make it quick,’ Tom replied without looking, ‘Birch, we got a problem. Left nacelle’s been hit. Hard. Think I’ve got a fire. No power. … Number two doesn’t seem happy either. … Right is … right, fine. Get out the emergency procedures manual. Somewhere over by you. Book.’

 

‘Got it,’ Birch said after a short search. He turned on a custom red map light and started thumbing – for what he wasn’t sure.

 

‘Gotta cut out number three. I can’t risk dragging a flare behind us,’ Tom half said to himself. Without glancing over he started a series of orders to Birch, ‘Engage the A-P-U. Start with the overhead and then operate off the fire control panel,’ he said, pointing up and then forward for the benefit of his confused co-pilot. ‘Just read through it and listen to me.’

 

In a remarkably short time, the medic still hovering over his shoulders, Tom stopped fuel to his dead port engine. Satisfied it was off, he managed to bleed out and restart the central fan – something was jamming the intake or the s-duct. Without any ability to properly diagnose it, he decided to get it running and open it full blast. ‘I’ll make her happy. Use her for full thrust and steer with number one if I have too,’ Tom informed Birch. Without understanding much beyond the severity of the situation, Birch concurred. He relied less on Tom’s limited aviation experience and more on his confidence. Knowing Tom wouldn’t break radio silence – for anything – until they were on approach (to somewhere), it was in their hands and God’s.

 

After a minute or three, they thought they had salvaged the flight. Tom shouted to the rear, ‘I need eyes left and behind! I’m gonna zig-zag. Gotta tell me if we’re burning.’ He knew, even in the absence of radar, open flames make for excellent air-to-air, SAM, or gun targeting. A few herky-jerky turns later he was informed (and satisfied) that they might be trailing sparks and smoke but no open flame.

 

The pilot almost cracked a smile. Then, he turned and yelled to Oak, ‘Start getting me some information out of that hobo.’ Oak commenced in expert fashion. A few thumps and screams later and Tom heard their passenger begin to excitedly speak.

 

The kid called up to the cockpit, ‘He says he wants a lawyer. Says he wants to see the Israeli ambassador.’

 

‘Check the overheads! See if we have some of those,’ Tom said sarcastically, ‘Oak! Tell that child-molesting faggot if he doesn’t start talking, he’s going to take a high dive at five-hundred miles per hour!’ Oak said more than that. Whatever it was, it got some results – discreetly recorded for Tom’s use only.

 

‘We’re not going five-hundred,’ Birch informed, over the still screeching warning alarms, ‘Maybe holding two-seventy … two-eighty.’

 

‘And, that’s all we’re gonna get, man,’ said Tom, just as his eyes settled on a new warning message. He scanned the gauges several times. ‘Well, hell,’ he almost chuckled, ‘Losing fuel. Our gate crew did some fine shooting. Okay, MacDill is out of the question. Homestead might… Hey, everybody, we’re going to Key West!’

 

CNwFfQPWwAAdfc1

(Picture: PBS/Twitter)

 

At their present speed – if the gas (and their luck) held – Naval Air Station Key West was a little under one-hundred miles away. The Fates relented and both fuel and luck held. When he was confident he was approaching American waters and airspace, Tom climbed a little. Then, he gave Birch the go-ahead to radio for an emergency landing.

 

Maybe a newbie, the airman in the tower didn’t quite understand Birch’s classified code speak. But, he did gather there was a serious problem with the aircraft that had just magically appeared on his radar. They got a few warnings, some confusion, and then permission to land.

 

A minute or two later they could see runway lights ahead; Tom swung out a little right so as to approach North by Northeast. Key West, famed Southerly end of America, shown brightly to their left. A distant glow to the right told them the juice was still on in Miami.

 

Tom prepped for landing and addressed one final alarm – something was wrong with part (or all) of his landing gear. ‘El revolucionarios are pretty damned good,’ Tom sneered through a grimace, ‘Brace for a crash! Now!’

 

As the whole team did their best to brace, Tom counted down the altimeter, synching it with the rapidly growing ground outside. Final adjustments. Power back. Nose up. Three. Two. One… With a thud and a grinding, whining sound they were back on Earth. The Falcon jerked and jolted. It wanted to drift left. With Birch’s assistance, Tom held her straight and tried his best to brake. Those boys shot the shit out of us, he thought, saaalute, commies.

 

In the end, they rolled almost the length of the runway before coming to a shuttering stop. Outside, a small armada of firetrucks and military police vehicles converged on the wreck.

 

The stairs opened and settled on the ground with a clang. They were listing considerably to the left, one rear landing gear assembly was destroyed and the corresponding wingtip was almost touching the composite surface of runway 14-32. Birch was the first off and immediately talking to MPs and then an officer. It was now understood they were to be unhindered. Exactly who they were and what they were doing was speculated over but not asked about. The fire crew ordered all parties out. An ambulance came for a reluctant team leader.

 

Tom was the last off. He walked slowly towards Birch, the kid, Oak, and the paramedics. As he closed in on Professor Pedo he couldn’t help himself. He drove his right foot forcefully into the back of the man’s left knee and rode him down. In a flash, he delivered a powerful forearm strike to the shrieking non-witness’s head, the head which literally bounced on the tarmac. As the friend of a friend of a former president spit blood and teeth and whimpered, Tom casually spoke as he passed, ‘I’ll see you again one night, my friend.’  

 

As he climbed into the back of a waiting ambulance, the kid leaned in with words to lionize, ‘That was excellent flying, sir. How long have you had your pilot’s license?’

 

‘What license?’ Tom answered just as the doors closed.

 

Late that afternoon an exhausted paramilitary operations officer walked into the reception area outside a briefing room in the CENTCOM bunker at MacDill Air Force Base. His jacket loosely draped over his shoulder, hid a brand new blue sling. He stopped at a little concierge table. After adding two fingers of Scotch to his styrofoam coffee cup he fumbled with his flask.

 

‘Can I help you with that contraband, sir,’ came a semi-sultry voice from behind. Tom glanced over at a very attractive, very young woman in uniform.

 

‘Well, hey there, darling,’ he started as he scanned for insignia and what might lie beneath, ‘…Lieutenant. Can you help me get this back in my coat pocket? This sling makes it difficult … I was playing polo and… It’s Bowmore, the best your PX had. Don’t want to lose it. I’ve got the rest in my car if you’re free in an hour.’

 

With a polite word (maybe a sarcastic threat) the woman with short blonde hair eased the flask back where it belonged. She gave Tom a pat on his chest and then a knowing, sadistic tap on the left arm. As she walked away, he noticed that she looked back. She looked but she didn’t catch the kiss he blew.

 

A no-nonsense-looking Air Force one-star hailed Tom from an adjoining room, ‘Commander Bond, if you’re done harassing my officer, we’re ready to get started in here. Langley’s on screen.’

 

Tom entered and rattled off his report, expressing plenty of not-so-subtle disdain for the mission and for those who had requested it. He especially wanted to know why their “guest,” after a visit to the emergency room, was turned over to the private security firm of the Federal Reserve. He received no answers. He was upbraided for wrecking the plane (‘What plane?’ defied Tom) and for brutalizing an important NON-witness (‘I’m not responsible for anything the Cubans did,’ was all that got them). Then, at last, the conversation turned pleasant. As he expected, the bean-counters were cobbling together about 28 years worth of retirement (of one kind and another) for services rendered to a grateful, if uninformed, nation. His coming trip to Headquarters would likely be his last.

 

On his way out of the office, as he scanned for the Blonde Sadist, his new one-star friend walked up to him and spoke, ‘Colonel, my boy mentioned something about a cigar mix up in between what “the Cubans did” and the here and now.’ He offered Tom three Belicosos finos from his pocket. America still had some decent brass.

 

Way too late that evening, Tom slumped over the bar at Steak O’Brien’s, Palma Ceia’s finest watering hole. Michelle, the twenty-something Barbie doll bartender in the low-cut white t-shirt, leaned towards him as she had the past two hours. Thirty minutes later, as they left together, she cooed, ‘So, again … what’d you do to your arm?’

 

‘Like I told you, I’m a drug dealer. Had a shootout with the police,’ Tom said flatly as he tightened his grip on her waist.

 

‘Bullshit! You are the police.’

 

‘Well, I do have some handcuffs.’

 

Despite his not sleeping for the past forty-eight hours, 12:44 Saturday morning was considerably more enjoyable than the same time the previous day.

 

***Seven-plus years later…

 

Tom stared ahead at nothing. Michelle had been fun. Now, which breakup was she? Did she ever still text? Call? He pondered hard; it was difficult to keep count. Maybe, maybe it was best to finally leave the college girls back in college. Was thirty the new floor? Young Ms. Tomlinson, here, she was probably just about right… Then, he saw the glimmer on her left hand. Ah, well, it wouldn’t work anyway.

 

MRS. Lucie Tomlinson sat at the other end of the lunchroom table. He had just returned to her nineteen Kindergarteners after a rousing music class. He was graciously invited to dine with the young academics and their lovely leader. This being December, the wonderful lunch ladies at L.D. Jever Elementary, a South Carolina blue ribbon award winner for increasing STEM diversity or something, had prepared turkey, gravy, and mashed potatoes. Following confusion about how to make change for a Ten, Tom’s turkey was free. And, it was pretty good.

 

To Tom’s right, a girl with long, curly brown hair approved of the mashed potatoes. In fact, she was wearing them on her shirt sleeve. After the claymation video of “Peter and the Wolf” concluded – Tom’s third screening of the day – little Ms. Macey Somebody had crayoned a picture of Santa for her parents. Tom received a half-finished, nearly all green drawing of Rudolf.

 

She recounted the various adventures of her cat. She did not like red peppers. Mr. “Eyesnides” looked like a giant Christmas elf. Then, she exclaimed about the mashed potatoes on her sleeve.

 

Tom acknowledged, ‘Hey, little lady, you’ve got mashed potatoes on your sleeve.’

 

He also, silently, acknowledged the good he had done two Decembers before on his Mediterranean “vacation.” What were the odds of finding Professor Pedo in Sicily, at that hotel, at that time of the night? Tom remembered it, heard it again with lucid clarity – that sweet, soft sound of success – of justice: Pfwoot! Pfwoot! Pfwoot! He had almost left an apologetic note for room service; he had left a drop knife and some photographs for the inspectors.

 

He smiled. What he had done, he had done for this little girl and so many others just like her. It was a darn good day.

UPDATE: Some thoughts I had about this work in progress line and character:

Upon further reflection, another reading, and talking to a few folks, I think I have a few items to address with the above narrative. To save MB any editing trouble, just consider this note the fix.

1. Please consider “12:44 AM,” both references, to mean “00:44.” My bad.

2. Yes, there is such a thing as an AK “74.” Newer models than that too.

3. I seriously goofed with the approach to runway 14-32 (real runway at a real NAS). Coming from the South, Tom would have swung out right to line up with it on a heading of North by NORTHWEST (mainly Northwest). Not Northeast – that makes no sense. In my defense, I would say that I had just written, in the preceding paragraph, about Miami, which would have been to the Northeast of the plane (and KW). But, this is the second time in a month that I confused East and West (the first time being a reference to Wales as it corresponds to London). Mayve me biran not so gud? It’s North by Northwest.

4. Perhaps, given that MacDill is an Air Force BASE, Tom should have told Lt. Blondie he shopped at the “BX.” I’ll leave this one open for interpretation. He’s the kind of guy that might just call a Base Exchange a Post Exchange just to fluster people or because he’s aloof to pedantic detail. The kind of guy who calls a uniformed female officer “darling” as he openly flirts with her about his illegal use of alcohol ON POST (get it?). She, in turn, knew how to handle him – complying, with a little love tap where she suspected there was an injury. Women…

I’m sure there’s more. For instance, I have no idea how many dBs 3 PW306s make at idle or if it’s possible to converse over them. I do know why I went with them and not the FX5 configuration (my secret). It’s fiction. Have fun with it. I did.

P

Another New Fiction Alert

09 Thursday May 2019

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Another installment in the growing saga of Tom Ironsides is coming ASAP, first to TPC, then here. This one is a daydream, flashback prequel to the days before Tom’s second career as a teacher. In his former life, he was many things, including a relentless destroyer of evil.

This one is full chapter-length. I think it’s outstanding and I’m my hardest critic. Soon, my friends.

FICTION ALERT! ‘No Particular Place Nor Person – A Story from the Modern “Academy”’

30 Tuesday Apr 2019

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Originally published at The Piedmont Chronicles

*****

No Particular Place Nor Person – A Story from the Modern “Academy”

 

Sometimes things happen and nobody cares. Even if what happens is horrible. Worse, many, maybe most folks usually, if they consider matters at all, cheer on the atrocity de jure, especially when calamity comes wrapped in false promises of something … anything. They only begin to care when the wolf is literally at their door. Some only find alarm when jaws close around their own throats. Tom Ironsides wasn’t one of them.

 

Every morning was a grand new beginning in his educational experiment, serving as a humble substitute teacher in the high schools of a suburban county much like most others across fading America. Monday, April 22nd was no different. Coach R’s first period honors chemistry class, a point of pride at Silver Snuff Comprehensive High, worked rather sleepily on their review sheets. Tom surveyed the room – fourteen working slow but steady, two working on and off, two quietly discussing the weekend, three engaging the digital wonders of social media, and one sleeping soundly. He spoke words of encouragement:

 

‘It’s all about balance. Calculate the change in pH for each little equation. You should be asking yourself if you have electron donation or reception in progress. Your work goes in the little boxes. Every correct formula will match one of the three answer options for each equation thus leading to the next problem. It’s just an equation-maze puzzle, from “start” to “finish.” This young lady up here is almost finished!’

 

‘Were you a chemistry teacher before you came here?’ asked a boy from the back-right. He was committing three infractions at once – being black, wearing a hoodie, and listening to something via earbuds. Unconcerned with bureaucracy, Tom had already noted him among the “slow but steady.”

 

‘I lectured in classical philosophy for three years at a University in Eastern Europe,’ Tom answered, ‘Before that, I did two one-year teaching fellowships, one here and one in France.’

 

His answer piqued the interest of a few plodders and one of the on-and-off-agains.

 

Another boy in the back, maybe a “good old boy” inquired, ‘What did you do before that?’

 

Tom thought for just a second – the plain and direct (and maybe still classified) answer simply would not do. He replied, ‘I … retired from the Marine Corps.’

 

‘You an officer?’ the first boy wanted to know.

 

‘Yes, Oh-five, light colonel. I was in … requisitions. At the Pentagon.’ While technically true, this explanation was far from exhaustive. Tom wondered if it would satisfy collective curiosity. Beyond “requisitions” he had always had trouble with explaining things away to the innocent and the by-the-book “I can’t talk about it” never felt right to him.

 

Of all people, a pretty girl in the front row, the one who was now actually finished, pushed the matter forward: ‘So, is it “Mr. Ironsides,” “Dr. Ironsides,” or “Colonel Ironsides?”’

 

‘Were you in combat?’ came an inquiry from another good old boy.

 

Tom, vividly remembering a painful night in Mosul, considered his available options. Balance, Thomas, he told himself. ‘Well, I …’

 

***BEEEEEEEEP***

 

‘Pardon this announcement,’ squeaked a limp-sounding voice from the ceiling, ‘Teachers, please hold first period for a few minutes after the bell rings. We are starting a… We just need a few minutes to do something.’ After a short pause, it continued, ‘Please keep all students inside the classrooms and keep the doors closed. Keep the students away from the doors…’

 

Tom starred at the circular speaker for a moment, wondering if there was anything to be added. He hated superfluous chirping, as he heard it. Five, ten seconds passed. Okay, that’s that, he thought. At least his little predicament was diffused. He spoke: ‘Well, now we all have time to finish. Let’s have at it.’

 

Minutes passed. A bell rang. A tardy bell rang. More minutes passed. Half of second period passed. The students, all of them, were now either tapping at their phones of dozing. From just down the hall, a loud BARK! got their attention.

 

‘So that’s what that is about,’ Tom smirked. The black boy with the hoodie returned his expression with a chuckle. Some of the kids looked less than pleased.

 

Tom swiftly stepped to the door and glanced out the narrow, security-wired window. Coming down the hall was a grumpy-looking coach, a lighter-loafers-looking administrator, two tubby lawmen in tactical pants, and a rather handsome German Shepherd. Tom instantly formulated a plan which he found both defiant and amusing. He stepped to the front of the class. ‘When they come in, everyone look at me,’ he said. The class nodded along.

 

Someone twisted a key in the unlocked door. It opened and in walked the grumpy coach. Tom “resumed” his lecture: ‘… and that’s why the Georgia sheriff pled guilty to violating the students’ civil rights, violating his oath of office, kidnapping, obstruction, and…’ He looked at the now quizzical coach, ‘Hello! How may I help you?’

 

After gaping at Tom for a second, the coach spoke directly to the class, ‘I need everyone to step out in the hall. Just leave yer bags and jackets in here. Take off yer coats. Just leave everything. And, hurry it up.’ He turned and, avoiding Tom’s steady thousand-yard stare, said, ‘I, uh, please step out with them. Sir.’

 

‘Love to!’ boomed Tom as he waltzed into the hall. He walked straight up to the nearest obese deputy, ‘Can I have a look at your warrant? I’m writing a research paper on probable cause.’

 

The officer looked confused and almost frightened. ‘I don’t… We… It’s routine procedure.’

 

‘Just kidding,’ Tom said with a laugh, wheeling to face the class, now assembled along a locker-embedded wall, ‘Thank god the dog barked, right kids? Just enough time to flush that fresh batch!’ With that, twenty-two previously sullen and dejected teenagers roared with laughter.

 

Even the deputies checked smiles as they entered with the Shepherd. Grumpy Coach also stepped back in and closed the door behind them.

 

Tom’s mind briefly addressed the sub-compact .45 on his ankle. Not a thought about it. You don’t print and you never touch, Thomas. And, that’s only a drug-sniffing dog. Of course, it would impress the hell out of these kids to pull OC on this rabble of petty tyrants… His thoughts were cut short by the suspiciously swishy administrator, who now angrily addressed the still snickering students.

 

Mr. Assistant Something chastised the children, ‘Now! We’re not gonna have any of that. This is very important and if you don’t want to…’ He was cut off, in turn, by Tom, who stepped in front of the little man, making sure to “accidentally” brush shoulders.

 

Tom asked bluntly, in his long-unused direct action mission voice, ‘Did the principal invite them here?’

 

Stammering, all the man in the pink plaid shirt could muster was something about a policy at the board office.

 

Tom continued, ‘Under sixteen dash seventeen dash four-twenty, either the school’s principal or president has to authorize any outside visits. By anybody. You don’t have a president, just a principal. He didn’t invite them, huh? No warrant. Are they in hot pursuit of a dangerous felon or something?’

 

The little man looked worried. The kids, having found a new hero, looked on in rapt silence. Tom looked CIA serious. He didn’t blink.

 

Luckily, the classroom door opened at that most awkward moment. ‘I think we’re done this morning,’ said one of the county’s finest (and largest).

 

‘Okay, y’all can resume the science,’ barked Coachy the Grouch as he lumbered away.

 

‘We’re studying civil rights, at the moment,’ rejoined Tom as the kids filed into the room.

 

Several minutes later there came another BEEP from above. The squeaky voice (now sounding a little shaken) announced the “project” was over and that all students should report to second period. He thanked everyone and extolled the school’s commitment to “safety.” He added that the Pride Club would meet Wednesday after school in his office. He ended with the lame house motto: ‘Cause you can’t get enough of the Snuff stuff!’ A bell rang.

 

Thanks to “safety,” second period lasted all of seven minutes – barely long enough for Tom to take attendance and tell the new kids to do the pH review sheet for homework.

 

***BEEEEEEEP***

 

Another idiotic interruption from the sky heralded the fact that parents and the community were being alerted to that morning’s successful – nothing at all was found – routine safety search via Facebook and Instagram. Another bell rang.

 

Third period was Coach R’s planning period. For Tom, it was investigative and alarm-ringing time. He quickly downloaded the school’s letter from Zuck’s Suckerbook site, read it, and suppressed a laugh. The damned stupid letter hadn’t even been up for fifteen minutes and it already had garnered twenty-eight little “likes” and “hearts.” The mindlessly cheerful comments had started as well, most of them thanking Providence for “safety.”

 

Yeah, keep the kids safe by stomping on their Constitutionally-protected liberties, Tom mumbled to himself.

 

The last, latest comment caught his eye. It was from the little effeminate admin man, who apparently had just posted the letter itself. His self-congratulatory remark got under Tom’s thick skin: ‘No, sir. Nothing illegal was found. But, then again, if they’re not doing anything wrong, then they have nothing to worry about.’

 

Tom repeated that to himself as he dialed the U.S. Attorney’s Office. The conversation, once it started, was a little disjointed.

 

‘Hello. I’m not sure if you’ll consider this civil or criminal. I’d call it criminal. My name is Tom and I’m a substitute high school teacher. I’m a mandatory reporter. I just witnessed a school and the local police break violate scores of students’ rights, break about a dozen laws…’

 

Forty minutes later, Tom was wrapping up an interview with an ASA and two special agents when Little Mr. Pink Shirt snuck to the door. Eavesdropping, he caught the last of the conversation, Tom’s end:

 

‘Definitely. Under the State Constitution too. Maybe under forty-two U-S-C nineteen-eighty-three? No. I don’t know the state’s kidnapping statute. The one for disrupting a school – it’s a one-year misdemeanor – is sixteen dash seventeen dash four-twenty. Ha, ha! Yeah, like pot… Conspiracy for all counts. RICO too, if I was really tacking on shit. Oh, hey, thanks, gentlemen, ma’am. Bell’s about to ring and my coffee cup is empty. No. No, I doubt anyone from here to there cares at all about any of this. But, I thank you. Goodbye.’

 

Pinky recoiled from the doorway and slunk back to his office. More bells rang. Coffee was consumed. pH was balanced. A girl thought Tom looked like a cartoon robot.

 

Around four o’clock Tom signed out. Another successful day in his experiment and one he would remember. He turned around and saw the Plaid Swisher standing in the corner.

 

‘Who were you talking to this morning during third,’ that squeaky, annoying voice asked.

 

‘FBI,’ Tom deadpanned, ‘I’m a mandatory reporter, don’t you know.’ He turned to leave but couldn’t help adding one last thing: ‘Of course, if you’re not doing anything wrong … then you have nothing to worry about.’

 

*****

 

The next Monday morning, on his drive back to Silver Snuff of all places, came a predictable call from Agent Sara Smith (who sounded young and kind of sweet). She regretted to inform Tom that, after an exhaustive (one-week) investigation, the Bureau and the Department were declining to do anything about the previous week’s matters. Something about a Facebook barometer. Something else about being overworked assisting refugees and making sure commercial banks were protected against customer withdrawals. She asked Tom to keep the issue quiet. Not an issue for this particular sub. For the past twenty years, he never had a problem maintaining silence. Sa la vie.

 

Eight o’clock. A bell. A BEEP. Something about the “Snuff stuff!,” and Tom looked out at Coach R’s first period once again. He dropped the prepared lesson plans in the lab countertop sink and began,

 

‘About last Monday, kids. About that. It’s important to follow the law … for safety and so forth. And … the law, and the CFR, just happen to say that a person can make up to one-half ounce of certain things before it’s a problem, legally-speaking. Now, this being a boring old chemistry class and all, who’s ever heard of Torpex? I have here a dash of powdered aluminum…’

 

******

 

CFF Public Service Announcement:

 

Every week in this country, government schools and local law enforcement routinely throw the law out the schoolhouse window – at the expense of your children. Your acquiescing “likes” and “hearts” be damned.

 

Fifty years ago, the United States Supreme Court ruled that students do not “shed their constitutional rights to freedom of speech or expression at the schoolhouse gate.” Tinker v. Des Moines Indep. School Dist., 393 U.S. 503 (1969). They don’t shed the following either:

 

The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.

 

– U.S. CONST. Amend. IV (1792)

 

Rights may not be “shed” but they can be trampled. If we allow it. Will you?

Fiction Update

28 Sunday Apr 2019

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This week’s TPC column space will feature a large chunk of fresh fiction by yours truly. It’s education-related and something you won’t find anywhere else. A melding of important topics, with a little wit and drama for the measure. I envision it as a beta test part of something larger. Something that might look like a novel.

More to come – will be posted here on publication date.

I may do a second “normal” national affairs column too.

TPC On The Road: A Christmas Tradition? – New Fiction at TPC

20 Thursday Dec 2018

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We find a family on the road before Christmas…

Eight A.M. and the family was on the freeway, heading North, with less than an hour of Pennsylvania roads left to travel. Coffee-fueled and ready for anything not work-related, Todd and Claire man the front buckets. Little Ruthie, seven-years-old, and tiny Lizzie, barely one, hold the middle. From the rear, with the gear, nary a sound comes from ten-year-old Bryson. Fortnite suffers no idle chit chat.

 

Second down and goal to go! The Sunday morning before Christmas was a fine, if cold, time.

 

‘Can we listen to “Dominick the Donkey?”’ asked Ruthie.

 

‘Not again,’ Claire replied, ‘Ten times was enough last night. And, WODS will be playing it twice an hour – unless they’ve switched to some listless contemporary lineup – which would JUST BE STUPID.’

 

‘Say,’ added Todd, ‘How ‘bout a little Dandy and the Bass Slayers? They’ve got the best Christmas album. From ninety-seven? Maybe ninety-nine?’

 

‘Honey,’ Claire sighed, ‘Nobody wants to hear that tired, redneck, Bluegrass-pop vulgarity again. Let them go.’

 

Read the whole funny thing at TPC.