

Burst

Edward Drobinski

Copyright © 2016 by Edward Drobinski. All rights reserved.

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Chapter 1

"She's a sweetheart. But, cross her and she'll kill ya." That was my introduction to Rikki. At the time I thought it a joking comment from her boyfriend, Mal; the couple just having come in through my back, mainly glass, dining room door.

It was a logical reaction, as I had already known Mal for a month and I found that it was hard to get him to take anything seriously; especially the handyman work I was trying to get him to do around my house. If you've had the pleasure, you probably know that artists can be difficult at times.

And Mal was an artist all right. He wrote crappy poetry and played the guitar like Allen Collins of Lynyrd Skynrd. Not counting the juvie hand-slaps and the required, attendance at Friday morning counseling, done by some psychology major who wanted to appear "down," he now had a bigger problem. He also had two adult felony convictions and couldn't afford another one.

The first thing I noticed when I gently shook Rikki's hand was that her perfectly chiseled face had averting eyes. I guess that's not all that unusual, but at the time I found it strange for one so pretty to possibly be shy. The second thing I noticed was that her lower arms had deep scars; the vertical kind designed to maximize blood loss. I then considered the much more likely possibility that she just found me repulsive.

Beside other obvious infirmities of the face and legs, I was 65 at the time and had been feeling that way for three years. The second thing I noticed as she walked out of the open dining room into the adjoining kitchen was a body with plentiful curves in all the right places.

The thirty year old former model held up a tanned, plastic, grocery store bag, opened it and said; "Is it okay if I use the oven here?" The question struck me as either unnecessary or posed by one who had learned to proceed with caution. Nervously not waiting for a reply she added; "You like veal cutlets?" I would come to know that this lady liked to cook. In the moment I thought I had detected a veiled sadness, but knew I could be wrong; and hoped so.

I said; "Yes and yes," offering one, and quickly seeing my first hint of a reciprocal Rikki smile. Since my wife Diane and I had never gotten into "cuisine" of any sort, the counter held one fork, one spoon, one knife, and a long term unemployed can opener. They huddled together on a paper towel which showed that it was last changed a month prior.

Rikki began to futz around with the contents of her bag, and asked; "Where are the other utensils?"

I entered the kitchen, opened the pantry door, and showed her to a form fitting, deep orange tray which held millions of utensils. She said; "Oh," in a manner I took as positive; though on her next trip she came with her own recently purchased supply of silver coated plastic implements.

The late afternoon sun was still beating on everything its cloud deficient environment lazily allowed, including the only kitchen window. I went back to the open dining area and brought the second and third chairs over to accompany my solitary one abutting the overhanging ledge of the kitchen countertop. Mal and I sat in the shade in front of my laptop. I already had it on Youtube. Jim Morrison had just stopped chanting; "Cancel my subscription to the resurrection," and the stuff about the mirror and the window. Mal punched in one of his favorite Nirvanas and I listened to something in which I only could make out about three words, while with half closed eyes, he leaned back, obliviously smiled and played air guitar.

I think that I'm not as far out of it as other people my age; fully recognizing that other people my age would say the same thing. But in all honesty I was familiar with "Territorial Pissings," and "Smells Like Teen Spirit," despite the very un-cool Youtube person who called the latter; "Smells Like Team Spirit." I mean, like, in his own "cool" parlance; "Really, dude?" I've got this stupid thing about getting the easy stuff right.

Rikki toiled away in the sun which relentlessly streamed through that one un-shaded kitchen window at its late afternoon, early summer angle. She periodically asked her boyfriend and me if we liked this or liked that and we always said; "Yes." Our eyes were actually semi-fixed on Cobain; me trying to make out the words of the songs I didn't know, and Mal probably thinking about the suicide, long ago installed in the history museum. I'd later learn that he didn't think it was a suicide at all; but a Courtney Love financial doing after Kurt's announcement of his intent to file for divorce.

After a few of these Rikki exchanges, I thought that she might take our one word, perfunctory responses as dismissive and uninterested. So, I went out of my way to say how much I was anticipating the best meal I'd had in years and stuff like that. And I really wasn't lying; just conveniently over-stressing a commonly accepted characterization. My Germaine Greer agreeable wife, Diane, never had given the least bit of a damn about using the range to heat anything more complex than soup on the top four pads. That was okay with me, as I had willingly gravitated to the simplicity of exclusive microwave use. Both approaches mesh nicely, in that they avoid the customary preponderance of cacophonous detail.

But, over the years I had learned that my "deficiency" was often interpreted as a lack of interest by those who had a hobby of collecting pots, pans, and recipes. I guess it was, but I never wished to be considered insulting unless first confronted. Perhaps not to be outdone, Mal chimed in with a few "complimentary and eagerly anticipating" things similar and Rikki seemed happy flailing away with the utensils and trying to get the oven to do what she was trying to tell it to do with a series of button pushes on the confusing "control" panel. Apparently, the thing was not in the mood to be the least bit co-operative.

Later that day, I'd find out that they both already had so much alcohol in their systems that they had probably not noticed their taste buds for a year, much less have any real interest in the considered "social proprieties" straining to break out of our earliest conversations.

With me distracted by the rolling kitchen activity, Mal insisted on showing me videos of "Sound Garden" and some other "grunge" band minimally remembered as a result of having been assigned the same category as Cobain. He didn't make any big deal over them, but included them as one does the lesser known in a web aged attempt to refrain from the obviously well known. Three feet behind or in front of the micro entertainment module, depending on point of view, Rikki showed a scrunched facial and a mildly snorting sound of frustration. She couldn't get the damn stove to heat up. I had no idea how to do anything with it other than get the four top thingies to fry the ass off the lone sitting, empty, dark green pot. My wife was off at work, but it wouldn't have mattered if she was there, as she had purchased the stainless steel, computerized monstrosity not to use it, but to impress our up-until-now-once-a-year social obligations. The touch of calloused, poorly, though somewhat reflective post-something-or-other stylishness in an otherwise traditional Spanish casita is supposed to be impressive. Diane's phraseology of that would be different and doubtlessly much more mercifully succinct. However, the momentary crux was, though the thing had been sitting there looking ugly for more than a year, it had not been used by anything other than adventurous bugs; none of them out of a Kafka or Burroughs imagination.

With each blink of the cursor, it became increasingly obvious that Rikki was having severe difficulties with the oversized, un-cooperative Sears special. She was facing Mal and me. The stove itself, and some faded, sixties-ish, real oak wood cabinetry were the only things separating us. She asked what to do and seemed to be directing her inquiry at me. My customary I-don't-know approach was quickly complemented by my true lack of knowledge. Regarding the conceptual aspect, experiences unanimously suggested it was obvious that to say otherwise always resulted in an unwanted, unappreciated and unintentionally-viewed-as-grandiose can of worms. But, here, in this particular case, was a dripping, pretty handful of unsatisfied heat seeking to get the veal ready for consumption.

When I verbalized that I didn't know, I simultaneously got up from my comfortable position with a complete screen view and left Mal, snickering and pie-eyed in front of something ostensibly classified as music; titled "The Misfits." When I said that they sucked, he said; "No shit. It's a total goof. I still found it to be unfortunate that it wasn't the Marilyn Monroe movie; but rather some very overaged group of poseurs from the flood lands and consequent damage claim game of Lodi, NJ. In fairness, I have to say that the lack of any musical sense was compensated for by the fifty year old's joke of a flaccid, green Mohawk. Aesthetically, rather unimpressed and disinterested with the drone buzz accompanied by an indecipherable yell over, I assumed he meant the group on the screen.

In search of the appealing relief provided by a full view of Rikki, I entered the kitchen and said; "This thing is difficult. I can't even get it to show the right time." As I walked to the kitchen drawer which held various instruction manuals, I answered her unasked question saying; "Diane and I have never used it. It's here to impress through the 'cutting edge' display of its divine uselessness." I immediately realized that this might contradict something I possibly told Mal. I must have mentioned that "home improvements" had been made because Diane and I had made tenuous plans to sell the house. While the statements seem contradictory they are both true. I've always obsessed on trying to maintain credibility. It never worked, but despite that I have this ludicrous compulsion. Even if I had said it I presumed that he and Rikki had more interesting things to occupy their minds than the ramifications surrounding my dysfunctional oven. He also may have been too fucked up for anything to register. Fortunately, I caught myself before I started babbling about irrelevances, and I perused the drawer and the one below it.

Not finding an instruction manual, I said; "No, sorry. Diane indiscriminately purges these things every once in a while." It was true. My wife's taste for starkness periodically reaches a crescendo; and when I'm gone she disposes of things which range from our 1995 tax returns to the garage door opener. I walked to the stove. Space a constraint; I leaned up against Rikki, getting a scent of something pleasant residing in her long black hair, as we stood in front of the un-cooperative, metallic, heat machine. Her once again averting eyes seemed this time an indication that she was worried about the state of the waiting cutlets.

I said; "I really don't know what to do. Sometimes when I want to set the clock, I just try pushing all the buttons on the thing and somewhere along the line it gets going." I pushed them all in no particular order.

Rikki pulled down the main door, felt around inside, and said; "There's no heat coming through."

I said; "Give it a chance. Might take a minute."

Perspiring from the relentless sun, she stepped back to the sink. She dropped the cutlets at its edge, and pulled her black, with minimalistic and conceptual, surrealistic "art" logo tee-shirt over her head. She bunched it up and ran water over it. Her half cupped underpinnings seemed focal points in the moment. In the gush of the drench, I was like a delighted victim in Bergman's "The Silence," feeling as if I was in a weird but not totally uncomfortable spot.

By this time Mal had apparently determined that his presence in the kitchen was required. He broke away from some noise-horror, metal, quaint-funny-haired, four days unshaven, "bad-ass" concoction with Alice Cooper makeup on the little screen. It was derivative of "The Misfit" act in appearance and sound, but less amusing to me in its apparent seriousness. If that is the least bit believable, it likely made it not particularly difficult for him to depart the screen.

Apparently for Mal, it must have seemed painfully obvious that the joke, if any, was unintended, making it even funnier or something. Personally, I have difficulty laughing at the chromosome oversupplied, but this is no longer My Generation. Mal often just found shit on the web that made him laugh; and then he'd mimic them. I don't think that anyone other than me and Rikki could ever tell when he was intending irony and I know that most of the time I wasn't sure. Mal never felt the need to explain.

That he was a good guy, I'm virtually certain; as certain as one can be. That he was stuck by birth with being a white nigga in-betweener was enough un-articulated explanation for me. Rikki's feelings for him were deeper, and possibly just because of that she would sometimes give him shit; like the time she smacked his steel-tipped boot into his face just on principle; or maybe just because she was loaded and thought the surprise a funny one. Ignoring the obvious physicality, I came to think that their attraction was that he had done everything wrong and got f***** for it; while she had done everything right and got f***** for it. I'm getting ahead of myself as these events and perceptions were to come later. For now, Mal stared at the uncooperative stainless steel "showpiece" and mumbled something. He carefully pushed some buttons, and was effective in attempting to convince everyone present that he knew what he was doing; though his lack of familiarity with a difficult oven made that highly unlikely.

Rikki put the soaked tee back on. Cool, cool, and cool in every sense; like a standard southwestern swamp cooler all over the top. They had some kind of interchange. You know the kind when nobody knows what they're talking about; but for the sake of "sociability" is compelled to say something absolutely useless, backward, and worse; totally un-entertaining. Well, it was the exact opposite of that.

I didn't know who did what to who, but mental diversions aside, the bottom line was that the uncooperative stainless steel thing, replete with stains that Ajax couldn't handle, started to show signs of life. It had been a half hour, but the bouncy, jiggling steel rods at the floor of their compartment exceeded room temperature for the first time ever. I could smell it.

Jubilation filled the kitchen. In two seconds Rikki used her fingers to re-check the rods and found that their temperatures were on a positive trend. If one was like her, a sampler of early heat; this portended one of those languid Saturday night's versions of a suck-all-the-water-out "Creature Feature," likely a pre-cursor to the negating, 180 boredom sold by Rob Zombie for his ostensible "living."

All systems go; Mal and I sat back down. Youtube had utilized its own built in programming to now have found its cookied follow up. I found this quite impressive. It seemed to me that it would have to have been quite a task to find a follow up to codger-death-petty rebellious-metal by way of low-end-Mexico's knockoff versions of 1970's English "anarchy" brought to us through the hyperlinked hype of the once Brit banned Sex Pistols; which was now known to be an ultimately, self-confessed, and profitably sneering swindle. This aspect was confused for some with the last minute Johnny Rotten San Franciscan confession of a lie about a lie. Our blurred and weary eyes rejuvenated upon seeing a live version of the Monkees' 2011 reunion concert, enhanced with Billy Ray Cyrus guesting on guitar. They were singing "I'm Not Your Stepping Stone" for an audience of North Platte based octogenarians. Apparently, the song was a 21st century update of the early Monkees cover of the 1966 hit written by the original and memorable, Boise based Paul Revere and the Raiders' tune which they regularly performed on "Dick Clark's Where the Action Is." For a bit we got into the humorous aspect, like one watching a very aged, "Laugh-In" re-run; with no understanding of the context. I articulated my degree of cyber-based awe to Mal, who shrugged and said; "No big. They just follow with whoever paid them the most to do that."

We both reached to change the channel, and we both backed off after seeing and wanting to give space to the other player. I was thinking; "I got some shit but you got the youth. You go first and I'll answer. Kind of backward. I guess." It kind of bounced around for a while, nothing particularly notable. I played stuff he probably didn't know and he played stuff I definitely didn't; each likely looking for the follow-up not to come to either mind.

Rikki put our cooked cutlets in paper plates, placed them in front of us, and took a seat with her own portion in front of her. Mal put on one of the million versions of Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven," this one of the longer ones, and by Led Zeppelin themselves. As he did things with his fingers he said; "That's the easiest song to play." At the time, I thought that was a technical commentary.

After we were half through eating, Rikki put on her own thing; and I held back the tears when I saw a suicidal Lana Del Rey take the leap; or was it just a distraught and caged Sia still wrestling with hopeful uncertainty? Without any display of emotion, Rikki stared at the screen.

She looked away when I questioningly looked to her, hoping for some refutation, explanation, context, or expansion. There are many times I truly wish to be wrong. Mal was stone faced and stoic, as it must have been pragmatically dictated to him through many other such Rikki suggestions; but now currently manifested in his quiet love for her.

Something tore me, and it wasn't the sharp mustard which accompanied the cutlets. The whole thing didn't seem right for a myriad of reasons; the one most weighing at the time the arrogant audacity of me to vicariously wallow in their presumed blues. Beyond that, the feeling is impossible for me to explain in writing or speech; as Rikki and Mal were beyond any words I will ever know; and me fortunate for that. But, on that day, they were there with me, she acting as if anything I said was cute, charming, decent, well-intentioned, and now as relevant as a revolutionary War musket. Stated less kindly, I knew that their feelings were that my feelings were just another old boring, irrelevant, absurd fiction in their lives; ultimately abandoned when pushed to the edge; me "morally" relieving myself through having "sympathetic" ideas about that which I had not experienced. That's what they had to have thought. They had no way of knowing that I'd been around the block, maybe most of it, and that as a consequence, sometimes I just felt, as opposed to trying to understand some things. I didn't think their reaction a rejection. It was worse. It was as if they understood everything of my antiquated feelings, having seen them so often before, and had passed beyond that into some new reality they knew I'd never fully understand. I fumbled for the words I didn't know, and just looked at their Youtube placated eyes and breathed an inaudible sigh; not wanting to draw inordinate attention.

I wanted to scream; "Tell me. I might understand. I want to understand." The silence overcame me when at the same time I remembered what I thought when I was their ages.

I tried to play early Stones, "Paint It Black," seeking approval, I guess. .......... It's pretty bleak by my standards, but I could tell by their faces, not quite theirs. I also guess that it didn't quite work. I wondered if they were over-acting. That would be a selfish, personal source of comfort for which my heart could settle; any attempted explanation much too long and simultaneously much too short.

Mal likely read my mind or something, and put on Trent Reznor's, Nine Inch Nails doing "Happiness in Slavery." It added a communal cerebral element. Rikki said; "This is my favorite group." She looked at her plate and did not smile.

I was kind of reverse shell shocked. It was as if I was almost seeing things through their eyes; at the same time knowing that was impossible.

My life was far from one called "charmed," and included a rough neighborhood beginning, some significant investment losses in the middle, and a "benign" brain tumor at age forty. However, most of it was adapted to; or at least I thought so. One of my favorite lines was about something concerning humanity's prominence. "It isn't that mankind is smarter, better warriors, or blessed. They're at the top of the heap because they can adapt to anything." That sounded reasonable to me, until I was confronted with two humans who were obviously not adapting at all. Or were they just being fashionably despondent? Further information was needed, though it could not be induced. It had to be volunteered.

Rikki queried; "Like your cutlets?"

Mal and I eagerly said some kind of "Yes."

"Would you like more mustard?" she asked.

"Yes, please," I responded, while Mal waved "No."

Mick got up and placed some more on my plate, saying; "It's true Dijon."

Suddenly everything sounded stupid to me, and I followed suit when I mumbled; "Thank you."

We all continued to eat and drink my wine, which they supplemented with swigs from a vodka bottle which formerly resided in her purse. The clear container was now on the counter just ahead of us.

We stayed on Youtube, making "normal" and sometimes jocular observations concerning the other's familiarity with and evaluation of that which was screened until it was time for them to leave. It was dusk. Without putting on an artificial light, I followed them out the way they had entered. I smoked a cigarette kneeling on the passenger side, as they sat in her dented, white car, Mal at the wheel. We all seemed to be in search of something meaningful to say. The forced attempts at last minute, profound conversation, which resulted in last minute banalities ended with a date. We'd meet again two days hence. My squelched, Native American, tax-free cigarette was deposited in the garbage can and I closed the garage door.
Chapter 2

Everything about our ensuing little parties gets kind of merged and blended. The three of us just hit it off right from the start in a way usually approached in gradations or never. We started talking about things some husbands and wives probably never do. So to try to think back to any kind of "order" in which to tell about how we got to know each other so well isn't possible for me. At some point I started calling us "The Unholy Trio," which they both liked. The vague inference to the commonly used meaning of ménage a trois, which made me consider not saying it, was not taken provocatively; and I was glad for that. It wasn't a sexual thought. I don't think ......... It was in our heads. But, I suppose that it might be fairly termed romantic and trusting; with the caveat that I haven't looked up the dictionary meaning of the "R" word. I did look up the story line of Lon Chaney, Sr.'s silent movie, "The Unholy Trio," and it doesn't quite fit either. But, besides me, there are only about three other people in the US who know the movie. I was a movie freak long before I wrote anything other than business reports.

Sometimes I think that Rikki and Mal opened up to me merely because I listened to them. They come from a Generation called "X," "Lost," "Millenial," or something; while I'm a "baby boomer," "G1," "Dinosaur" or something. Apparently things have changed quite a bit as boomers like me might have said; "Quit watching me," while those to come would say; "Nobody is paying any attention." I also asked a lot of questions when things they said didn't make sense to me; which was a regular event. For me it was no game as I was genuinely interested and maybe they could detect that.

Mal began bringing Rikki with him virtually every visit; and she always brought loads of food. What was once three hours of work and a half hour of bullshit became a half hour of work and three hours of bullshit. I say this only in hindsight as while it was happening the enjoyable time just went.

I don't think that it was so much that Rikki wanted to be here. In fact it probably wasn't so much that Rikki wanted to be anywhere currently on her palate; while Mal gave the appearance of being more optimistic as he experimented with detachment and mixtures. His primary problems were that he could not extricate himself from the consequences of his protracted entanglement with the law and the consequences of his love for Rikki.

She saw her choices as severely limited in general; any conjured positive actions married to some kind of severe penalty. This was not the least bit speculative on her part. It was the result of her experience. At first, her presence at my house was probably due to that she couldn't stand being away from Mal; who was supposedly working at my house. He was getting paid to anyway and I often found him outside or in the garage sweating in a manner sufficient to keep a bird bath at its brink; the results of his endeavors often a long story almost as interesting as Franzen's "Freedom." My Southwestern styled adobe, which basically means a structure with stucco over something of indeterminate origin and an almost flat roof sat on an acre in an area which contained similar things on an acre, usually larger. This afforded some sense of privacy, especially after Diane and I had installed "native plants" all over the place, focusing on the borders and in close proximity of the back portal. The Spanish Brooms and Butterfly Bushes grew quickly and thickly; though the former can be temperamental, and without any noticeable provocation turn from soft green to brittle brown. As I imposed no restrictions; maybe once; in their current circumstances, the bricked back portal had to have been a good place for them to relax and chill out.

Though they had of necessity, obtained a place to stay, in one room of the house belonging to her reluctant parents, the price extracted was higher than that in the tallest of fashionable NYC skyscrapers. At least Rikki said so; while, when on topic, Mal sounded as if he was the one who assumed the responsible position of negotiator, aiming for a manageable situation. Maybe at the core, it was difficult for her parents to deal with the constant reminder that Rikki was once happily married off, and out of her parents' hair, to a multi-degreed, brilliant scientist she met at school; she being the same. Now she was back home, not quite yet divorced, with this no account felon who brought his guns. Maybe Mal was just trying to make the best he could of a difficult situation. And maybe Rikki was letting all her anger fly at a world, whose rules she tried to follow, only to be told; "Tricked ya, sucker." The last straw might have been when her non-working, brilliant scientist and five year husband told her that he was exclusively gay. Yes, there were hints; like the rectal bleeding from the GI Joe dolls he shoved up his poop chute; but I'm again getting ahead and perhaps have digressed into an area totally irrelevant to Rikki and Mal's main story.

Starting two months prior and during the entire period of their visits I was writing a very long book originally titled "The Un-Named Eighth Day." I had done a few before that, all kind of uplifting, hopeful, and with happy endings. I just wanted to break the pattern and try something else. The book which was eventually called "Blasé Eight," primarily in an attempt to not give away the ending was cynical in tone and kind of depressing if one forgets that it's only another book.

When I thought that I had written something particularly bright, I'd read a page to them. I guess I liked doing that for a number of reasons, including that they would probably be the only ones to ever hear it. But mostly, I liked seeing their reactions. We were sufficiently close that the perfunctory "very good's" were out of the wearisome question. I guess we all knew that there was no malice intended, so we said what we actually thought. Most of the time Rikki just smiled and gently nodded as if the words confirmed her long held notions. But Mal always diverted from his usually quiet self and would shrug if he thought it sucked; or hold out his fist and say; "Bones, man," if he thought that I caught it.

For me, the most surprising part of the whole thing was that after a while, each started saying that the book was about the two of them. Being as truthful as I am able to be, I always told them; "No, it's not. I started this, established characters, and had an ending months before I ever met you." As much as we always took each other's word, they brought this up four or five more times. No doubt things have a way of creeping in; borders are indeed porous as per DFW. I was also flattered, surprised, and saddened to see that the cynicism I thought I had fabricated out of the air and news reports could be confused with a reality they had known. Sure, authors talk about writing about what it's like to be alive today; but in actuality they are at least one step removed. ....... I guess I just complimented myself; or maybe they did; I'm not sure. The thing is that if they were here today, I'd say to them; "This is the one intended to be about you. What parts are totally fucked?"

Rikki and Mal were studies in contrast; "studies" much too cold a word; used only because "psychological profile" is worse. Trying to avoid sounding like some stupidity printed in "Psychology Today," suffice to say that she had been a "good" girl; while he had consistently been a bad boy; the details an exercise which requires explanations as long as this book. On a mental level, in the moment, she was digging his wrongness as a sort of celebration of all that was allowed as well as a "fuck you all" statement by association. In the moment he was digging her. That is stupidly simplistic to say; come to think of it. But, mal was much less verbal than Rikki.

Rikki often referred to Mal as her guard dog. Starting halfway into the time I knew them, he often affected a black accent and referred to her as his bitch. When first hearing this, I bit my tongue, as she displayed no reaction, and I had heard enough Rap recordings to make me consider the possibility that this term was now an acceptable one. At some point I started to ask about the terms, in the presence of both. "Guard dog" didn't seem a particularly nice way to describe a person one was ostensibly in love with; though it did carry the possible cachet of bestowing the traditionally valued tribute to masculine protection. My first few queries into further elucidation were basically ignored. Then later, making no eye contact, Rikki told me that no; bitch was still not an acceptable word.

This stuff became more and more prominent toward what I know now to be the end of our parties. I suspect that it made it all too obvious that my sympathies went with Rikki; the natural attraction most likely a meaningful factor; but I thought it to be not only that. Hell, I was 65, with a wife of 44 years I truly loved, and was frankly not all that interested in matters of the crotch anymore; somehow considering that some kind of relief. Since Viagra and its generic equivalents were not any help for females, I considered it unfair; and also a prescription for old male farts to be either gay with each other or a molester of unfortunate children; kind of not-my-thing on either track. These things are hard to measure; but at the time Rikki's sad face when she said that bitch was not an acceptable term tugged on something in me she would often dismiss as "sweet," as if sour no longer had an antonym.

So, when Mal started to make a habit of in my presence saying to Rikki that he was gonna turn her over and stick it right up something or other in his best backwoods Arkansas nigga speech, I tried to defuse things by showing boredom and saying; "You doin' that nigga shit again?" If it had any effect at all, it seemed to encourage him. He typed "That Nigga Shit" into Youtube, and came up with a surprise that we both would enjoy for some time to come. Big Pun had covered the territory in platinum decades prior with a song of the same title. Mal and I chilled and mildly nodded to it, as we would periodically do for the rest of our time together.

Since Rikki didn't throw any tizzies, I thought it possible that I either just didn't understand or was using old, now irrelevant standards. At this point I thought that I had detected an early sign that the three way free exchange had ended, and that the "Unholy Trio" would soon be no more. Some of their commentaries seemed to try to elicit a side-taking response from me; like that of a referee or a teacher.

I couldn't and can't do that for a million reasons, inclusive of an inability and something like, but not exactly a personal distaste for the role of judge and teacher.

Mal and I found some sense of comradery in "live" Youtube films of Lynyrd Skynrd, while Rikki and I liked caged Sia and the death visions of Nine Inch Nails. It seemed more and more apparent to me that each was interested in having me on their side; while I considered negative opinions of them, if any, totally immaterial and uninformed. I'd see them about ten hours per week and I had no idea what went on the rest of the time. It wouldn't only be presumptuous to render judgements. It was impractical. Too often the idiots who spring for this role wind up being disliked by both parties after they reconciled. If there was any point, it seemed obvious to me that they should be on each other's side, me an insignificant blip on an imperfect radar device which was pointed elsewhere. My natural, dated, optimistic penchant was to think that there was a temporary mechanical problem which would soon correct itself, if some idiot didn't fuck things up. Simultaneous with having that thought, I remembered that there are about eight million fee seeking idiots who come out from under their rocks at every opportunity. Not only are some of them well paid, but a few also get awards for their efforts.

Exactly where Mal stood was difficult to gauge. After a risky, free speaking entree, he retreated into the most common male position of; "I only say what I'm sure of," thereby ultimately saying nothing other than that which can be verified by observing the mercury level on an outdoor thermometer. It may have been partially my fault; but if that was the case I tried to warn him. Mal was an artist; his art taking a number of directions. The seriousness over the poetry and guitar almost a decade passed, he tried to write a post-apocalyptic novel. He had a good idea and wrote the first four pages; which he kept bugging me to critique or something. Just on principle, I really didn't want to as I'd seen that nothing comes from such things besides hard feelings; that I am not an editor or teacher; and that I don't feel the least bit comfortable in being any kind of a judge. But he kept pushing for the "expertise" of one who had grossed less than $5,000 from almost two years of offering lowly-rated, indie books.

I ducked and ducked; each time reluctantly knowing that it would be necessary to duck again. Mal kept bugging me. Then one day, I was ready for them an hour before their arrival. I thought I had a bright idea which would put this thing to bed forever. Without any sort of criticism, I just re-wrote the first page as I would have done it. When they arrived, I showed him, and stressed that any form of writing is now acceptable. Despite what a few "experts" might say; it seems obvious to me that the idea is the most important thing. But, I saw the look on his face; felt awful; and did some yadda yadda to no avail. You know, basically, all I did was to stress his fat brother's big ass which was usually making an inverse mountain on the bunk above him and took out three of the four references to being poor found on page one. So much for well-intended solutions.

As previously mentioned, by that time there was a usually subtle rift between the two in a number of areas, and that didn't help matters. Rikki could have very easily said that she liked Mal's version better, but she said nothing and maybe even did a brief "I told you it sucked" type of grimace and nod toward Mal. To reiterate a context; by then they both knew that I didn't get all kinds of freaked when somebody didn't like my stuff. They had shrugged or made loud "no comments" about plenty before; the latter her modus operandi. So, they were well aware that I had an attitude which did appreciate being liked, but was also able to "Oh well" lackluster evaluations. Hell, I had been getting them all my life and the reversed kudos sought new peaks when I tried to write. You know, after a while it's like the lack of water rolling off Cobain's back. As I saw it, the main point at the time was that something had changed for the worse in their personal dynamics which a well-positioned kind word might have helped. But none came and Mal said that he would stop attempting to write.

In what was truly an attempt to show how stupidly I can write, as if that were an example of something not obvious, I perused "Blasé Eight," in an attempt to come up with something particularly awful and read to them;

"She was compelled to be polite; at the same time intending to not sound discouraging. Her voice faux lilted; 'Taking the car, honey?'

Rather than seeing her attempt at spur-of-the-moment civility, he took the question as a gambit which really asked; 'Are you going to drink like a fish?' as he standardly walked when he intended to get loaded, to avoid any DUI complications. He considered making a sarcastic reply, but settled on; 'No. Its warm out and the fresh air will do me good.'

She thought that he was making an inadequate attempt at glossing over his intended indulgence. However, rather than comment on it, she sought to avoid potential conflict as she felt a bit guilty over having chased him out. She said; 'See ya later,' and heard the front door open and close.

The half mile to the Propicio Bar and Grill was as usual, eerily quiet at the outset, though he seemed to be noticing it at full strength for the first time. His Roderick Usher degree of awareness was un-settling in its suggestion of a less than satisfactory outcome. 'Ah, just the depressed mindset of an alcoholic writer on death's door; a blue version of the story; with its attendant market share;' he thought as he stifled a chuckle observable only to the hidden cameras. The un-attended brown mounds in the barren field ........."

As bad as it was, I realized that it was a mistake as soon as I had finished. I stopped reading and they both chose to make no comment or even show that they might have heard it.
Chapter 3

The preceding overview of my recent and long observations serve primarily as an outline of what was going on between the three of us. Our visits lasted about a year. For the first six months there had never been a couple more close. After that; I really don't know what happened; suspecting that the decline was something like that which happens in most all relationships, with differing particulars. The devil as well as the most interesting parts is in the details. Frankly, this approach also relieves me from the burden of inadequately attempting to emulate the interminable itemizations foisted upon an audience akin to that of my idol; the otherwise great David Foster Wallace. They say Dickens got paid by the word. Ha. Rather than attempt to detail all of the laborious renditions of each of my meetings with my temporary partners once known to ourselves only as "The Unholy Trio," it also seemed better to abandon the chronological methodology. There were not exactly a plethora of "momentous" days. In ninety percent of our get-togethers, that is all we did; get together. We'd play music, comedy, get smashed, and eat whatever Rikki brought. In addition, it seems no violation of a confidence to the participants, nor a "spoiler" for the reader to be told that Rikki and Mal's, like all relationships, generally start out high, have their low, and then sometimes either end or start all over; the difficult and brave reach for that second chance a key.

So, to go back to some sort of time induced logic, we are now temporarily returning to the day when I am expecting them to show up for our second get together. I'm anxious as they're late. Mal is killing time with video games; and Rikki is having her usual getting-out-of-bed, sometimes violent crank. That's what they told me anyway.

Two days after our first meeting they again showed up at my back door. I noticed them right away as I was anxiously waiting. They had said they would get there by twelve, and it was now two. They walked apart; one ten feet ahead of the other. Since they regularly took turns, I can't remember which was which this particular day. They saw me through the glass and smiled. I let them in and just like the last visit Rikki headed for the kitchen, while Mal and I sat in front of the computer, which was tuned or not-tuned, depending on "artist" to YouTube. I guess that since he could play one, he favored watching the guitarists. Unlike most people I've met, he didn't only know the ones from his own era, but could apparently appreciate anyone who did it well, even including those from before even my time.

After she made some chicken, she served us and sat with her own plate. I said that I wanted to show her something on the computer. At the time I was a member of a Goodreads group of threads which had discussions about conspiracy theories. I put credence in a few and thought most crap, but mostly wanted to be there because the common-web-knowledge-known-to-be-crooked thread operator and his ding-dong daddy claimed to be film producers, among a myriad of other innocent-alluring things. I learned that they were indeed producers insofar as that may be gleaned from unverified web posts; as they did claim credit for a couple of extremely low budget, unreleased, Bollywood credits; in addition to their falsified involvement with an American release which bore the same name as their "working" title of one of their "never was" swindles emanating from Australia or New Zealand. In an apparent display of another "triumph" of believing one's own bullshit, the younger of the two further "contributed" to the "main" event by using his pronounced head and stilted speech in the starring roles of both, enhancing them through the utilization of his stated "Brando inspired method." His pompously arthritic presence in the two 24 hour shoots which made extensive use of vintage stock footage was subsequently unreleased. Despite the poverty level production, at the time I thought I might sell or give him the film rights to one of my books; and maybe someone would make note of my name somewhere in the barrage of stuff the duo puts on the net.

The younger had requested my participation. At the time I thought it possible his assessment of "good stuff" would translate to some greenbacks. For the few of you readers who may not yet have been introduced to Goodreads, it is an easy to use, comprehensive, book-cataloguing website owned entirely by Amazon. That's the easy part. It takes some time there to note that 90% of the posts are put there by writers no one ever heard of and likely never will, who are trying to impress readers with their "brilliance" and humor, in the hopes that someone will buy their book. I confess to being ordinary.

Regarding Rikki, I guess I wanted to impress her by telling her that I wrote and was on the verge of a movie deal or something. So I showed her the site. Anyway, when she saw the conspiracy threads, accompanied by a photo of the late thirties operator, she said; "I think I want to marry this man." That was said right in front of a non-reacting Mal, who just stared at the screen. I soon found that she had been extensively exploring conspiracy theories for more than a decade and Mal shared her beliefs most of the time.

The conspiracy aspect is truly a longer story and not the subject of this book. The brief is that she joined Goodreads and the group of conspiracy threads; me mentioning that to "my pal," the younger operator. She soon started to receive love letters from him. Considering them humorous, she wanted to show them to me, but I refused to look. Maybe she also wanted to assure Mal that this was not the least bit serious. Mal was aware, but not particularly thrilled, as the two of us seemed to know that Rikki was angling for a movie deal and the operator was trying to extract information useful to his conspiracy business; the standard business relationship. I was later convinced that Rikki knew how to handle such things quite well. Mal too became a minor Goodreads participant; occasionally sending a derivation of a "Fuck you all" post; once rudely under my name while I had excused myself for ablutive considerations. But for the day, all seemed new and interesting. Three minds languidly wandered through the cyber manifestation of a Christopher Marlowe short story.

During one of their openly pissed-at-the-world visits, she truly shocked me by telling me that; "Rikki is a name I prefer over my parental given name of Rosearik. That's not even a girl's name. I absolutely hate both of my official parents, and sometimes have wondered if it was only social proprieties which put their names on my birth certificate. I'm pretty sure that my father is not termed that in the field of biology. My mother is a reclusive, gun-carrying nut. I often fantasize killing them both in order to get legal possession of their house."

Stunned, I pragmatically asked; "Do you have any siblings?"

"One faggy brother with a real bull dyke of a wife who my folks hate. I'm the executrix of the will. I wouldn't have any guilt about it. I just have to figure a way to get away with it. My mother never leaves the house, and walks around, xaanexed out, in a bathrobe, carrying a handgun. She makes me clean the whole fuckin' house every day."

Mal had previously mentioned his teenage encounters with a pedophilic uncle. He had mentioned it often enough to make me think it was still a very significant issue for him. However, its mention made me extremely uncomfortable and I always tried to divert the conversation with some distracting generality; the details not wanted in my head. Mal always stopped there. Maybe in an effort to balance things out, Rikki, once said; "I was repeatedly raped as a kid." She never specified by who; and I just felt so out of place, wrong, sorry, horrified, shocked, and not wanting more of an image; I hoped the details would not be forthcoming. They weren't. Maybe in the same brain dynamic which usually allows me to not remember the tortured kitten of my helpless sixth year, thereby selfishly for me, I wanted to forget that their youthful horrors ever happened, hoping it another Oprah, popularly induced false memory. Mostly, I knew that I couldn't stand to have the picture more filled in. Later, at a time I can't put in context out of memory considerations; Mal held up Rikki's arms, giving me an unmistakable view of my initial impression, which my mind had kindly blanked out. He showed me the scars from her many previous suicide attempts; saying; "I love this girl." I saw her eyes moisten, while his were resolute. Though it was long in coming, at that moment I realized that any nonsense which dealt with a return to the supposed "Summer of Love" had as much credibility as the latest Sanderson Superman regurgitation.

Up until then I had always said that I preferred truth; but now that I had seen an unexpected aspect of it, I wanted to go back to being four years old, when Mom once again showed me how to leave milk and cookies for Santa Claus.

As always, we were watching some music videos. It was probably one of their choices of one of the few contemporary groups which thought they had some sort of bomb message; or it was my choice of the 1968-1972 Bob Dylan bomb messages; with which they had no previous familiarity. They both said, and I believed them, that they had never heard anything like the late twenties Bob. They hadn't much cared to hear much of Dylan's pre-banal cop out previously, and seemed to greatly prefer it over the la-la-everything-is-beautiful stuff, popular in my youth. Out of the deep blue, Rikki announced; "I am totally logical. .......... Just logic."

I was kind of thrown and saddened; thinking of Goddard, Lemmy Caution, and "Alphaville." She had matter-of-factly said that she no longer feels anything. For me, contrarian that I can be, I sought an alternative mental process, finding none. For likely self-preservational considerations, I chose to believe that she was lying on that one. It was the easiest thing for me to do. I looked at Mal, who seemed all too purposely, to keep his eyes on the little screen which currently displayed a forgotten grunger in indecipherable over-estimation; his current cyber existence a courtesy of the collective Cobain mass memory.

Sometimes it helps to go elsewhere. Almost invariably, those who can bravely travel; at least evoke the induced movement construed as an excuse to not be in a prolonged cerebral stasis. In that regard, with the most meager of interests, I had seen the news one day; the day on which David Bowie had died. During one particularly tranquil visit, I had remarked how his passing elicited many more internet sympathy posts than that of Glenn Frey of the Eagles or Prince. Rather than indicating any sympathy for or affinity with any LGB&T interest, Rikki's spoken apathy seemed to emanate more from the philosophy of Oliver Stone's "Natural Born Killers." For the prior six months she had been trying to convince Mal that destiny necessitated him being Mallory. He seemed to have some sort of undisclosed problem with that, at least in my presence, primarily, but not only because he wasn't a killer. She seemed both pleased and disappointed in that regard. My personal intellectual listlessness, which had already absorbed Mal's "On the Border" flirtations with what many analysts considered to be more seriously rule breaking than Che began and ended there. Like, anyone ever hear of ancient Greece and Rome? Easy for me to think, I guess.

In what might have been another prior context, he said; "I just take stuff. Unwanted stuff. We all do. If rich people are dumb or hollow enough to leave it lying around; all's fair." He broke for one of his smirks. Then he added; "Like fingerless rings or unused cars left at the curb." His attitude seemed reminiscent of something gone. It was kind of like the archaic, though still existing legal concept of squatter's rights; currently viewed by the bourgeois as theft, petty or grand. Most likely, one of the reasons Mal and I got along was that I had lost my last ring at the former base of a demolished barn and I kept my car in the closed garage.

Did I ever tell you? It's a bit out of sequence and thereby possibly confusing, so I probably left it out. As an early teen-ager, Mal was a Goth. Long, black MuSkin coat, and long, long, dyed blond hair, much like that of his mother's natural. This was his outfit when he strummed on stage and bunked with his pervert uncle. Since Rikki, he had stopped using the peroxide and cut it all off; his hair that is. Well, not all. He sported the stubby, dark remains of a marine or a gangsta with some Vaseline on top; rather than below.

In the recent past, he had long-haired it through a few years with Lydia, the chlamydia jokes unfortunate. This light skinned Latino had tits which must have inspired the literary character named "Big Boobenstein" with a brassiere disdain and a taste for skimpy tops. Mal's problem was that she also had a taste for Mal-less coke parties; which was almost tolerable until she came back pregnant from one. If not curtailed here this may get a bit tangential. It's just that Mal kept getting text messages from BB saying how good he was last night which Rikki would somehow access. It seemed to me that these things were nothing more than a short flare-up between the two; a five minute bitch.

Rikki did have some kind if issue with the LGB&T currently sacred cow. She really didn't give a shit what they did, but took it as a further sign of an imminent apocalypse, which she often welcomed. The end was indicated by her conspiracy research; the event originally destined to be a kindly one in her estimation; which had been "managed" into an illusion of hell or the hell of an illusion. I think now that Rikki wasn't sure at this point; and often don't.

She said that her friends were into "most everything." I can't be certain, but I think it very possible her feelings were affected by her personal experience. Her husband announced that he was exclusively gay after years of marriage. Goddammit, the queers have their deserved rights; but so do the heteros have a right to be treated fairly. ........... Hmmnnnn. This was not intended to be a philosophy book.

She said that she wished they would just shut the fuck up about the ancient diversion and just do it; but knew that was not possible; as the Millenials had evidenced some sort of need to perennially announce their meta "discovery." Maybe this was their payback to the world which encouraged and allowed their mommies and daddies to pay them inadequate attention. She took my long hair as an indication of a bad, blurring sign. She jokingly referred to it as a mullet; the first time I heard the word. She believed that when 1960's men started to sport long hair it was indicative of a destructive unisex wish. I didn't agree, though I never argued that one very strenuously, as for a short time back then there was a fashion trend named "unisex." On a personal level, when I was little my father made me get a Mal cut every summer; and like all the other kids so afflicted I hated it. I never told them for obvious reasons. Rikki and I didn't always agree on things. But we never got adamant about anything and always gave the other a good excuse for second follow up thoughts.

Rikki played a lot of Nine Inch Nails depression and Lana Del Rey implied suicides. Trent Reznor especially resonated with her, almost as much as her decade long infatuation with conspiracy theories. She liked to discuss each and didn't mind at all if I disagreed or questioned. She wasn't seeking agreement; just discourse. She just considered categorical dismissals to be stupid.

One of her favorite conspiracy guys was an elderly gentleman, whose information must have been deemed so detrimental to the powers that be that you can't find his name on Wikipedia. Wiki carries a statement which says that nothing is allowed to be posted; though once in a while, if you can read French, a paragraph appears. This is despite him having published more books and tapes than David Eicke. Rikki told me that he disappeared for a year sometime in the 2010's. She also said that he and his family were killed and that doubles now have replaced them. This does sound far-fetched, but I have to admit that the post-disappearance videos on Youtube do not match his prior appearance very well.

Though there were usually more fundamental considerations in the air, Rikki shared her basic belief that since creation, there has been what is essentially a race war going on between the thirteen tribes. Humanity is plagued by one belligerent, but not overly brainy group which has been able to attract the services of the "best and brightest" in an attempt to obtain control of more land at any cost. Rikki referred to today as "The Harvest," during which the tribe who seems to be on top of the food chain is in the process of wrapping things up while they still might be able to. You see, they know that there is a defector somewhere out there spreading information, and they are frantically and fruitlessly searching for him. That's what the increasing surveillance is really all about; the unnecessary blood testing, the e-mail and general cyber monitoring, the facial recognition software, et al.

Sounds like another website selling a book or two, doesn't it? Unfortunately yes. But, Rikki wasn't selling anything. In my case the possibility that there was some truth in it was more compelling as, by pure chance, I was very familiar with a number of the ways in which Thomas Beckett's life and death have been depicted by differing, and maybe conveniently unknown sources. In at least one he despondently advised the King; perhaps equating that with logic. Then something, maybe a religious experience, made him change his mind and he broke away from the king, eventually being martyred for it. There is much, much more to the story; a suitable subject for many books; but this modest one is just intended to be about Mal and Rikki.

I didn't fully believe her at first; and always retained some degree of disagreement in the detail. It was not through a distrust of any kind; but rather a consideration that even someone well intentioned can be misinformed and that ultimately such ideas can never be proven beyond a reasonable doubt. Names change and the protagonists inter-marry with the blameless. But through Rikki's soft sell I became .......... how you say in Amellica? More open? She could place everything in a consistently logical pattern and had an uncanny habit of being able to predict next week's news.

Leaving the Sabre toothed tigers and their winning, sympathy gathering imitation of the all too real, sacrificed tigers in abeyance, have I yet mentioned that since age five, Rikki had been trained to be expert at Muay Thai? Her father insisted. Muay Thai is sometimes called the "Art of Eight Limbs" and is known for its substantial use of elbows, knees, and objective of quick opponent death. As mentioned, at first it was the dictate of her father; but now it was just periodic fun for her to make a demonstration here and there.

You wouldn't think that to look at and talk to her. She had long black hair, which was the result of laborious daily straightening of the kinky version she was given at birth. Her face was what sculptors try to sculpt. I think I've already mentioned the curves on her five foot four, one hundred twenty pound frame. She spoke eloquently, except when she wanted to play get-down-ethnic, without any noticeable didacticism or overbearing insistences. She had a master's in biology and had the resultant crippling level of unpaid school loans, un-serviced through the lack of suitable employment. One possible chink in her armor was that it was very irrational for one who stated to be guided by logic to major in something other than business or computer "science." I suspect that there was a later change of heart somewhere in there. At the time of our acquaintance, she was still technically married to that unemployable gay guy she had met in biology class. To pay the rent, she had gotten a job as a waitress in a titty bar, where she paraded in her undies, and told the patrons to sit on their hands while she relayed their orders and dropped their food.

At the time, Mal was working for some car re-possessor; one of the technicians. His job was not directly for the repo company. So I guess that technically he was working for his friend, who in turn worked for the company. Because he had two felonies for stealing cars, he was not a suitable employee for a licensed legal car thief; except indirectly. Smirk, smirk, nudge, nudge. Who knew what when and various other excursions into the land of Yadda Yadda? Is that still a question? That's either US law or licensing procedure; and makes as much sense as a few other tenets existent in the Western World. Anyway, he assisted his friend who would give him a hundred bucks for getting the assigned cars lifted in about two minutes apiece; and after the short work day take him out for a few beers at the titty bar in town; or what passes for one in Albuquerque, New Mexico. He was immediately infatuated with Rikki. And, by his own precise admission, it wasn't just based on her good looks. It was that since she made him wait a few months, his infatuation increased.

It was a game, which reluctantly, each of them had come to know well; neither particularly seeking knowledge of the sort. Some things just have a way of imposing themselves. Perhaps the only curious thing was that he was thinking that this girl should be dancing on stage making more money; while she was thinking about why this good looking guy was still on the tab of some loud, low-life asshole.

Inevitably, the only thing worth doing was to try to find out.

So, in a few months Rikki quit smiling in her unmentionables and Mal quit jacking deadbeat's cars on his "friend's" list and they had a honeymoon together. Then they met me, and I don't know if I'd quit before them; suspecting the right answer to be a collage of contradictions. Then one day my perceptions changed. At Rikki's suggestion, we were all watching segments of Tim Burton's "Nightmare Before Christmas." It was clearly her choice, though Mal knew the words to every song by heart. She told me that Jack and all his cohorts in Christmas Town were all dead. At the time I intellectualized, thinking back to my Eastern dalliance with "The Egyptian Book of the Dead," "The I Ching," and Romero's "Day of the Dead," or whichever one of his was set in the mall. As the sad songs played, Rikki made me aware that Jack would like nothing more than to just bring presents to the smiling children; but because he is dead the children fear and are repulsed by him. Mal murmured the words of Jack's songs.

I anticipated the follow up; simultaneously hating myself for doing that. I quickly found 21.37% solace in the understanding that I had no control over where this mysterious organ went. That estimation came within a long context of imprecise algorithms in raised powers, and all-too-fleeting, colored thought forms; in the flash; like something amorphous opening a nothing which is also amorphous; both, seemingly without brown shades, colliding in my head, yet doing no damage to each other or me, to which I have lost the details; if I ever had them. Rikki said that I was dead. ....... I kind of knew that to be true in some senses of the word, but didn't like it to be discussed or public knowledge. ....... She made it comfortably softer when she added; "We all are."
Chapter 4

The nuances of Mal were harder to ascertain; as they were precisely that; privatized nuances. They often seemed to be more of a reaction to something prompted by Rikki, rather than something inherent in him. In what many would find perverse or some kind of role reversal, Rikki seemed much more overt in her own way. In time I would come to think that he made a conscious effort not to tell yet another sad ass story, in fear that it would prove just to be another one eliciting platitudes; which no one really gave a fuck about. But, little by little patterns seemed to emerge; perhaps from the trees that he said were watching us.

He was about six feet and 165 pounds. But despite being no gym fanatic, he was strong enough to pull himself up onto a one story roof without the aid of a ladder. His upper torso looked like the covers of the many male-male romance, indie novels; which all seemed to display the same headless guy with an unbuttoned shirt. Damn things are freely downloadable on Amazon, if you want your own copy. He also, drunk and almost staggering, was able to easily beat off three would-be-gangstas with a 3AM "Watchew got bro" approach. Whatever the threat, Mal didn't waste any more words than; "Bring it."

Both he and Rikki were well trained to fight. She had won a few Muay Thai competitions, and he had experience in some other kind of martial arts discipline he named a few times, but I can no longer remember. In regard to fighting, he also had the advantage of having been a been-there-seen-that-bullshit game approach to things.

Somewhere past my mid-point with them, Mal told me that he and Rikki had one of their increasingly common, non-physical, yelling fights, the yelling her domain. This time it was at her parent's house. He walked out rather than risk another "domestic abuse" bullshit charge initiated and called in by her father; the righteous fat man with a computer full of little boy porn.

So, picture this. He's kind of seriously fucked up after a full day of harsh clear liquid straight slugged, tempered by socially acceptable dips into the mild red stuff. That being the norm he can cover it everywhere but in his head. So, with Rikki on the bull horn and her big, pedophilic, at least in his dreams, daddy in the hall, for an escape, he was "Walking After Midnight" in this little shit "park" bordering Rikki's mom's and dad's development. Albuquerque builders customarily "build" these things at the edges in return for lucrative variances in the center. You know, the place with the broken swings, transitory straggles of un-mown grass, empty booze bottles, and loads of dog shit. He's tired, severely loaded, and his eyes are closing. He's sitting on the non-bench, often called the ground, and he hears noises. It's like 3AM or feels like it. Nobody else is there. They're all tucked away, thinking the blankets make them safe in the dark. It usually works well for relatively short durations.

Hey, danger lurks in "The Land of Entrapment." Sorry for the old joke, NM residents. On the prowl are three of Albuquerque's finest; in full uniform. They got the baggiest assed of pants that Walmart got on sale, took four sizes too big, ending below the sneaker; tee with an out-of-proportion knife and a curvaceous fantasy slut hidden in the bottom line places; and that short, short crew-cutted head you didn't want your cheap-ass father to inflict on you every summer. Styles sometimes change, I guess, if you stay in the shallows.

Mal is greeted by the one of the three who needs to show off how "bad" he is for his two companions doing their undergraduate form of bop. The "teacher" out front pumps some minimal iron and has a head which appears to be tended by the precision of a depilatory. Hence the "cool" grin accompanies the banality of the standard "Watchew got, bro" entrée. Mal is kind of pissed at the world in general for reasons previously or later discussed; particularly pissed at Rikki right now for whatever guys get pissed at girls for; and pissed that last time he was yelling at her in her father's house, da-da called 911, necessitating him talking some what-you-want-to-hear bullshit to some flunky ass government psychologist who had some, fifty-five year old pathetic thing about numbers, every Friday morning.

For those more experienced in feeling out the suitability of their target; in a nutshell, at the moment, if you had any sense, Mal was somebody you didn't want to fuck with unless the man was at the door.

But no, "badass" wannabee with entourage in tow must have thought he saw some less-than-average-sized honky on the skids. The boy brought some words; and then Mal said; "Bring IT, mutha fucka," cordially adding a few congenial words to his usual, anti-social repertoire just to be nice. In a few seconds the ring leader was on the ground, his legs kicked out and a steel-plated boot a dismaying uninvited guest to his head. Number two, did a half-ass, and made an effort to appear to be assisting his fallen buddy, but quickly joined him on the ground as a result of a whirling Mal chop to the throat. Number three was the most honest in the group of three, and was in the process of breaking Usain Bolt's sprint record.

For all intents and purposes that was the end of the "take off." In a few seconds, numbers one and two got up and followed number three, calling out; "Fuck you asshole," and other similarities they must have pretended to think that Mal found insulting or had not previously heard.

This seems over-weighted. It is a testimonial fact which has reason for credence, yet it is only one of Picasso's many sides. Mal would much have preferred to be listening to or making sweet music; but the way things worked out; he had spent the majority of his life trying to deal with overly aggressive and imposing assholes. Half of them wanted to do him bodily harm; and most of the other half wanted no part of him whatsoever. The latter group benignly required less physical exertion and just here and there required a wave, which often was actually efficiently accomplished with one-fifth of one hand. Then there was logical Rikki looking for a guard dog; and before that the humongous tit, Latino chick Lydia, who wasn't the least bit discriminating; and before that spacey-rational Hypatia, if-you-could-just-get-her-to-shut-up; and before that; ...........

Mal was the oldest child of Jenny. His brother, Matthew, to be born a year or two later, was Jenny's favorite, likely because he looked like elusive Dad. Jenny still feels horribly guilty over this; and so does Mal, though his guilt comes from a different direction. The short version of the story is that Mal made the mistake of looking more like her.

I may be getting ahead of Mal here, as prior to knowing Matthew and he, I knew Jenny and her later life partner, Lonny. More than a decade prior to meeting Mal I knew them, having employed them as handymen-gardeners. As a team, they were great for me, as Jenny liked to work, and Lonny spent most of his time thinking that he was supervising her, and telling everyone within earshot how he was the brains of the operation. Jenny seemed quietly a bit ahead of him on that one, though it would take some deciphering to see who came out ahead on his slow, slow truck rides to the supply store.

Over a couple of years, Lonny's well documented back problems exacerbated, which enabled governmental disability payments. This, in conjunction with his indoor legal herb growing and its attendant clipped cash wad and led to the resultant consequence of his now essential sitting-at-home protection of the family jewels and homestead. With no criminal record on the web, Jenny got a plastic card which legalized steady employment working for Big Tom; a retired Army colonel in possession of what seems to be a personally un-recognized recognition of having an extremely dull pencil. It is almost safe to say that this now major legal grower lost money on every transaction he became party to. His endeavors were kept afloat by the nursing activities of his long suffering wife. I confess to having had unfortunate prior knowledge of this as a result of having ignorantly employed him during his disastrous first post-military try at a civilian career; plumbing. Most of the time he lucked out; through the pre-noticeable severe fuck up employment-bail out of Johnny on the low bid, losing commercial contracts. See, Johnny was an okay plumber; gyp-the-shit-out-of-ya, semi-crook-competent, which is actually a rare find in don't-know-your-ass-from-your-elbow-and-proud-of-it New Mexico. Problem was that Johnny was hampered by not being allowed to drive a car because of his ex-wife's legal bitch about him allegedly not making the alimony and child support payments he had agreed to at the dissolution of the farce. So, the dull pencil was licensed to drive, and he'd give Johnny a ride to the job site. Tom would leave him there and Johnny would make the three eighths adapt to the five eighths and stuff like that. Things have a way of working out sometimes.

Shit's as logical as the 2016 US presidential race to a Western European libby. Man says he can't pay, so the situation is legally rectified by an obstacle which makes him more unable to pay. Whatever. This book ain't about the dull pencil or his effect on Johnny's problems. Frankly, Johnny's kind of useless and old now, and last I heard was angling for a SSI disability back thing, like Lonny.

It's just that these were examples of the types of people who were a big part of Mal's past and some were still part of his present. Lonny and Jenny were vocal in telling him that Rikki was no good for him. His drinking did rigorously increase after getting with her; but damn; Mal said that Lonny was the guy who pestered the shit out of him as a kid; prompting him to move in with the uncle-in-law-perv. I don't know. Stories conflict and Lonny was always aces with me; but generally so was Mal while doing a longer gig. Perceptions? Phraseology? False memory? Dadaism? I just don't know.

Point, if any, right here is that retired military, Major Tommy got out of losing-money-plumbing atrocities, and through ignoring some of Jenny and Lonny's guidance, settled into losing-money-growing-medical marijuana atrocities. He had the land, the enclosures, all the yadda-yaddas required for weight carrying, government approval of what would have given you twenty years up until 2000, and of huge significance the militarily instilled government worship which pre-disposed him to complying with all the inspectors and employing their recommendations of contractors who would supposedly bring him up to code. .................. In perpetuity.

Well, forget Tommy. He's mostly here as an example of the most "normal" adult Mal ever knew as a kid, and just was blessed with the usual degree of military intelligence. This book ain't about him either. He's just a "charm" on the charm bracelet of the Rikki-Mal-Jenny-Lonny-uncle chain. For what it's worth, the other short-term adult in Mal's current life is or was me. Some people are just cursed; as now I'm the guy trying to chronicle all this irrelevance and make a buck for it. Okay. If you want to go deeper, I'm currently a fiction writer with sales closer to zero than most are comfortable with, and don't care about that except when having on-line "conversations" with other writers. I keep saying that I'm going to stop doing this useless, annoying stuff, but .......... If you want to go deeper than that your guess is as bad as mine.

Most important of all, Jenny knew how to make Slow Tommy's thing almost work, as she had hooked up with Lonny at the tail end of his "growing" career-experience in the hills of Mendocino County; but that's another story. Suffice it to say that Jenny told me that if Lonny had a college degree he would be in charge of the world. Dismissed at first, I became a convert. His brother was in it too; the business, the hills, and the schwartze jail in Oakland; that is; where they induced a riot.

By default, point now is, Jenny could make a weed stand tall, a tall stand weed. I mean this girl knew the answer to the universe; 42. When she asked me one time I said the question was; "What was Jackie Robinson's number?" and she was blown away or entirely disinterested. How the fuck can I know? She was too polite to risk offense; no matter how inconsequential. Did I tell you that she got kicks riding a two-wheeler through restricted areas?

To hopefully at last depart from him; the thing was that Tommy the Major, Tommy the Plumber, and Tommy the medical man finally got his wife off his ass when he paid Jenny to take over. So, with easy, lucrative, legal work at her disposal, she and back hobbled Lonny referred me to Matthew and then Mal, for my inherited, suburban, bourgeois considerations. Initially it was a matter of the bushes and trees perverse penchant for un-controlled growth; and then it grew even more.

While I knew him, Mal sported a self or Rikki induced cut, dark military head, where any hair was evident. Sometimes centered on the top, it was sort of a reverse Friar Tuck. I once goofed on him about it and he said; "You know the difference between a good haircut and a bad haircut? Three weeks." The observation was indicative of the patience a volcano exhibits before it explodes. It was also 180 degrees away from the blond, in his case bleached, flowing locks he had worn just a bit earlier when with Lydia. Somewhere way back he had given up the Goth thing and the attendant long, long coats, like Clint Eastwood in a spaghetti western. At the same time he couldn't tolerate what he characterized as "the abuse experienced from his step-father-Lonny's need to control and his Mom's acquiescence to that." So, he split home while still in high school, finding the accommodations provided by a pervert uncle preferable. Read what you will into that. I don't and didn't want to know the details. He would never supply any, and I must have seemed quite uncomfortable when he brought it up; though he did so rather frequently; or at least it seemed frequent to me. It's conceivable that he might have wanted to have been prodded a bit; but that's not my thing with guys. So, I guess you've previously heard it; but here it was again; possibly the kernel of the fractalized representation of Mal.

Will the real Mal please stand up? He really got into "Slim Shady," though it was always me who put on Eminem to begin with. ............ Could be wrong.

Guess not. No sweat. More important than my meta considerations, Rikki says he's standing up all the time. In fact she measured how much and told me with him present in the good old days.

Mal never thought that I was paying enough attention to him. And I wasn't. Not in the much more interesting face and body of Rikki. I mean like "Come on." What the hell could he expect? I mean, we're like almost the same on everything; so give me a surprise ending. But, on the other hand, through the mirror, and out the window; Rikki surprised and intrigued without any particular effort. Sorry, dude; if you ain't figured out that one yet, I can't tell ya. Besides, Mal was so close-to-the-chest when he spoke of himself; he rivalled me in the reticence to tell the long version of the story.

Mal and Matthew were born in Arkansas. They stayed there sufficient time for Mal to have vivid memories of it. At that point it was for him basically life in the trailer that everyone lived in; a reasonable assumption for a non-jet set kid; and one worthy of debate for those on the A list in possession of a three digit IQ. Mal's most lucent memory of the time was when he was swinging, and a black girl walked over and said; "Get off my Jungle Jim, cracker;" to which he responded; "It's not your Jungle Jim, nigga." Whatever, but the white teacher was within earshot and Mal got suspended for a week. Luckily, Jenny didn't think that was much of a loss. I'm not sure, but this may have been the first time he heard Jenny say; "Boy, if you got a problem, you take care of it yourself. Ain't no cops gonna help ya."

Rikki and Mal continued to visit 2-3 days per week for a year or so; not sure and it might have been as much as two. I don't remember many particular days that stood out from the others. They all sort of merged into pleasant afternoons of my continued education in conspiracy theories, contemporary music supplemented by my old follow ups which I thought had similarities, good food, and alcohol.

Rikki brought over a few of her surrealistic paintings and I genuinely liked them. That was truly unusual for me; as customarily I had liked the theory but almost none of its manifestations. She told me she had been painting since being recognized as a child prodigy. She said she had won two local Albuquerque contests, and both times her prize was not getting the painting back. Things which pass through five hands in the Duke City have a way of disappearing, leaving only fingers pointed in other directions.

She also did a few Muay Thai demonstrations in the kitchen, saying; "It's really pretty easy. Just use elbows and knees. They can break bones better than any other part of the body." I suspect that these occasions coincided with times she and Mal were at odds. That probably sounds worse than it actually was, as both of them could almost puke at the sweet stuff. They believed that human nature consisted of conflict and fighting; even on an intimate level. The harshness of that was initially hideous, but all one has to do is take off the blinders and see what consistently goes on in the world to confirm its accuracy.

Rikki couldn't stand any of the sweet stuff. I don't remember exactly what it was, as it was minor. But, she had done or said something she wasn't supposed to. I jokingly said something like; "You've been bad. And for your penance you will have to listen to Scott McKenzie sing "San Francisco" ten straight times. Feigning fear, she said; "No. ..... No. ..... Nooo!"

On another day they had a serious physical fight right on my brick portal. It appeared as if she started it, but I couldn't be sure as I didn't know the antecedents. The three of us were sitting outside well protected from intrusions, smoking some reefer to add to the alcohol induced high. The day's summer sun had just about gotten ready to retire below the horizon, and the cooler night air was first making its presence felt. Felt nice. 100 degree summer days can be wearing, even without humidity. Mal took off his boots and walked twenty feet away to look at something in the grass. Rikki and I sat near each other on the brick not speaking. Mal returned and sat with us. In about five seconds Rikki picked one of his steel-tipped boots, and without holding back, smashed it in his face.

Perhaps needless to say; it surprised the shit out of him; and me too. Apparently it also exacerbated the pain he had in a bad molar. At first he was just complaining about that, saying how the pain he was suffering was unbearable and all of that. I think that Rikki was silently smiling, but I'm not sure. Eventually he sat back down, and appeared no worse for the boot in the face. When all seemed calm, he returned the surprise favor by grabbing her by the hair and pulling. She didn't react to what must have been painful; and he punched her square in the face. She cupped her hands over her nose and sat there, head down.

After a few seconds she said; "I think it's broken." I knew something about broken noses from my sports days. I was hoping it wasn't of course; and I was somewhat encouraged by the fact that blood wasn't gushing all over the place. I said; "Let me see," and she shook her head "No." I really wanted to see, hoping it all right, picturing this female model very concerned with appearance, and feeling worried about her. This would later prove to be a slight bone of contention between me and Mal. He subsequently said that I was more concerned about her than him. I didn't say it, but I was. You know, guys get a whole bunch of stuff and if they got any balls, they handle it without turning on the waterfall. Women get other kinds of stuff we guys can't fully understand, but back in my antiquity they usually didn't get treated like a sparring partner. But some of these goddam millennial guys can't deal with the corporeal aspects of feminism and equality. So they whack her and suck each other's dicks. How exciting! Anyway, I'm getting off point as Mal wasn't like that; though he had absorbed some of the attributes of twenty-first century fashion.

When I was able to pry her fingers away, I was glad to see that her nose appeared straight and that there was no blood.

Within a half hour they drove off. The whole thing was so weird to me. I smoked a cigarette in the garage; went in and either passed out or went to sleep; thinking about and making no sense of these crazy youngsters; also realizing that they were already sufficiently aged for my teenage self to have considered them old and untrustworthy.

I woke when Diane slammed the front door. I was interested when she spoke of a particularly bad day with foster children running away. It's her job to chase them down. She's been a social worker for a few decades, but never previously had to deal with the stuff she does now.
Chapter 5

One time I found particularly amusing was with the three of us sitting by the kitchen counter overhang viewing the laptop, which as usual, was on YouTube. And as also usual we were all excitedly trying to put on something which the others would like or at least make a reaction to. Eventually we adopted a rule; with each taking turns. But at that time the one who was quickest to the keyboard ruled. Rikki got there first and started typing, but I was really, really eager to show them something. It was so important, that I can't remember what it was. I removed her from the keyboard finger by finger. She didn't resist, but said; "If you ever do that again I'll break your arm." I found that funny coming from a female; and double funny because she could.

Because of that I realized that when I was worried about her nose I risked a broken arm. I pried her cupped fingers away from her nose. I was happy to see no blood whatsoever and a straight beak. I told her that, adding that it's okay. Hint of tears, she insisted that there could be a hairline fracture. I didn't know anything about that, but said something like; "Even if, it's all right. Hairlines reset themselves. And you'll look just as pretty as ever."

It wasn't immediate, but she took her hands away from her nose and started fiddling with her embroidered, woven purse. Mal was circling around the back yard and garage. Things seemed calm. He came back and said to me; "Gotcha, sucker. You fell for it." At that moment, I thought he was the most evil man in the world. At his craziest did even Mike Tyson punch Robin Givens square in the face? I think not.

We stopped back inside for another quick drink. Rather than sitting in their chairs, they seemed antsy, and were uneasily milling about. It was dusk by then and time to go. As always I walked to the garage with them and lit a cigarette. Instead of getting into her car which he drove for a few reasons, they started to do something which I can only liken to an insect mating ritual. They circled each other, peering out of the corners of their eyes. Then they started to kick at the other's legs.

I was disturbed and tried to break it up to no avail. I don't like to see couples fighting. I also did not want to give any of my nosy neighbors an excuse to call the police. The local cops are not all that thrilled with me; most recently as the result of an unfortunate incident not the primary subject of this book. Suffice to say that just because two months prior I called a pushy, stupid cop a cocksucker among other things, I wound up spending twenty four hours in County. Since the stupid cop couldn't even get the date right, never mind the charge, I paid an attorney $1,000 who not only got the case dropped, but filed charges for police misconduct, false arrest, yadda, yadda. She told me to stay out of trouble in the interim, and there was potential trouble right there now in my goddam driveway.

I gave up and sat on a cinder block in the garage and lit another cigarette. I mean what else could I do? Either of them could easily kick my ass. Sometimes, it seems that the concept of pre-destination is a valid one. I intermittently stared at the floor and at them kicking at each other's lower extremities. I perked up as I knew that if we all got arrested, his mother would come bail us all out, and that they weren't putting on their lethal moves. They were playing, like two practicing scorpions.

The whole thing ended when he grabbed her, turned her upside down, and was threatening to bounce her head off the gravel. She gave in before anyone could dial nine one one, and they were again on their merry way.

I never said so, but I think she let him win.

The next day they impressed me with their proud displays of blacks and blues.

Back to Mal, I guess. After he kept directly and indirectly pestering me about what he saw as my preference for Rikki, I found a way of avoiding the general issue by confronting the specific event. I truthfully told him that I had a wealth of experience with broken noses; though my dental skills were virtually zero. He either half bought it or didn't yet have a suitable comeback. I was certain that he was not convinced.

That's one of the funny things about guy-guy relationships that I'll never figure out. You know, like they bring around their current love. They're happy, indirectly braggy, and all in all they're still kind of seeking other male approval through compliments about their chick. Yes, I know that word is objectionable in certain quarters; but as long as one literary genre is called ChickLit I'm not the biggest offender. In fact, I'm not even significant. Jeez. Where was I? Where were you? ..... Big issues aside, let me try to return to this guy thing.

Okay, he wants other guys to compliment this chick he's parading around, not quite indirectly complimenting him. Hmmmnnnnnnn. What to say? "Pretty girl, glad to meet you. Mal's been my pal a long time ................?" Too perfunctory for my pal Mal. Okay, try this. "Hey, wow. Where did you find this gem?" Getting there, but I'm talking to Mal, where at least ostensibly, I should be talking to the chick; liberated feminism and all that. Hmmnnnn again. So try; "I'm pleased to meet one so attractive. I know you have enhanced my friend's life. I am envious." Sounds like a limp college professor going through the routine. In exasperation; "Omigod. Hooters, in their limited focus, is not adequate to touch the lick-demanding curve below. Hey, girl, if Mal don't treat you right; let me be the next in line." When I ran off this nonsense, Mal frankly seemed a bit confused at this point. It's really what he wanted to hear in his imagination, but not necessarily what he wanted to hear in this dimension. Worse, the longer Mal thinks about it, the more irate he will become.

So at this point, all hypothetical mind you, I'm thinkin' this Rikki chick sure looks like somebody I'd like to spend some time talkin' to, getting to know. Mal picks up the vibe, and re-thinks his need for approval. Yeah, yeah, I think I understand, but don't really care where his little brain is at.

The chick restores whatever random "normality" there ever was, by saying to me; "He's got a nine incher."

I'm unimpressed, saying; "While flaccid?" but get the gist and don't want to get into the numbers game anyway. I'm tempted to add; "Measured from where; his wide asshole?" but don't as we're at a convenient ending for me, her, and maybe him. Besides, I'm married and love my wife. Besides, I have learned that one can get hurt from many directions if one steps into a love affair. Besides, I don't want to pull it out for no reason when she's interested in him and I don't know where the tape measure is. That would do everyone present no good whatsoever.

Any possible further replies are a long, old, irrelevant story. If Mal needs approval, it's not my job to provide it. If it was 1972 people would immediately understand. If 2016 dummies require explanations they can go google Wikipedia. If I was a paid history professor I might have adequate time to chronicle the boring parts. ...................
Chapter 6

At some forgotten point in here, I mentioned that I started to refer to us as "The Unholy Trio." And it caught on. Being about twice their age, my frame of reference was to a silent Lon Chaney movie I had never seen. The words just sounded appropriate as we could get into things some people might call quite blasphemous. It was kind of a joke understood in the pack, as the three of us probably had already spent ten times the time spent by the average holy roller in a lifetime, trying to pursue the elusive religious understandings which make it all make tranquil and simultaneously exciting sense.

At the beginning of one visit, Rikki did not as usual, immediately start cooking, as she had found a website which she had found hilarious in the context and she without further ado wanted me to read the whole thing as she and Mal hovered over my shoulders.

It didn't take long for it to strike my mind that the stuff displayed on this site was consistent with that of one of those Bible thumping organizations, which claimed to have all the answers, then asked for a few bucks, monthly automatic charge to a credit card preferable. The territory was one I'd previously avoided, both out of a lack of interest and a desire not to comment about anyone's beliefs. However, my new partners had no sense of decency and were proud of it. Like most impressionable kids I went along for the ride, feigning moral objection. I also considered it possible that they were testing me; their interest possibly in seeing if I'd openly disagree with both of them. I really hate tests, but I liked each of them, and so ........ so, here goes. I'd just tell the truth of my perception; only wondering why they might have thought that I wouldn't.

As I saw it, here was another standard, institutionalized religion, version of the "real deal," which provided temporary distraction, bitten tongue differentiations, and a load of smiles to the non-parishioners through its ostensible "enlightenment" provided for tithing parishioners which is socially considered as rude to ridicule as much as it is the "possessed" Baptist holding the venomous snakes in supposed rapture or numbness from the bites; testimony from the snakes' perspective yet to be sought.

No, the three of us were neither struck by lightning nor turned into salt. This is the gist. Some parts have been modified to protect the innocent; namely the possible copyright issues of the website which had copied it from another website, which had copied it from ....... Rikki asked me to read.

"A tactic of Satan is to ape the things of God, thereby making himself appear to be God."

I interjected that this was flawed at the outset as statement B does not flow from statement A as overtly said. One can easily discern the difference between an ape and a god; unless they are saying that god is an ape; which seems totally illogical for a myriad of reasons.

"The 'unholy trinity' is no exception. The Holy Trinity consists of God the Father, the Son Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit. The unholy trinity consists of Satan, the Antichrist, and the False Prophet. As opposed to infinite truth, love, and goodness, the unholy trinity portrays deception, hatred, and evil. In Revelation, Satan is described as a great red dragon, having seven heads and ten horns, and seven crowns upon his heads. The color red indicates his vicious and homicidal personality."

That passage found to be particularly funny by 'The Unholy Trio,' likely both in terms of its regurgitation of the well-known as well as its silly interpretation of the color red.

"The seven heads symbolize seven evil kingdoms that Satan has empowered and used throughout history to attempt to prevent God's ultimate plan from coming to fruition. Five of the kingdoms had already come and gone; Egypt, Assyria, Babylon, Persia, and Greece. All these kingdoms severely oppressed and persecuted the Hebrews, killing many of them. Satan's intent was to prevent the birth of Christ as said in Revelation 12:4. The sixth kingdom, Rome, was still in existence during the writing of this prophecy. Under Roman rule, King Herod murdered Hebrew babies around the time of Christ's birth and Pontius Pilate ultimately authorized the crucifixion of Jesus. The seventh kingdom, which is more fierce and cruel than the others, will be the final world kingdom that the Antichrist forms during the end times. These kingdoms were also prophesied in Daniel, chapters 2 and 7. The seven crowns represent universal rule, and ten horns represent complete world power or authority. Revelation 12 indicates many important facts about Satan. Satan and one-third of the angels were cast out of heaven during a rebellion before the world began as disclosed in Revelation 12:4. The Archangel Michael and the other angels will make war with Satan and his demons, and Satan will be excluded from heaven forever as in Revelation 12:7-9."

I indicated that I could nitpick the angel-demon flip-flop and the confusion caused through the use of the incorrect tense, but it wasn't worth the effort. I looked to my 'Unholy Trio' partners and we all nodded.

"In his attempt to prevent God's fulfillment of His earthly kingdom, Satan will attempt to annihilate the Jews, but God will supernaturally protect a remnant of the Jews in a location outside of Israel for the last 42 months of the Tribulation, stated thrice in Revelation12:6, 13–17 and Matthew 24:15–21. The second member of the unholy trinity is the Beast or Antichrist described in Revelation 13 and Daniel 7. The beast comes out of the sea, which typically in the Bible refers to the Gentile nations. He also has seven heads and ten horns, indicating his connection to and indwelling by Satan."

Rikki said; "Mirror image," and I nodded.

"The ten horns indicate ten seats of world government that will provide power to the Antichrist, three of which will be totally yielded to or taken over by the Antichrist. The number ten also indicates completion or totality, in other words, a one-world government."

I said; "Duh? Can't count past ten?"

"The one-world government will be blasphemous, denying the true God. The final kingdom will possess traits in common with the former 'beast kingdoms' of Babylon, Persia, Greece, and particularly Rome. Revelation 13:3 seems to indicate that the Antichrist will be mortally wounded about halfway through the Tribulation, but Satan will miraculously heal his wound. After this wondrous event, the world will be totally enthralled by the Antichrist. They will worship Satan and the Antichrist himself. The Antichrist becomes emboldened, and, dispensing with all pretenses of being a peaceful ruler, he openly blasphemes God, breaks his peace treaty with the Jews, attacks believers and the Jews, and desecrates the rebuilt Jewish temple, setting himself up as the one to be worshipped. This particular event has been called the Abomination of Desolation."

I jubilantly said; "Blasphemy! Blasphemy! I love blasphemy. Informative here. I never previously knew that Satan was an MD. Perhaps it would be preferable to refer to him with the credential insisted upon by the quacks."

Mal said; "Wasn't that one of the Dylan songs you played? and I said; "Dylan worded it better, but yeah."

"The final personage of the unholy trinity is the False Prophet, described in Revelation 13:11–18. This second beast comes out of the earth, not the sea, possibly indicating that he will be an apostate Jew coming from Israel. Although he presents himself as a meek, mild, and benevolent person, the horns indicate that he will have power. Jesus expressly warned believers to watch out for false prophets that may look innocent but actually can be very destructive. The False Prophet speaks like a dragon, meaning that he will speak persuasively and deceptively to turn humans away from God and promote the worship of the Antichrist and Satan. The False Prophet is capable of producing great signs and wonders, including bringing down fire from heaven."

I said; "Gotta make note of those horns. A special effects man can handle all of this."

"He sets up an image of the Antichrist for worship, gives life to the image."

I said "Pretty fucking good. Always liked 'Frankenstein' myself."

"Demands the worship of the image from all people, and executes those who refuse to worship the image. Revelation 20:4 indicates that the method of execution will be beheading. The False Prophet will also compel each person to receive a permanent mark of some kind, just as slaves did in John's day, to show total devotion to the Antichrist and renunciation of God. Only those who receive the mark will be permitted to engage in commerce."

Mal pulled up his shirt sleeve to show his boneyard tattoo, saying; "And I still can't get a fucking job."

"Acceptance of the mark means eternal death. The Bible makes clear that humans will fully understand that, by accepting the mark, they are not only accepting an economic system but also a worship system that rejects Jesus Christ."

Mal said; "And here I just thought it a drunken fashion statement."

"Revelation 13:18 reveals the number of the Beast as 666. No one knows precisely what this means. Some believe that the Antichrist's first, middle, and last names will have six letters each. Some believe that the designation refers to a computer chip, since some computer programs start with 666. Satan is the anti-God, the Beast is the anti-Christ, and the False Prophet is the anti-Spirit. This unholy trinity will persecute believers and deceive many others, resulting in their eternal death. But God's kingdom will prevail. Daniel 7:21–22 states, 'I was watching; and the same horn was making war against the saints, and prevailing against them, until the Ancient of Days came, and a judgment was made in favor of the saints of the Most High, and the time came for the saints to possess the kingdom.'"

Rikki said; "God's a codger who uses different names for the sake of clarity."

The "treatise" was rather lengthy, much more so than Rikki's conspiracy theories. Had I been taking notes with pencil and paper, my pencil would surely have required a knife or sharpener, to make complete note of the vague and highly interpretable words written; including my attendant questions. Even on the site's own terms, there were numerous deviations from their own purported adherence to a claimed "divine word" Bible. At the document's outset its "books" were selected by Constantine's political appointees to the exclusion of the majority more than three centuries after the fact. The deciding panel were apparently totally ignorant of the writings of the Essenes or chose to appear as such, and completely ignored the many treatises written of Lilith. In addition, the documents under "consideration" had been mistranslated and subjected to centuries of the further, increasingly un-detectable dictates of the money-war machine. The seeming contradictions and questions I temporarily and mistakenly considered worthy of jotting were conceptually no long term loss for we three in their easily erasable pencil absence. While the presentation was as "professional" as most, the bottom line abandonment of the wicker basket on a long handle requesting the weekly or monthly charge was humorously indicative of the "advances" made by organized religion; credit card information and the sale of franchises a topic of inquiry and discussion only one left click away.

In sync, grinning faces were only surprised that my evangelical reading of this passage resulted in what is really just a situation in which an outsider might construe as a technical inharmoniousness among "The Unholy Trinity." It seemed as if all three of us preferred to be the "Beast." Eventually we agreed to take turns. When one got their dreams, the others were relegated to the "anti-god" or "false prophet" statuses played with relatively little lustre. The arrangement seemed fair, and capable of satisfying US congressionally legislated, EEOC considerations on a number of levels; last ditch the Supreme Court, constitutionally guided loosely or strictly, in their "state's rights" and "separation of church and state" considerations, as determined by the most proper recent, tax deductible contributions landing on either side of the aisle.

In simplicity, none of us had a problem with God as he-she is understood outside of the systematized money sucking business of organized religion, nor did we have any problem with the recognition of a soul-spirit. The latter seemed obvious through our personal experiences. On another level, our "delinquency" emanated from this turn-the-other cheek thing in the New Testament, which we didn't make much sense of. Our experiences had been such that when we had turned the other cheek, it had gotten whacked too. And if we still persisted there were at least two more cheeks which would get whacked; the infinity only subject to the possible limitations in the number of possible cheeks. If this was infinity, we were certain we didn't want it.

On a less serious level we found it amusing that anyone would put any credence in the eight billionth interpretation of Revelation after all of its past interpretations had proven to be wrong; often in best-selling format.

That morning, we soon resorted to our old form. Rikki started playing in the kitchen, asking Mal and me how we liked our chicken. Mal and I did our best to appear excited about that which Rikki's brilliance had made into what had come to be routinely expected. She seemed so sincere in wanting to be attractive and pleasing; only an exclusive LGB&T devotee might have had a chance at being rude through an old Quentin Crisp regurgitation.

No. While Rikki cooked, Mal and I went back to the standards. He played Lynnrd Skynnrd and Cobain; and I answered with Hendrix and Dylan.

I had given Mal some compelling yard work to do outside. A bit later that early afternoon he went out to do it, leaving Rikki and me by the computer. We were probably looking at the Youtube tape of David Chapelle on Oprah after his "disappearance" to Africa. Something had compelled him to flee from a multi-million dollar contract, and Rikki suspected that she knew why. She said that it happened to many stars when they got big enough to be heard by a large audience while saying things inconvenient to the powers that be. She pointed out that Oprah's hands were continually held in a strange position when she gestured toward Chapelle. She said that Oprah was making a devil sign. I don't know, but it seemed to me that it was unusual to be gesturing with certain fingers tucked under her thumb. The only thing I had ever seen like it was when gangstas showed their signs. As I mentioned, at the time it did seem unusual, but I didn't put much credence in it.

Later I found it to be very common for stars to change their subversive tone after becoming big; sometimes after a disappearance; including Bob Dylan and the Eagles. I considered it very possible that now that I was aware of the dynamic, that I might be recognizing things which I had previously overlooked. But, just consider one; Dylan.

It was said that in 1966 that Bob crashed his motorcycle and was in bad shape. But there's no official record of the incident. No ambulance was called, and Dylan never checked into a hospital for his injuries. At the time, before the heydays of conspiracy theories, rumors arose. Some claimed that Dylan had died, was killed, or had suffered serious brain damage. Others guessed it was just a huge hoax to give him some time away from public scrutiny, or maybe even to kick a drug habit.

By the time of Dylan's "return" with "Nashville Skyline" three years later in 1969, the political climate in the United States had grown more polarized. In 1968, civil rights leader Martin Luther King, Jr. and Senator Robert Kennedy, a leading liberal candidate for the presidency, were both assassinated. Riots had broken out in several major cities, including a major one surrounding the Democratic National Convention in Chicago and a number of racially motivated riots were spurred by King's assassination. The U.S. war in Vietnam was being protested all over the country. Dylan had become a leading cultural figure, noted for his political and social protest in the earlier 1960's. Yet, with all this going on, he came back with what is essentially a country album. While many like it, at the time just as many were disappointed and considered it a resignation. Each succeeding album was eagerly anticipated, hoping for a return to the "Old Protesting Bob," but that album never came.

For years no longer a cutting edge star he released an album of Frank Sinatra songs in 2015; and was interviewed by AARP. The interviewer asked about the motorcycle accident and Bob said that there wasn't any. When asked "Why the subterfuge?" Bob said; "I was afraid for my family," and the stupid interviewer didn't follow up and just went to the next topic on his list. For me, a very strong suggestion was there, and the time is now gone.

While there was a true minimum there previously, I'll always thank Rikki for honing and expanding my paranoia skills. In a short time I'd be able to freak when the Comcast van parked in front of my house two days running; saying that something was wrong with the box at the left front corner of my property. I know those guys are agents of Homeland Security. I just know it.

However, that day, before I could get too much into the nefarious possibilities, Mal came back in, needing some clarification and/or assistance with whatever he was doing out back. Whatever it was it must have been complicated or strenuous, as I stayed out there with him for an hour or so. As a consequence, Rikki was left unsupervised on my computer. I later used that word, "unsupervised," to her and it made her laugh.

She had previously told me that some of her conspiracy information came from her ability to hack into secret government files. She eventually even gave me her codes; which basically involve symbol substitution which goes on for three pages and the ignoring of the letters "a" and "z."

I never tried to use it for a number of reasons; one being that it is a time consuming process even if the codes are right. More important to me, the following week I got two messages, purported to be from Interpol saying that I'd be in serious trouble if I do that again. I made the likely connection, called Rikki, and told her to bring her own computer next visit.

Now, this may not sound like any big thing to most people; but if you haven't made the conclusion yet, Rikki was not most people. In this case, with a small displayed annoyance she agreed to bring her own laptop, which I think was greatly helped by her amusement at the "unsupervised" commentary. However, this girl had a serious, potentially violent predilection for not being told what to do.

I discovered that late one day when Mal and I were discussing some inside painting which had to be done. He was saying that to do it right some rather extensive preparatory work was necessary and I was basically saying; "Just do the minimal easy job. If it peels we'll get more extensive at that point." This conversation was going on beyond my tolerance level; and to make matters worse Rikki came over and took Mal's side. I put up with the "logical" arguments until I couldn't imagine anything else to say, barring easily detectible repetition. I said; "Okay, this is my house. I'm the boss. And I want it done as I say." This was actually half a joke, which I guess they couldn't have understood, as it was something I had previously only said to Diane; who would then either proceed to do it her way or attempt to punch my head.

Rikki walked out the back door. I apologized to Mal, but he really paid no attention to that. He said that he'd paint the damn thing any way I wanted; but that he had to go check on Rikki, who wanted to leave. After a few cursory exchanges, I followed him out to their car. Rikki was standing near it and her face was red; absolutely red; red like white skin which has been repeatedly slapped. She walked a few feet toward the end of the garage saying nothing. I tried to approach her; but Mal got between us and said; "Don't."

I guess I couldn't believe what was happening. We had known each other for months with no meaningful disagreements or bad feelings. I again tried to approach her, saying something intended to be conciliatory. Mal again got between us again saying; "Don't." I looked at her. She was red-faced staring at me with hate written all over, saying nothing. It was scary. Mal ushered her into their car and they drove away.
Chapter 7

I was nervous at the outset of their next visit. I had called their home to apologize a few times since the "This is my house" incident, and was assured that everything was okay. But, I knew that actions in the flesh can be very different than words transmitted, even wirelessly. So, in person, I apologized and apologized, but it was truly okay, as Rikki told me to shut up. At first she did seem a bit cautious, but after a few drinks and a ridiculous number of apologies things seemed back to normal.

Had I not liked them so much, I'd not have apologized at all. What they were originally suggesting entailed making a 20 minute job into one of 3-5 hours. Having reached an advanced age, I had learned a few of the contractor's games and with them act accordingly. But, it's different with friends. Rikki and Mal refused to hear anything else, did it how I originally asked, and that was the end of it. In fact, after that she seemed more tranquil than ever; often wearing her hair in a ponytail. Frequently when we were sitting outside, she'd say how relaxed she felt here and how she'd like to have something like this. That would actually sadden me as my house is nothing special. It's a six room adobe; a good size for Diane, me, and an occasional not-fully-compliant dog. I guess the treed and bushed acre afforded some degree of privacy; at least more than she was experiencing at her parent's house. For Diane and me, this place was an after-the-problems relocation and adjustment to simultaneous health and financial setbacks. For Rikki and Mal it was an unachievable goal at age thirty. There is something in that which is an inherent indictment of a system which has shown its potential by making things so easy for baby boomers and so difficult for Millennials. The level of theft going on at the highest levels has to have reached the closest thing to infinity that mankind will ever know. One time Rikki brought over a brochure of what might have been a trailer with some interesting decorating ideas. This affordable house was now her dream. I think I succeeded at appearing enthusiastic.

As far as my house was concerned; its damaged wall got the simple job and it's still fine two years later.

Mal got a manager job at the small hamburger franchise named "Bob's Whoppaburger." Basically, it meant that he did the job of whatever high school kid didn't show up that day. He was a natural at fries and onion rings, and adequately bluffed his way through flipping and bagging. It wasn't that he really wanted the job despite its attendant "free" uniform which only required a $100 deposit. It was that he needed to have a steady source of income, as Rikki's parents were again threatening to throw them out. The car repo thing was still available, but Rikki threatened suicide if he was out at night; probably fearing that he'd use the time to re-unite with Lydia. For another reason he tested her once and came back to find her talking to me on the phone while she swallowed the remainder of the anti-freeze container. She luckily threw up just after I threatened to call 911 and just before Mal got back. After five days Mal got dismissed for lying on the part of his application on which he answered "None" to criminal record.

We actually joked about that a few days hence. He had mentioned how the job applications all asked why one had left their last job. I said that he should write; "I was summarily dismissed because I'm white. Whoppaburger needed to meet EEOC standards and ostensibly accomplished that by replacing me with a Spic." While I didn't consider this one on my better lines, it resulted in more laughter than I had otherwise received from both of them.

Rikki's job search seemed much more discriminating. Prior to and/or during her time in college she had worked with emotionally disturbed children. She took particular pride in telling me that she was once responsible for a feral boy who hated and bit everyone; but who upon seeing her would come running and leap into her arms. I'm sure you have heard the "joke" that a psychiatrist becomes one because he's fucked up himself. As a possible result of her prior experience, her on-line applications, which were initiated in a difficult job market excepting military, military contractors, and IT technicians from third world countries willing to work very cheaply were ignored by those of her academic specialty; or mildly received by low end, legalized, corporate, state funded scams run by someone claiming to be an MD; which sought a flunky to be the one blamed if the negligent shit hit the fan. Yeah, Rikki had been in this ballpark before, handled it, but now showed no signs of wanting to go back. Thinking that a full time job for either or both was a solution to her parents' continual threats of banishment, I stressed what I thought practical under the circumstances, saying things like; "Yeah, they're trying to play you. But, you can play them back. Just depends on the reading of the particulars and the subsequent modus operandi." I'm certain that Rikki understood what I meant, but despite her claims of being logical, she either was unbearably tired of the game or was seeking an excuse to hide under the covers for as long as possible. At that point, I might have entered a sadness about which my generation never experienced or even anticipated. Feeling out of place, I didn't push and saw no reason to. Rikki was compelled to expand. She spoke of having had similar jobs; some out and out dangerous, charged with people who wanted to kill, without access to any backup. She took particular pride in telling me about being responsible for a feral, male teenager who hated and bit everyone; but who upon seeing Rikki would seek to be held by her. I'm sure you have heard the "joke" that a psychiatrist becomes one because he's fucked up himself. She fondly remembered him. He must have been abandoned early in life, as he grew up in the wild, that presumably being somewhere in the US, he had learned to defend himself. He could bite as well as a wolf; and one time got Rikki in the sensitive, fat part of her upper arm. She sought no retribution, but was honored to say that she became this boy's only friend. In my head, I couldn't help making an analogy to Mal, who was currently pretending to be engrossed in some Youtube presentation he had seen ten times before. Rikki was particularly proud to tell me; as she did it on at least three separate occasions; that when the state inspectors came this boy would run by everyone and jump into her arms.

Chapter 8

The big day came after I had known them for a many months of Youtube watching, conspiracy theory talking and a lot of drinking. Earlier, on the previous evening we were, as usual doing precisely that, during which time I noticed that they weren't getting along famously. My wife was away visiting relatives back east for two weeks, so I was otherwise alone in the house. After turning in or passing out the previous night, I was greeting the new day at about 9AM, with coffee, Google, and shaking hands, which made typing a bit difficult. I heard a knock at the front door, and thought; "Oh, shit. If I try to get up I'm going to smash my head on something. Do me a favor and sell your crap somewhere else; preferably on the net."

So, I ignored it and hoped that I had pulled down the blinds in the TV room, where I had been googling "kinds of yucca plants" on my laptop, thereby succeeding in finding everybody who wanted to sell Southwestern landscaping plants and design, but little about yuccas specifically. It was frustrating and required all of the attention I previously had before finding the blankets. They mercifully stopped the head spinning in their warmth, whenever I could get the two of them to act in unison. But, my tiny, fourteen-year-old, black cat, Teddy always got very insistent about being fed and having his water changed as soon as that sun provides the least bit of visibility.

Then the knock came again and my ersatz tranquility was broken. Totally pissed, I audibly said; "Go away. I don't want any." The phrase was intended to be more or less universally applicable and rude to anyone selling anything, be they magazine pushing parolees, Jehovah's Witness missionaries, charitable contribution collectors on commission, or my neighbor Donald, who often stopped by to ask if it was all right with me if he put some more ugly junk in his driveway at our border.

This had worked in the past, but, to my displeasure, a third knock came.

I surmised that the best thing to do was either try to make it to the door and get rid of whatever cretin was there quickly or put up a sign saying; "HIGHLY CONTAGIOUS TERMINAL DISEASE: PROCEED WITH CAUTION." It seemed a bit late for option number two, so I went to the door, and looked through the transom, where I saw Mal looking at me, making a stupid face; like the one where all the muscles refuse to perform and the eyes appear as that of a cadaver, upon which no one has yet turned down the lids. In other words, he was mimicking the stuff you saw in "cool" sophomore year of high school. I would soon find that Rikki was there too, but was temporarily blocked from my view.

I opened the door, seeing them both; and Mal, utilizing his customary, direct approach said; "Can we stay here a while?"

A million thoughts and questions bounced around my head, like neutrinos at CERN. I brightly distilled the thoughts and questions and replied; "No," and half shut the door.

Rikki laughed as they walked in, fully shutting the door behind them. This is one of the drawbacks of regularly using sarcastic "humor." I really meant "No" this time; more or less.

Mal said; "Let me get the car in your garage before somebody sees it."

Besides "Uh oh," the bouncing possibilities in my head now exceeded CERN neutrino speed. They included things like "stolen car," "cops," "harboring a fugitive," "men with guns," and "complete loss of privacy." For some reason the "men with guns" possibility became primary; and I led him out the back way and opened the garage door. He parked the car next to mine and I re-closed the door.

As we walked back he said; "Thanks. I'm afraid they got our plates."

I checked him for a grin as Mal truly had a strange sense of humor, often saying exactly what the other person did not want to hear. Two-thirds of the time nobody got what the joke was, and he'd never explain it. Though it may actually be of the same root; Mal had a knack for jumbling up a story which he attributed to undiagnosed ADD. The complications in my mind simplified dramatically, as whatever was going on I was now in it. The deal was done and I reverted to my customary jovial demeanor.

As I moved three dining room chairs to our usual spots near the countertop overhang I said; "I suppose when we all get settled, you'll grace me with just a few details like; 'Is my life in danger?' 'Who got your plates?' 'How long do you plan on staying?' 'Some other pertinent details I can't think of now.'"

Rikki deadpanned; "Probably not. I don't know. ..... Indefinitely. And what you should have thought of; yes, Mal has his guns."

"Oh, fine in that case. You guys have breakfast yet?"

Mal said; "Bones, man," and extended his fist which I punched.

Rikki said; "We've been up all night and just need to crash. Where can we sleep?"

"Sorry, you can't use the bed." Being-social-butterfly in addition to oven challenged, Diane and I had no guest bedroom. What were ostensibly intended to be two bedrooms were now a TV room and a nothingish room, which up until her death a year ago, was the indoor domain of my furniture eating Dalmatian. "When Diane comes back all I need is for her to get a whiff of a female scent; and my life will be even more miserable for eternity."

Rikki said; "Oh, we'll wash the sheets and blankets before we leave."

"You don't understand. This girl has a nose that can find the week old rabbit piss in the bushes. I've got loads of heavy blankets and sheets. They're actually fairly comfortable piled up on the floor. I know, because when she gets mad at me, even at my age, they're all right. Besides, I can close the doors and you'll have a private bath."

Mal said; "Cool."

"I guess you'll fill in the details later?"

Mal said; "Yeah, as much as we know. It's a long strange story."

They followed me into the nothingish room with an adjoining bath. I opened the closet to get out the sheets and blankets. Judging from their expressions, it seemed perfectly fine with both of them. As I started to close the door behind me, Mal said; "If anyone pulls into that driveway wake us up quick."

I nodded.

They were so quiet. It wasn't as if I was checking for sounds, but after an hour or so of virtual silence it became apparent to me that my social networking fiasco produced insufficient decibels to fill the soundstage at hand. Rikki and Mal were either extremely polite or they passed into dreamland as soon as their heads hit the pillows, perhaps both.

I returned to my laptop; this time googling Albuquerque News to see if there was anything there which might have something to do with Rikki and Mal. There was another shooting in South Valley, this time by an apprehended fifteen year old; and some information on a continuing Albuquerque cop misconduct trial. The items didn't seem to have any direct bearing over what the two had told me; so I passed time nervously flipping around the sites which carried complaints about Goodreads. The sheer volume kept me occupied until Rikki and Mal got up at 2PM, in search of coffee with a wine chaser.

Chapter 9

"He was hitchin' near the County Jail in Bernalillo. I know that most people shouldn't, but I stopped to pick him up. Rikki and I weren't talking and I figured that maybe we could swap some jail stories. The Indian was totally demented or on serious multiple hallucinogenics. He offered me $400 to drive him back to the reservation in Gallup. I agreed and took the money. He held the rest of his $50,000 wad of cash in his hands, showing it to me, like someone doing a card trick. I mean it was right within our reach. He was leaning forward from the middle of the back seat, grinning and staring at the money. I could have easily taken it right off him and thrown him out, but I'm not like that."

Rikki rolled her eyes, but kept her thoughts to herself.

"He looked like someone dazed, who was using his last remnants of speed to keep him up after a three day binge. .......... Or maybe happy like a kid on his first Christmas. He started talking and a lot of it didn't make any sense at all. He said; 'Hello my friends! My name is Bit'aa'ni. I am of The Folder Arms People Clan, born for The Red-Running-Into-Water Clan. The Bitter Water Clan are my maternal grandfather's clan and The Tangle People are my paternal grandfather's clan. .......... You can call me Bitty. I'm Navajo.' He found that funny. I told him that we were Rikki and Mal, that we really needed the money and that we were willing to take him all the way. We extended our hands, but his were fixed on his money. He found something funny somewhere in there too. I started to drive. He was about medium sized, maybe a bit on the small side and thin. It was hard to tell with him seated. His face had many sun or smile lines and his eyes were green and maniacally wide. His clothing looked more Walmart than tribal, but that's common now.

He said that about three months ago he had hitched over to Tulitown from McKinna, home of his Navajo tribe. He had heard that Tuli was a good place to make money, as long as you do not cross with Naashgali Dine'e and his Mescal warriors.

Rikki interjected; "At first, we figured that Tuli was Albuquerque and McKinna was what he called the reservation in Gallup. Naashgali Dine'e and his Mescal warriors sounded like a mystical name for an Albuquerque drug gang. We'd later find out that wasn't exactly right. It's more likely that Naashgali Dine'e and his Mescal warriors are a group of trickster Indian spirits, but I'm not sure. Anyway, Mal handed me the $400 for safekeeping in my purse. Bitty said that he had worked legitimately in Albuquerque, got robbed, and then was arrested in the confusion. He was put in County Jail for a few days, and then when he was released he found the money on that wide strip of land bordering the road in front of but not near County Jail."

Mal again took the floor, saying; "He said that his people were desperately poor and that the men no longer have any elk to hunt, not even a lowly milk snake. In the rear-view mirror I noticed lights steadily a hundred feet behind us. At first I didn't think much of it. Just a little strange with no one else on the road. You know, sometimes when you're driving at night and don't know the road you get behind another car and hope that they do. But, I started to feel uncomfortable and slowed down to see if they would do the same. In the meantime Bitty kept talking and staring at his money, but my mind wasn't on him anymore."

Rikki said; "He was talking about how the Tribe Council had told them about how rich they were going to get if they approved gambling. He said that they borrowed money from someone he called the Hashke who also did the construction of the facility named; 'Inn of the Eighth Age' and the attached hotel. They also supplied the machines and managed the place."

I said; "Sounds like the Mob and that 'Eighth Age' could mean 'The end," like the Biblical references to the un-named eighth day."

Rikki said; "Close. But, it's probably more like Revelation ending an age. But, whatever specifics you choose to insert are really just different names used by different people with slightly different meanings. But, getting back to Bitty's story, it seems that few people came to the casino. That makes perfect sense to me as it's in an out of the way location and already had stiff competition from others in more travelled areas. I've lived here twenty years off and on, and I never even heard of it."

I said; "Me too," leaving off the off and on.

Rikki made a short laugh. I think I knew why considering the possible symbolism, and she continued. "So the Tribe had to make large payments to the Hashke and what they owed kept going up, despite the payments. Many left the reservation, and the ones who stayed started taking white people on hunting and fishing expeditions to pay their tax, eventually depleting the natural food supply."

Rikki raised her eyebrows and I took it as partial vindication for her theories which were more globally oriented.

Mal jumped back in after a bit of a wake-me-up straight from the clear bottle half sticking out of Rikki's purse. He spoke in an annoyed-chastising voice. "I heard all this kind of shit before ......."

Rikki interjected "Yeah, from me, not your stupid family."

I was concerned that another fight might be in the making, as Rikki quenched her thirst the same way Mal did with a simultaneous short visual dagger directed right at him.

Mal grimaced and kept going. "The main thing was that this car behind us was getting on my nerves. When I slowed down, they did. When I slowed even more they did too. All I'm seein' is that no matter what I do I got these goddam lights blaring in my rear view mirror. Like I said, I know that sometimes people who don't know the road do this at night. But, now I'd given them three strong hints that I ain't all that happy about it, but they persisted. Besides, this road is three lanes in both directions. If you don't know where you're going you can get in the middle one and have lots of room for error on either side. So, now I'm thinkin' more possibilities than I'm gonna go through. But step one was to make a U-turn and see if it continued to follow. When it did I was sure that we had gotten into the middle of some kind of shit. If it was just a cop he'd have put on the cherry, pulled me over, and give me a ticket for the U-ey. I sped up and headed back east toward Albuquerque. Fuck sped up and continued to follow, still a hundred feet behind. So now, I'm thinkin' what the fuck? Bitch knows that I saw the game. If he wants to pull me over, I ain't got the fastest car in the world, but he ain't doin' that. I'm thinkin' maybe the Indian is in on it, but I can't figure what or how. The only thing I know for sure is that the first thing I gotta do is lose this car."

I said; "Well, I guess you did."

Mal shrugged indicating "no big thing," and said; "Yeah. I drove to this apartment complex I know with about eight different exits, took off the lights, and got onto a side road before he could turn the bend. Dumb fuck's probably still drivin' around the lot lookin' for me."

I didn't ask any questions about that as I'd done the same thing once to evade a car full of punkers, who thought I had cut them off. But, I did ask him to continue. I couldn't help wondering if the door was going to be kicked in any second, though I did take some solace in the fact that they'd been here about six hours and nobody had done it yet.

He said; "There's not much more to say. For a while I was worried that the guys I lost would contact a buddy who would intercept me somewhere on the highway. For a second I considered taking back roads, but then concluded that would be even more obvious than taking the highway and that's not even really possible, anyway. After I saw that no one did that the first three interchanges, I figured that I was dealing with a small time operation, and either had happened to run into two cases of dementia in one evening or that they had a Plan B after scaring me during Plan A. Small time Plan B seems much more likely and that's why we're here."

I said; "I take it you don't have any other friends."

Mal quickly retorted; "None dumb enough to get in the middle of this shit. ............ And none with garage space."

I always admired Mal's honesty though he didn't always admire mine. I figured the "garage space" add on was a poor attempt to soften the blow, but it was of no consequence to me. What it is is what it is. I said; "So basically, you drove the Indian back home and then came here."

Mal said; "Yeah. Bitty and Rikki seemed oblivious to the whole thing, until I told her some stuff on the way back. I guess that when he kept talking to her and was saying some really strange things, they were both in some other space. She was probably thinking that she was getting more information for her conspiracy theory 'work,' this time from a Navajo perspective; and god knows where Bitty was at. Rikki turned on a mini tape recorder she carries. She didn't catch all of it, and this cheap machine garbles some stuff. You want to hear it?"

I said; "No matter what I answer, I'm afraid I'm going to anyway. So, bring it. Just one other curiosity. Correct me where I'm wrong, but as an overview, you got $400 less about $100 in petrol expenses for at least six hours work and you are likely to now be in some degree of trouble for having done that. It is my honor to have met a fucking genius."

Non-plussed Mal said; "Fuck you very much. And a correction, if I may. It's not ME who may be in trouble. It's WE. In that regard, from your point of view, my overview strongly suggests that, you have received no remuneration whatsoever for likely having entered the same degree of risk; while I have, give or take, received $300 for that. Please correct me where I have miscalculated, my fellow genius."

I said; "My sincere apologies. I was presumptuous in assuming you had no MBA or had passed the common sense equivalent GDE. You might be somewhat remiss in your ignoring the incalculable pleasure I receive in the company of Rikki. You see, like everything, it's a package deal, and it turns in my favor; dare I say Rikki's; when you are outside sweating over the length of one of my plants while she and I sit comfortably in the moderate climate inside, and explore each other's minds."

Rikki grinned at both of us, simultaneously seeming to show sad, yet somehow moderate appreciation of me and contentious, yet somehow sufficient appreciation of Mal's efforts.

Mal said; "Never was one much for that meta stuff; but open to the infinitely spacey." He pushed a button on Rikki's recorder. The whirring sound it made when turned on immeasurably dwarfed what would otherwise have been dead silence. While the whirr was the only sound currently in the room, he spoke over it, saying; "Here's the weird Indian shit."

Rikki was as stone faced as the Moai on Easter Island.
Chapter 10

In seeming mid-sentence, Bitty's voice cleared the gas pedal induced engine sounds. In a monotone suggestive of tolerant tedium he said; "Sedentary mice flammed the focal entry flap to the place the twelve partitioned proditious enormity resided. In nostalgic desperation, the bio of Metal Man peeped its square face toward the six. Not quite, but a start.

No new land provides no new respite for the children of the elk. Nor the children of the corn. Nor the children of the spook. Nor the children. It is complete; save the few. They have taken their silence away. Away at last, the folden arms are left, not out of their unchosen choice, but out of innafs long ago planted in the time of the selective giants.

They have painted demonic pictures on the fertile green and have made them abundant in their hiding places. This offering in my hands, my pockets, and my nutbean-mound is not the first; yet it is the last gift from the many-named one. The delta it invokes and at the same time dishonors is a coolybrish negroid meeting of the true Tribes. In the least of winds, the waves come in in bold white caps which kiss the shore, then disappear. How much more will be seen in the great wind to come?"

Rikki's voice seemed reticent and simultaneously insistent when she quickly said; "You Indians still do a lot of acid? No offense intended, but it doesn't sound like it has been cut with speed."

"Speed. ....... Speed? ....... Einstein for you. ...... Relativity? ......... Fine, insofar as it goes. Relative to what?"

"A constant. A stillness. Something which doesn't evolve. Something which remains the same."

"Where are such things?"

"In the mans' breechcloth."

"For you in the moment of your jingle dress."

"Metaphor intended."

"Faith leaped."

"Truth."

"Biased."

"Any other kind available for sale?"

"Conveniently answers its own question."

"Which was?"

Mal's unintelligible voice seemed to momentarily attain decibels which slightly exceeded the engine hum, and he seemed to say; "Does your chewing gum lose its flavor on the bedpost overnight? Can we please go back to the part about my breechcloth? Not to be rude, but the coin of the realm here seems Pynchon-popularly-prescribed-in-polytechnic-plagiarism-preferred, more or less. No?"

After a bit of slurred indecipherables, Bitty was again caught midstream. With a tone indicative of resilience or a tone indicative of a practical acquiescence, he said; "Blue is a color which will always was and which always will be. Much like yellow, it is difficult to pinpoint, and therefore even more difficult to draw inferences from. Dangerous. Few are skilled in the proper use of a prism. In the days of Mesa Coyote and his lost tribe, it was the rule that pathos equalled jest.

Brisfallus, brisfallus, you see. It was made two. Look! It's obvious. To crave one is to crave death. To have reasoning for one is to crave death. To be deluded by the business of preachership is to crave the flood. To be communal sectares the land. Me and my family can now make the debt gone. Naashgali Dine'e and his Mescal warriors now mistakenly fear us. They know their power comes only from the green. The green comes from the earth, and try as they will, they cannot stop it. They can only blind the already lame.

It was forseen by Mor' in' e, in the tradition of her Touch Many Hands tribe that all would reverse. South would become North, just as it was before the first shift at the end of the first age. It is but a matter of a match igniting the ready and dry wood. Until that day we are condemned to the green defiled by the Cyclops.

Approach the pure and dense period of alteration. The elders relate their faulty sympathy, yet they are elders. A weathered Dine skin-walker could fix the circle again. Seasons are now backward, yet we still fear a real break. Dine could be mad, and return your nafs to the solid spirit grace, with music from afar. We have tasted the fruit of man and made infinite clones, losing all but Rolex shams, valuing sums to nowhere. The hands meet on top and a moondrop surges. It can elevate us like an Orphic lyre, taking away the plain plane. My dear friends and protectors, ultimately you choose the passageway. End, corner not right; the dammed falls of the river. Broke through just before the false revolutions of the straw, hands extended to the shade of the blue. Circulated around a brief infatuation for the hillside howlers, un-clothed in mornings in which light was denied. Finally relaxing into the time we used to worry, yet sending each of the variations into the damp shadows of ancient rhyme we release the burden and learn the master's name. Downstairs at the wind-up, close to the landing, a river. Seasons uncaringly bypass. Up. Down. It's over. You're un-abridged.

The Cyclops Sun speared, my shell convinced, in the eclipse of the older moon, deceivingly replaced by the younger reached through harmless fancy. Manna from above compounds. I killed my disgust and seized the word in my hand. Remains only you, the calculator's time, the calculator's logic, the motives we don't respect or comprehend. Melancholy resolution took the wounded static. Armored vans took the road by the sea. From the cord, it has been licensed to those with the green. The details we pretend to understand, will be disproved, down at the edge.

Cause specific takes away the frightened recall. The journey smiles as if otherwise; after it has once more stopped before going all the way; as if it stupidly thought that it diverged from any reality that you've ever seen and known. Deducing glitches only to betray their mention. Leaving paths that end halfway into the annulled. As we cross from north to south, we hear the complete heap record. Beified at the edge. Flavors will depart. You turn up. You turn down.

The white shawl sadly looks; ashamed for the crucifixion of her sphere. Eight billion sheep just placate. Two one cry, too late. Specks of honesty cannot reach. She'd flooshey say it was wonder of her own. Billions are daily deluded. Only compound interest could be placed on the children. I get up, I get down.

To what am I slave? No, he sees the femlens twins. His eyes blinded, he feels his way. In what day does he come of age? I get up. I get down.

Aladdin's rusted compass blade split the seasons. Water poured. Spaces between our houses were boned. Music wed the colors to the visions. The red sky smashed the two. Space focussed form. Chirruping wind cast its spell of forgotten communal gathering upstairs. Open to space; who wheeled and directed, exposing each side? Piercing orbs smirked gossip, beholding itself only. Mounted we see peace in the vale and the ghostly phases of the past, through roads manifesting complete sun. When whole, you get down."

There was a semblance of a lull interrupted by a short click. Mal filled the void when he said; "I, temporarily feeling out of danger, and having listened to some of the substantial monologue say; 'Like, hey man; I been there. No lie.'"

Rikki said; "I want more."

Bitty was silent.

Back at my house, Rikki said; "This one gets sarcastic and that one loses interest."

Mal said; "Bitty lost any track of us he might have had. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out his cash. He proceeded to count it like he did when we first met."

For once I knew when to keep my mouth shut.

Chapter 11

We hung around the house for a week. Each day which did not produce a disaster we got more secure in the thought that everything was going to be all right. I said; "Diane is going to be back in a week, and she's not going to go for this."

Mal said; "I'm ahead of you there. I've already made arrangements for us to stay at my friend Wes' house. It's really his girlfriend's house, but she'll be leaving for a month to visit her family in Illinois."

I didn't want to appear to be "too happy," but was relieved at the least.

"I just need one more favor," Mal added.

" ........... "

"I want to use those Jersey plates you have in the garage."

I'm a bit of a pack rat. It was kind of a nostalgia thing for me to keep remembrances of my first home. I also was a little wary of Mal's idea, as just in case somebody was still looking for them, I didn't need any tie to me. I tried to divert him saying; "The tags are twenty years old. It's a guaranty of getting stopped by a cop."

"You think a car thief doesn't know how to fix tags. I got loads of them in my trunk. They're New Mexico, but all the cops know how to look at is the number."

I didn't have any other "reasonable" objections available, and maybe even of more significance, I couldn't really deny them when in need. So, I said; "Okay. Bring them back in two months?"

"Sure, chief."

"Okay. Just to be totally up front with you; if you get into any trouble, my story is that you must have taken them from my garage when you were working for me."

Rikki looked at me. Her eyes flashed as if she was close to an attack. She indignantly said; "You don't have to do that."

Mal saved me when he answered her, by grabbing her around the waist, and saying; "All good, bitch. Gotta protect yisself. Figured that anyway. I'll handle it. It's cool."

For some reason I restrained myself from making some comment about that nigga shit this time. As food supplies were running low I figured this was a good time to take my car to Walmart and restock. I told them that, and looked at evil eyed Rikki when I asked; "Can I trust you to be left alone un-supervised?"

Rikki alleviated my fears when she answered; "Of course not."

My car started first turn. I closed the garage door behind me and I was on my way to the deep discount land of plenty.

I got back; trunk and back seat loaded, parked in the garage, shut the door behind me, and started to carry the bags into the quiet house the back way.

On my first trip in with the groceries I found Mal waiting, tied to one of the kitchen chairs, his back congruent with its hard back, and gray duct tape covering his mouth. Stuff was all over the place and all the drawers were open. I immediately knew what had happened; with the possible exception of something kinky I didn't think he or Rikki were into.

Well, the news wasn't any good. I saw the possible personal ramifications, and immediately concluded that there was no purpose in crying over spilled milk, so I tried to act cool by saying; "Excuse me. Did I walk in on something private?"

Now in a genuinely silly mood which probably served to obscure my implicated trepidation, I further asked duct-taped Mal; "Does Rikki have to go through all this trouble to keep you from Lydia, the chlamydia jokes unfortunate?"

Mal started jumping around in the seat, and I untied him. He ripped away the duct tape from his mouth and said; "They took Rikki."

My two worst fears were confirmed by those words; the other that the bums knew where I lived. Since they did, it didn't make much sense to me for their having waited a week to descend. I said; "You had your guns. How did it happen?"

"Ah, I got a little careless after the time went by. Rikki and I were getting friendly; and when we heard the car drive up, we thought it was you. The next thing we knew was that they came in the back door you left open, guns ready."

"They must have been casing the place."

"I guess so. That back door is easy to pick if you know what you're doing. But, they must have waited for you to leave."

Incredulous, I said; "They're afraid of me?"

"No. ........ Yes. They don't want a witness with no criminal record."

"How did they know you were here to begin with?"

"Probably leaned on some of my nervous 'friends.' The two of them are screws. I remember their faces from my last visit to County. When they took Rikki, one said; 'You got three days to get our money back or your bitch is dead.' ......... Now, these guys ain't big time. They probably have never killed anybody and don't want to. But, still; amateurs can be quite an irrational pain in the ass."

Chapter 12

The next thing I knew, Mal and I were on the way to Gallup. Frankly, I don't know what I was doing there. Most likely it was just getting me in deeper to a dangerous situation I didn't fully understand. But, I guess that's what friends are for.

He was doing seventy on I-40 West. The super highway went all the way to our Navajo reservation destination. Apparently, his mind was occupied by numerous thoughts which prevented idle chit chat. That was fine with me, because, even in "normal" times I didn't know much of what the hell he was talking about anyway. The result was that he'd say things I didn't understand, smile as if they were some kind of joke, and I'd smile back, thinking it was the best thing to do; like when someone is maniacally grinning at their own one-liner, thinking how cool they are. As bright as he was, I'm sure Mal sensed this, and that made the whole thing more uncomfortable.

Social niceties in their place; I was a bit more uncomfortable with the hand gun he had given me. It was the first time in my life that I'd "been packin'" anything more potent than a water pistol. Initially, I had it wedged into the top of my jeans, but kept thinking that the damn thing might explode or otherwise act absurdly to my critical detriment. Mal had said otherwise, but I couldn't help but think it possible that this was one of the ones his brother made himself. To be on the safe side, I had placed it on the floor of the car; thereby risking only a toe.

He was driving sufficiently slowly as to not attract any unwanted cop attention. The radio was off and the silence hung like a trapped scam artist on an overhead electrical cord. Just to break it, I said; "Am I supposed to start flashing this thing around at the reservation? Might think Kit Carson came back."

"I told you keep it in your pants till you want to use it. Let you shirt cover it and show the threatening bulge. You do know how to handle it; right?"

"It's got bullets in it; right?"

"Yeah."

"So, when I see somebody I want to waste I point the long part at them, and pull this little thing you guys call a trigger. What more I gotta know?"

"Nuthin' really."

"Thank you. Some of you Westerners make such a big shit about how to properly handle guns."

"If you were paying any attention, you'd have heard that I'm from Arkansas."

I put my hand over my mouth, looked out the passenger side window, and mumbled; "Fuckin' technicality bullshit."

"I heard that."

"Makes more sense than the fuckin' Indian you told me about AT LENGTH."

"Pretty much. The fuckin' Indian had a monumental problem in getting to the point."

" ................... "

"So, listen up Chief. We don't know what the fuck we're gonna run into in Gallup. You know, the Indian might have lied to me and Rikki, ain't an Indian at all, and has split for greener pastures. He might be there spouting shit to whoever got a yen for his bucks. Then again, he might be in on the whole thing. Small chance he just stepped into a pile of shit."

"Must be tough to handle that much cynicism."

"Tell me about it, Chief. And technically, it's not cynicism anymore. It's just possibilities."

"What I can't get is what kind of scam the Indian might be a part of."

"Welcome to 2016, grandpa. I'm not sure, either. But, look at the shit we know. We got $400. If I took him off we'd have fifty grand. They got my lady in a hostage thing. And, I'm runnin' around with you trying to recover the money they never really lost."

"Fuck. That's almost as good as the Federal government's crap about being broke; and a need to eliminate Social Security, but not the tanks."

"And then again, there's no way we can be sure about it. Like I said; this Indian may have just walked into the middle of a drug deal and we picked him up and got involved."

"Not to sound smart, but I never picked up a hitch-hiker. Too much bad stuff can happen and I ain't the only ride they can get. ................... But, where you thinkin' drug deal?"

"The Indian was in front of County. It's like 3-fuckin' AM, the time the scumbags always let you out at. I been in that world. Dipshit guards don't get paid squat. They're usually some fucked-up assholes with a need to be big shots by doling out little shit cruelty to the prisoners. And they got access to the evidence with a couple of winks."

"So, then they go fuck up the sale."

"Yeah, sometimes. But, look at it from their point of view. What have they lost? Nuthin' they paid for. ........... See, if you're in the game, these guys are great to do business with. They sell cheap; don't want no trouble; and unless you run into some mental defective with a macho problem, you make money; even just flippin' it in bulk."

"Sort of lost."

"All right. Picture that you're a low income guard with access to the evidence. You know the players and they treat you as if you're some kind of god when they're in, 'cause they don't wanna risk losing their meds or get another cold meal. If you're as big a jerk as most of them are, you think your 'power' rules and always will. Yet, you don't want to get caught, or else you'll be in the stir surrounded by fuckers who'd like to mess you up bad. So you drop it off and pick it up later. This time somebody fucked it up somewhere along the line, probably just being the dumbass scumbags they are, they stupidly let the demented Indian out in the middle of the shit."

"You keep saying you and we. So, now take it from my point of view. Up until a couple of days ago I was a retired middle class homeowner who previously worked in a bank. No criminal involvement. Never saw a gun other than one held by Bogart. Despite all the bullshit conspiracy theorists say, nothing ever happens in a bank. Sure, every so often one of the file girls forgets where her skirt is and elevates to the top of the cabinet. But, that's not all that often; and most of the time you find a rationalization. If you can tolerate the boredom you can have a wife and family, and live somewhere that actually has some green things growing; if you water them when needed. Okay, so then you enter your 'Golden Years.' Retirement from that fuckin' bank is a cause for celebration, beyond the two minute watch-bestowing celebration. You're finally free to take care of your house and garden. Things are wonderful until your legs and back signal that you need someone younger to do the watering for you. Yadda, yadda. So eventually, I wind up with you and Rikki as uninvited houseguests. No watering is being done and instead; I'm in a life threatening situation; and don't even know why."

"My, you're chatty today. That is so fucking bourgeois. Well, you asked what the fuck is going on, and I told you. Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies. You really ought to try to appreciate being finally brought into the excitement of true life."

"I appreciate things a whole lot better when I'm given the opportunity to ask for them first."

"Join the club that got fucked."

After passing through more of the highway lined congregation of tin storage facilities Mal said; "This is the res entrance."

"You sure. Looks like any other road."

"Yeah, I'm sure. They just don't have government signs all over the place. You think they still live in teepees and wigwams?"

"They don't have any people either. Guess I was expecting a gambling casino replete with losers in bandages with cups of quarters. What the fuck are we looking for anyway?"

"Some guy flashing a lot of green would be nice. ...... I really don't know. Something that looks unusual."

Mal slowed down and drove down a road which looked like any rural, southwestern, county park in a drought. We came upon a housing development. There must have been fifty, relatively new, identical four room houses clustered on ten acres.

"Looks like Levittown when it was first built," I said. "Unusual enough for you?"

Mal just shrugged, more interested that there were people outside. He said; "Let's see if anybody knows anything." He parked the car in front of the house where a Native American woman was sweeping near her front door. As we approached, she moved toward that door. Mal called out; "Peace. We're lost."

Seeming wary, the woman stopped, pointed right, and said; "You can get back on the highway that way."

Mal said; "Thanks. No. We're looking for Bit'aa'ni."

She said; "I don't know anyone named Bit'aa'ni," and went in.

We left the car and walked around the flat, treeless area. The results were the same with the rest of the people there. No one ever heard of Bit'aa'ni.

We were approached by a group of three men. The spokesman said; "You are trespassing on Navajo land."

Mal answered; "We're leaving now. I was just trying to find someone I drove here a week ago; Bit'aa'ni."

The spokesman again said; "You are trespassing on Navajo land," adding; "We'll walk you back to your car."

As we silently walked we heard a voice from behind say; "It's all right. This is my friend." We all turned and saw that it was someone doing double time to catch up. He was about 5'6", thin, and he was wearing a light blue sweatshirt which said;

"It is difficult to free fools from the chains they revere." Voltaire

"A little cash never hurts matters."

Reverend Ike

and blue jeans. It was Bit'aa'ni, little Bitty.

Mal and I waited as the four Native Americans exchanged words we didn't understand. Bit'aa'ni's lined face did a lot of smiling and nodding until the other three left. He said; "Hello, friend. And hello friend of friend. I owe you a favor and will be glad to do that."

Mal told him the story and of his plight.

Bitty took us inside to see his family. His wife and two daughters smiled briefly and efficiently, and then retreated to the adjoining room. He led us to his backyard, and explained that he no longer had the money as he used it to pay off his mortgage to the Hashke.

Though he could never put all the pieces of the puzzle in place, Mal always considered that the Indian could be in on the scam. In thwarted disbelief, he opened his mouth as if to speak; but no words came; as he raised, then lowered his right arm.

Bit'aa'ni said; "I know what you are thinking, my friend. Let me show you something." He went back inside and returned with documents which indicated the truth of his claim. As I had spent many years working for banks, I told Mal that they look legit to me. Mal made a sound which sounded like a mix of frustration with a last gasp sigh.

Bit'aa'ni said; "I am sorry. These men are bad men. All they know is evil and they will be defeated by the truth."

Mal said; "Sometime before they kill Rikki, I hope."

It was Bit'aa'ni's turn to sigh a frustration. He said; "This is all I can do." He started to move his feet, which took him into a small circling pattern. His movements were irregular as if in his head he was hearing and following the sound of Charlie Parker playing "Cherokee" with his later flats. He began chanting like a Haitian possessed by the spirit.

"Hello. ... My friends! ... My name ... is Bit'aa'ni. ... I am. ... Of The Folder Arms People ... Clan, born for The Red-Running-Into-Water Clan. ... The Bitter ... Water Clan are my maternal grandfather's clan ... and The Tangle People are my paternal grandfather's clan. .......... You can ... call me Bitty. ... I'm Navajo." He found that funny, and temporarily stopped moving and bent over in amusement. Righting himself, he continued; "Please pardon me. Here we go. The controller arms meet at top. The twelve is heard only by the moon. The dew explodes from its veiling place, now Owsley in the cradle. Madman and reason join the treetop fowl. Four winds move five silver grazes in spring, no footprints in the hardened sand. Walk with me on the beach. The tide is way out. You'll shortly be two and want to know the way of the wind. It is not said on the plot that Dibe hides at the rear of the timer at the CGS. The four winds sit at the Cardinal Gate Scheme; two gates locked and spaces barred. One lets you in and the other echoes it. In vile glare and suggestion that other's just a replica. The noble, fluid, eternal incandescence or the luminescence? The controller arms meet at top. Moon once more explodes. Miss Dibe and Beloved are together at CGS. Dark clouds rumble in. Bleakly meet Spell, but soon came me. My name is Lot, infinite incandescence. The Holes of Hell are marked in granite, my hound. Stars, stars, STARS. " Bit'aa'ni fell to the earth in a heap which resembled the posture of a homeless dog who needed to shield himself from the cold.

Mal said; "You okay, dude?"

Bit'aa'ni looked up and replied; "Do I look okay to you, dude? ............ Stupid questions! Fuck me ferociously. ....... On second thought, don't. ... White people with science and artillery. Pretend ... Ah, shit, that took a lot of training, tiring improvisation and energy. Just fuckin' shit on everything."

Mal said; "Wish I had that on tape for Rikki. Thanks and all that. But, frankly I don't understand what your chant will accomplish. You got much experience in this stuff?"

"Oh ye of little faith. .......... That's the kind of shit they taught us in Shaman class. What the fuck do I know? I got a C. But, if you were paying any attention at all you would have seen that the words precisely correlate to your predicament. Hey, what more do you expect for a lousy car ride anyway?"

Mal made as sound which approximated; "Ppshshfrrrt."

Bit'aa'ni remained on the ground. Head down, he seemed to be disappointed in something he chose not to articulate further.

A few octaves higher than normal, Mal said; "How would you like it if the bad guys had your wife, and were going to kill her if you didn't come up with money you didn't have; and they were doing that because they thought you were an accomplice of someone who bought a house with their money?"

Bit'aa'ni said; "That's a complicated question on a few levels."

Mal said; "It's what has happened!"

Bit'aa'ni said; "So what do you expect from me? I cannot get the money back from the Hashke if I wanted to. And frankly, if I could I wouldn't. Sometimes you get lucky and sometimes you get the shit end of the stick. So, deal with it. If you white bastards did not kill Navajo people and take their land, none of this would have happened. So, get the money from your great grandpa."

In an attempt not to be seen as only a by-standing commentator reticent to comment, I said; "It seems readily apparent to me that we have reached a legitimate impasse in this conversation; the furtherance thereof only conducive to the unproductive those who seek personal solace in the ersatz amusement of sophistry. Mal, I believe we should thank Bit'aa'ni for his song and dance and more productively seek resolution elsewhere."

I was surprised to hear both of them mumble what sounded like; "What?"

Mal said; "Okay. Let's go. I've got some other ideas."

We thanked Bit'aa'ni, walked back to the car, and Mal drove south. After a minute he said; "Ever boost cars?"

I replied; "No, and I never will."

"It's easy. In fact, all you have to do is drive this car. I'll do the work."

"Mal. No means no."

He breathed deeply, showing his unhappiness with my answer."

"I have never been in jail. Well, twenty one hours. And there is no way in hell I'm going to risk going back."

"All you gotta do is drive the fucking car."

"Yeah. And I just happened to be near my friend who was boosting one."

"First offense and codger aged."

"I just told you it wouldn't be a first offense. I already got a 'disturbing the peace' charge dismissed, with the proviso that I have to be a good codger for some unspecified amount of time."

"They have to specify."

"Well, what can I tell ya? I had a thousand dollar attorney."

Mal's smart phone rang. He glanced at it, saw the number, and excitedly said; "It's Rikki!" and turned up the sound so that I could hear.

"Hey, babe," he said.

"This ain't your babe," said the gruff, male voice.

" ............ "

"This is one of the guys who got your babe; and wants his money."

"Look. The Indian doesn't have it anymore. He used it to pay his mortgage."

"No. You look. I don't know no Indian; and I don't give a fuck about the deal you got goin' with him. I want my money. That's all."

"Okay. I got a deal for you. I'm broke, but I know how to steal cars. You let Rikki go and I'll work it off."

"I'm not lettin' her go until we have the whole thing. She's kind of sexy. You go get some money and we'll be in touch." He hung up.

I said; "No deal. You know, it's not like he's really out any money. And he made himself susceptible to a kidnapping charge."

"He's a jerk. Sometimes they're harder to deal with. I gotta get me a partner and start movin' some serious wheels."

"That's at least ten years if you get caught again."

"More like fifteen in prison; plus fines and restitution. The system is totally absurd. Auto theft is called 'a crime or moral turpitude.' That means you cannot get a job. I even got dismissed from Whoppaburger after five days. How low can you get? So, they release you one day and you have to return to crime. What the fuck did they expect?"

Trying to be optimistic, I said; "Well, there's off-the-books stuff."

"That's what I was tryin'. But, now I need big bucks quick. I love that girl."

We drove without speaking. I may have dozed off in the sun. I couldn't help feeling fortunate, not having ever been required to try to deal with what they were dealing with; and sad that they had to.

I roused when Mal got another call. It must have been Rikki's number on display, as Mal said; "It's him again."

He pressed the button and said; "I'll have you five grand by tomorrow night."

"I'll settle for a ride home." It was Rikki's voice.

"I'd like that more than anything, but I'm gonna have to get these guys some money."

"Get me some instead, idiot. In the meantime just come and get me."

"Rikki, what are you talking about? This is no time to play."

"I don't know about that. It was weird. I was all tied up, really depressed and in need of a drink. And then my head got blasted with Yngwie Malmsteen's "Cherokee Warrior," and I kind of flipped. It immediately became clear that these two fat ass nerds never got any good lovin' from a woman. So, I did my titty bar act, pretending I was hot for them. They untied me, got a few feels in the process, and then I used my Muay Thai skills to elbow their fat heads and rip out their throats. Ten seconds; end of bullshit. Wonder where that song came from. So come and get me before the bodies start to stink worse than they originally did. I'm at the apartment complex on Indian School Road and Comanche; apartment #33. .................... Oh, and bring some Smirnoff's."

"That's the best news I've ever heard. It'll be about two hours. Ed and I are driving back from Gallup. We went to check out the Indian. He used the money to pay off his mortgage. Can you believe that?"

"What? You think they still live in teepees and wigwams?"

"Love you, babe. .......... Hey, don't go outside. You don't want to be seen in the area."

"I know that. And I got all the windows open. So just hurry up, and don't forget that bottle." She hung up.

Chapter 13

During the following day's celebratory visit we noticed that AOL carried some local news of interest. With a click we found this.

Albuquerque Journal

Two un-named officers, currently working as Guards in the Bernalillo County Detention Center were found dead in an apartment complex in Northeast Albuquerque.

The causes of death are yet to be officially confirmed, but according to reporters allowed on the scene, it appears to be the lack of a windpipe, possibly caused by the ripping out of the officer's throats by some un-known device. Other coroner supplied, physical determinations include a preliminarily observable finding of apparently broken bones in and around the face. The haphazard fashion of the wounds preclude substantive determination at present, but is suggestive of repeated blows from a blunt instrument.

A search of the apartment, which was rented to one yet to be located, "Stephen Crystal," presumed to be a synonym for the "real" tenant; indicated residues of methamphetamine, marijuana and other drugs, not inconsistent with that of findings taken from targeted randomly scanned residences; subsequent arrests somewhat arbitrary and inconsistent.

Wikipedia indicates that Stephen Crystal is popularly presumed to be James Joyce's literary alter ego, appearing as the protagonist and antihero of his first, semi-autobiographical novel of artistic existence; "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man," and an important character in Joyce's subsequent "Ulysses)." It is commonly said that Stephen Crystal appears in "Ulysses" as the character who corresponds to Telemachus; and less overtly, he embodies aspects of Hamlet). He is the protagonist of the first three chapters. Subsequently Leopold Bloom is introduced, and Stephen's interactions with Bloom and his wife, Molly, form much of the final chapters' substance.

The previous was a paragraph supplied by "One World Productions," which is really rather insignificant in membership, but better to pay some degree of lip service to the insignificance than to present another article much too short and obviously devoid of meaningful information.

It should be noted that a search of the apartment turned up no Joyce books. In fact only one book was found; a pristine copy of "Pueblo Nations: Eight Centuries of Pueblo Indian History." It was taken into evidence.

What remains of the officer's throats has been airlifted to Johns Hopkins University, in hope of cutting edge forensic evaluation.

APD Homicide spokesperson Catherine Nobble said; "It is suspected that gang related activity was involved. In that regard the Albuquerque Police Department is in the process of rounding up various parties known to our undercover unit. There is no reason for alarm. People are encouraged to go about their usual daily activities."

As the three of us laughed, Rikki deadpanned; "Newspapers never get it right. We then eyed each other and simultaneously said; "What?"

I more than suspected that "The Unholy Trio" was back. Sometimes it takes surviving a disaster to get back to the right spot.

The End

