

### I, Messiah

### Volume Two of

### The Book of Tomorrows

### Alexander Ulysses Thor

Copyright 2014 Alexander Ulysses Thor

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Copyrighted property of the author,

May not be reproduced, copied, and

Distributed for commercial

Or non-commercial purposes.

The characters, incidents, and places either are

a product of The Author's imagination

or used fictitiously, any resemblance

to actual persons, living or dead,

business establishments, events,

or locales is entirely coincidental.

### Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

An Insightful Interlude

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Another Insightful Interlude

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Final Interlude

So oft it chances in particular men

That for some vicious mole of nature in them,

As in their birth, wherein they are not guilty,

(Since nature cannot choose his origin)

By the overgrowth of some complexion,

Oft breaking down the pales of forts of reason,

Or by some habit that too much o'erleavens

The form of plausive manners, that

(These men, carrying I say, the stamp of one defect,

Being nature's livery, or fortune's star)

Their virtues else, be they as pure as grace,

As infinite as man may undergo,

Shall in the general censure take corruption

From that particular fault.

Hamlet

William Shakespeare

OUR GOD PART

Extra, extra, this just in,

The All Powerful, All Knowing, Omnipresent,

Vengeful God Is Dead

Long Live Our God Part

Always With Us Since The Day We Are Born

From Yesterday, Today, and Forever Tomorrow

So Don't Waste Your Precious Time

Having Blind Faith in Religious Dogma

And Follow Your God Part to Your Fateful Destiny Instead

Don't Question If Yours Is the One True Faith

But Ask, What Is Your Fate?

What Is Your Purpose?

Why Are You Here?

Don't Deceive Yourself with Spiritual Beliefs

Thousands of Years Old,

And Find Faith in Knowing

We All Have a Divine Fate, a Purpose for Being

A God Part Born Inside Each and Every One of Us

Instilling in Us an Inherent Knowledge of Good and Evil

Making Anyone Capable of

Being Gandhi or Becoming Hitler

Originating in Our Genetic Code

This Divine Gift is What Separates Us

From the Beasts That Sleep and Feed

Fathering Man with the Belief

That He Was Created in the Image of a Higher Power

A God to Rule and Watch over Us

But, It Is Really just Evidence of Our God Part

The Book of Tomorrows

The Author

PROLOGUE

_What is all this hubba-fucking-balu about purpose? It was bad enough when I had to put up with his sancti-fucking-monious bullshit principles. But now I have to swallow this destiny crap, too. I am getting sick of him harping about living a wasted life if he doesn't leave behind something important to give meaning to his existence. Says it is the only reason he sticks around, still searching for his God Part. For Christ's sakes, who cares if we are all born inherently knowing right from wrong? Nobody cares about that kind of happy horseshit in a world this fucked up. It's survival of the fittest, baby, you know, dog-eat-dog._

I mean, who does he think he is? What makes him think he is so smart? Aside from the fact, he doesn't believe in religious myths. Plus, he is always willing to learn whatever he does not know, never boasts about things he don't, and will only proudly state what he does. So I can see where he might get the impression of possessing a higher intellect than say your average Joe still caught up in the dogma of conventional wisdoms on how to live. There's that, and oh yeah, most people are fucking stupid; i.e. Jackass, anyone.

Still, he should know this isn't some Popeye world with Olive Oil going around singing about what she would do if she were President. What does he think? He is going to write the next Great American novel and save the world. I always thought he had a bit of a God Complex before, but this shit is getting ridic-u-fucking-lous. He is God, I am God, you are God, and we are all God together, sounds like something he thought of after smoking the same shit The Beatles were on when writing Sgt. Pepper.

I liked him much better when he thought he was going to be a star. Coming out to Hollywood, thinking he would be the next Tarantino. The Next Big Thing, or some shit. Motivated by a crazy, last-ditch effort to justify his Final Choice to pursue his dreams of fame and fortune, he really did it just so he wouldn't end up sitting on a barstool as another Drug Addicted Drunken Liar crying over a beer about what could have been, if only he at least tried.

I will grant him this. He does know a good story when he hears one, even if it is only playing out up in his head. I just wish he would stick to guilty pleasure junk food without any deeper meaning or hidden purpose other than blowing shit up.

To think, if it weren't for those pesky kids, none of this shit would have ever happened. Unless of course, you believe this epiphany of purpose bullshit, then everything had to happen exactly the way it did so he could fulfill his destiny.

The one thing I will never truly get is his morbid obsession with death. His own, not anyone else's. To be or not to be, my ass; Hamlet was a fucking little bitch who couldn't make up his mind. But yet, I can see how he could get lost in every beautifully written word, like singing along to the poetry of your favorite song lyrics. They seemed to flow right off the page and segue into the pulsing joy of life found beating in your heart, which is the only place where you will find your true purpose. Ah, fuck it. What do I know?

An Insightful Interlude from

A. U. Thor

CHAPTER ONE

### DEVOUTLY TO BE WISHED

" _He's a Poet. He's a Picker. He's a Prophet. He's a Pusher_

He's a walking contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction"

**5:00 pm, Tuesday, May 5** th **2015**

Tentatively held up by the hilt, the tip of a Samurai sword blade just barely pierced the skin enough to draw a slight trickle of blood seeping through the exposed flesh right below the breastplate. A procrastinating interlude upon further encroachment delayed the name of action with a circumspect grip. The indecisive mind broodingly wondered whether or not it was better 'to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing, end them'.

These desperate, lost thoughts, mixed in with philosophical, Shakespearean ponderings, ran through the mind of Michael James Carducci while lying in the precariously indeterminate position on the bed in his studio apartment in San Jose, California. He had been struggling with a demoralizingly unshakeable despondency triggered by a self-diagnosed disorder he dubbed BLS—Battered Life Syndrome. Regrettably, this was not the first time his mind wished for such darkly morbid consummations since moving out to the West Coast from the East Coast Garden State of New Jersey in early February of 1999.

Or even before then, too.

Believing if he could remember back to the moment when the doctor smacked the very first breath of air into his lungs, it might have confirmed an established pattern in his life following him like an albatross around his neck since that day. Michael spent most of his formative years considering himself to be a misplace person, someone born in the wrong place and time, growing up in an area hostile to his environmental harmony. He futilely searched for his own purposeful voice, stuck living in a part of the country where he knew he just didn't belong or even want to try to fit.

It wasn't until he attained what he believed to be properly "written" motivation, with an offer for a two-hundred-thousand dollar screenplay contract he couldn't refuse, Michael finally managed to muster up the courage to leave behind everyone and everything he ever knew to go find the place where he truly did belong. Of course, there was never any guarantee his dreams would all come true. Even so, he tried to remain positive until a slew of perpetually endless disappointments dampened his spirits to the point where reality came crashing down on him and crushed whatever hope remained.

Starting your life over at forty, traveling over three-thousand miles across the country, never having journeyed farther than Pennsylvania before, was not something most people would be willing to attempt under the best circumstances. Then again, Michael definitely was not most people. As a matter of fact, he did it in a car with a used engine installed in it the day before he left, because the old one blew up on the ride home from the junkyard where he brought the car from the night before that. Resolute and undeterred, he packed in all of his worldly possessions that he could fit and left without knowing where he was going to live in California, having the financial means to support himself (other than credit cards), or any guarantee his screenplay contract would be fulfilled—since he only got paid if and when the film went into production, which it never did.

Michael was an Italian/Irish, ex-construction worker hailing from the Soprano territory of New Jersey. Brought into this world by way of Union City, he did a five-year stretch in Hoboken before moving to the suburban comforts of Lake Parsippany for the next seven years. Then the ever-increasing cost of living, along with the escalating taxes during the mid-Seventies recession, inspired some suburbanites to migrate to rural settings just to feel life flow in simple, little country towns, like Yards Creek, NJ. It was the kind of place where they rolled up the sidewalks at night, where cable television was a Big City luxury the local yokels didn't care about, and had an economy supported mostly by bars, pubs, taverns, liquor stores, and drunks paying fines generated from disorderly conduct arrests and DUI charges.

Growing up in a community of ass-backward country folk stuck living in the past, Michael felt isolated from the real world. His parents' misguidedly attempted to offer him and his sister a better life, away from the spread of crime and drugs trafficking into the once wholesome suburbs from the gritty urban streets, and inadvertently doomed them to a world of malicious mediocrity. One crucial thing his parents did not take into consideration was the fact they moved their children out of a school rated third best in the State to one that didn't even register on the chart.

Shortly after arriving in the land of movie magic, Michael became cognizant of an awkwardly vexing realization dawning on him with a blazing clarity. He did not have a skilled trade he could fall back on to earn a living after his dreams of Hollywood stardom died on the vine, never to blossom into fruition. But even though things didn't quite turn out the way he planned (not that he had much of one), Michael knew California was the place to be—farm living was no life for him.

Michael spent his first few months in Hollywood unproductively pitching his screenplays to many of Tinsel Town's film companies based in LA County. It did not take too long before he ended up having to declare bankruptcy after foolishly living off of credit cards for his big California or bust gamble, which the house won again. Moving on to Plan B (which was about as well formulated as Plan A), he needed to figure out a way to skirt around his thorny fiscal impasse and find a means of support for the next six months until he became eligible to access his Labor Union's annuity fund—about twenty-two grand or so. He brazenly thought he could use the money to make a short film to prove he knew what he was doing, even though it was clearly obvious he did not. Oh, he knew how to write a good story, but as for directing or acting. Michael didn't even own a regular camera, and the only time he ever had to speak in front of an audience, he stuttered through his presentation before walking out of the business-marketing course he was taking and never returned to the class.

To be fair though, he also walked out of an English composition class and an art course, two subjects he considered himself well versed, or so he thought at the time. We all have a learning curve we need navigate before being able truly comprehend the meaning of some of life's most important lessons. However, Michael only knew one way to get things done, something he had in common with his mother's favorite singer, old blues eyes himself, Frank, My-Way, Sinatra. Truly, has there ever been better way to do things?

The thought of going home a failure and playing the role of Prodigal Son was never an option he truly considered. If it had come down to that, he probably would have just Thelma and Louise-it off one of the many high cliffs along the Pacific Coast Highway.

Trying to remain peripherally connected to the film industry, Michael worked a brief stint as an underpaid security guard on the set of primetime television's most infamously scandalous, extremely popular, teenage sex romps known as Beverly Hills 90210. Although, there were also times when in desperate financial straits he swallowed his dignity and pride, stooping so low in doing what he considered scraping the bottom of the barrel in the entertainment industry, and took work as an audience seat-filler. He knew something had to change after working on one of the lowest common denominators in the world of TV game shows, cheering on programing that made the Gong Show look like Masterpiece Theatre. Then just before the New Millennium, Michael's luck finally took a turn in the right direction. He managed to find a place to call home for a while, after answering a misleading classified ad—supposedly looking to pay people to do film surveys over the phone.

Working for Everest Films may not have been part of the original plan, but the small, direct-to-DVD Production Company afforded him the opportunity to stay tangentially within the realm of Hollywood's shadow. He could still pitch his genre-twisting screenplays around town, as well as to the company he worked for, which also provided him with just enough income to pay the bills, but not much else. The only downside came from having to work as a telemarketer. Michael hated bothering people with calls they were not interested in receiving, any more than the free prospectus, investment packages they were offering through an internet barter and stock LLC partnering with the film company. BarterShop.com helped Everest Films find domestic and international backers to finance and pre-sell their productions, which were mostly low-budget horror flicks.

Once he transferred to the mailroom, Michael lucked into the opportunity to proofread spec scripts submitted to Everest Films for consideration. He soon became acutely aware of the answers to some perplexing questions he had since first being creatively inspired to write screenplays after seeing Quentin Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs. He finally knew why it was so hard to get anyone to consider unsolicited material. No one reads their own mail, and the unbelievable amount of pure garbage inundating the offices of Hollywood agents, producers, and studio heads made it not worth slogging through the slush piles to find the potential diamond in the ruff.

Working for over twenty years doing commercial construction, building everything from hospitals to prisons, shopping malls to office complexes, schools to municipal buildings, and much, much more, Michael met many people from all walks of life he never would have if he had stayed in Yards Creek. Conversely, his California job opened up a whole new world. It introduced him to uniquely intriguing characters, people openly unafraid to express who they were or pretended to be—not that he necessarily wanted to get to know many of them that well. Not a real people person, he came to view the world with an anthropologist's eyes. He never attempted to assimilate or fit in with any of the different clicks and cultures, none of which he felt he belonged.

Michael did get to know one of those demographically different, West Coast girls the Beach Boys always sang about in their sand and surf songs. She turned out to be his one saving grace, even though there were times when he felt trapped in a living hell.

Adelaide Dix-Spinoza hated her given name when combined with her maiden name and all the nicknames it spawned. She preferred Addie, her self-proscribed nom de plume, also retaining her married name after her divorce—despite the fact, even with her darkest tan, no one would ever mistake her for being Hispanic. The irrepressibly spontaneous, high-spirited, fair-skinned-blonde entered Michael's life at a time when he truly needed her monogamously virtuous, sensually vibrant, generous heart to help start his beating again. Definitely not a book to judge by her cover, Addie's indomitable devotion was sometimes subject to menopausal periods of neurotically charged, alcohol induced, jealous fits of rage, deeply rooted in the emotional scars left by previously unfaithful, licentious partners who betrayed and trampled on her bruised, but never fully broken, heart.

Michael and Addie did not have one of those whirlwind, storybook romances born out of flirting gestures of desire, intimate candlelit dinners, or wanton lustful longings, but one that evolved from an odd occurrence of coincidental events of happenstance. She did manage to accomplish something no one else before her ever could, quenching his insatiable, long-unsatisfied sexual thirst. A man drowning in his own emotional baggage, Michael had a hopeful heart beating inside his chest once more. After moving into a house in Van Nuys and splitting the rent with one of their co-workers, Michael and Addie spent their first year together living in mostly blissful harmony. The time he shared with her may not have been something that would have occurred if he found the success he initially sought when moving to California, but in the end, it turned out to be the most gratifyingly heartwarming, emotional intimacy Michael experienced to that point in his life. But knew nothing lasts until forever tomorrow.

The beginning of the end came after the attacks on September 11th 2001. The financial bubble burst a few years later, forcing many companies to fold-up shop or make massive layoffs. After cutbacks in the mailroom sent him back to the phones, Michael could not keep up with the others and was let go in June 2004. Feeling trapped in a déjà vu inspired nightmare, he again came face to face with the unpleasant reality of not being a carpenter, an electrician, a plumber, a mechanic, a truck driver, a car salesman, a realtor, an insurance agent, a house painter, a landscaper, a short-order cook, or any of the other nine to five, blue collar occupations available to people without a formal education beyond a high school diploma. With the increasing financial burdens keeping the cabins bare, his relationship with Addie started to sour, until they could no longer savor the nourishing flavor once hungered for with their passionate appetites.

After spending the next year living not to die in LA, collecting unemployment while unsuccessfully looking for work, Michael headed up north to the extraordinarily beautiful Bay Area in late May of 2005, where he found himself at the mercy of an old friend from New Jersey. John Simpson came out west a few years before Michael and built up a very successful construction business. He was one of Michael's old drinking buddies from back in the time when that was all they lived for.

Trying to work out the kinks in his latest soap opera, Michael thwarted his fanciful, preconceived notion he was destined for fame, fortune, and Hollywood stardom. Deciding in the end, he was only an ordinary man, just another face in the crowd. Never quite knowing if he had been inadvertently setting himself up to fail whenever venturing outside of his creative pursuits to look for employment, Michael honestly believed he now had the perfect opportunity to learn a skilled trade he could retire from in twenty-five years or so. In the past, he always worked jobs with no real future that permitted him the free time to strive toward accomplishing higher goals, figuring once you are a mechanic or a plumber, no one would ever think of you as anything else, until you proved otherwise.

When he first arrived in California, Michael stayed with his friend with the booming construction business while waiting for the publication of his first novel. John treated Michael with the same respect he always showed him in days past. But when he went back, something about his friend had changed. He looked down on Michael for desperately needing a helping hand. John always had a more grounded business philosophy, a product of his impoverished upbringing. He did not give into foolish flights of fancy or crave the fame of celebrity, believing the only way for people like him to succeed was to excel at some skilled-trade and build up a highly regarded, dependable business through hard work and sweat. Anyone of those greater fools, who naively tried to strive beyond their station, he thought were nothing but a bunch of childish dreamers. It was how he came to view Michael, as just another out of touch with reality, loser friend from back home wanting to grub off everything he had accomplished since heading out west like the fabled young man of western lore once did when told to go seek his fortune.

Michael did not realize just how far success went to his friend's head, or how much he had changed during the time he spent down in LA. John's money-oriented mindset for increasing his materialistic pursuits had always been his most dominant characteristic trait since the day they met. He was constantly trying to come up with some sort of moneymaking scheme, whether legal or not. Michael never really cared about having money, only the peace of mind it could give him. So he swallowed his pride as he felt dragged back into the business he fought so hard to get out all these years. But he also knew it was the only way to keep what little sanity he had left. Deciding a long time ago, he would either continue living in California, or not at all.

Similar to LA, Michael started down what he felt was an optimistically promising path. But after nearly four futile, strenuously unproductive years, Michael knew he was not going to attain the skilled trade he sought. The final straw broke in March of 2009. It cracked under the rising pressure boiling over from a heated and unprovoked argument. His friend falsely accused Michael of taking advantage of him for borrowing a company truck after his car broke down outside the shop, citing an apparent, long harbored grudge over dog watching protocols as his root cause for being upset with Michael. Rebecca Simpson, his friend's manipulating shrew of a wife, insisted he strictly follow her exact specifications of staying at their house while they were away on vacation. Michael wanted to stay at his place, which was less than five minutes away, still agreeing to take care of their dog. But that was not good enough for her.

Michael felt his friend resented him for basically not bowing down and kissing his ring when he came begging for a help. What John failed to realize, Michael never begged for anything, he simply asked him if he had a job. If he said no, it wouldn't be the end of his world. Unless overcome by the sudden need to go cliff-diving in his car, that is. Even so, he was surprised that after all these years his friend didn't know him any better than that. Michael was not the kind of person who would try to get over on anyone, no less someone who recently befriended him in a time of need. But, John should have also known, Michael did not kiss anyone's ring or ass. It might have seemed like a silly point of pride to some, but to him, it was the difference between being a man or a mouse.

Finding himself living in between the proverbial rock and a hard place, Michael determined he had the unenviable choice to either black mail his friend for severance pay, or knock his teeth down his throat after John threw an ill-advised punch that grazed his cheek. Michael's viscerally instinctive reaction for self-preservation kicked into high gear as he grabbed his friend by the throat and slammed him hard against a work truck. Quickly calculating his two undesirable options, Michael chose to take the money and go. But from that day on, Michael also decided to live life on his own terms, and no one else's, ever again.

Michael did leave Santa Cruz with three life-altering experiences. The first came in form of a vacation trip he took back home with his friend in Christmas of 2005. It turned out to be the only time he ever went back, and sadly, the last time he saw his mother. The second and third combined together to have a very profound effect on him after purchasing his first home computer. Shortly thereafter, he thought his life's dream had miraculously come true when he got his second novel, _When You See After Dark_ , published in 2006. But it turned out to be another disappointment he attributed to his inability to promote it, being too broke and in the wrong place at the wrong time. Years later, it became the prelude that inspired The Book of Tomorrows.

The thing that bothered Michael the most, whenever seeking steady employment in the past, he always had to rely on whom he knew, instead of what he knew. It was a hard nut to have to swallow for someone so fiercely independent, but one he somehow managed whenever necessary.

In late February of 2010, Michael answered an ad on Craigslist looking for security officers. He would finally acquire a steady occupation he could take pride in knowing he achieved on his own terms. Being a security guard also provided him with a Guard Card, which gave him the freedom to seek employment anywhere in the country.

The scenic nature of his first assigned site as a security officer made him surprisingly nostalgic for home. Setting on top of a high-rising hillside, the Putney-White manufacturing plant was a defunct government facility that used to make booster rockets for the space shuttle, but had long since reverted back to nature with the indigenous wildlife roaming free over the many reclaimed acres of untenanted land. Eventually, Mother Nature always took back her dominion. Michael would drive around all night patrolling the facility grounds in a company truck, covering almost thirty miles, while working on graveyard, something that fit in nicely with his night owl lifestyle.

A little over a year before Michael started working there, the site had been shut down after a welder died in an explosion that shook the North San Jose area so hard the people living there thought the whole hillside was going to come crumbling down and bury the entire town under a giant landslide. The thing Michael found most farcical (and probably offered little comfort to the poor, unlucky welder) was the mandatory, weekly safety meetings they religiously scheduled for all site personnel.

As with many ventures in Michael's life, this new one started on a promising note, giving him a false sense of security. No pun intended. He knew from the get-go he would earn more money in his first year than any one of the nearly four he spent doing physical, hard labor for his friend, compared to the easy time of cruising around all night or sitting at a post watching movies and reading books—eventually taking another crack at writing both again.

Every time he gave up on writing, Michael would have some artistic inspiration come along and change his idle mind, most of the time developing out of some quirky scenario his creative imagination generated from being stuck in strange places. Always wanting to try his hand at writing a horror film, his spinning-story-wheel of a mind worked out a scary scenario that combined the rampant wildlife overrunning the grounds with the facility's explosive history. Even though disappointed with his frustratingly maddening inability to sell his work, after spending all that time working on what he felt was a crowd-pleasing film horror fans would cheer for with their frightful screams, Michael remained satisfied with the screenplay he fashioned. One thing he was confident that he knew better than just about anyone was a good story when he read one, even if he wrote it. He just could never quite understand why they wouldn't let him play in their reindeer games.

There were other factors working to keep his spirits high after he moved to San Jose in July of 2010. He no longer had to commute from Santa Cruz and lived in a nicer apartment with cheaper rent that was less than a five-minute drive from work. It all worked in harmony to lift him out of the dumps he found himself in after the falling out with his friend left him wondering; _where does a fool go, when there's no one left to listen, to a story without meaning that nobody wants to hear_. He knew he was truly on his own now.

Michael never intended on becoming a social nomad. It just sort of happened that way. People always seemed to disappoint him. They were seldom true to themselves, rarely saying what they meant out of some preconceived notion they had to hide their true selves, fearing repercussions from anyone seeing who they really were.

Had their adoption been tried and true, Michael would have grappled the friends he had to his heart with hoops of steel. But over the years spent away from what he once called home, along with his own failure to maintain contact, his old friends faded away into their own lives. However, his basic primal need for human contact dulled his senses, making him unable to see beyond the façade presented to him with each unfledged, newly hatched friendship.

The one relationship he truly desired was the one that always gave him the most grief in its pursuit. The frailties of woman's ways were enough to drive sane men crazy. But for someone with Michael's inability to represent his feelings through insincere flattering of the heart—commonly used by fevered, hot-blooded men and willingly accepted by passionately aroused women—the ambiguous art of seduction eluded him. Unless, genuinely received and given.

Although, he did inadvertently stumble into a few intimate encounters with the fairer sex that lasted longer than a couple of strangers passing in the night and finding temporary comfort in each other's arms. Michael never met someone who could complete him in the same way he did her. He had to admit it was a pretty tall order to fill, not being the easiest person to live with, or get to know real well—considering he wasn't too sure who he was himself.

When he left LA and headed up to Santa Cruz, Michael was not on speaking terms with Addie. But by the time he moved on to San Jose, they reconnected to become good long-distance friends. While on the other hand, he never spoke to his old friend of over twenty-five years again. He would often lament on the ironic nature of his life. How everything seemed to swirl around him in a perpetual whirlwind of familiar frustrations and constant contradictions, leading him to formulate the belief he had become a walking, talking, living, breathing contradiction—a paradox that was partly truth and partly fiction.

While he had to admit it was not normal to remain in friendly contact with someone after such a volatile breakup, it still wasn't the most unusual intimate relationship he never meant to have. Until Loren (Lulu) Mitchell met Michael, she had been a lesbian for most of her forty-eight years, only intimate with one boy when she was a teenager. Oddly enough, his short-lived, unconventional relationship also turned out to be the most sexually gratifying experience of his life. Although, afterwards her attitude swiftly changed when discussing common topics they once bonded over, leading to another unpleasant parting that left him wishing he knew then, what he knew now, Ooh La-La.

As the years passed by with the demolition of the facility nearly complete, Tara Wright never meant to come along and cause any great upheaval in the mostly peaceful harmony the site offered those working there. She was eighteen years old and wanted to earn enough money for nursing school, but unwittingly became the center of just about everyone's attention. Drawn to Michael with puppy dog eyes, she felt safe in his company. She seemed to know he wouldn't get all touchy-feely with her, using the ruse of massaging hands on tense shoulders, while making veiled sexual innuendos. Understanding how people could find her alluring features and charming wit attractive, Michael's strong, moral fiber wouldn't allow him to entertain weaker minded urges of the flesh. He always maintained a stern conviction to never date anyone young enough to be his daughter—unless a supermodel, movie star, or a pop singer. He was only human, after all.

The thing that took him by surprise was how her charming disposition and kind heart became the catalyst for an envious, visceral jealousy emanating from some of his male co-workers when she seemed to prefer his company to any of theirs. Betrayed and accused of the improper actions of others, Michael truly started to believe that no good deed goes unpunished. Disparaged, depressed, and disillusioned, he left the Putney-White site in September of 2012 with the depressing thought echoing in his head that every time he took two steps forward, he fell three steps backwards. Darkly thinking if he managed to write the next great American novel, no one would ever read it or even know about its existence.

Sitting out in the Santa Clara Hilton's front parking lot with winter coming and only his car for warmth, Michael found the experience very cathartic. Even if, it meant a pay cut with no chance of overtime on what was supposed to be a temporary site that ended up lasting nearly four years. His post was brought on by a recent spree of smash and grab thefts of GPS units. People would oftentimes leave their windows down with the GPS unit turned on brightly shining out a guiding LED light, which might as well have been a neon sign blinking out Steal Me. No one bothered with car stereos, anymore. They took too much time and were too difficult to rip out of newer cars.

The first year passed with only a few instances of unwisely contemplated thefts, which Michael quickly aborted just by making his presence known. He preferred the stakeout method of crime prevention to the constant, visible presence of authority. He knew how the criminal mind worked (don't ask), and what they would do by thinking how he would, like monitoring the lot for security shift changes to exploit that window of opportunity. Something they did succeed at pulling off a few times before he arrived on site, so he started showing up early. Michael gave his site supervisor his personal guarantee there would not be any break-ins on his watch.

Not having much in life to grapple onto his weary, wounded heart to prevent it from turning into a cold, hardened stone, Michael focused his thoughts on maintaining a strong work ethic to give his life some meaning. A highly dependable worker, he was never late, hardly ever took a day off, gladly accepted any overtime offered, and would work on any holiday. He did not do it to impress his supervisors or believe he would get any recognition because of it. He did it strictly as a product of his own sense of pride, needing to feel he was still a part of something.

Even when going above and beyond the call of duty, after rescuing three wayward bulldog puppies—something most other guards wouldn't have given a second thought, not being a part of their official duties—Michael had no expectations of getting a reward or seek any kind of acknowledgement. It turned out to be one of his proudest moments. He successfully arranged for someone to come pick them up after finding the owner's phone number on one of their collars, amazed that they made it as far as they did after learning from whence they came.

His only other real adventure happened when he prevented the entire parking lot from going up in flames after the landscapers left some woodchips on a ground-based floodlight that slowly made them start to smolder. It sent up a smoke signal that alerted Michael to the situation before the growing flames could get out of control. Luckily, he was paying attention and not asleep at the wheel, as some guards were prone to do on graveyard, or else he would definitely be remembered as the guard who slept while his post burn down. People only took note of the bad in life and usually let the good go by unnoticed and absent praise. The only time someone typically got recognition for something good would be after safely landing an airliner on the Hudson River and being rightfully hailed a hero, while the captain of the Exxon Valdes will live in infamy as another drunken sailor.

After his second year on the site, with the cost of living growing larger and no raise in his stagnant salary, Michael started feeling as if he was taking up permanent residence in limbo, biding his time, just living to die. With no future prospects, or much of a past or present to speak of, Michael began to feel like the punch line to a bad joke. His job was a joke that just barely paid the bills. His apartment was a joke with noisy neighbors going from bad to worse as gangbanging thugs were now threating his life on a daily basis. His writing career was another dismal, failed endeavor. His relationship with family and friends was almost non-existent, which included his social life as the biggest of the sadly unfunny jokes. There weren't even any highly anticipated, new films coming out worth waiting around for, which in the past would have been enough to sustain him—like The Lord of the Rings trilogy did between 2001 and 2003.

His morbid-bound mind started rationalizing his existence as just taking up space. So, why bother. He sincerely thought no one would even miss him. He could drop dead of a heart attack (a sword through the chest could be considered one hell of an attack) or from something as ordinary as slipping on a bar of soap in the shower, and it might take over a month for anyone to find him—unless the rent was due before then.

Michael was not alone with feeling left out in the cold. He found an unlikely companion to fill a tangible need to preserve his humanity and maintain a connection with some form of real life, even if it was a stray cat in just as much need of a friend.

Like most of us, the cat did not start out by itself in life. But depending on the circumstances of your birth, you may be fortunate enough to be born inside a warm, loving home, while being nurtured until fully grown, before heading out on your own. Or, your life could begin at the bottom of a dumpster, having to fight for survival from the moment of your first breath, never even knowing the comforts of a home, just getting by in the harsh world all alone. Although he could not be sure, Michael figured it to be a pretty accurate guess as to his feral friend's origins, except for the part about being alone.

The first time he saw the kitten prowling around the front parking lot of the hotel, there were two of them. It was the middle of October 2014, seven months before the special would end, when he first noticed the two kittens playfully scurrying around the parking lot, darting in between the parked cars, finding the only joy in life they could, each other.

The two cuddly kittens had to remain in the front lot, regulated there by some backyard bullies tomcatting around, staking claim on the territory located in the large three-floor parking garage behind the hotel, guarding it with the ferocity of a Brooklyn street gang. A dry shelter from nasty, wet weather, along with the warmth generated by lying on the hoods of recently parked cars, was not their only rousing call for aggressively defending their home turf. One of the security guards assigned to the site was a crazy, racist cat-lady. She kept a twenty-five pound bag of cat food in the trunk of her car, much to the displeasure of the hotel officials, who had been constantly trying to evict the furry squatters from their property. It eventually led to her removal from the site.

Unfortunately, when seeking out protective shelter to be able roam fear free from hungry, territorial cats, life can still sometimes hit you right between the eyes with one of its fateful twists. By dashing out of the path of an oncoming train, you could end up running straight into a speeding Greyhound racing off to Vegas for a big win.

Michael came across the lifeless creature's stiffly still corpse resting the big sleep on the grass, just off the shoulder of the road. Theorizing whoever had the misfortune to run it down must have moved it there. The thought of someone feeling bad enough to move it was more comforting than imagining the poor, mortally wounded creature crawling there coughing up bloody hairballs while in its final death throes.

Michael understood how painful the loss of someone close could be for anyone to have to go through when knowing the details of what happened, even if witness to the fatal event. But, if one day after waking up, they were just gone, never knowing why would be hard for anyone to comprehend, no less a cat. Not knowing if Oliver bore witness to his sibling's demise, or how a cat would deal with being alone in the hard world, Michael wasn't sure if it would make him friendlier or more cautious. His mysteriously missing friend had been warming up to him a bit quicker. Michael never got around to naming the other one.

Never given anything in this world, except life and some mother's milk, it wasn't too hard to understand why the kindness of strangers might be a foreign concept for a cat to depend on and cause him to bite the hand attempting to feed. Michael decided not to let it deter him from the strange obligation he felt to provide for the life he saved. He came to regard it as his underlining karmic purpose for being stuck there for so long.

Much to his own bewildered amusement, Michael began carrying around a small bag of cat food in the trunk of his car. That was when he dubbed him Oliver in homage to his fictional human counterpart and fellow orphan, always wanting some more, please. Slowly winning over his trust, with only a few minor getting-to-know-you scratches, Michael literally had him eating out of his hand within six weeks. Once Oliver overcame his defensively cautious nature to strike out at any encroachment of his personal space, he started hungrily craving the caress of purr inducing pets instead. Michael began to ponder upon the possibility of feral domestication.

He did not have anything against pets, but in recent years, Michael came to view them with the same narrowed perspective he shared toward children—great as long as they were other peoples. His current financial situation did not leave much room for anyone in his life, including an animal that would need shots, flea baths, and other nurturing care he felt incapable of properly providing. He didn't even have any houseplants, since he somehow managed to kill cactus.

Deciding when the time came to move on to another site, he would leave it up to Oliver to either twist in the wind on his own or come with him to discover the creature comforts of home. Michael tried to coax him into his car a few times, but the boxed in feeling brought on a claustrophobic panic attack, forcing a hurried exit back to living outside the box in the only environment it had ever known. Michael understood the feeling, quite well. He had been figuratively living outside the box ever since he started thinking that way, too.

After years of being disappointed with the foolish actions of his species, Michael found himself relating better to the animal kingdom. At least they acted in a logical manner coherent to their harmony with nature. We became a Jackass nation preoccupied with 1001 ways to die, viewing the real housewives of the not so rich and famous, who wanted to marry million midgets or become the next idolized Americans watched by millions of Big Brothers, while hoarding their fifteen minutes from being hooked on the fame factor, until friends and family finally had to intervene by sending them to get lost on an island in the great race for survival and hopefully make it back for next week's episode just to prove they weren't the weakest link.

As technology grew smarter, people got dumber. There used to be only thirteen channels of shit on the TV to choose from, but once it went to five hundred and all the way up to five thousand, it led to a mass saturation in the amount of so-called entertainment programing, not so much in the way of substance. Mixed in with the baser matter easily accessible from surfing on the internet, cell phone texting, twitter feeds, blogger diatribes, U-Tube videos, and social network sites, it revived a blind faith in some people to cling onto the traditional belief systems they were born and raised. Some even went around building Creationism museums with cavemen riding dinosaurs, and they viewed the Flintstones as if it were a documentary.

Corporate godfathers conned people into believing anyone who was smarter than them had to be an elitist-socialist trying to redistribute their hard-earned wealth to the impoverished masses. Using a media magician's trick, they convinced the average Joe their leaders should be just like one of them, someone they could share a beer with at a ballgame. It allowed for a parade of four-star clowns to run for the highest office in the land and hold debates on what was best for the country, when most of them weren't even qualified to manage a 7-11.

There were no more Mr. Smith's going to Washington to fight a corrupt system, only those eagerly willing to expel an idiot wind of empty thoughts spewing from their mouths and leaving some to wonder how they still knew how to breathe. Michael thought it would actually be funny, if not so sadly pathetic.

If that were not enough to make someone gaze longingly into the abyss, the thing many people were fond of saying, ' _at least you have your health'_ , would have been enough to send most of them leaping in screaming. Michael had just about given up trying to figure out exactly what it was that had been slowly killing him for the past twenty years or so. During the times when he could afford health insurance, he was never able to get a satisfactory answer to what caused his mysterious ailment. He also knew a person couldn't go on throwing up almost every morning for no apparent reason before it eventually killed him.

It motivated his move to a grave shift, attempting to circumvent his fragile condition and maintain the delicate balance on which he survived. It turned out to be the most effective way he found to suppress whatever caused him to wake up vomiting mucus nearly every morning. There were actually times when it got so bad he sincerely prayed for his own death. He thought about how many people would not be able to take the near constant pain he used to feel. How most of them would be in an emergency waiting room after spending the morning praying to the porcelain god for death, instead of going to work and doing a hard, physical job, drenched in days of sweaty, hot humidity or bone chilling, frozen weather.

The demoralizing, dismal truth came from knowing his cure was only a temporary one. It would eventually manifest in another way, maybe even worse than before. Dejectedly realizing, his malady was an incurable aliment symbolically symptomatic of the reoccurring malignancy infecting the minds of many people. He also knew how hopelessly helpless it was for anybody to find a way to ensure our species would not end up going the way of the dinosaur.

In the end, it was not any one of life's personal burdens spurning his patience to merit an unworthy existence that made Michael ready a bare bodkin. Nor was it the thousand sharp pangs felt with each despised attempt of love, nor the daily insults proud men had to bear when wrongly oppressed by the law's delay with the insolence of those in office constantly preventing it from falling heavily on the purveyor's heads. But, there was only one giving him pause to lose the name of action in making his final cut, the painful sorrow it would cause his ailing mother.

Up until then, from time to time when curiously wondering about breaking on thru to the other side (no one could be such a big fan of Hamlet—and The Doors—without being a little obsessed with death), he had been resolved to playing the cards he was dealt, rather than folding his hand. Then the sudden, overwhelming feeling of futility mentally hit him like a tsunami wave washing away all prospects of a brighter future, and not just his. When finished with his list of reasons to kick his own bucket, he felt it weighing on his chest as heavily as the sword blade piercing his flesh, held up by an increasingly tiring hand, making the sadness of others even less of a deterrent. Michael could not go on living trapped in a self-deluded Matrix world. Clearly understanding how the truth does not always set you free, he realized being right didn't always make you happy, nor would it necessarily make you popular, either. As a matter of fact, it could make someone very unpopular when the message was too hard to accept.

Starved for access to information as a kid, after Michael discovered the power of the internet, it reminded him of the answer to the old joke— _why did God create alcohol—so, the Irish wouldn't rule the world_. Then he applied the same response to his satirical belief of why someone did not invent the internet when he was younger. So he wouldn't be able to rule the world with the power of all that information at his fingertips. Except when opportunity came knocking, you needed to be alive to answer the door.

KNOCK, KNOCK

The loud knocks on his door brought Michael out of his trancelike state as he uttered the first two words that came to his mind in a soft-spoken reply.

"Fuck me."

CHAPTER TWO

### THE MONOPOLY OF YOUTH

1

"Yeah, alright, already, cool your jets and give me a few ticks. These old bones are not as young as they used to be." Michael grumbled at the door as he got out of bed and headed over to let in his persistently knocking, impatient caller.

"Monop, you awake in there?" Ryan Logan's youthful, seventeen-year-old voice called out from the other side of the door in eager anticipation. His sharp, quick thinking mind was trying to figure out a solution to his unexpected dilemma, having to deal with the delicate situation while under the influence of a powerful hallucinogenic. Nevertheless, life had its own schedule, no matter how inconvenient. It just happened.

Michael opened the door and stepped back, letting it swing freely open from the entering shove.

"Alright already, now that you got me up, tell me why you are in such a high-amped mood? What's got your engine all revved up with no place better to go? Considering, you chose my door to knock on." Michael queried into his flush-faced friend's elevated condition, turning around and adding. "You look like you have been tipping back a few."

"I knocked over a couple of Forties, but never mind about that, Monop. I got something here I bet you will really like." Ryan wasted no time getting to one of the reasons for his spur-of-the-moment visit, calling Michael by a shortened version of his recently dubbed moniker—the Monopoly Man.

"Now you know I am not into chemical highs anymore and only organically grown substances." Michael repeated his well-established position on the use of illegal or legal stimulants. He no longer imbibed in the recreational drugs of his youth and only self-medicated for medicinal purposes, now. "Hell, it's been over six years since I even drank a drop of alcohol. Strictly as a personal choice, mind you."

"Come on, Monop. Give me a break. You know, I know what you are and are not into." Ryan replied to his personal insight, reinforcing his credibility as someone who could be trusted with such matters.

Ryan noticed something oddly out of sorts distracting him as he watched Michael plop lethargically down on a worn and tattered, black cushioned swivel chair. Able to relax now that he was in the comforting confines of being indoors, after feeling an overwhelming need to change his environmental surroundings, Ryan could not help wondering what could possibly be forming the dark, wet patch in the middle of Michael's chest, just under his grey, sleeveless sweatshirt—other than the obvious. His eyes reflexively scanned the room for some indicating sign as he focused in on the unsheathed Samurai sword Michael propped up against a bookcase when he got out of bed.

Ryan's wide-eyed smile started to fade away as his analytical, wise-beyond-years mind accurately deduced what his older friend had on his troubled mind—and apparently chest. He only knew Michael for a little over a year, but Ryan's first impression (much like Michael's) had changed considerably since the first time they met to a much more favorable opinion, seeing in him a kindred spirit, instead of another old, drug-addicted, drunken loser like his father.

For as long as he could remember, Michael always wanted to leave behind a legacy of profoundly written words that would stand the test of time as a lasting achievement. While Ryan never cared about making his mark, and like most of his friends, he always tried to maintain a low profile, wanting to stay off the watchful eye of anyone's radar.

"Well, don't keep me in suspense." Michael said sensing Ryan's building awareness of his indecisive mortal contemplations.

Attempting to keep his friend focused on other subjects, Michael unmuted the television as a Presidential debate was about to begin on CNN. Ryan diverted his attention to the TV for a quick moment as the debate moderator just finished asking the candidates what they would have done differently over the last three years if they had been President, all of whom had unrealistic dreams of grandeur of ever seeing the Oval Office, other than on a White House tour.

"Monop, I hope you are not letting this election bullshit get you down. Don't let those assholes fuck with your head. I'm not even into any of this shit, and I can tell they are all a bunch of fucking clowns. It is like you said about it all being a big ratings circus. It doesn't make a difference whose running things, they are all the same, nothing ever changes."

"That is where you are wrong. The way we fucked up this country over the last decade things may not get better anytime soon, but it sure can get much worse in one hell of a hurry. You are too young to understand this, but no one took Regan seriously at first, either. Saying things like, he is just an old, washed-out actor trying to play one last role, which really was when this whole circus began, when that mental patient took office. He broke up the picket lines at airports and forced the strikers to go back to work without settling their grievances. That effectively signaled the beginning of the end of unions, severely limiting their power to fight for the rights of the working man."

On stage, a clown parade of simple-minded fools took turns giving answers that only clearly defined one thing about each of them. They were all incredibly unqualified, incompetent, uneducated idiots, each standing as living proof of the inadequacies and flaws in our electoral process. The fact they made it this far, and considered qualified to hold the important positions some of them already did, was incomprehensible.

"I would have passed laws safeguarding every American citizen's God-given right to bear arms in this great Christian Nation of ours." Governor Percy Richards of Texas stated his misinterpreted views of the 1st and 2nd Amendment of the Constitution.

"I would have secured our country with an electric border fence from the invading hordes of foreigners infecting this great land of ours. I would also enforce a nationwide mandate to show proof of citizenship upon request of any law officer, just like the law I passed in the great state of Arizona." Governor Janet Bauer freely stated her Third Reich philosophy.

"In order to ensure the strength of our military to combat the constant threats from terrorist nations, I would never have permitted the sinful disease of homosexuality to openly infect the minds of our troops." Congressman Kermit Bainbridge stated his encased-inside-a-bubble worldview. The old Warhorse, who was not even relevant during his time as Speaker of the House over two decades ago, exuded a prideful vanity for incorrectly recalled past glory days.

"I believe it is the moral duty of every Christian American to protect the right to life of every child from conception through birth. Therefore, I would not allow atheist physicians, masquerading as family planners, to do the devil's work by performing legally sanctioned murder with government funded abortions." Wisconsin Senator Dick Mandeni proclaimed his piously held religious beliefs.

"I would have stimulated the economy by instituting a Flat Tax Rate that would have balanced the budget by creating more jobs opportunities, so small business entrepreneurs, like me, could expand in the free market." Melvin Brown, a minority restaurant owner with a snowball's chance in hell of getting his party's nomination, spouted out fabricated talking points, communicating his thoughts the only way he knew how, through bogus sound bites and false platitudes.

"As an extremely successful American businessman, who knows how to make a buck, not to mention a thing or two about hiring and firing people, I would never have allowed the redistribution of wealth this President's socialistic policies have forced down our throats with his CommieCare health plan. And on the day you elect me as your next President, I will prove we have been subjected to the tyrannical reign of a fraudulent Presidency by presenting evidence showing that he was not born in this country, and I will prosecute him to the full extent of the law." Howard Humphries, a billionaire buffoon, proudly stated his ignorance of how our system of government actually worked, listening to the self-deluded voice in his head telling him, 'nailed it. The Howard always knows how to sell it bigger and better than anyone else does. I should have gone into politics a long time ago. I am a complete natural.' He was also the first to drop out of the election.

"What a un-fucking-believable moron." Michael yelled at the television in an involuntary reflex of anger. "The only thing you are living proof of is that you don't have to have a brain to be a billionaire. As a matter of fact, you can actually be a complete fucking moron."

"Monop, if this shit bothers you that much, why don't you just change the channel. I'm sure there is either, a Law & Order, or CSI, or NCIS on, or all three." Ryan suggested a program change, before refocusing on his reason for being there.

Picking up the remote off the coffee table setting on the right side of his black-cushioned swivel chair, Michael hit the return button and switched the channel back to the last one watched as another episode of Law & Order SVU was just coming on.

"I can't help it. Wouldn't you be pissed off if someone started a fire in your backyard then walked away to let it burn down the whole neighborhood, because what they are doing to this country is not that much different." Michael replied.

Michael's comment about not needing to be smart in order to be wealthy triggered a smirking smile as he related the thought to his onetime friend, John Simpson. He could see some similar characteristic traits in Ryan, just not that one. They were both highly motivated, money minded, business entrepreneurs, except Ryan did not have John's condescendingly cruel nature. John was pretty clueless about anything else but making money, especially how to treat family, friends, and employees.

Years later, he would end up paying a steep price for his poor judgment, costing him everything he proudly built when those he foolishly trusted betrayed him. While at the same time, he shunned away the only ones he truly could. John's one saving grace, which also prevented Michael from knocking his teeth down his throat that day, came from him being a good father, another quality Ryan unknowingly shared, but would soon become well acquainted.

Michael always felt he was a pretty good judge of character and could tell if someone had a good heart. No matter how far down they kept it hidden from everyone, afraid of exposing it to any real emotions for fear it might get broken.

"Noppers, I am not saying you are wrong, but what can you do about it, except let it piss you off. It is not worth the aggravation you will get from banging your head against the wall." Ryan said using a more affable version of his nickname to express sympathy for his familiar frustrations with hypocrites distorting the truth and calling it fact.

Michael took note of Ryan's firm grasp of reality for someone not well versed in current political affairs. He had an innate understanding of things without having firsthand knowledge or any real interest. It was something else he would have never guessed about the young man.

"Besides, I got something that will make you forget about all that bullshit." Ryan claimed from behind blues eyes, brightly beaming out under his crew-cut blonde hair with his all-American apple pie face supporting a devilish grin, revealing a bit of the O'Trickster still lurking inside him.

When Michael first met Ryan, he presumed his misconstrued impression derived from the peer pressure of being in the company of a stranger around his friends. Only after running into the young man outside his apartment, where the neighborhood kids used to hang out most of the time, Michael realized Ryan was not someone who would follow around the tough, young gang member through whom Michael met him. Ryan was not a follower. He was more of a leader, who did not want to lead.

Like many young people growing up in impoverished areas, Ryan came from a home broken up by the abuses often related to alcohol and drugs. Yet, he still grew up to be a good-natured young man with a kind heart, mostly thanks to the good values his caring mother taught him. Even though the nimble and slim young man had a bit of a mischievous side leftover from the mediocrity of youth, Ryan would rather spend his time figuring out ways to make money, rather than hang out partying.

The zest for life Ryan and his friends shared reminded Michael of his younger self he wrote about in his semi-biographical novel, _When You See After Dark_. It gave him a second wind, which quickly died out after he started feeling like a going nowhere, living to die, lost in limbo loser. Aimlessly moving about with no real purpose anymore, he knew time was a monopoly of youth, something you could never get back once it ran out. It was just one of the thoughts depressing Michael at the time, believing there was no way to dig out of the rut he found himself wallowing in all alone.

"Here, check it out, Monop," Ryan said as he reached into the front pocket of his loose fitting, Dockers-style slacks, worn down low on his hips, like so many of today's younger generation were prone to do. He came out with a zip-sealed baggie that had what looked like some shriveled up pieces of some kind of freeze dried snack.

"Oh my, what have you got there?" Michael asked, knowingly.

"'shrooms, they are the really good kind, too. Here try a couple of caps and stems." Ryan freely offered as he reached inside the baggie and removed the suggested dosage. "If these babies won't make you forget about all of life's heavy bullshit, nothing will. Believe me, I know of what I speak."

"Thanks. I really do appreciate it. I will be sure to put them to good use. I have actually been thinking about trying to write something I can post on the internet for free somewhere, somehow. It needs to be something really controversial to make sure that it will definitely get noticed, just to see what kind of reaction I get out it." Michael gratefully accepted the kind offer, explaining how he intended to use the generous gift, telling a wee bit of a white lie. He just thought of the new writing project right then and there.

Michael could sense something weighing heavily on Ryan's mind and wanted to keep a clear head in case he could return the favor with the only currency he had to offer, some good advice. He did not want Ryan thinking he had given up all hope, even if it was true. Michael could tell Ryan and his friends were impressed with his two published novels, and that he did not go around falsely bloviating about his great accomplishments. Instead, Michael was quite brutally honest in admitting his utter failure to generate any book sales. They were more amazed with the fact that he wrote them in the first place.

An empty shell of his former self, Michael had only vague memories left of what could have been. Feeling he had been just going through the motions of living, without any real life left lingering, Michael's only remaining goal was simply to find something, somewhere, someone, someplace he could call home. Sadly, Michael could not even count on the sanctuary traditionally sought and found in the hallowed territory of one's humble abode.

He had been living in his San Jose studio apartment for almost four years, having to deal with rude, noisy neighbors since the first day he moved in. It started out with some downstairs kids constantly making loud, banging noises just from coming in and out of their apartment. Michael actually counted the door opening and slamming shut fifteen times within a five-minute span. They also treated the stairwell like a playground, constantly leaving their toys on the steps for someone to trip over and break their leg or neck. After a while, Michael began to realize the sad futility in expecting people to treat each other with any common decency, act civil toward one another, or show any consideration for the feelings of others, especially when living on top of one another in the poverty stricken urban suburbs of major cities and towns. People maintained an irrational, paranoid intolerance for other cultures. Many developed an apathetic view of the world, exhibiting an indignant reaction against any perceived slight with false claims of someone dissing them.

2

Other than cordial greetings and quick conversations on innocuous topics when passing during their comings and goings, Michael never really attempted to get to know many of his neighbors. This would have been just fine with him, until he realized one of the downsides to being a social nomad. You simply cannot do everything by yourself. We all needed to depend on the kindness of strangers from time to time. It was one of his few regrets about being a loner. There were times when he wished he could be more sociable, at least enough to make a friendly connection with some of his neighbors. Michael sometimes wished he still smoked cigarettes or drank alcohol. But he would quickly dismiss the thought, considering those remedies caused more problems than they ever cured, also knowing what he really wanted could most likely be found right around the corner.

The only semi-illegal (depending on the individual freedoms each State permitted its residents), widely-used, socially accepted, medically prescribed, recreational drug Michael still used from the days of his youth was the unfairly demonized weed called marijuana. The badly maligned, generally harmless plant suffered through a disinformation campaign that muddied the waters with lies and propaganda over the years. It prevented people from experiencing the vast mental and physical benefits of the infinitely better stress reliever than any legally prescribed drug, some of which could kill you from the side effects alone, even when the actual aliment suffered from was not life threatening. There have even been some recent medical breakthroughs showing that the strange weed not only helped ease the suffering of some cancer patients, but also had healing medical properties that actually could help cure some childhood diseases. Even the Surgeon General announced a complete reversal of previously held views he based on bogus reports supplied to him by the FDA.

Michael stood on the balcony of his studio apartment facing the street. Ironically named, Edenvale Drive was ominously similar to the title of his novel/screenplay, _Eden's Fall,_ which directly led to him moving to California. After experiencing a stressful encounter, his aggravated nerves were still in tatters. He just got into a heated argument with an extremely rude neighbor that would have come to blows had his neighbor committed even one overt physical act toward him. Michael was seriously contemplating calling one of his last remaining friends in Santa Cruz to see if he could go get some herbal relief. Also realizing, the constantly congested drive over Route 17 had the potential to be almost as much of a nerve-racking experience as the one he just went through.

Lost in that thoughtful moment, Michael noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Distracted from his mental anguish by a young black man stepping out on his balcony, Michael took it as a sign that hope might yet spring eternal—even if it was a hot summer day.

On several different occasions, while passing by his neighbor's place on the way to and from work, Michael could have sworn he smelled the long-absent-from-his-presence, sweet fragrance drifting out from that particular vicinity. He lamented on the days when readily available and easy to access without too much trouble.

Possibly sensing Michael's gaze, the young black man wearing a basketball jersey looked over his way and gave a casual, 'what's up,' hand wave greeting that caused Michael to respond in a universally understood manner. In returning the simple, friendly salutation, Michael took a chance by making a slight alteration when signaling back his reply. He raised his thumb and forefinger up to his mouth closed together in a mock smoking motion.

Unsure what his balcony neighbor wanted, the young man pointed over to Michael indicating the opposite intention he wanted to convey. Michael quickly corrected the message with a head shake while pointing to his fingers, still in their suggestive position, and then back to his neighbor, who seemed to get the point, but remained standoffishly cautious until Michael sealed the deal with the universally recognized gesture of rubbing thumb and fingers together.

After exchanging a few designating hand signals on where to meet, Michael grabbed his wallet from the briefcase he kept it in—no longer able to carry it in his back pants pocket from the discomfort it caused him anytime he sat down. Even on those rare occasions when he had some cash, he never kept money in his wallet. Except now, he rarely carried any on him, always using his ATM card to make purchases and get money when needed. Luckily, there was a 7-Eleven on the corner with an ATM machine linked to his bank, saving him the service fees.

Stepping out of his second floor apartment, the concrete stairs and metal railing alcove acted as an echo chamber hallway. Michael was grateful for the present quiet calm as he shook his head over recent events. He looked over to the unit diagonally across from his, which was where the parents of the guy he argued with earlier lived—but not their disruptive son. Heading down the stairs, he turned right at the sidewalk and saw the young black man sitting on the bottom stairs two units down. Michael walked over in an inconspicuously subtle manner.

"Hi, I'm Mike. How's it going?" Michael introduced himself while holding out his hand to the young man.

"It's all good, I'm Ty, but just call me TY. What can I do you for?" the young man said shaking Michael's hand, as he got right to the business at hand.

"Shit, I don't know. Can you swing a twenty?"

"Sure thing, no prob, I just need to take a short walk, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I gotcha. Do you need the cash before you go? If so, I need to go hit up the ATM at the 7-Eleven."

"No, that's cool. Just meet me back here in a few ticks."

"Sounds like a plan to me, and by the way, I really appreciate this. I did not mean to be presumptuous or anything. You see, it is just that I got into this big argument with my neighbor's son, and I don't feel like fighting the traffic going over the hill on Route 17. So when I saw you walk out on your balcony, I figured I would take a chance." Michael felt compelled to clarify any mistook stereotypes, also adding the ambiguous remark about Route 17.

"That was you? I was just out back, posting it with some my homeys, when we heard someone yelling at somebody really pissed off and loud."

"Yeah, that was probably me. But it is all good now. No need to worry, I seriously doubt he will be causing any more trouble." Michael offered an explanation of recent events without going into too much detail.

Michael consciously decided not to get into specifics about what triggered the altercation he managed to quell without having to resort to violence. Simply because, he was not sure Ty would understand why he didn't. It was the rule of the street to never back down from a fight or allow anyone to disrespect you and getaway unscathed, unless you wanted everyone to treat you like some punk. Of course, Michael had no idea he had been living smack dab in the middle of gang territory the whole time, or that his new acquaintance was a member of The CRIPS street gang, practically since birth.

The reason Michael wanted to avoid a physical resolution in settling his neighborly dispute had nothing to do with anyone dissing him or any concern for his street cred. Nor was it derived out of a fear for his personal safety. Actually, it was just the opposite. He was more worried about what he might do to the other guy, not the other way around.

Michael always knew he had a furious rage pent up inside him like some savage beast aching to be free. He just never realized the fierce strength he kept caged up until a different bad neighbor sucker punched him in the back of the head while he was living in Santa Cruz. His visceral reaction might have shocked himself a good bit, but it outright terrified the perpetrator of the ill-conceived assault. Still to this day, Michael had no idea how the drunken immigrant worker, who he also thought might not be playing with a full deck, ended up on the ground. He just remembered the deep, bellowing Exorcist-type-howl reverberating out of his lungs in a booming echo the moment his glasses flew off his face from the force of the unexpected blow to the back of his head.

This was one slight he could not let go by unanswered. Whirling around, he experienced a transitory moment of confusion in locating his unprovoked attacker. Zeroing in on his target, a voice in his head commanded Michael to hit the guy, even if he was already cowering on the ground in abject fear. The man quickly realized the unanticipated consequences of his rash decision with Michael's furious rage alone causing his recoiled reaction. Leaping down on top of his fallen and shaken foe, Michael slammed two solid fists down on the man's frightened face, but held back a cocked and readied third in midair as a voice screamed out inside his head, ' _If you hit him again, you are going to kill him'_.

Thankful for being able to hold back his anger when it counted most, Michael came to fear the primal beast lurking deep inside him. It scared the shit out of him knowing what he was capable of doing. Yet still, it was during those times when he felt most alive and completely unbound.

A sighing smile of relief perched on Michael's lips on his way back from the 7-Eleven when he saw Ty was waiting on the steps for him. Holding out his open palm with a twenty folded up in his hand, Michael showed him the concealed currency, which Ty exchanged for product in a similar fashion.

"Got you some real fire, there." Ty informed Michael, possibly mentioning quality to distract attention from quantity.

"Sounds just like what I need about now." Michael replied, satisfied with the successful acquisition of his desired stress reliever without causing himself any more grief in the process.

"Let me know when you want to re-up." Ty said in an obligatory business pitch, adding terms of future access. "Just don't tell anyone where you got it. I like to keep a low profile."

"Sure thing, no problem," Michael agreed to the completely unnecessary condition—who was he going to tell—before making inquiries about availability. "I take it I can find you hanging about around here somewhere."

"Oh yeah, I usually post it out back."

"Excellent, thanks again." Michael restated his gratitude with another handshake, sans anything exchanging hands other than cordial salutations.

Once back in the cozy comforts of his overpriced, falsely advertised as affordable housing, studio apartment he had been calling home for the past six years or so, Michael settled down with his meager find, sitting on the black-cushioned swivel chair he dumpster picked from one of his previous California apartments. He did not have room to bring any furniture with him, but somehow always managed to come across whatever he needed.

Certain things in life were always easy to locate and readily available without too much cost (if any) or effort. Of course, these were items people usually replaced with newer ones many times throughout a normal lifespan, thereby creating a surplus of used goods, such as furniture that was easier to throw out then paying to have hauled away. Clothes, tools, and cooking utensils were also easily obtainable items. Even a decent used car could be found if you knew how, where, and what to look for when procuring a pre-owed vehicle. Providing of course, you were not the kind of person prone to making poor purchasing decisions, like say someone wanting to trade in a Yugo.

But it was the things in life we wanted or needed most that were either too expensive or too hard to come by, or both. Food, gas, entertainment (sports, concerts, movies, plays, amusement parks, and nightclubs) increased in prices two, three, to four times as much in the last decade alone, not to mention housing—one of the most fundamentally necessary creature comforts mankind had sought since moving out of caves.

While the caveman might have had to evict a Saber-toothed cat or two in order to stake his claim on a castle to call home, he never had to worry about making rent or mortgage payments every month, or paying taxes, and other living expenses; like utilities, food, furniture, and transportation costs to and from a job that barely earned you enough to pay for it all. Nor did he have to listen to his cavewoman complaining about how he never dragged her around by hair anymore, or how she was stuck in a dusty, old cave all day, and maybe she should have listened to her mother when she told her to club him over the head and run off with that handsome Neanderthal from a few tribes down.

Living in the modern age, people needed to make every penny count, while also keeping their fingers crossed no one got sick or their car didn't breakdown. Many people lived from paycheck to paycheck, month to month, and one unexpected, big expense could really put a strain on someone's happy home. Stability for many often depended on a job where an illness, a car accident, or even jury duty could cost the average Joe everything. It was easy to understand how some people took up panhandling at highway intersections from being unable to earn a living wage.

Since moving to California, Michael's salary went from twenty dollars per hour to twelve, while his rent went from three hundred fifty a month to anywhere from seven hundred to nine hundred fifty, with his gross pay now being what he used to net every week, and taxes still to come. Michael found himself in a position foreign to him in always being broke. But also knew, every once in a while, we all needed to treat ourselves to something good in life we really wanted. Or else, what's it all about, Alfie.

Using the logic of rhyme, reason, and song, Michael figured while you can't always get what you want, there were at least three key things you had to find to get what you need. Some were different, some were similar, and some the same as others. But he also felt there was a special, fourth thing (often considered a vice) most people used to help get them through their day to give them some form of peace of mind at the end of it.

The first was the one thing universally needed by most everyone at some point in time—since we are all subject to the limitations of this durably resilient, yet still fragile shell known as the human body—a good doctor. Depending on a person's aliment, disability or infirmity, we all need the services of some kind of medical expert. It could be a MD, a dentist, a pediatrician, a gynecologist, an ophthalmologist, an ear, nose, & throat specialist, or anyone who could help us achieve our never-ending desire for immortality. We generally took life for granted, while also believing we could, should, and deserved to live forever.

The first thing was an internal component born out of life's most basic need for survival. The second was one powered by some form of external combustion to keep us moving through this hectic rush hour world of ours. Many people found filling this particular need often relied on knowing a good mechanic or being dependent on a competent workforce doing regular maintenance and safety inspections on the different types of mass transit people used to get them where they were going—whether by plane, train, or Greyhound. Of course, the second thing, like the first, depended on the individual. Some people worked out of their homes and might need to know a good plumber instead, which essentially amounted to doing the same thing of keeping the traffic flowing to prevent messy accidents.

The third thing was quite simply comfortable shoes. It sounds like a small thing, but after working twenty-five years in the construction trade, trudging through foot deep mud, navigating over rough, rocky terrain, or standing on hard concrete surfaces for hours on end, Michael knew the true benefits of taking care of one's Hush Puppies.

The special fourth ingredient for maintaining a blissful existence could usually be found securely located in the things that gave us the most pleasure. Sipping on a nice hot cup of Joe while watching the sun rising into morning, craving something so deliciously sweet it acted as a chocolate aphrodisiac, taking a long drag off a cigarette after getting smoking hot in bed, or night-capping the end of another long, hard day with a martini cocktail were just some of the things people used to help ease their mental anguish. Michael preferred to fill his special need with something he found more beneficial to his health than many of the harmful vices people usually chose.

After working all week long at a job that didn't pay a living wage, Michael had to perform a financial juggling act of robbing from Peter to pay Paul in order to maintain the delicate balance between his health and wealth. But lately, with the skyrocketing cost of living, he had to tighten his belt more than ever. Between rent, food, gas, car insurance, utilities, credit card debt, cable, phone, and the internet, there was not much discretionary income left to spend on certain vices that could ultimately end up costing you more than money and possibly your freedom, as well. At least, when living back home, it could. But California, for lack of a better metaphor, had always been a progressive hippie haven.

The real troubling concern for Michael was not being able to see an end to his financial woes, nor any foreseeable sign of a brighter future. Sitting in the hotel parking without a pay raise for almost three years, told him everything he needed to know about the company he worked for, which had turned into another dead-end career. During the time Michael spent on his current site, SecureWorld underwent a managerial restructuring in the branch office he worked out of, replacing the hard, but fair scheduling manager, Fred Young—who Michael could always count on to do right by him—with a series of incompetent, negligent buffoons.

If that wasn't bad enough, he had to go home to hostile gang members hanging out on his stairway, impeding his ability to come and go as he pleased. Friends and relatives of a new downstairs neighbor, who had cancer, they were supposedly there to act as caretakers, but really just hung out all day sitting around drinking forties on the stairs, which they had no business being on in the first place. Then they had the nerve to threaten Michael's life after he lost patience with them because of it. The landlord refused to do anything about it, saying they needed verifiable proof of misconduct before they could legally evict them, even after a long laundry list of excessive complaints about noise.

Whether at home, or work, or both, peace of mind to find was not easy. It could be that fourth special thing people fought vigorously to possess, especially if they have never known any in the past. Some people found it existing juxtaposed within a strange dichotomy of where we lived and where we worked, when a job site could serve as ones second home.

The kind of peace Michael had on his mind right now had very little to do with workplace woes, financial deficit spending, the harmony of a happy home life, or disillusioned dreams of glory. He was trying to reach a transcendental state that connected body and mind, which he could usually find hidden in the sweet herbal fragrance.

Often having to settle for less to gain more, Michael could plainly see that was not the case here. He expected the amount to be small, which he could easily tell the moment he got it. The thing that took him pleasantly by surprise was the high quality, in it being the best weed he had since moving to California. The stuff back in New Jersey could not hold a candle to most West Coast cannabis. They were true connoisseurs out west.

After telling Michael not to tell anyone where he got it, Ty then proceeded to go around telling just everyone. At the time, Michael thought Ty was eighteen (or else he probably would never have approached him), later on finding out he was only thirteen. Big for his age because of his Samoan heritage, Ty could easily pass for his falsely claimed age.

Ty started stopping by quite regularly with different friends and relatives. Michael did not mind the company. It was a nice change from his normal routine of being alone all the time. It was getting to the point where he had started talking to himself. There were three members in Ty's social crew who regularly traveled with him, which was how he met Ryan, along with Ty's Cambodian cousin, Ara Hua, and Anthony Zangrando—a local kid from Ty's class, when he used to go to school, that is. But it was Ty's ten-year-old brother who dubbed Michael the Monopoly Man after seeing all of his DVDs and CDs, along with the movie posters lining his apartment walls, assuming he must be some rich, old white guy.

A few days later, Michael ran into Ryan in front of his apartment. He lived a few units down on the opposite end from Ty, with Michael in the middle. Ryan gave him a handful of moldy, stale buds he just found packed in a garbage can outside some grower's house. He figured the guy must have thrown it away, so he decided to help himself to it. Michael was extremely grateful, even though it did not taste too good, but it did the trick. At the time, he was hoping to run into Ty, even though he could not afford to buy anymore. But, he did not care about the money, only wanting to try and get a better deal. Free was about as good as it got.

Despite their three-decade plus generation gap, Michael ended up becoming good friends with Ryan. Ty lived up to his initialed moniker, which stood for Troubled Youth, when he got busted stealing a car for a joyride. Born into the gang life, along with his cousin Ara, they were both members of The CRIPS. The legendary street gang was one of the two biggest gangs around, along with The Bloods. Gang life worked in the same vein as being born a Christian, a Jew, a Muslim, or any of the many faiths worshipped—they did not have a personal choice at birth to decide what they wanted to be, either.

Not exactly the father figure type, Michael earned the respect of his young friends by giving them back the same respect they showed him. He never talked down to them or treated them like children. It was how Michael approached anyone, holding onto a type of John Wayne code of conduct found in the fundamental precepts of most faiths. Do onto to others, as you would have them do onto you.

Ryan was not looking for a mentor or surrogate father, already being a self-assured young man. He chose his own path. However, he found something in Michael he considered quite rare in most of the adults he had met throughout his life. Michael was not a drug addict, a drunk, a gang member, an egotistical snob, or a complete fuck up like his own father.

Ryan started stopping over on a regular basis to smoke blunts. He would talk to Michael about his girlfriend and her overtly friendly aunt. It felt good having someone to talk to, appreciating the time, knowing how nothing lasts. One thing Michael could never quite grasp the concept of was rolling up joints in large, tobacco leaf paper, especially when they claimed to be such aficionados of the cultivated weed.

Usually focusing most of his energy on some sort of moneymaking scheme, Ryan's mind had been distracted from pursuing his normal ventures by an unforeseen contingency. After getting into a big, break-up fight with his girlfriend, he found consoling comfort in the arms of her aunt. Always fascinated by other people's stories, Michael had been collecting them in the back of his mind for so long he still instinctively logged them, even though he had about given up all hope of ever putting pen to paper in a creative way again.

Happy for his friend's good fortune (when you are someone who had not known the pleasures of the flesh for a long time, even the tricky situation Ryan had to deal with could still be considered fortunate), it also slightly depressed him for the very same reason.

3

A sudden thought struck Michael as to what must be distracting his friend at the present moment.

"So, tell me. Which one of them did you knock up, the niece or the aunt?"

Not too surprised by Michael's astute perception of his situation, Ryan thought he should have known he would figure it out. Hell, it was the reason why he came over in the first place. He respected Michael's opinion and wanted to see what he thought of his decision, relieved he did not have to explain it. He believed Michael would agree with what he planned to do before simply answering. "The aunt."

"Sh-shit."

"Tell me about it." Ryan agreed with the sentiment as he sat down to twist up a blunt.

"So, what are you going to do?" Michael asked as Ryan finished preparing the blunt.

"The right thing."

"I always knew you would be a stand-up guy." Michael replied in a manner that put Ryan's mind at rest, knowing he did not have to ask if he agreed with his decision.

A quick series of persistent knocks arose from Michael's door as Ryan was about to light up the blunt. Instantly realizing whom it must be, Michael just yelled out. "Yo."

Opening the unlocked door, Ara and Anthony walked in the apartment, also appearing to be in the same heightened state of mind as Ryan.

"You see, I told you he was over here." Ara told Anthony. They came in the rest of the way, shut the door behind them, and sat down to smoke.

"So how are you guys feeling about now?" Michael asked the two young men.

Ara and Anthony just looked at each for a moment before breaking out in uncontrollable laughter.

CHAPTER THREE

### A FICTIONAL REALITY

"When the legend becomes fact, print the legend"

Newspaper editor to Jimmy Stewart in

The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance

1

**12:00 a.m., Wednesday, May 6** th **2015**

Flipping through the channels and pausing on the seldom-watched network of PBS, Michael caught the opening title montage of an intriguing program he had never seen before, but had heard good things about. Iconic images filled the screen with film clips of well-known historic figures from yesteryear, spouting out memorable quotes of fame and infamy. It started with Eisenhower telling the country during his farewell address to _"Beware the Military-Industrial-Complex",_ which was quickly followed by JFK saying, " _Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country_ ," to Nixon telling the people, " _I am not a crook_ ", to Martin Luther King's " _I have a dream_ " rallying call for equality, then onto Regan absent-mindedly saying, " _Well now_ , _I forget_ ", followed by George Bush Sr. promising not to raise taxes by disingenuously telling the country to, " _Read my lips",_ and ending with Clinton claiming, " _I did not have sexual relations with that woman_ ". The show's official motto followed, proudly vowing to be _Bringing Back Integrity, Honor, & Dignity to The News,_ before cutting to an empty stage as an off-screen presenter introduced the host.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to The Hypocrisy of Truth with Howard Bickle. Now, let's all give a big hand to that visionary sage of the airwaves, that relentless crusader for truth, justice, and the American way." The announcer declared as the aforementioned host stepped out on stage. "Howard Bickle."

Walking out onto the PBS soundstage with a "live" studio audience vigorously applauding his entrance, Howard waved to his dedicated fans filling the seats in the small studio. A tall, slim man, his silver-fox hair matched his full, close-cut beard. Stepping up to a microphone stand at center stage, the fifty-four year old investigative journalist still cut a formidable presence in his dark blue Armani suit.

"Thank you, very much. You are too kind. Please, everyone sit down. I do not deserve your praise. I just report the news." Howard's humble attempt at quieting down the cheering crowd went unheeded for a few moments longer before the audience settled back into attentive, seated positions.

"I can see everyone out there is in good spirits for tonight's tomorrow morning. So, now that it is the very witching time of night, when churchyards yarn and hell itself breathes out contagion to this world, we can now all drink hot blood, while doing the bitter business of exposing the hypocrisy of truth spread by media propaganda machines spouting false claims about being fair and balanced."

A round of applause followed Howard's Shakespearean influenced opening monologue, giving his reason for airing his show every weeknight at midnight. Due to its immense popularity, PBS re-aired the show at 6 am, noon, and 6 pm.

"The once highly trusted source of news many of you used to regularly invite into your homes every night has become nothing more than a commodity traded for stockholders' dividends and Neilson ratings. So you good people have every right to get mad. But I don't want you just to get mad. I want you to get even, too."

Another round of applause followed Howard's poignantly familiar words as he continued giving kudos to the early glory days of print, radio, and television journalism.

"Do not let them suppress your progressive minds. Do not allow them to impede analytical thought with their faithful dogs shepherding the meek and obedient down well-trodden corridors, blindly following Judas Goats to self-slaughter. I know it is hard without any Edward R. Murrow's out there bringing down corrupt, hypocritical politicians on witch-hunts for disloyal Americans, or any more highly competent Walter Cronkite-type news anchors, whose serenely compassionate countenance eliminated any doubts that what he reported was the most up-to-date and accurate information available."

"We still got you, Howard," an audience member yelled out as the crowd cheered in acknowledging praise, followed by some vigorous handclapping and a few more catcall whistles.

"It is an honor to be viewed in such illustrious company, but I am just one man. Most modern day newscasters are nothing more than Ken and Barbie doll, celebrity hosts of daily gossip shows as they stand before you spewing out inane editorial opinions on subjects that they know nothing about. I am afraid we have filled our present day anchor chairs with mostly vapid, ignorant buffoons unable to understand the news, much less be qualified to report it. As for the printed press, it is as dead as Dillinger." Howard eulogized.

"There are no more Woodward and Bernstein-esque investigative journalists willing to run down specious leads, sift through the detritus of fraudulent information, wade knee deep in dead-end bureaucracy, pry information from tight-lipped insiders, or setup clandestine meetings with shadowy informants. They worked grueling days and long nights to uncover the absurdly profound truth behind the infamous Watergate break-in. A true story no one would ever believe, if not all proven fact, and something they would not be able to pull off today if they tried."

2

Sitting in his apartment completely blown away, Michael could not believe what he was watching. He had not been this awestruck by a television program since the _Denis Miller Show_ premiered back in 1992 on HBO, which quickly became his favorite network. He would have gladly paid the service fee just for the _Denis Miller Show_ alone, often considering the other incredibly entertaining programing as bonus material. It didn't take long for Michael to realize that HBO made some of the best series, movies, mini-series, and documentaries playing on either the big or the small screen. Their timely, thought provoking productions clearly showed they had their finger firmly planted on the pulse of the nation, with films like; _And The Band Played On, Barbarians At The Gates, Recount, Too Big To Fail_ , _Game Change,_ and many others. They made films and shows that would never get green-lit by big studios or television networks more concerned with offending their stockholders or advertisers.

When Michael arrived in California back in 1999, it was the same year _The Sopranos_ premiered on HBO—instantly making him homesick after watching the opening credits roll on Tony's very familiar drive down the New Jersey Turnpike. If things worked out differently, he felt he might have been able to get a gig writing episodes for the show, believing he would be a natural fit. He even had his own theory on the ambiguous, fade-to-black series finale many people complained about, putting forth the concept that Paulie Walnuts had them all whacked so he could take over, considering he was the only one left inexplicably standing in the end.

Even though he felt a familiar connection to the mob series, he had to admit _Deadwood_ was his favorite show. Notoriously renowned for cutthroat saloon owner Al Swearengen's profanity-fueled rants, the rest of Deadwood's dialogue was simply Shakespearean in its tongue. Swearengen was the Tony Soprano of the old West, and Ian McShane's portrayal of him was one of the greatest performances Michael had ever seen in films or on television. What else could you say about a character who could stir up such feelings of bile in the first episode, by ordering his henchman to murder a little girl (which he doesn't do), and then feel a sympathetic understanding for the same character by the end of the season after he displays a heartwarming compassion for a crippled woman and a haunted doctor? It is definitely not just TV.

HBO also got Michael hooked on the sweet science of boxing in 1994 after watching George Foreman become the oldest heavyweight champion at forty-five. Getting the shit beat out of him for ten rounds, Forman knocked out Michael Moore with one punch. It simply amazed Michael how sometimes one good punch could change so much in life, so fast. Someone could be chugging right along, moving successfully down the road on their way to a sure victory, but drop their guard for a second, and its lights out. Except for, the stars seen while looking up at the ceiling, that is.

It was a good metaphor for when one of life's unforeseen contingencies hit you unexpectedly. It could be the hardest punch to get back up from, even if never physically struck by the blow. A direct hit to the psyche could have a more profound effect on a person, causing them to embrace a fear-fueled, conservative agenda, much in the way 9/11 influenced Dennis Miller and many others to shift sharply to the Right. Many people had fallen prey to the very fear the terrorist's strived to create. They became willing to condone almost anything for national security. It allowed Congress to enact one of the most unjust laws ever written, ironically called The Patriot Act. It permitted enhanced interrogations, presidentially sanctioned drone targeted assassinations, along with invading citizen's privacy through indiscriminate wiretaps, e-mail hacking, and the loss of many other personal freedoms guaranteed Americans since the Founding Fathers signed the United States Constitution. In the name of National Security, we basically shredded the 1st, 4th, 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th, and 10th Amendments, with only the 2nd remaining sacrosanct.

Michael felt like he was experiencing his second, Kevin Costner through-the-looking-glass, JFK epiphany moment. His first eye opening moment of clarity, when he could no longer blindly turn from the truth, actually occurred after seeing that critically acclaimed, highly controversial Oliver Stone film. He went through a political awakening, totally buying into Stone's interpretation of events on that fateful afternoon in late November of '63 as the President's motorcade circled around Dallas' Dealey Plaza.

Michael also understood how time and new information could change one's perspective. Many years later, he came away with a completely different point of view after watching a documentary that clearly debunked most of Stone's claims. It also made him realize how it really didn't matter. Because, what he once held true left him an important trail of breadcrumbs to follow.

Even though what he believed to be true turned out not to be one hundred percent accurate, it did not mean everything he based on that supposition was false, too. Artists sometimes took the liberty of applying a little dramatic licensing to help make a good story better. The difference between deceptive manipulations of the mind and an emotionally moving story inspiring people to do great things in life was and always has been intent.

The Hypocrisy of Truth with Howard Bickle quickly became Michael's favorite show. Always wishing he could find a way to vent his creative frustrations, Michael felt like Howard Bickle was speaking directly to him, telling him it was time to get up off his ass and do something with his life.

'It's time for you to take a stand, voice your opinion, or die unheard. It is up to you in the end. Do not be part of the problem when you have the tools needed to be part of the solution. Follow the fateful path your God Part has inherently set you on. Fulfill your purpose by telling a good story, which is the only thing that can truly change the world.'

3

"They say the real distinction between truth and fiction is that fiction has to be believable. It needs to create a reality based on the foundation in which the story exists." Howard continued with his opening monologue.

"Even incredible action tales about people with superhuman powers need a plausible suspension of disbelief for the reader or the audience to believe in the possibility of their alternate reality. It is just too bad some of these comic book superheroes are not real. But maybe they are, after all." Howard continued, seguing to the next topic with the seamless transition of a true showman.

"I still cannot believe just one year into his first term President Bharath Baca green-lit the covert mission that sent Seal Team Six—our real life superheroes—to kill Osama Bin Laden."

A big round of applause followed the much-celebrated news people rightfully still danced and cheered about like the residents of Oz after learning the wicked witch was dead—ding, dong.

"That's right. Give it up for Seal Team 6. The elite military unit that killed Osama Bin Laden hiding out in a Pakistani village. It was an expertly planned and executed covert operation, without any vainglorious fanfare or self-congratulatory banners strung up on aircraft carriers."

The audience applauded Howard's request to give it up for the brave fighting men of the United States military, while he also took a not so subtle jab at how previous administrations did things.

"And while you are at it, give some love to President Baca for sanctioning the mission. It just sickens me when I hear conservative media clowns accuse him of exploiting the mission for political gains, especially when you just know George W. would be wearing a ten-gallon hat and shooting off his six-guns while Yosemite-Samming-it up on the White House front lawn."

More cheers followed Howard's praise of the much-maligned President, with Michael giving a big supportive cheer from his apartment. He could sense a true philosophical bond with Howard's worldly perspective, someone on the same page, reading from the same book.

"I tell ya. This guy gets no respect, no respect at all. He is the Rodney Dangerfield of Presidents." Howard explained the lack of civility shown to the Nation's leader, doing a spot on impersonation of the late comedian icon, fiddling around with his tie and using his trademark hand gestures as the audience laughed at the sad truth.

"Not since old honest Abe has a President had to endure such a viscerally endless vitriol of hate speech. And we all know how that turned out for Lincoln. But then again, considering this country's long history of racial inequality, it is not too hard to understand the nobility of hate inherently ingrained in the psyche of many people. It perverts the mind with a pretzel logic that causes right-wing conservative hate to run so deep they cannot even give him credit for any of the good things he has done, like preventing the next Great Depression (which would be more akin the Black Plague if he didn't do anything to stop it), or saving the American auto industry from going the way of the Edsel, or ending one of the most moronic legal decisions ever passed by repealing Don't Ask Don't Tell. He also made medical insurance available to millions of people with pre-existing conditions through the Healthcare & Patient Protection Act (HPPA), a historic milestone of legislation cynically dubbed CommieCare."

Another big round of applause followed Howard's last statement, generating an involuntary response from an audience member yelling out. "You tell it like no one else does, Howard."

"By refusing to raise the Debt Ceiling, something that has been done in a bipartisan manner for years, conservative politicians caused America's credit rating to be dropped by the Standards & Poor, which is like going to your favorite A-rated restaurant one day and finding it rated C or worse. But they do not care who they hurt, being that their only agenda since the day he took office is to deny him a second term, no matter the cost to the country or the people." Howard's monologue started sounding like more of a tirade.

"The sad truth is that you really cannot blame a snake for being a snake. It cannot help its nature. But, there is a breed of political animal moving around behind the scenes pulling everyone's strings like a bunch of demented puppet masters. They come in all shapes and sizes, using whatever means at their disposal to manipulate others to act against their own self-interests. They want to deny many hard working Americans without a photo I.D. the right to vote, making false claims about non-existent voter fraud influencing elections.

"Powerful corporate conglomerates give financial support to budding grassroots movements, just so they can brainwash them into becoming a racist mob carrying around signs of the President with Hitler mustaches. They deceived many ignorant people into thinking he is not one of us, claiming he is not a true American. They say he wants to redistribute the wealth of hard working American's to a bunch of freeloading foreigners forever sucking off the government tit, calling him a socialist-muslin, which makes absolutely no sense at all. The ideologies are completely opposed to one another. I mean, what do they think he is going to do, blow himself up for Allah, then go share the seventy-two virgins up in paradise?"

Pausing for an agreeing applause with his poignant words, Howard started to wrap up his monologue.

"None of this is too hard to comprehend since civility has been dead and gone for a longtime. We appear to have sacrificed good manners, common decency, and consideration of others for cell phones, twitter accounts, U-tube videos, internet blogs, and social networking sites. It is a mass media saturation created by the advancement of communication technologies.

"Back in the old days, even FDR's biggest rivals would never print photos of the disabled President in his wheelchair out of respect for the office. But now, we get Senators calling the President a liar while he is addressing Congress, an Arizona Governor wagging a disrespectful finger in his face, along with local residents bringing firearms to town hall meetings out of an irrational paranoid fear, bolstered by extreme right-wing radio talk show hosts.

"Now, we still have some sane voices of reason willing to speak out, but individuals cannot do it alone. It has to be a collective effort of the whole to start a movement and to create a revolution of the mind. But, enough with all that jazz, it's showtime, folks."

4

Always in search of the proper venue to express his voice of knowledge to prove he had something important to say, Michael could never figure out just how to say it. Not real computer savvy, Michael also realized he had the enormous potential for gathering information right at his fingertips. Yet, he was still unfamiliar with how best to surf the worldwide web without getting hopelessly lost in the muck and mire. He heard stories about people who practically became overnight millionaires with internet blogs and other editorial or informational sites. Except, he did not have a sense for business many others possessed, which would enable him to exploit the financial resource he now had at his disposal.

With plenty of creative ideas ripe for bearing financial fruit, Michael felt he was on the verge of some big revelation, but it was not until that night he figured out what. After taking another look at what he came to think of as his wasted life, it all finally made sense.

5

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have two very special guests for tonight's topic of debate," Howard informed his studio audience and the folks watching at home as he made his way over to the section of the stage setup for the show's debate segment.

It was a cozy, informal setting designed to be more conducive for maintaining a civil discourse between opposing parties, rather than standing stoically behind podiums. Two soft-cushioned chairs faced each other with a third chair set in between them looking out toward the audience. There was also a small coffee table with a pitcher of ice water and three glasses on it further separating the opposition.

"Now, I would like you all to give a big welcoming hand to Vice President Jim Burden and Senator Flint Morgan of Missouri." Howard introduced his two distinguished guests, taking his seat after exchanging handshakes and pleasantries.

The studio audience vigorously brought their hands together in adulating praise.

"For tonight's topic of debate, we will be discussing the highly contentious, often thought of by many as antiquated and ill-defined, 2nd Amendment of the United States Constitution. Yet to some Americans, it is the only Amendment deemed untouchable. Their right to bear arms is of greater importance to them than the rights of others to keep living. My position on the subject is well-known to my viewers as someone who understands the need to be able to defend ourselves when necessary. I also recognize the ever growing urgency to keep up with the changing times as witnessed by recent tragedies, which brings me to my first question." Howard said addressing the audience before seguing to his guests.

"If the Founding Fathers knew how far weapons would progress since the musket rifle, do you think they would have made any changes to the 2nd Amendment? Senator Morgan won a coin toss before the show and has elected to answer first."

"Thank you for that warm welcome, Howard. It is my distinct pleasure to be here in such distinguished company to discuss an important issue vital to one of our country's principle core beliefs." Senator Morgan began.

Flint Morgan was the founder and CEO of WhiteCliff, an elite, private military company. He stepped down when he decided to make a run for the Senate six years ago. After serving two years representing his home state of Missouri, Senator Morgan ran for President in 2012, but lost to the present Commander-in-chief in a close election. Led to believe he would win in a landslide, according to biased polls conducted by his own party and the right-wing media spin doctors caught up in believing their own press, he went back to his senate seat after the bitter defeat, insisting he had no plan to run again in 2016.

"I would like to start by first saying how deeply I sympathize with the victims of gun violence. I truly do understand their reasons for wanting tighter restrictions on gun ownership. But if we made all guns illegal or severely limited our resources to defend our families and homes, criminals would be the only ones able to get guns. They would just cross over the border or go through the black market to get what they wanted. It won't matter to a crook if he has to break the law to get a gun, especially when that was what he was planning to do with it in the first place. It would do for gunrunners what Prohibition did for bootleggers. So, my answer is yes. But I think the Founding Fathers would have reinforced our right to bear arms to prevent what some recklessly imprudent liberals want to do."

Audience members slowly warmed up to the simple logic behind Senator Morgan's response, gradually giving into his theoretical fear mongering.

"While I do agree with my colleague that criminals do not care if they have to break the law to get a gun, but then again, most criminals do not commit crimes with guns registered in their name, except for the really dumb ones, that is." VP Burden made a very valid point to begin his dispute.

"However, many mass shootings are committed by mentally unstable individuals, with no criminal records or even a diagnosed medical condition to prevent them from legally acquiring a firearm. As one of the few politicians to speak out publicly against the stranglehold the NRA has on this country, I proudly stand with the ninety-four percent of Americans who support background checks when purchasing firearms at gun shows and from private sellers. So in answer to your question, Howard, I do believe the Second Amendment would read quite differently if written today. I believe there would be severe limitations on how many guns one person could stockpile, along with kinds of firearms accessible to private citizens for hunting, protection, or sport, as well as types of ammunition available. No one needs an Uzi to take down a deer or armor piercing bullets for target shooting."

"The unfortunate fact of the matter is that there have been a number of mass shooting perpetrated by mentally unbalanced people that might not have turned out so tragic or possibly prevented if there was at least one good guy with a gun to defend against a bad guy with a gun." Senator Morgan retorted, adding. "We now live in an age where terrorist nations use guerilla tactics to create a fear that can only be snuffed out by superior firepower."

"I see Senator Morgan is towing the party line, catering to the politics of fear with unfounded, far-fetched plots, instead sticking to the cold, hard facts. Of course, when you are a representative of the disinformation party, the things you want to avoid the most are facts." VP Burden said in response to his opponent's preposterous conclusions. "I think Adlai Stevenson put it best over fifty years ago, saying _'_ it is far easier to fight for principles than living up to them."

"And much like the esteemed Mr. Stevenson I have also sworn upon the altar of god, eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man," Senator Morgan retorted, also adding. "And sometimes, the only way we learn of our enemy's alleged plans is after they drop their bombs on another Pearl Harbor or hijack more airliners to fly into skyscrapers."

"Senator Morgan is being disingenuous, shifting focus and asserting blame where it does not belong." VP Burden replied. "Terrorist nations are not the main cause of violent deaths in this country. Since 9/11, around three hundred people have been killed in acts of terror compared to the million deaths directly attributed to gun violence."

"I see we have quite a lively debate going on here, which is to be expected given the sensitive subject matter." Howard informed his viewers, maintaining his neutral position as moderator, while personally siding with VP Burden's perspective view.

"Progressive thinking often leads to new technology that brings about the need for change. But if anyone even questions revising the 2nd Amendment, they are labeled as being un-American—the new heretic." VP Burden pointed out the dangers of bucking the well-loved doctrine. "People always resist change in the beginning, especially if it is change they do not want. Take smoking, for instance. There was a public outcry against limiting personal freedoms heard around the nation. The new regulations upset people who didn't even smoke. In days past, not only was it legal to smoke in movie theaters, on planes, or just about anywhere, including hospital rooms, it was also socially accepted behavior. Try lighting up on a plane nowadays and they have you arrested. Still, I do not think anybody would want to go back to the way things were, especially since they can see clearly now the fog of smoke is gone."

"Now you are just talking apples and oranges," Senator Morgan objected to the Vice President's deductions. "Smoking is an addictive habit. A gun collection is a hobby that dates back before the founding of this country. Just the simple act of smoking is harmful to the smoker and those around him, whereas a gun is only a deadly weapon when used for that purpose. Otherwise, it is just another tool in a box."

"So, tell me then, Senator. When gun manufacturers market their lethal weapons on websites that cater to children, and then a five year old boy tragically ends up shooting and killing his two year old sister with a gun given to him for his birthday, which one is the apple and which one is the orange?" VP Burden's irate reply took Howard by surprise as the VP objected to the Senator's arrogance before adding. "Let's also not forget, it was during George W's Presidency when you made millions, some say billions, through WhiteCliff, your private military company."

"That was before I ran for the Senate when I sold off all my financial interest and shares in the company." Senator Morgan rebuked.

"A campaign stunt that probably cost you more votes than it brought you." VP Burden cynically suggested.

"Well, okay gentlemen. It looks like we are running a little overtime with our debate segment, so I am going to have to cut you off there. It has been a great pleasure having both of you here tonight for what has been a most stimulating debate." Howard thanked his guests, feeling relieved to be moving on, almost wishing he had the luxury of cutting to a commercial when things started getting heated between the two adversaries.

After an obligatory round of handshakes exchanging thankful pleasantries in an attempt to maintain the façade of having no hard feelings, Howard moved on to the next segment of the show, setup on a different section of the stage, as the debate set rotated back from view of the audience and cameras.

"Now that we heard from the politicians, pundits, and media, it is time to get to the real the heart of the matter. So, let's Go Ask A Comedian."

A big round of applause went out for the fan favorite segment.

As a law student at Harvard, Howard needed to find an outlet to decompress after the long, hard days spent toiling over thick, complex law books and legal statues, while also sitting through bloviating, stuffy Professors giving long-winded re-accountings of precedent setting legal decisions. He found his release through comedy. Coming about quite by accident, he got what he needed where unintentionally sought.

It happened one night after a particularly frustrating day seeking to find the truth in logic when dealing in matters of law and order. Not a big fan of stand-up comedy, Howard always kept busy with hardly any time left to breathe. He went out that night just to have a few stiff drinks, something else he rarely did and found what he considered to be the last bastion of hope for ever hearing the real truth about anything; comedy.

Probably figuring like most people, comedy was the last place you would go looking for the truth, but there it was, right smack in your face, where it has always been.

Sitting back in his apartment in a hallucinatory trance, zoning out on the singular thought that we really all are connected, Michael adopted the same philosophy many years ago. Of course, there is a double-edged sword to spreading the truth through comedy. If people laughed too hard, they forget what the comedian's point was. No one ever took them too seriously. Although, Michael was pretty sure he would remember this night for a long time to come. He knew he was experiencing a moment of clarity, almost feeling as if everything in the universe was working in unison to make this moment happen for him, and he was not going to let it go by unheeded.

Up on stage, two bar stools were setup with a microphone on a stand in between them. Sitting on the stool facing stage left, hotter-than-hot, rising star comedian Terry Rogers sat waiting as Howard made his way over with a cordless microphone in his hand.

Stopping just short of handshake distance, Howard introduced his next guest.

"Tonight, we have a special treat, comedy sensation and star of the box office hit, _What's That Noise_ , funnyman Terry Rogers."

A whistle cheering applause went out for the recent breakout star from a popular late night variety show. Leaping to the big screen, he experienced a grand success like no other before him.

Taking the microphone from off the stand in front of him, Terry stood up and shook Howard's welcoming hand.

"Thank you, Howard. It is a pleasure to be on a show that caters to that rare programming demographic of people who actual use their brain for something other than texting twitter trends."

Another round of hearty applause filled the cozy studio set, praising the twenty-four year old, slim black man from Detroit.

"Man, let me tell ya, Howard. You sure did pick the perfect name for your show. Because, there ain't no truth out in this world, anymore. You feel me. It is just a bunch of punk-ass hypocrites constantly talking out of their collective asses. The thing that really gets under my skin, the same people who were so upset at the Dixie Chicks when one of them said she was ashamed of her President, are the same idiots drawing Hitler mustaches on pictures of their current President. Talk about being a bunch of hypocrites."

The audience cheered the young comedian's ironic logic with more vigorous handclapping.

"It reminds me of the pretzel logic used by those people who go around preaching about the sanctity of life before rationalizing the shooting of abortion doctors. Wouldn't that be considered a form of retroactive abortion?" Another paused moment of laughter transpired. "But this is what you get, when you allow a bunch of rich, old white dudes to decide how we live our lives. Of course, if you reversed the situation and men got pregnant instead of women, you would be able to get an abortion at a fast food drive-thru window. You'd pull up to the window and be like, 'I'll have a burger, fries, and a coke, plus an abortion on the side."

Bringing on a series of catcall whistles to go along with the acknowledging jubilation of applause, Terry took a page from the comedy handbook and decided to leave them wanting more, skillfully seguing back to Howard.

"We should all thank our lucky stars we have someone with Howard's integrity speaking out as the voice of reason in this insane world we now live. He is also one of those philanthropic humanitarians willing to put his money where his mouth is, stepping up with his own endowment of the arts, when deciding to finance the production costs of his show after the previous administration gutted funding for many social programs."

"Thank you for those kind words, Terry. I just do what I can." Howard humbly replied to the well-deserved praise for his efforts in fighting the good fight.

"You are way too modest, Howard. You should not brush aside the valuable contributions to society your show provides for people. Just like when Bob Dylan came along in the early Sixties to sing social protest songs of such lyrical truth and beauty, you also motivate a disenfranchised public."

"I am only trying to start a conversation the people can carry on once they begin to think for themselves again."

CHAPTER FOUR

### ANIMATED GREY MATTER MORNING

I am nothing. I am everything.

I am no one. I am everyone.

I am nowhere. I am everywhere.

I am you, as you are me,

And I am me, as you are you,

I live here and I live there.

I am Human to the world,

A place I roam all alone,

With no place I can call home

Unknown

1

Michael lethargically climbed up out of his restless slumber with the Sandman still weighing heavy on his eyelids, trying to drag him back down into a sunken dream state. Struggling against the determined foe, Michael wanted to stay awake so he would not forget the dream he just dreamt. He needed to remember it. He could not let this one slip away. It was too important. For some strangely certain reason, he felt he just experienced the pivotal moment of his life. He knew from that day on exactly what he needed to do.

The dream had changed his life.

It was quite different from any other dream he ever had before. There were many times when it was hard for him to discern whether or not what he was experiencing was actually happening or a dream reality. His subconscious mind would always find a way to clue him in on what was real and what was not through some misplaced continuity of objects, places, or color schemes. The manufactured images he created in his dreams filled the canvas of his mind with bright, vivid colors. However, it was completely unnecessary for his subconscious mind to give him any clues, considering, for the first time ever, his dream took place in an animated world.

The landscape was pure Disney. It looked like it could have been a wooded scene right out of the forests of Bambi. A well-worn dirt path lined with full-grown oak, spruce, pine, and maple trees cut through the winding thick woods. Fallen autumn leaves mixed in with discarded pinecones all along the trail. There were birds singing and insects buzzing in peaceful harmony with nature as woodland creatures scurried about, darting in and out of the shrubbery, tree knots, and burrowed holes in the ground.

Michael strolled casually down the road, whistling a melody in tune with the songbirds sweetly singing as he headed towards the rising morning sun peeking up over the horizon. It was a peacefully idyllic day to go walk-about with nothing better to do, having nowhere particular to go. Those were days long since absent from his real life.

Everything looked perfectly normal at first glance. Then he became fully cognizant his animated surroundings were in direct contrast with reality. His analytical mind quickly deduced it must be a dream, or else he truly had gone stark raving mad. Raising his hands up to his eyes in preparation of rubbing the mirage from his vision, the sight of his own animated hands struck him numb.

Staring at his hands in utter disbelief, Michael looked down at the rest of his body, also taking cartoon form, but drawn from a different type of animation than his surroundings. Projected in 3-D, he was a Computer Generated Image (CGI) of his human self, standing out against the backdrop of the traditional Disney-type animation. Michael also appeared much younger than his present age. In fact, he was a kid again.

There was something else he could not quite put his finger on at first. It was a strange, foreign feeling to him, one he had not felt in some time. He was happy. For the first time in a long time, Michael felt like he was on top of the world, king of the hill, A-number one. He did not have any additional reason to make him feel that way. There were no monumental decisions made, or eye-opening insights discovered. He was just glad to be able to breathe in the fresh morning air while taking in the sights on what was the most beautiful day he could ever remember—even if it was an animated one.

The warm sun quickly dried the morning dew dripping off the foliage as the flowers, shrubs, and trees blossomed in the light of a brand new day. A perfect day for a walk in the woods, free from all of life's seemingly endless familiar frustrations and constant contradictions ruining many of the perfect days before this one.

Coming to a clearing in the woods, Michael took note of an extremely large, animated old man. In fact, he was so huge his head stuck up in the clouds with only his long white beard visible. Sitting on a rock big enough to hold his enormous bulk, he was just finishing up a conversation with another animated man, who was of normal size. A bald-headed, fat guy, who shrugged his shoulders in defeat, uttered an audible sigh of failure, "duh," before walking away with his head down.

"Thanks for trying, Homer. Do not lose faith, though. I am sure the right answer to this quandary of mine will come along shortly." The voice of the large man echoed out in the woods in a calmly smoothing tone, causing no alarm among its inhabitants.

Michael walked over to the noticeably depressed deity. Feeling an overwhelming empathy flood over him, he inquired if there was anything he could do to help.

"Please excuse me for being so forward, kind sir. But you appear to be down in the dumps about something. I was just wondering if there is anything I could do or say to help. If you feel that I could be of some assistance, I am at your service." Michael's words came out in a polite, formal cadence foreign to his lips.

"Michael, it is good that we should finally meet. You have been so elusive for the past twenty years or so. It was the same time you stopped believing in me that I could no longer sense your thoughts as clearly as all the others loudly voicing their devotion for me, while lobbying for their own desires. But as it turns out, you might be the only one who can help," the head-in-the-clouds, giant deity replied to the reimagined and rejuvenated young man standing at his side.

"I'm not sure how? Or know what you mean by that, but I will do whatever I can to help." Michael freely volunteered his services.

"It is just that I am so sick and tired of people doing terrible things then go around saying its God's will." The Lord said with a heavy sigh, continuing in a hurt and disappointed demeanor, rather than one filled with wrath or anger.

"The nerve of some of my children to believe that I would ever condone any of the atrocities they have inflicted on each other, committing such horrible acts as genocide, slavery, honor killings, burning heretics, the Spanish Inquisition, and Adolf Hitler, that problem child of mine. He believed he was doing God's work when trying to kill off all of my-um-chosen people. If that is not bad enough, they blame me for natural disasters, diseases, and even growing old."

"Well, that last on does kind of fall under your egis." Michael pointed out with a slight smirk before admitting to the liability of his species. "After an earthquake, tornado, or some other natural disaster, I see people on the news asking how could God let something like this happen to so many innocent people, while at the same time thanking you for sparing their lives. When the simple truth is we are the main cause of our own destruction. We pummeled, flattened, blasted, polluted, and abused this planet so much. It is no wonder Mother Nature bites back every once in a while. We are just too arrogant to think we could possibly be to blame for the problem, like spreading deadly viruses we create in labs, or from the pesticides we spray on crops to protect them from insect infestations, or the growth hormones we inject into our livestock for bigger steaks and profits."

Michael paused a moment to choose his next words carefully, not wanting to offend someone known for being an angry god when displeased.

"As for the many different ways people choose to believe in you, I think it would be much better if you weren't such a big mystery. Do a press junket or something. Because when you don't tell your own story, somebody else will come along and write it for you, more than likely skewing it in favor of whatever they believe will give them the most power, which is all people really want. Religion has always been the greatest system of control ever devised over the minds of men. The problem is that there are just way too many of them, and they are all in direct contradiction with one another, when only one can be true."

"Actually, the core beliefs of most single divinity religions are true, except for that Christian Science crap. Nothing gets me angrier then parents letting their children suffer from disease without getting them the proper medical attention. I do not see how people can sit around praying for a cure, watching their child suffer unnecessarily, when medical science has already answered their prayers through doctors and research scientists who have discovered their God Part. Didn't they learn during the Holocaust that I will not interfere with the fate man has made for himself? That is why I gave you all free will. It is what separates you from the beasts that sleep and feed. It's that missing link you are always going on about to prove your superiority."

"I guess you can say we are slow learners. Maybe, we should come with an owner's manual at birth. Yet, there are those who once they have had their eyes opened can never shut out the truth again."

"You seem to have an innate understanding of it all."

"I just have a lot of free time on my hands. Most people do not have time to breathe in this rush hour world we made from your grand design. We seem to live in a state of almost total confusion 24/7. We never know whom to believe when seeking knowledge, or what is true or false, real or fiction. We have become a bi-polar nation always looking for the quick fix, instead of doing the hard work that is needed."

"I know what you mean. My poor son is developing a multiple-personality disorder with Christianity's over thirty thousand different denominations all vying for his attention, none of which keeps true faith in his message of love and peace."

Jesus suddenly appeared out of nowhere, walking around in a twitchy, Bugs Bunny schizophrenic haze while talking to some of his unseen followers, all wanting to know who's was the one true faith.

"I can only imagine how hard it must be on him with so many out there twisting his message of peace and love to satisfy their selfish needs. But even if he came today, I don't know if it would have turned out much better than it did when living in a backwards time and such a strange land. Life is simple, but has always been made difficult by human desires." Michael offered his insightful opinion. "Maybe if the circumstances surrounding his birth didn't transform him into such a superstar, and he was thought of as a man—an extraordinary man, but still just a man—no one would have been able to convert his simple words of wisdom into a complex paradox of conflicting beliefs used to gain men the world and protect the only thing they truly worship, wealth and power."

The omnipotent Lord let out another despondent, heavy sigh.

"That was never my intention, but once the people began worshipping him as my son, it grew exponentially from there, especially with many people believing he died for their sins. When in truth, you are all my children, my sons and daughters, because everyone has a God Part inside them, making anyone capable of creating great good or committing horrendous evil. If only people could believe in themselves instead of clinging onto traditional beliefs thousands of years old, they might find a way back to reality."

"Regrettably, blissful ignorance is a worldwide epidemic infecting the spiritual foundations of every religion with contradictory dogmas that breed a piously righteous attitude toward anyone who does not share their beliefs." Michael said as he just noticed a dark form at the edge of the clearing, sitting cross-legged on the ground in silent contemplation, omitting the starkly still lifelessness of a Sunday morning comic strip.

"Being a Supreme Being puts a lot of pressure on a person, having to be perfect all the time. Take poor Buddha over there, sitting alone all day just thinking peaceful thought to prevent the insanity of this world from perverting his words and driving him crazy in the process. I know, his agoraphobia prevents him from even moving out of fear of any negative reaction to his actions," the Lord explained.

Just then, flying and leaping into the clearing like a team of mutant comic book superheroes, several of the main Hindu gods moved and jumped around in an erratically jittery state of confusion in their fight for good over evil, never sure which was which anymore.

"Pray to me." "Don't waste your prayers on him, pray to me." "No, pray to me. I am the one true Hindu god."

Michael was unsure who they were and what they represented, not being too familiar with their religion, or what their followers believed.

The four heads of Brahma the Creator, along with Vishnu the Preserver, and Shiva the Destroyer, led the trinity of Hindu deities, called the Trimurti. They were joined by their wives—Saraswati (goddess of knowledge, music, and art), Lakshmi (goddess of wealth and prosperity), and Parvati (The Divine Mother), respectively. Several other popular Hindu gods were with them taking various forms and incarnations. Two were Avatars of Vishnu, reincarnated as Rama with his trusty bow and arrow at the ready, and Krishna, the little prankster playing his flute. The dark and violent Kali, goddess of time and death, was riding her donkey alongside the fierce ten-armed Durga on her tiger with her many weapons ready to strike, but seemed unsure of her target. None of them appeared to know which way to turn, lost in a pluralistic confusion of reality.

Michael just stood there in awestruck amazement, marveling at the superhero qualities embedded in their diverse, bright, multi-colored attributes. Unfamiliar with the origin story of the Hindu gods and goddesses, which were vastly foreign to any spiritual belief he had ever been exposed to throughout his life, Michael, like many Americans, was indifferently ignorant of Hinduism.

The Lord sitting next to him he was familiar with helped to clarify his and their state of confusion.

"Michael, my son, you are just as confused by them as they are about you and the rest of the non-believers of their faith."

"With so many different incarnations of their deities to choose from, I don't even know how their believers can keep them all straight in their heads." Michael freely admitted to the difficult path of their followers.

"Trading cards," the Lord simply stated in a deadpan manner.

Michael raised a curious eyebrow, not out of doubt, but out of bemused acceptance of the logic of it. Before he could reply further, a voice called out from a black intercom box setting on a rock on the opposite side of the Lord from Michael.

"Good morning, Angels...I mean Almighty One. I am a spokesperson for the second largest religion in the world, sent here to represent a certain notoriously media shy prophet, whose wrongly interpreted words have lately come under much fire because of the actions of some fanatically misguided followers. There have been some false translations of the meaning of your words that were never in the Qur'an, or from any of those highly regarded words you told the prophet in his Hadith. These false interpretations are now being used to manipulate deluded zealots into strapping on bombs and committing unspeakable acts in your name, while given false promises of living in eternal paradise for their sacrifice," the voice from the intercom stated in a distinctively deep baritone voice that sounded oddly familiar to Michael.

"Unfortunately, many of my children choose to use the gift of free will to oppress the will of others, so they may prosper by it. However, it is their choice to decide how to live, which is not to say that others do not have the free will to object to the inequities and take measures through the majority rule of a civilized society to prevent them from doing so. Still, like all ancient religions, some of the original meaning has been lost in translation with archaically misunderstood interpretations of their principle beliefs."

"Tell me about it. This whole big mess over the seventy-two virgins has really been blown way out of proportion, and something the prophet never wrote down, or you ever said to him. Now, while you do promise eternal paradise after death to all those who repent their sins, which is something else people disagree on what constitutes a sin, you also said man is responsible for his own actions in this life and that is why you gave us free will. And you also spoke of wives in heaven, not virgins. That is just somebody else's rationalization."

"Which was meant as a metaphor, just like the story of Jonah and the whale or big fish," the Lord imparted some clarification on the vastly misunderstood subject. "But everyone took things so literal back then. Most of what they interpreted as sin was not what I deemed to be one."

"Maybe if there was just one absolute religion for the people to follow, they wouldn't have to tolerate others who do not believe as they do and feel the need to deny them their faith, because there can be only one." Michael blurted out in a moment of spontaneously spoken thoughts suggesting a logical solution to the dilemma.

"Actually, there is only one," the Lord interjected. "It is just that sometimes things can get lost in translation, either by naive misunderstanding or deliberate acts of deception. Now that I can see what problem this has caused, I probably should have built in a universal language as part of your genetic code, instead of just letting you develop independently."

"I do believe that would have cleared away many of those communication breakdowns over the centuries," Michael agreed.

"And who are you to question the way of the Lord Almighty? Believe me, it is not a good idea. This world is his petri dish and he can mix in or leave out whatever ingredients he wants," an old man with a long white beard sternly stated as he stepped out of the clearing holding a long wooden staff.

Michael blinked his eyes a few more times, still finding this animated dream world of his a real mindtrip as the old man wasn't brought to life in a traditional cartoon drawing or modern day computer animation, but instead was a Claymation sculpture of the famous Jewish prophet.

"Moses, are you still sore about that incident in the desert? I was a much younger and a very angry deity back then, and I may have acted too harshly. But I was still working out all the quirks in my design with this whole creating life thing being new to me. That is why it took one-hundred-sixty-million years just to get rid of those damn dinosaurs, that way man could evolve to dominate the earth with a purpose in life other than just finding a place to sleep, feed, and multiply."

Noah stepped out of the clearing behind Moses, followed by two animals of many different species. Two large hound dogs were at his side. Like Moses and the other representatives of the Judaism, Noah also came from the wonderful magic of Claymation.

"Now, I can certainly tell you something about keeping faith, especially when everyone goes around saying how crazy you are for believing in something bigger than yourself." Noah stated his loyal devotion to the Lord's wishes.

A small rock flew by the Lord and Michael, sailing through the air seemingly out of nowhere. It hit one of the hound dogs smack between the eyes. Rushing out from the other side of the clearing and coming to an abrupt halt, a young King David stood there a moment, quickly concealing a slingshot behind his back like a kid caught red-handed with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Gee, Davey, what did you go and do that for?" a dazed and wobbly-legged hound dog asked.

"Sorry about that, Goliath. I am just trying to keep in practice. You never know when you might have to go up against a giant with only a slingshot to defend yourself. I mean, talk about keeping faith."

"Now, David. What did I tell you about throwing rocks in heaven?" the Lord chastised the man who would be king.

"I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

"I know."

"Do you really? Know everything before it happens, I mean?" Michael asked the Lord with another spontaneous thought inspired by his once in a lifetime opportunity to get answers to some of the more perplexing questions about life.

"I know all the possible permutations of events that might occur, depending on your actions or inactions. You all have the free will to change the world for either good or evil, sometimes in spite of your best intentions."

"So you do not know whether or not we will succeed in finding our true path in life? No matter how hard we try to get it right or how good our intentions are." Michael asked, keeping the ball rolling in his search for knowledge.

"It is ultimately up to you to decide your own fate. I am just here to offer guidance. But tell me, Michael. What do you think happens when you die? While no one religion has gotten it quite right, not all of them are completely wrong, except for that Scientology junk. I am not even a trillion years old, for Christ's sake."

"What's that? Did you want something, pop?" Jesus asked looking around slightly confused.

"It's nothing, son, just go back to smelling the roses."

Michael took a few seconds to think about his response with the distracted mind of Jesus giving him the chance for a few quick thoughts on the subject, answering with the most rational explanation he could deduce.

"Transubstantiation," Michael said unsure if he was pronouncing it correctly or if he was confusing another word for what he meant, but his offer of clarification seemed unnecessary with the Lord letting out an audible murmur of confirmation as Michael added. "Provided we live our lives right while here, if not I believe we keep coming back until we do."

"That is the closest I ever heard anyone come, which is why I have chosen you for this mission, should you decide to accept it, Mr. Carducci."

"I don't understand. What can I do? What is my purpose?"

"To tell a good story," the Lord replied. "I want you to set the record straight."

"But why me?"

"Because. You are a writer, dummy."

Michael just nodded his head with a slight shrug of his shoulder in a 'no duh' manner.

"Just kidding about the dummy part. But you are able to see things more clearly than many are willing to allow themselves." The Lord confirmed his faith in Michael's intelligence and potential.

"I always knew you had a sense of humor. How else do you explain the duckbill-platypus?" Michael replied back in jest before taking on a more humble tone. "I'm not really smarter than anyone else. I just have more time to think about things most people do not normally have time for, which can also be as much of a curse as it is a blessing."

The clearing started suddenly filling up with representatives of every belief, faith, and form of worship from shaman, gurus, mystics, witchdoctors, monks, evangelist, snake charmers, scientologists, all just seeming to come out of the woodwork. They were all talking at once, trying to state their case with the many voices getting louder and louder in a deafening roar.

"You see what I mean, Michael? I need an unbiased opinion, someone who will write it all down in a way that people will not only universally understand, but also willingly accept as true. I know you no longer doubt my existence."

"No, I realized that there must be a reason why we are separate from other animals. Man is the only species that communicates philosophical thoughts, builds massive cities and towns across the globe, fashions clothes to cover our bodies, creates great works of art, and then turns around and destroys it all like we do. So I just figured there has to be a higher purpose for our existence to be imbued with the gift of our God Part."

"That is exactly what I want you to go and do. Tell the people about their God Part and make them believe that they have the power within to make a difference," the Lord urged on Michael, who was on board and ready to go the distance. He just had one question.

"Since you are here, there is one thing I need to ask while I got the opportunity. What is the secret to life?"

"Well, my son. That is easy. You see, it has always been about just one thing."

BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

The sound of the alarm going off woke Michael from his heavenly dream. It could not have come at a worse time.

2

Slouching down almost to the edge of his seat, sitting back in a feigned relaxed state, Michael was anything but. He tried to conceal the nervous tension he felt jumping around deep down in his stomach, with only a slight twinge of confidence his deceptive posture was successfully masking his true feelings. Even though he only knew Ryan from spontaneous, periodically brief visits, he held the much younger man in high regard. He valued his opinion on intangible subjects born out of philosophical thought, rather than personal preferences based on generational likes and dislikes, such as music appreciation.

Accorded to the time in which it came out and form expressed in, popular music has always played to the beat of different generational youths, which often irked the previous generations' choice of melody and song. It is the one medium that has constantly changed with the times. On the other hand, film can transcend time with movies from the early days of cinema still thrilling new audiences years after everyone up on the screen has been long dead and gone. And, while some people can still appreciate the classical masters like Beethoven, there are not too many individuals out there like Michael, who could listen to a Frank Sinatra song and then put on a Jimi Hendrix album. Yet just about anyone with a heartbeat could still find the magic of The Wizard Oz a wonderful place to visit at any age, or be able to get lost in the beautifully written words of William Shakespeare, or gaze up in awe at the creative genius Michelangelo painted on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

Over the last several days, Ryan was too busy to stop by for a visit. Everything in his life snowballed into a huge glacial movement, gaining momentum from the life-changing, sticky situation he found himself. He had to come clean to his young girlfriend about his romantic dalliances with her aunt. Needless to say, Ryan's very-soon-to-be ex-girlfriend was not happy about the unexpected news of his impending new arrival, vowing she would never speak to him or her aunt ever again. Ryan knew there was nothing he could do to make her forgive him, especially since there would always be a constant reminder of his betrayal that could stare right back in her face. Not wanting to transfer any of her subconscious feelings onto an innocent child, she thought it best if she were not around and headed to Colorado to stay with her father, who moved to Denver after divorcing her mother.

Of course, none of that meant things were going to work out any better on the flipside of that bountiful coin he inadvertently tossed, which no matter how it landed would come up heads you lose, or tails the other guy wins.

Her aunt was not all too pleased by the sudden turn of events, with her winter passion blowing back a blanketing blizzard across turbulent seas. Technically still married, her husband had been doing time locked up in the state penitentiary for a number of petty crimes, not the least of which was for spousal abuse. After getting to know him better, she never wanted to have a child with him, even though he always wanted one. It was why he married her in the first place. But no matter how hard he tried to knock her up, it just never took, frustrating his already short fuse, which made him even more of a volatile personality ready to explode over any perceived slight. Of course, he never knew she was taking birth control pills the whole time to prevent any such occurrence.

Hope Rosemary Savin was a thirty-two year old woman from the Dominican Republic who moved to the States with her parents when just a little girl. Even as a child, she used to dream about being a mother, nurturing and raising a child, providing a better life than the one she had growing up. Her parents had to struggle all their lives just to put food on the table and keep a roof over their heads. She swore that she would never raise a child under those conditions.

So when she first met her future husband, Hope believed she had found that better life.

Chico Ramirez inherited a very lucrative auto mechanic shop from his father, who died of a sudden heart attack at only fifty. Inopportunely, his son had no head for business and was also an angry drunk, who became a more violent alcoholic with each passing disappointment, making him feel like a complete failure. It did not take him long to lose everything his father built over the years, filing for bankruptcy just two years after taking over the business. After that, things just got worse.

He would bounce around from one menial job to another, often getting fired for being drunk at work, and then come home expecting everything to be perfect with a steak dinner on the table waiting for him. But with the cabins bare and the bankbook empty, Hope became the object of his anger, accusing her of sleeping around and blowing all his hard-earned money. After he started breaking into cars and committing other petty thefts, she turned him in to the authorities and served him with divorce papers once they locked him away, but never followed through with the proceedings.

Starting to regret letting her court case expire after failing to give official notice whether to proceed, postpone, or drop the case, Hope now found herself wishing she paid closer attention to things like court dates. Her mind was too busy focusing on other priorities and did not have time to think about silly details. Caught up in a whirlwind romance with a much younger man, she did not want her Fantasy Island dream vacation from reality to end. She just wanted to bask in the sensual pleasure that was making her feel so young, vibrant, and alive again, also adopting another youthful trait of putting off today what you could do tomorrow.

Still married and pregnant with another man's baby, the recent news her husband was getting an early release in three months felt like someone dropped a ton of bricks on her head. He probably thought he would just go home and pick up where they left off. Hope could feel a dark cloud forming over her, bringing a driving storm to wash away all her happiness.

Ryan told her not to worry. He would deal with her ex when the time came. She thought Ryan was a sweet boy, but no match for her bar brawling husband.

Hampered at birth by a damaged, undeveloped right lung, Ryan never depended on brute force to solve any altercations or disputes. Not one to go out looking for trouble, he would not run away nor back down from any that came his way. He was quite capable of physically defending himself when absolutely necessary, but also knew the best way to win a fight was by not having one. If you could outmaneuver your opponent and get them to go right when you fade left, the advantage could be insurmountable to overcome, even if hitting back with words instead of fists.

Ryan needed to focus his attention on more important things, before he lost control of the situation, always knowing it was best to stay on top of the things in life that truly mattered. He needed to make money anyway he could, at first trying do a regular type job working for his uncle's construction company, but soon found the drudgery of forty-hour work week not worth the effort and time. Something the workingman has known since the day they joined the workforce. Fortunately, for Ryan, he had other skills that allowed him to turn a profit from a semi-legitimate business venture, which also gave him a strange sense of purpose.

California's medical marijuana laws permitted many people the opportunity to benefit from the fine herbal medicine known to help ease the pain of many cancer patients and other stress related maladies contracted on a daily basis. Ryan had been smoking the controversial herb since he turned thirteen, without falling prey to the common misconception of it being a gateway drug leading to harsher narcotics. He did not experience any such side effect, nor have any other impulsive urges normally associated to addictive substances, such as cocaine, heroin, crystal meth, ecstasy, or LSD. In other words, it did not control him. He controlled it. It was really just a matter of having the will power of mind over matter.

With a sharp head for business, Ryan used his entrepreneurial skills to increase his portfolio by selling anything he could get his hands on. It did not necessarily matter if whatever he sold originally belonged to him or procured through some personal requisition on behalf of a greater good.

A real people person, Ryan had a true gift for gab. A friendly, congenial fellow, it usually took something substantially disconcerting to get a rise out of him. He intuitively sensed a metamorphic transformation inside of him taking place. It was a change he not only felt, but could also see every time he looked in the mirror. Something was different. Something had changed.

He could also see a change in Michael, who seemed to find a newfound sense of purpose that gave off an aura only noticeable to those also affected by metaphysical changes taking place in the mind.

Michael had received another kind of wakeup call, inspired by a different motivating source. Sometimes it took a good kick in the butt to get people moving down the right path. Or in Michael's case, a heavy dose of reality brought on by a surreal moment in time, when his subconscious mind set off an urgent alarm to make him consciously aware of what he needed to do in the real world, before it was too late to make a difference.

"So, what do you think?" Michael asked after telling Ryan about his creative epiphany.

"Wow, Monop, you might actually be on to something. I can see it in your eyes. You found something to believe in again." Ryan answered Michael's inquiry about his new book idea.

"It just kind of grew out of this idea for a short story I had," Michael falsely claimed, keeping the true source of his inspiration to himself. "I was thinking about writing a short story that would piss some people off so much it would definitely get me noticed. It had to be something really controversial. I needed something so infuriating to right-wing conservatives it would make people like Rush Limbaugh, Glenn Beck, Sean Hannity, Sara Palin and Bill O'Reilly heads explode."

Michael was never one to shy away from controversial subject matter, recalling previously inflammatory, rabble-rousing works of literature with Salman Rushdie's The Satanic Verses, or films like Mandingo, the incendiary slavery potboiler set during the Civil War ravaged South, or the short-lived, male/female role switching TV series, All That Glitters, where women were the bread winners and men stayed home to bake and raise children. While some of those works deserved the ire and contentious criticisms leveled at them, some other misinterpretations were unfairly maligned. Incendiary subject matter has always had a slippery slope to transverse when dealing with closed-minded, irrational people, whose horrific reactions could far outweigh any preconceived offence given.

"Then again, pissing people off has always been one of my favorite pastimes," Michael freely admitted to his muckraking propensity to rail against the system, adding the clarifying statement. "Of course, it is something I try to reserve for those truly deserving a good dose of reality to contradict the bullshit they keep spewing on a daily basis."

"There sure is a lot of that going around lately." Ryan agreed with Michael's assessment of the shape of things. "But if you just tune it out like I do, it won't bother you so much."

"I can understand the sentiment and even wish I could subscribe to the same philosophy, except that for every one person who does ignore the bullshit, there are probably five more listening to it, out of which two or three fully accept and believe it, while the rest remain on the fence ready to be tilted in either direction, no longer being able to think for themselves." Michael explained his reasoning for not adhering to Ryan's sound mindset. "And if we do not start living smart, we are all going to die stupid. The drastic change in morality and the social acceptance of racial prejudices in this so-called politically correct society we live in are a hard enough pill to have to swallow. I just cannot stand idly by keeping my mouth shut when filled with righteous indignation."

"Well, Monop, it looks like we both will be making room for some big changes in our lives," Ryan said in a moment of solidarity as he started to roll up a blunt by first emptying out the tobacco from a thin, "Swisher" cigar in order refill it with something much more tasty.

"It is one of the only constants in life, and it does not much matter if we are comfortable with the change or not, because like shit, life just happens."

Michael had gotten used to changes in his life, even if he was not always happy about it or a willing participant. It was something you just had to accept, or let it bowl you over. However, there were times when it could be a good thing, depending on your perspective viewpoint. If ready and waiting for it to come your way, it could be as welcoming as waking up with a newfound sense of purpose you searched for all your life.

Michael woke up that morning with just such an outlook, quickly writing down as much of the dream as he could remember. He did not want to forget anything important, even though he decided to keep the dream to himself. It didn't matter how his inspiration came about, because the setting was just a thematic backdrop used to motivate him to get personally involved. He started believing it was his destiny and that everything that happened in his life up to this point had to happen exactly the way it did in order for him to reach this perspective viewpoint of the world. He was ready to act, and the world was desperately in need of the truth.

Being a social nomad, Michael knew it would be hard for him to step into the spotlight when he had been hiding in the shadows for so long. But also knew the only thing that allowed the evil that men do to go unpunished was when good people sat idly by doing nothing. All his life he had been a follower, with no identity. But now, he was fiercely independent, locked in his own splendid isolationism where he answered to no one. It was then he realized in order to fill the mind with analytical, profound ponderings about our existence, the body had to be an empty vessel.

It was as if he had been subconsciously preparing for this day all his life. Also thinking to himself, what the hell, he didn't have anything better to do.

CHAPTER FIVE

### BEST COUNTRY GOD NEVER MADE

1

Breathing heavy, the sweat ran freely down his forehead, generated by the building momentum of exerting thrusts in rapid succession. Howard was not sure what would come first, him or a heart attack. Starting out on top and finishing off from behind, her escalating, audible cries of pleasure encouraged him to keep it up as she constantly begged for more, more, more. Her nearly insatiable longing for having him inside her made him an obedient and willing participant. Howard pushed himself beyond the boundaries of what he felt he could endure. Thinking damn the consequences, he continued on at that pace until finally bursting through with an equally shared, satisfying finale as their ubiquitous passion peaked in unison.

Plopping down on his back beside her, Howard let out a heavy sigh of drained energy. With a distinct smile of elated ecstasy, he reached over and ran his fingers down her back, caressing her soft, smooth, white skin from her shoulders to her waist. He slowly moved his hand over the curve of her buttocks before raising it up and bringing it down with a pronounced but gentle slap.

"If we keep this up, one of these days you are going to give me a heart attack." Howard admitted with a carefree grin.

Rolling over, she hopped on top of him with a sudden jolt. Reaching down between his legs, she grabbed a hold of his testicles and firmly cupped them in the palm of her hand.

"Oomph," Howard groaned

"Just admit it. You love the thrilling rush of not knowing what could happen, living from this moment to the next with a laissez-faire, carefree spirit. I know you like to present the persona of a serious, dedicated journalist fighting the good fight, always looking out for the common-man, a crusader for truth and justice. But deep down you're a danger junkie, just like me. Not knowing whether you will live or die is what thrills people like you and me. It's where the real action is."

"You are definitely the most exciting part of my life that I have ever known. So you see why I do not want any battlefield injuries sidelining me from active duty. I would miss this intrepid adventure my life has become since the day I met you."

The spunky-brunette on top of him was Amy Carlson, the estranged daughter of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the highest-ranking office in the United States Armed Forces and the principal military advisor to the President. She went by her mother's maiden name after her parents divorced and had taken on a rebellious nature ever since. She blamed her father's top-secret job for breaking up their happy family. But like Howard, she just did not get mad. She got even, too.

As part of the White House Press Corps, Amy regularly traveled with the President while on the campaign trail and when moving down diplomatic or political highways. Reinventing herself with a secret identity, known only as The D.C. Insider, she went around blogging classified, highly sensitive government secrets, supposedly hidden away from public knowledge for their own good. Another wiki-leaks-type of rebel journalist, she wanted to expose the hypocrisy of truth spread by media cronies and corrupt politicians so the people could finally see the lies. Of course, those with the most to hide wanted to stop her by any means possible, except unlike a certain other government secret spilling fugitive, nobody knew who The D.C. Insider was, or if it was a man or a woman. Many of those around the Washington Beltway believed it had to be a man, someone deep inside the government, another Deep Throat acting as his own Woodward and Bernstein.

Only Howard knew the truth. He met Amy on the 2012 campaign trail for Presidential nominee Bharath Baca. The country was still reeling from another four years of the same old, same old, after electing Idaho Senator Joseph McBride President in 2008. He took up George W's failed policies and conservative agenda by continuing the mandate of trickledown economics (established by Reagan and W's father) making the wealthiest one percent richer, while just about everybody else slowly went broke. But there was a new, liberal-minded candidate giving many people a new hope for a better future, a light at the end of a very long, dark tunnel. Howard could feel it in the air, something he had not sensed since Clinton mesmerized the electorate back in 1992 or Kennedy in 1960. Senator Baca had just won his party's nomination, which all but assured him the Presidency with the incumbent's low approval ratings. The people were clamoring for a change they could believe in, and an upstart Senator from Indiana making big noise with the success he had in getting his state back on track seemed perfectly cast for the part, except for one small detail. He was black.

Howard had just resigned his position as San Francisco's ADA after he was unable to get a man he knew to be innocent off of death row. He could not work within a legal system that put innocent men to death, while letting guilty ones go free. He could no longer be a part of that broken system and decided it was time to follow a different path to self-fulfillment. The biggest problem in the country was that many people were content to go around blissfully ignorant of the truth. They generally only wanted to hear the news when it was good and tended to ignore it when bad, hoping it would go away if they just didn't pay it any mind.

Howard dedicated his life to informing people of the actual facts, only reporting the real news that people needed to hear, instead of being some propaganda pushing puppet. He believed it was only through a strong Fourth Estate that the people could find strength in knowledge and smash through the wall of lies. He felt it was his purpose, his reason for being. Even though, it was something he never thought about on those terms, but committed himself to fulfilling.

At first, he thought of taking the route of traditional print news, but the newspaper industry was deader than Dillinger was. So, television it was. He pretty much had his choice of networks and time slots, with his expert credentials and excellent case record making him a hot commodity. The Primetime news chair of major networks, ABC, NBC, CBS, and FOX, were coveted positions, once filled by the likes of Brinkley, Cronkite, Murrow, Reasoner, Russert, Wallace, Winchell, and many other highly respected news anchors. Imprudently, the advent of the twenty-four hour Cable News Network spawned many hungry beasts, and the need to fill all that airtime led to a large increase in the amount of shows, just not many good ones. It was all a ratings circus based on audience demographics used to sell advertisers on their potential to reach their most coveted consumers.

An extreme Right-wing, conservative news network served as nothing more than a propaganda machine used to spread their political party's agenda anyway possible, never letting things like truth and facts get in the way of manipulating their viewers into constantly voting against their own self-interests. The liberal media did not seem to have the balls to fight back against the saturation of inept clowns reporting bogus stories, unsubstantiated rumors, and their own moronic editorial opinions as facts. Then there was the Hamlet of news networks. It's the one, the only, the original CNN. In trying to remain neutral, they only managed to become an indecisive organization that did not know what side of the story they wanted to be on when reporting it, often trying to be fair and balance, while succeeding at neither.

Howard was working the campaign trail, taking his time mulling over the offers he received, and the possibilities they presented. He did not need to rush his decision, having inherited his parent's large estate made him independently wealthy. It was not about the money. He was looking for the perfect fit.

That was when he met Amy at the more enlightened, liberal party's 2012 Convention in Denver Colorado. She was fresh out of college and he was fresh out of his forties. Howard just wanted to mingle around getting a sense of the magnetism generated by the party's polarizing, new candidate for President. There were many people in the country totally enamored by the nominee, while there were many others filled with a visceral hate for the man they called a socialist-muslin, un-American, and a celebrity elitist.

Amy had a school girl crush on Howard ever since she saw him give a lecture at her college. She popped in on him unexpectedly, coming over from DC in a surprise visit early that Friday morning, just a week before she had to leave as part of the White House Press Pool to go cover the signing of President Baca's historic Peace Accord. Howard was broadcasting the event live on his show next Friday, September 11th 2015.

Howard had very strong feelings for Amy, but could no longer fully commit his love to anyone since his wife died, before Amy was even born. She was waiting for him in his condo, naked in bed when Howard arrived home from doing his show, around two-thirty in the morning. They kept their relationship low key, never meeting in public, but remained in communication with each other, acting in concert with information sources.

"How long are you in town for? I figured with the signing of the Accord next week you would be too busy to getaway this weekend." Howard wondered.

"You got me for the whole weekend, my dear. We are not leaving until Monday afternoon. I'll just catch the red-eye on Sunday and be back in plenty of time." Amy answered with a smile, resting her head on his chest.

Howard's inability to give his heart to anyone derived from the tragic circumstances surrounding his honeymoon vacation when his bride died in a boating accident. It crushed him for a long time. He never met anyone until Amy he could come close loving.

"I do have to admit, I am still a bit surprised to be going at all." Amy confessed while stroking his chest hair.

As one of the PBS correspondents to the White House Press Corps, Amy covered the President's domestic travels. Carter Burke was the PBS Foreign Correspondent who normally traveled with the White House Press Pool to cover the President when out of the country on important matters of international diplomacy and state affairs. But Carter came down with a sudden case of flu, so they tapped Amy to fill his seat.

"I didn't think anything could have kept Carter from making that flight. I would have bet he'd find a way to get there hopping on crutches with two broken legs if he had to." Howard stated knowing how much Carter would want to be a part of history.

"I tried to contact him to see if he had any inside tips for me before I left, but all I could get was his voice mail. I left a message telling him I was going, but I still haven't heard back yet." Amy told Howard, who offered his assistance.

"I'll give him call later and see what is up with him."

2

Howard was sitting back watching the news in his PBS studio office, which he lavishly self-decorated. Figuring since he financed and produced his own show, he also took the liberty of making his office as comfortable as possible. He had a multi-screen wall unit installed so he could keep up with all the other news media outlets, while also checking on what had become the fastest way for news to travel, the information highway of the worldwide web. Nowadays, many breaking news stories were being reported by bloggers using the once mocked as unreliable source, rather than by the mainstream press or investigative journalists. The internet had become one of the main resources for up to the minute information. It was a brave new world where anyone could influence opinions and start trends if they had a good story to tell. It did not even matter if it was true, as long as it was convincing.

Sitting in his office for the past six hours, Howard started getting a little anxious. He was wondering what could possibly be holding up the signing of the historic Peace Accord in Gaza City, orchestrated by the much-beleaguered President of the United States of America. It would amount to quite an accomplishment that many greater fools before him had tried and failed. If everything went according to plan, that is. But Howard knew no matter how many contingencies you planned for, there was always the unsuspected unexpected.

The Secret Service, the Diplomatic Security Service (DSS), and the Office of Foreign Missions (OFM), working with the Israeli Defense Force (IDF), enforced the standard security protection protocols for securing POTUS, along with the other high profile leaders, when traveling on diplomatic international missions in foreign lands proven hostile to the United States and our allies. They created a fifty-mile hot zone perimeter around the Gaza City section of the Strip. If an enemy breeched anywhere within that sector, it would drastically reduce the chance of preventing a successful attack.

An elite unit of the Special Forces, working with the IDF, secured the main frontier border at the Erez Crossing on the Northern end of the Strip from any possible ground assault, along with the closed down Nahal Oz and Kami Crossings. Each checkpoint had two Merkava Mark IV tanks stationed there to stop any unauthorized personnel attempting to break through. Nahal Oz and Kami Crossings caused the most concern, even though on Israeli soil and closed down since 2011. Both crossings were less than ten miles from Gaza City, where the event was taking place. Positioned thirty miles off the coastline in the Mediterranean Sea, two nuclear submarines were on standby to thwart any daring underwater incursions, while two F-117 Nighthawk stealth fighter jets maintained a fifty mile no fly zone, preventing anybody from entering the restricted airspace. Two Harrier Jets were also on-call, ready and waiting to take off on a moment's notice.

Howard sat back with a cup of coffee, black no sugar (the only way he took it) and listened to the cable news network's spin on the day's events. All the reported coverage was in agreement with the Peace Accord. Just not about who should get the credit for it. Howard already knew what the Big Three were going to say before he even turned them on. CNBC would give high praise to President Baca, while over at FOX, they would be tripping over themselves to give credit to anyone else but the President, and of course, CNN would try to remain neutral while only succeeding at looking indecisive and ignorant of the facts. Whoever deserved the lion's share of praise, it was still a historic moment in time. It would be something forever remembered, standing as a great achievement in overcoming territorial disputes generations old, while also ensuring strong geopolitical relations for years to come.

While diplomacy played a major role in bringing everyone to the table, there were other factors involved that went beyond towing government party lines. The universal need for survival soon took precedent over any personal grievances and political gamesmanship as the effects of climate change or global warming (call it what you want) was becoming a woken nightmare reality that people could no longer ignore or dismiss as a hoax. Mother Nature played havoc on the environment with a recent rise in natural disasters plaguing the planet, opening up everyone's eyes to the harsh reality banging on their door and blasting through with a terrible fury felt the world over.

Incredible storms, the likes never seen by man, became commonplace, frequent occurrences, especially in the areas most susceptible to climate change. The weather ravaged coastal cities and towns with category 4 and 5 hurricanes all along the NE Pacific and N Atlantic coasts, with Super Typhoons hitting the NW Pacific.

It wasn't much better inland. Tornadoes and twisters swept a path of destruction throughout much of the mid-west. Oklahoma, Missouri, Texas, Kansas, Tennessee, Kentucky, and other heartland territories were the hardest hit, wiping out whole city blocks and even entire towns. There was also an increase in seismic activity along major fault lines with sporadically unpredictable moments of moveable earth toppling mountains. Long-lasting dust bowl droughts destroyed crops and blanketing blizzards shut down towns buried under heavy snows.

Between the natural and manmade disasters, along with fighting long, costly wars, the financial markets suffered from the aftershock of those events, leading to an economic depression that devastated the free market. Billionaires started to see their fortunes dwindle as their businesses went bankrupt. It was what finally made people wake up and face reality in the end. The almighty dollar was more important than a steadfast commitment to political agendas, common causes, or religious devotion.

It simply amazed Howard how quickly people learned to see the light when it personally affected their lives and wallets. Conservative, right-wing billionaires willingly worked together with their bleeding-heart liberal counterparts to stabilize the global economy and get back to the business of making money. World leaders and the highest representatives of just about every faith put aside their differences and came together to work out a solution in the global fight for economic and environmental stability.

Howard was starting to get a little anxious after the third announced delay in the signing of the Peace Accord between Israel and Palestine. Broadcasting the event live, he had been waiting at his studio since five that morning. Originally scheduled to start at 8 a.m. California time and 5 p.m. Gaza Strip time, he would go on the air anytime they were ready, but waiting was becoming a real bitch. He figured the Secret Service was just taking precautionary measures to protect the President while out of the country in a very unpredictable and highly volatile part of the world.

Taking out his cell phone, Howard gave Amy a call to see if she could shed any light on the reason for the delay, hoping it was just some technical difficulty holding things up and not cold feet on part of anyone who would be putting their John Hancock down as their oath to uphold the treaty. After the third ring, he thought he was going to get her voice mail, but halfway through the fourth ring her soft, serene voice broke in with a happy hello of raised spirits from knowing who the caller was.

"Hello, Howie, I am afraid I do not have much to pass on other than to say I love you."

"Well, that is always nice to hear," Howard replied without returning the sentiment.

"I couldn't agree more." Amy shot back knowing he would never say those words to her. He may very well feel the same way, but he would never let on if he did. Howard just could not commit to anyone since his wife died. It wasn't because he did not want to love again, or that he didn't love Amy, which he did, even if he was much older. He could not stand the thought of losing someone again. The pain of that first loss was almost enough to send him jumping into the abyss screaming. He would not survive a second time.

"Have you heard anything about why it has been delayed?"

"Nothing I can confirm. But there sure is a lot of speculating going on in the press room." Amy informed him of her colleagues' suspicious suppositions. "The most popular theory seems to be some sort of rebel attack that failed, and they are just mopping up making sure everything is secure. No one thinks it has anything to do with cold feet. The feeling is that everyone here is fully onboard with the signing of the Accord, and it is only extreme rebel factions who are vocally objecting."

"Even with their own governments cutting off funding for some of these extremist groups, there will always be those with great fortunes willing to support their like-minded causes." Howard offered his own theory on how where there's a will, there will always be a way.

"Hey, by the way, I meant to tell you about the rather strange sendoff I got from Carter Burke at the airport before I left. Well, then again, I would not exactly call it a fine farethewell, but more of an urgent warning telling me not to go." Amy passed on the content of her odd encounter. "He couldn't or wouldn't tell me why he did not want me to go or why he opted out of going. It was obvious that he did not have the flu, but he was certainly suffering from something that sounded more like a form of mental anguish. He was scared, Howard. Someone or something had him terrified. He gave me a key to a safe deposit box, saying I would find all the answer there. I didn't know what else to do, so I mailed it to myself along with a letter to you."

"That is rather odd. Did he seem credible to you? He say anything to give you pause in getting on that plane? You must not have taken him too seriously, considering where you are." Howard tried to assess the situation to see if there was any call to be concerned.

"Nothing that made sense," Amy answered still puzzled by the words. "He kept repeating the same thing over and over. Buried Bones, Buried Bones, it's all about them Buried Bones. Do you have any idea what that could mean?"

"I'm not sure. It could mean anything. Let me check a few things out and see if I can get in touch with Carter. I have known him a long time. It is not like him to go off the rails like this. He has always been a rock, a hardnosed journalist willing to ask the tough questions. You just be careful out there. Keep your eyes open and your ear to the ground. I will see what I can dig up on this end." Howard warned her before remembering to ask. "Say, did they set a new time for the signing? I have not gotten any recent updates."

As Howard finished asking his question, his answer came in form of a physical messenger bearing good tidings. Howard's secretary entered his office with a silent knock and waved a sheet of paper at him after seeing he was on the phone. Not wanting to disturb him, she placed the paper on his desk and left as quietly as she entered. Howard picked up the paper, with Amy confirming its contents.

"We have been informed that the Accord will commence at 2 p.m. your time and 11 p.m. Gaza time to still have the ceremony take place on 9/11."

"In that case, I better see what I can find out before then. That gives me less than two hours before showtime. So, just be careful, I don't know what could be causing Carter to be so worried, or what they could have possibly missed in securing the site. But you never know."

He did not know why at the time, but Howard had a dark feeling of doom start to plague the back of his mind. Knowing no matter how good ones intentions were, evil will still always be close behind.

3

Eight months earlier, a special covert team of America's best and brightest from all branches of the military, tasked with uncovering terrorist plots anywhere around the globe, stumbled upon a diabolical plot so devious Hollywood screenwriters had never even thought of it.

An elite unit of highly skilled men and women were given the autonomy to act without orders, authorized to make field decisions whenever facing the preverbal ticking bomb scenario. Some called them the American Mossad. The special, top-secret unit went by the code name HOUSE—Hostile Operations Unit Security Experts. The elite unit discovered an inconceivably horrific plan to blow up the Cumbre Vieja volcano off the northwest coast of Africa, located on the La Palma Island in the Canary Islands. They were trying to trigger a tsunami that would take out most of the North American eastern seaboard.

While able to prevent the terrorist group from detonating the bombs they setup all along the volcano's fault line, the HOUSE unit was not able to uncover who masterminded the fiendish plot. They knew it could not be any of the terrorist they killed during their eleventh hour raid. Discovering the details of their plan with very little time to act, the last minute heroics of the HOUSE unit had once again prevented a major catastrophe from happening.

Returning from a present day mission, HOUSE team leader, Captain Jack Halprin, had a nagging feeling biting at the back of his neck, telling him they missed something. Something wasn't right. Something just did not fit. He could not explain it. But he still felt it, nevertheless.

Amy waited in her hotel lobby for Halprin to get back from debriefing his superiors about a terror attack he felt was much too easily defeated. Halprin still had some questions that needed answering before saying there was no longer any potential threat to the President. He was unsatisfied with the answers being put forth as to why the terrorists would even attempt such an ill-conceived plan with no chance of success.

Halprin walked into the hotel lobby to meet discreetly with Amy. He did not take any comfort from his superior's conclusions that it was a last ditch effort by the opposition to make some sort of statement. Knowing there was nothing else they could do to prevent the signing of the Accord.

Sitting in the lobby on a lounge chair, wishing she could smoke a cigarette or better yet a joint, the last thing Amy wanted to do was draw any undue attention her way by breaking Hamas law, which prohibited women from smoking in public places. After seeing Jack walk in and give an acknowledging nod he saw her, Amy got up, walked over to the elevator, and went directly up to her room without waiting for Halprin.

Causally heading over to where Amy was sitting, Halprin subtly scooped up the extra key card she left for him before making his way over to the elevator and up to her room. They both thought it best to keep their relationship secret.

While theirs was also a physical relationship, Amy did not feel the same way for Halprin as she did for Howard. Jack was her war dog. He filled a more primal need. A career military man like her father, Jack's patriotic duty went beyond being loyal to the powers that be and rooted firmly in the true foundation America was built on (even if not practiced at time of its inception). The principal belief that everyone is born equal and deserving of the liberty of life and the pursuit of happiness was one he held dear. It was his humanity that first attracted Amy to him, after witnessing him risking his own life to save some children caught in a crossfire situation.

Letting himself into her room with the provided key card, Halprin could hear the shower running. He followed her clothes strewn out along the floor as he headed over to the bathroom. The door was ajar and the steam of hot water fogged up the mirror over the sink, leaving a cloudy vapor for him to navigate through as he stealthily moved inside without making a sound. It was not until Amy felt his hands massaging her bare shoulders with the soap lather running down the curve of her spine and over her buttocks that she was aware of another presence. Not startled in the slightest, the expected anticipation excited her with the sudden sensation of his touch on her skin, making her ache inside to feel a deeper touch.

"Oh my, now, who could that be standing behind me? Who's big, strong hands are those caressing my shoulders?" Amy asked playing their little lover's game. "I do not know if I should allow this bold and lustful action to go on."

"What makes you think you have a choice, my fair lady? You are caught in the powerful spell of my magnetic charm that no woman can resist." Halprin played the game well.

Laying on her back smoking a cigarette, Amy drew the tobacco smoke into her lungs and exhaled it back out with a purely satisfied smile perched on her lips as she watched Halprin get dressed. He never had time to cuddle, nor would he really be inclined to if he did. Amy understood that and didn't mind. She needed her own space sometimes, too.

"So, what do you have for me? I got the sanitized version from the Press Secretary. Now, what is the real story?" Amy also was back on duty, digging in, setting sights on her target, ready for action.

"The brass is satisfied with writing it off as a suicide mission, some last ditch effort to earn those seventy-two virgins for being martyrs in their cause. The President's Chief of Staff likened it to the martyrdom of self-immolating Tibetan monks protesting Chinese rule of Tibet." Halprin passed on the majority opinion before interjecting his own skepticisms. "I don't buy it. First off, suicide bombers generally want to inflict as much damage and causalities as possible when strapping on those vests and martyring themselves for Allah. They want to get as much bang for their buck as they can. So I find it hard to believe that they would be satisfied with only taking out a few border guards. It just does not chart."

"There is no way their plan could have worked?"

"Not a chance in hell." Halprin asserted. "We would have had to been literally asleep at the switch for them to get through."

4

0935 GMT was when the first wave of the assault struck. A convoy of five unauthorized Humvees moved down Netivot Road at an accelerated pace, heading straight for the Nahal Oz Crossing, shut down since 2010. The Humvees were in violation of the 150 meter buffer zone imposed by Israeli Forces, alerting everyone at the checkpoint to lock and load. The lead Humvee continued moving to the checkpoint crossing, while the four trailing Humvees slowed down, extending the distance between the vehicles and providing a comfortable buffer zone of their own. The trailing Humvees, all heavily armed, had Browning M3HB .50 caliber machine guns mounted on a 360 degree traversable weapons ring protruding out of the roofs, while the lead Humvee had been stripped down with only a customized, heavy duty steel grill mounted on the front bumper, serving as a powerful battering ram.

The checkpoint guards were not taking any chances. Targeting the lead Humvee, the 120 mm tank torrent moved into position to fire as an alert went out to the Air Force strategic command center, tasking the two Harrier jets to lend some air support. The four trailing Humvees opened fire on the tanks, trying to provide some cover so the lead Humvee could reach its final destination.

The torrent on the second Merkava Mark IV rose up to target the trailing Humvees as the first Merkava blasted away at lead Humvee, which served back and forth avoiding the concrete barriers setup on the road. Then once clear, it made a straight beeline for the tank within fifty feet of striking distance. Locking in on the Humvee, the 120 mm cannon fired a direct hit, blasting into the front of the Humvee less than twenty feet from impact.

Loaded down with enough C-4 to take out two city blocks, the lead Humvee exploded with such force it took out both tanks and the pillbox checkpoint station as a giant fireball rose up all around. With the lead Humvee accomplishing its suicide run, the other four Humvees raced forward heading for the cleared out crossing.

Two Harrier Jets rose up over the billowing smoke and flames. They hovered over the checkpoint entrance like two sentinels standing guard against any incursion. Locking on their targets with thermal auto tracking, each Harrier Jet fired two missiles just before banking off in opposite directions. The range finder guided the missiles right to their perspective targets with direct hits on each.

The remaining four Humvees went up in burning piles of twisted metal and came down in clumps of smoking debris smoldering in the desert sun. The insurgents plan a total failure, an ill-advised attack that had no chance of success. By the time the news reached Halprin, the whole incident was over and done. While this scenario of events might have caused others to sit back and relax, Halprin could not dismiss the incident as the desperate act of fanatical zealots. It had to be part of something bigger. They had to be overlooking something, some missing piece to the puzzle. But for the life of him, Halprin could not figure out what it could be.

Locked down tighter than a virgin's legs just before prom night, the entire strip was secure, with any possible contingencies considered and safeguarded against assault. All possible entrance and exit points were fortified and thoroughly screened for any attempted infiltration of enemy forces, whether in large numbers or by a single intruder. The brass relied on think tank experts and operation analyst's computer simulated war game scenarios, and did not put too much stock in the gut instincts of the man on ground who they looked upon as just another tool to use when needed.

Not a planner or a thinker, Halprin knew he was only a doer. Someone they let loose when needed most, someone who always got the job done, no matter the cost. Given objectives to secure and targets to take out, he deployed only when all other options were exhausted. He was the final solution willing to do whatever it took to complete his mission. Halprin did not need to know the reason why. He only needed to know where, when, who, what, and as to the how, he had that covered.

But still, something just bugged him about the failed attack. It took the completely improbable suggestion of someone from outside the box to get him to see what was right in front of his face. After Amy quoted a famous literary icon known for his deductive reasoning and logical thinking, they too could see how the plot thickened, and what nefarious schemes might be underfoot. A hard-bitten realist, Halprin had to agree with the astute mind of the fictional detective, who deduced that _when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

CHAPTER SIX

### SOMETHING UNDERFOOT

1

Bharath Baca, the 45th President of the United States of America, tried as hard as he could to maintain his normally up beat, hopeful outlook. He believed deep down inside most people had good, true hearts, and sometimes the trials and tribulations we have to face every day of our lives could skew ones perspective and make them embrace their dark side. He knew it would all be worth it in the end, if everything worked out as planned with the signing of the Peace Accord. Even with the failed rebel attack from earlier that morning causing a delay, the historic event would take place while the time zone difference between America and the Middle East still fell on 9/11, in commemoration of that tragic day.

There had been many other important treaties signed over the years in an attempt to find peace in the region, but nothing of this magnitude or on this scale. After he decided to enter the fray as a Senatorial candidate from Indiana, the Presidential nominee successfully navigated his way through political minefields and miles of bureaucratic red tape to reach this historic moment in time. In order to effect a real change that would benefit all Americans, and not just the richest one percent, Bharath Baca first had to overcome the many obstacles in his way, courtesy of an extremely conservative opposition party, supported by media cronies beholden to corporate America.

He just wasn't aware of the vitriol of hate he would have to endure each and every day. It got worse the closer he got to the White House. On the campaign trail to securing his party's nomination, the derisive spiel came mostly in form of veiled references pointing to his youthful inexperience in being only a second term Senator from Indiana. They also alleged his work as a community organizer hid a socialist agenda. There were even some absurd claims about him not even being a legal citizen of the United States, asserting he was born in Havana, Cuba. Yet, it was the vicious attacks on his disputed religious beliefs he found the most troublesome.

Like many of the blissfully ignorant going around living their lives believing in America the beautiful, home of the free, he thought that race and religion would no longer be something people considered when casting their ballot in the voting booth. Regrettably, he could not have been more wrong. Some people didn't even try to hide their hateful prejudices any longer.

The craziest thing about many of their wrong-headed claims, aside from the people making them, was that most of the time they were in direct contradiction with one another. At first, there were those who said he was a follower of a racist black preacher who went around giving anti-American sermons, Goddaming the white man for the wrongs done to his people so long ago. Then many of those same people insisted he "paled around with terrorists", one of whom just so happened to be white. There were some who even claimed he was a socialist-Muslim. They carried around disparaging signs accusing him of being an elitist, that he wasn't one of us. Or the ludicrous warnings telling him to keep his government hands off their Medicare.

He would have laughed if it weren't all so pathetic.

Bharath Baca felt he had a responsibility to do something that served the whole and not just the self, simply because he could. It would be akin to walking past a drowning man with a life preserver in your hand. Otherwise, he might as well go over and hold the man's head under the water, just to put the man's misery out of his mind.

The fact that we care about what happens to people gives us our humanity, good will, and charitable hearts. It is what makes us human. It's how we evolved beyond our animal ancestors to dominate everything on the planet, whether for our betterment or not.

Bharath Baca's God Part had been telling him this all his life. Not that he thought God was actually talking directly to him or heard voices telling him so. It was just something someone knew. There was no real way to explain it or words to express it. You just knew. You felt a calling for a higher purpose. Much in the same way a firefighter or a doctor felt their higher calling. It was a destiny to fulfill.

President Bharath Baca had been sitting in quiet contemplation ever since the rebel attack at the Nahal Oz Crossing delayed the Peace Accord signing. It was over eight hours since the attack was thoroughly defeated as The President started to wonder if they would be able to get things going before midnight, still wanting the symbolic connection to 9/11 to be present.

Due to the Secret Service insisting on inspecting the site one last time, his Chief of Staff promised the third would be the final delay. So, the 11 p.m. Gaza time was set.

The President had complete confidence in his military and political advisors judgment that it would be safe to proceed with the signing of the Peace Accord. Yet, the failed rebel attack still weighed heavy on his mind. He was experiencing the same apprehensive feelings that Halprin and Amy were having about what could have motivated the insurgents to commit to such an ill-advised and ineffectual attack. He could not just dismiss the senseless sacrifice as an act of fanatical zealots.

In college, he studied the religious belief systems, ancestral backgrounds, and political ideologies of just about every civilized culture, knowing in order to find a solution to international conflicts, territorial disputes, and spiritual disparity you must first understand the needs of your opposition, while also clearly communicating yours. Bharath studied Islam and the Quran to see how much was lost in translation or purposefully misinterpreted to represent the needs of those determined to dominate the lives of others with their bastardized version of the gospel truth. It was the reason he could never have faith in any one religion, even though he attended church on a regular basis.

The one thing followers of many different faiths had in common was their resolute need to take every written word of their perspective Holy Scripture as literal fact, instead of coming to the logical conclusion that most religious lore was meant to be metaphors about life, fabled tales to learn and grow from that imparted a fundamental morality present in the precepts of just about every faith. Many religions view certain acts, such as murder, as a mortal sin. Or else, there would be nothing but anarchy and chaos.

Coming from a constantly-struggling-to-make-ends-meet-blue-collar-family, the future President grew up wanting to restore the vanishing middle-class, so thoroughly decimated by the loss of a strong manufacturing base in urban areas. Many corporations found it more cost effective to outsource their work to third world countries, while advances in technology made many other jobs obsolete. However, the greed of the richest one percent blinded them to what every respected economist agreed would grow the most stable global economy—a strong middle-class with the discretionary funds to spend on merchandise and services. People needed to earn a living wage. The average age of a fast food chain worker was now twenty-nine, and minimum wage did not even cover their rent most of the time.

The satellite phone in his pocket started ringing, taking him unaware. Brightly smiling after checking out the caller identification, the proud father spoke in a poised manner of distinguished diplomat.

"Jamal, how is everything going back home? I am sure your mother must be getting a bit anxious by now. She is probably climbing the walls worrying about me. But please just assure her that all is good here, and we will be signing the Peace Accord very soon."

"I don't think she will be able to relax until you are back and she can hold you in her arms." Jamal Baca, the President's seventeen-year-old son, said. "But it's like I tried to tell her, what you taught me, about having the responsibility to act when you have the ability to help, even at the risk of your own personal safety."

"Believe me, she knows it, too. It is just always harder to live by ones principles, than it is just having them, especially when they take us away from the ones we care about the most."

The President's son was a highly intelligent young man with an IQ over 140. An advanced student, he was already a sophomore at Harvard and quite a gifted athlete. A quiet, timid young man, he never caused any embarrassing moments for the President while in office, or before then. A tall, dark handsome young man, who possessed a nerdy charm and a strong moral fiber, he was so proud of what his father was able to accomplish after so many had tried and failed before him. It was an honor just being his son. But he also knew the great burden and the immense pressure his father was under, and that great deeds sometimes could come at great costs.

"Now that I am away at school, she has that big, old White House all to herself, with only the phantom presence of its many past residents still haunting those halls with their portraits. Maybe you should have let her come with you. At least she wouldn't have so much time to sit around and worry."

"There is nothing I would rather have than your mother here standing beside me for this momentous occasion. But while it may very well be my responsibility to take such risks, I could not in good conscious allow her to be put in harm's way, no matter how slight the possibility." President Baca explained his reasoning to his son, before adding his own lingering doubt. "It can be very hard to keep a positive attitude when faced with so much opposition to change. Ingrained in our genetic code, many people fear change. They are too afraid of the dark to see the bright light of a new dawn shining down upon them."

A gentle knock on the door interrupted his conversation, followed by an apologetic Secret Service agent entering the room.

"Excuse me, sir. Mr. President, it is time to leave for the ceremony." An agent in a dark suit with a wire running down his shirt collar from an earpiece informed the President.

"Well, it looks like it is time to get on with the show," the President drolly mused with his son. "It may be a while until I get to see you, son. But at least you'll be able to see me on television, so go get the popcorn ready and tell your mother I will blow her a big kiss."

"I am sure it will be the highest rated broadcast in the history of television. Love you, dad. Break a leg."

"I love you, too, Jamal. See you soon." Bharath Baca concluded the call slightly choking on his words, trying to remain Presidential in front of the Secret Service agent. Then speaking in a clear, commanding voice he said. "Okay, Jim. Let's do this thing."

2

An open suitcase at the end of the bed revealed one of Amy's guilty pleasures with the leading tabloid rags spread out over her clothes. The one on top, _Inquiring Minds_ , had a large print cover story titled: Famous Urban Legends Truth or Myth. It had pictures of various legends previously proven false overtime. The famous photo of Bigfoot had big red letters across it proclaiming: DEBUNKED. The same went for a picture of the Loch Ness Monster. However, one of the more famous urban legends caught Halprin's eye with a big question mark through a picture of an alligator living in the New York City sewers. It wasn't that he believed there were alligators people flushed down their toilets living in the city sewers, but it did remind him of another subterranean legend.

3

Twenty minutes before airtime, Howard received an urgent call from Carter Burke. His panic-stricken voice came through the receiver in a rapid patter of confused and excited utterances.

"Howard, I had no idea they would send Amy in my place. You got to believe me, if I had known."

"You're not making any sense, Carter. What the hell is this all about? What do you know?" Howard asked with an impatient tone, knowing time was short.

"Nobody knows anything. There is never any proof with these people, only vague innuendos, breadcrumb trails leading down dead-ends. They are the kind of people capable of toppling governments, shaping economies, and setting global standards. The closer you get, the farther away you will be from ever knowing the truth."

"I don't have time for riddles, Carter. I am going out live in less than twenty minutes. So if you have something concrete to tell me, spit it out."

"I don't know any operational mission details. All I know is something big is going to happen. You just have to read the signs. They all point to only one necessary outcome in order to achieve their desired result."

"What the fuck do you mean by a necessary outcome? Who are they and what is their desired result, Carter?"

"They are everybody and they are everywhere. A consortium of multinational companies in business with government agencies worldwide, they are the people truly in control of the world economy and international affairs. They are the Global Godfathers. They reduce heads of state to marionettes, many times without the puppets even knowing who is pulling their strings, including our own Commander in Chief. Oh no, I think they might have found me. They probably have your phone tapped by now, if it wasn't before. Follow the money, Howard. Look for the signs. I gave Amy something before she left. If things go bad, it will be up to you to expose the truth. That is, after all, what you do."

After noticing the dark sedan idling on the corner, Carter just left the receiver hanging, without losing the connection. He was using a rare public utility, a relic from a bygone era, a pay phone.

"Carter, are you still there?" Howard's voice came out in a low audible from the dangling receiver.

A gloved hand reached down and lifted up the receiver. A dark figure wearing sunglasses and a hat listened for a moment.

An assistant poked her head in Howard's office with an update. "The Israeli Prime Minister has just arrived. We are going live in ten minutes, Howard."

"Huh, oh yeah, I will be right out." Howard said, still staring into the phone with a bewildered look in his eyes.

Howard started to fear the worse for the first time since hearing about the signing of the historic Peace Accord by the President of the United States, the Israeli Prime Minister, and Palestine's President, the Prime Minister of Hamas in Gaza City.

4

Halprin and Amy made their way down the long network of underground tunnels once used to bring in fuel from the Egyptian border crossing. Halprin was following a hunch he just could not dismiss, no matter how unlikely the possibility. It wasn't a rational conviction driving his gut instincts forward, but more a foreboding feeling of doom troubling his mind with fears of what could become a nightmarish reality.

The source of his concern stemmed from a local vagary about a doomsday bomb buried deep beneath Gaza City, sometime after Israeli military forces seized control of the Gaza Strip during the Six Day War in 1967. Once Palestine regained control of The Strip, an urban legend grew about a diabolical, pre-emptive plan to stop any further attempts of a Zionist occupation of their rightful land. It was more than likely a propaganda campaign used as a scare tactic against any further encroachment on their sovereign territory.

Some members of Hamas claimed they buried a 475 kiloton nuclear bomb somewhere under Gaza City. Buried so deep, radiation scanners could not detect its location. It was also equipped with a failsafe trigger mechanism, preventing anyone from disarming it. The final solution, it was the ultimate sacrifice to avoid an even more intolerable outcome than the total obliteration of the Strip.

Halprin knew full well that they cleared the tunnels of any hint of nuclear materials, and thoroughly searched each one several times, looking for any other kind of IED capable of causing the destruction required to take out their intended objective. But he just could not help thinking they were overlooking something. The failed rebel attack only re-enforced his hunch.

Coming up to the first checkpoint tunnel, located directly under the Grand Palace Hotel on the beachside of Al Rasheed Street in Gaza City, Halprin became aware of something out of place that nearly reaffirmed his suspicions with a certain knowledge that all was not well under the Strip of Gaza. While Israel maintained control of the airspace, territorial waters, and all border crossings, except for any on the Egyptian side of the border, Hamas had complete authority inside the long, narrow, highly contested 40 km strip of land located on the coast of the Mediterranean Sea.

To provide ample security for a region most Western governments deemed a war zone (issuing strict travel warnings, due to the increasingly unstable rule of militant regimes), the Secret Service, the CIA, the NSA, and the OFM tenuously worked with Hamas authorities. They secured the event site, along with the entire Strip from any embedded insurgent attacks, assigning an equal number of American forces to match the Hamas troops tasked with securing the area.

Except, Halprin did not see any American agents or troops with the half dozen Hamas soldiers cautiously guarding the ground zero checkpoint, directly under the Grand Palace Hotel. Holding post in the sub-basement tunnel connection, two Hamas soldiers stood guard at the service tunnel entrance. They snapped into an alerted attention, cocking back the bolt action on their AK-47 assault rifles. Four more soldiers clutching AK-47's in their hands cautiously stepped out of a dilapidated construction trailer, also looking quite surprised by their unexpected visitors.

"Halt where you are. Identify yourselves and state your business here." One of the Hamas soldiers standing guard demanded in fluent English.

Halprin thought he must have had an American education, instantly detecting a slight California valley accent someone might pick up while attending UCLA.

"I am Special Forces Captain Jack Halprin of the United States Armed Forces, identify yourself." Halprin stated in an official manner, seeing if he could pull rank to get them to cooperate, only cooperation was not something they were big on during normal circumstances, and this was definitely starting to feel anything but.

"I am Captain Khalid Fawzi of the Izzedine Al-Qassam Brigade, a joint unit working with the Paramilitary Police, stationed here by the authority of Hamas Security Forces. This is my command post and we are under strict orders to detain anyone attempting to enter this area of underground tunnels." The lead man standing in the doorway of the construction trailer took charge as he stepped out on to the makeshift deck porch.

"There should be American troops assigned to this checkpoint." Halprin said stepping forward while holding Amy back with halting hand held down low. "The agreed upon SOP for security protocols calls for an equal number of military personnel to be deployed at every checkpoint. So where is the Special Forces unit I sent down here?" Halprin lied, continuing his ruse as he closed the distance between him and the six heavily armed men.

"They received orders twenty minutes ago to redeploy to an undisclosed location." Captain Fawzi informed Halprin, who was not buying it for a minute. "I know you Americans are not big on sharing information with your allies, but I thought you would at least be a little more forthcoming with yourselves."

Wearing his fatigues with only his sidearm on his hip, Halprin unsnapped his holster the moment he noticed the missing Americans. His senses seemed to be working on overtime as he detected a slight whiff of cordite in the air. Halprin stopped within striking distance of the two guards standing at the checkpoint entrance gate. He positioned himself in between the first two and the other four guards making their way out onto the small porch deck.

Amy was starting to get nervous. She stood back about fifteen feet and could feel the building tension even at her removed space. She looked over at Halprin, hoping for some sort of indication of what was about to happen.

Acting on almost pure instincts, Halprin did not have much time to warn Amy as he jumped into a high gear motion of sudden movement. The sight of the silencers attached to the AK-47's of the last two guards to emerge from the trailer triggered Halprin's deeply ingrained, situational reflexes. He sprang into action with spontaneously calculated moves, while also shouting out a fierce warning.

"Kiss the dirt, Amy, right now!"

Amy hit the ground with a solid thump, practically dropping flat by the force of Halprin's commanding voice alone. She clasped her hands behind her head with her forearms held tightly over her ears.

Before Amy even hit the ground, Halprin had maneuvered behind the nearest guard while doing three or more things at once. He brought his left arm up around the front of the unsuspecting guard and grabbed him in a suffocating chokehold. Drawing his sidearm from its holster with his right hand, he shot the other guard right between the eyes without flinching. Moving with lightening quick speed, Halprin took aim at the nicely clustered targets on the deck and fired four successive shots, each dead on target. He then jammed the smoking hot barrel of his gun into the neck of the remaining guard before the others fell dead to the ground.

"Drop your gun if you want to live." Halprin threatened without needing to prove his words true. All the proof he needed was lying lifeless on the ground in front of him.

"What makes you think anybody here is going to be alive much longer," the guard stated, letting his weapon fall from his hands, knowing there was no sense in resisting the inevitable. "Brave American fool, you think you are going to ride in here like John Wayne and save the day. Well, this isn't the one where the Duke rides off into the sunset. This story ends with the Duke lying dead in the dirt, like at end of _The Cowboys_."

"Well, the sun hasn't set down here, so let's not stick our heads between our legs just yet." Halprin suggested a more optimistic outlook, before checking on Amy. "How are you doing over there, Amy?"

Getting up on her knees, Amy brushed the dirt and dust off her clothes as best she could. "Yeah, I'm still in one piece. At least I am for now, anyway."

"Listen carefully, if you don't start coming across with some actionable information, you will be meeting those Seventy-two Virgins in paradise minus the one part you will be wanting most." Halprin threatened the guard as he reached down into his right combat boot and pulled out a large knife.

"You can do whatever you want to me. Once I ascend into paradise I will be renewed as a young virile man, ready to bask in all the pleasures of paradise." The guard countered with his own twisted version of the afterlife.

"And I hope they are all ugly, nagging, frigid shrews, torturing you for all eternity," Halprin tried to sully his vision of a virgin paradise. "Now, where is it? Where is the bomb buried, and how do I shut it down?"

The guard just started to laugh in Halprin's face. "There is no way to shut it down once the countdown has begun. You cannot stop it."

Halprin slammed the butt of his gun against the guard's left temple, sending him crumbling to the ground in an unconscious lump.

Amy was trying to call out on her cell phone, but something was blocking the signal.

"I cannot get through to anyone to warn them." Amy informed Halprin.

"They probably setup a signal jammer down here." Halprin figured. "Amy, Marine One should be landing with the President any minute. I need you to get over to the Grand Palace Hotel and tell them to cancel the signing and to activate emergency evacuation procedures. I do not know whether to believe this asshole or not. But I am going to stay here and see what I can find out."

Amy came over and gave Halprin a big hug before leaving, just in case. "Be careful, they probably have more men hiding down here in the shadows somewhere."

"I will just have to show them into the light."

5

The television cameras picked up a real nice shot of Marine One lifting off the deck of the USS Harry S. Truman—the Nimitz class aircraft carrier anchored off the eastern shore of the Gaza Strip in the Mediterranean Sea. The HMX-1 Nighthawk designated as Marine One carried the President of the United States of America, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Kryukov, and several members of their perspective staffs and advisors over to the helipad atop of the Grand Palace Hotel in the heart of Gaza City. It was a clear, moonlit, starry night, making for a picturesque view of Marine One moving over the ocean, escorted by two Harrier Jets.

Sitting home watching, the shot reminded Michael of that iconic scene from _Apocalypse Now_ with Wagner's _Ride of the Valkyrie_ thundering in the background. Ryan was sitting on a Lazy-Boy-type of lounge chair Michael dumpster picked last week. Ara sat on a black leather-cushioned desk chair, with Anthony taking up position on the floor. They stopped by about ten minutes before Howard Bickle's live, special broadcast of the signing of the Peace Accord came on.

Ryan just finished rolling up a large blunt as Howard gave voice over commentary explaining what was happening on screen. Michael sat up with an attentive ear, carefully listening to every word.

"Hey Monop, here you go."

It even took him a moment to realize Ryan was passing him the blunt before taking a good hearty toke. The sweet tasting weed woke up his taste buds as Howard's words held his mind transfixed.

"Howard Bickle here, coming to you from my PBS San Francisco studio with a live feed of Marine One lifting off the deck of the USS Harry S. Truman and heading over with President Baca and Israeli Prime Minister Kryukov to sign this historic Peace Accord between Israel and Palestine at the Grand Palace Hotel in Gaza City."

The television screen switched to Marine One landing on top of the Grand Palace Hotel's newly affixed helipad. A moment later, President Baca departed Marine One, just after his Secret Service Agents stepped out onto the hotel roof to secure the area, followed shortly by the Israeli Prime Minister.

"Mmmmm. That is some tasty bud." Michael said as he exhaled his hit and passed the blunt to Ara.

"That's some real fire, there. I picked up it from the club the other day. You gotta love it when you can walk right in a store and legally purchase any kind of weed you want." Ryan said.

"It is just a shame more people cannot see the highly beneficial and relaxing properties of the best stress reliever on the planet. The true mean of getting high is Having Insight Greatly Heightened." Michael seriously postulated before musingly pondering.

Only Ryan got his meaning as he nodded his head, while Anthony and Ara just shook theirs.

"Maybe if the President smoked a peace pipe with all those camel-jockeys, they might start living in this century, instead of being stuck back in the Stone Age." Anthony suggested a rather unconventional resolution to solving the issue of world peace as Ara passed him the blunt.

6

Panting hard, short of breath, Amy stopped in the hotel lobby a moment to get her bearings after running all the way over from where she left Halprin down in the network of tunnels connecting to the hotel's basement. She could not shake the feeling of dread creeping up the back of her neck, giving her shiver inducing Goosebumps. Unable to escape the thought that no matter what they did, it was too late.

She did not see how Jack would be able to get the Hamas guard to talk in time. They were all obviously prepared to die along with everyone else on the Strip, depending on the size of the blast. Reacquiring a sense of direction, Amy headed across the hotel's large, spacious lobby toward the back courtyard where the ceremony was taking place.

As Amy stepped out into the open-air courtyard behind a large cheering crowd, the sound of many clapping hands, mixed with grand cheers of joy, disoriented her for a moment. She started to push and shove her way through the thicket of people stubbornly rooted in place, not wanting to give up their chance to view history. But if she could not get through, they might all just become a part of history.

One of the many Secret Service agents mingling in as part of the crowd took note of the frantic woman desperately trying to make her way to the front podium where the President stood in between the Israeli Prime Minister and the Palestine President with their hands held high in the air, clasped together in unity. Discreetly holding his right hand up to his earpiece, the Secret Service agent alerted his fellow agents of the possible threat approaching the stage, and they should carefully intercept and quietly detain her for questioning.

Amy was aware her erratic behavior was drawing attention, but she did not know of any quicker way to warn them, even if they viewed her as the threat. Seeing one of them closing in on her, while two more were flanking her, Amy abruptly stopped and yelled out something that immediately got everyone's attention.

"There is a nuclear bomb under this hotel!"

7

"Aaaaaahhhhh!!!!!"

The shaped steel blade ripped through the thigh calf, cutting straight down to the bone, just nicking the side and chipping some fragments on its way through the back of the thigh. Blood spread out of the wound like a rapidly flowing red river with a rough sea spray. Halprin twisted the blade, showing no mercy for the man's screaming cries of agony, giving no quarter until he got the information he wanted.

"Where is the trigger? How do I shut it down? I swear if you don't tell me, your last moments of life are going to be the most excruciatingly painful minutes anyone has ever felt throughout all time." Halprin was practically frothing at the mouth as he spewed out his demands to the helpless guard.

"I...I c-can p-prove it to you. Th-there is a live v-video feed of th-the timer counting down on the p-phone in my breast pocket." The Hamas guard screamed at Halprin with a venomous tone of deep hatred.

Halprin reached in the guard's breast pocket with his free hand, keeping pressure on the knife in the guard's thigh, and pulled out the phone. As he flipped it open, his eyes widened in horror at what he saw.

A digital timer was counting down to zero from only 7...6...5...4...3...2...1...0.

8

Michael was in the process of taking another hit off the blunt, when all of a sudden, the live video distorted a second before blacking out completely. An ear-splitting feedback squawk pierced the ears of everyone watching.

"What the fuck." Michael said as he let the blunt fall from his fingers.

Ryan scooped it up off the floor before it had a chance to burn the carpet.

"Monop, what is it? What the fuck just happened?" Ryan asked, sensing he might have some insight.

"Armageddon."

"What you talking about, Monop?" Anthony cried out, giving his best Gary Coleman imitation.

They did not have to wait long for a confirmation of Michael's words of doom as Howard Bickle came back on air looking like he was just hit by the most devastating news bulletin ever read by a newscaster. Howard's haggard, distraught countenance transmitted his stark message of tragedy to the public almost as clearly as the disheartened words that fell from his lips.

"It is my sad duty to inform you that at approximately 2:17 pm, Pacific Time Zone, Bharath Baca, the 45th President of the United States of America, was killed in nuclear blast that has reportedly been detonated under the Gaza Strip. The President died along with everyone within a six mile radius of the blast site, on this now second mordantly sad September 11th." Howard could not seem to go on with the rest of the report, looking blank-faced at the camera.

AN INSIGHTFUL INTERLUDE

Hey, didn't I tell you to trust me for a while?

Told you if you just stuck with me kid, you'd be wearing diamonds. Well, maybe not diamonds, not just yet. But, you have come a long way to keep so much hair on your head, pilgrim.

Well hmm, then again, let me put it this way. You are still alive and well, so stop all of your bitching and moaning. Just because you went out and found yourself, that don't mean the rest of the world is going to get their shit together any time soon. Hell, look how long it took you.

Besides, many people would first have to figure out how to extract their own heads from their asses, a tricky maneuver to be sure. While the initial insertion process is a feat mastered by many, reversing the procedure has always proven to be quite a difficult task to pull off. Or is that out?

Whatever the case, I am not sure anything you have ever written will matter much now that we have completely fucked things up. We have become a bunch of brainwashed Manchurian-Candidates living in a Jackass Nation, stuck smack dab in the middle of a Disinformation Age. We not only drank the Kool-Aid, but also drained the pitcher and licked the mixing spoon clean.

We let fear guide our kneejerk reaction the first time. But now, we have truly given in to the baser instincts found hidden deep in the dark heart of our primal natures. Nobody wanted to sit around waiting for the seemingly indecisive, and most likely, cowardly dove of a Vice President to find his balls and make the necessary call to press the big red button when clearly justified in doing so.

Israeli military forces did not waste any time debating how, what, or why—only when, where, and whom to strike back at, which basically amounted to as soon as possible, wherever they hide, and against everyone involved in any way, shape, or form. They were going to make them all pay. The Mossad did not fuck around. They took care of business, just like after Munich. Their retaliatory airstrikes, assaults on military bases, and targeted assassinations of high-ranking government officials, put a heavy strain on Israel's' already tenuously fractured relationship with their biggest supporter and strongest ally. The new Israeli leadership felt that the former Vice President was an even bigger dove than Jimmy Carter was during the Iranian hostage crisis.

Purportedly believing there was something much darker afoot, President Burden was not going to be another George W. fool and go rushing in without having all the facts first. He probably thought it might be a bad idea for his first act as our nation's new leader to start a war with another country that didn't attack us. Especially since conspiracy rumors started to pop up everywhere you turned. However, rumors of a conspiracy alone could be enough to destabilize an already shaky global economy.

They came crawling out of the woodwork like hungry termites ready to feast on fresh lumber. Everybody with a blog, twitter account, or a webcam had to offer his or her two cents on who was responsible and what their punishment should be. Of course, no one wasted too much time on anything that might resemble hard evidence, just to make sure we did not go to war with the wrong country, again. There was no smoking gun, nothing proving who architected this heinous act of terror.

So when it came time for the American people to cast their ballot for freedom, truth, and justice, they choose hate, vengeance and retribution instead.

If you scoured the earth for all the right ingredients and had the skills to mix them together properly, I do not think anyone could have known what a monster they were creating when the opposition party nominated that bat-shit-crazy governor from Montana for President. She seemed to come straight out of nowhere, suddenly taking up the rallying call of the people, while also finding ways to intensify their bloodlust boiling over those many long months of disgraceful inaction.

Sometimes it seems like the whole world has gone completely off its fucking rocker since the Gaza Strip was turned into a great, big gaping hole in the desert. Patience was no longer a virtue. Nobody trusted anybody anymore. And could you blame them.

Many countries fell under the weight of their heavy financial burdens once the humanitarian aid and government assistance provided by Eastern and Western superpowers dried up. But, then again, we always managed to destroy every civilization we ever built up in the desert, chopped out of the woods, or carved into the mountains. There has to be a way to build a better mousetrap.

Besides, you should have known from the irony that swirls around you in a perpetual whirlwind that the moment you smartened up, the rest of the world would become seriously stupid. Every time you turn on the news there is some moron spouting out some idiotic statements about global warming being a big hoax, or that evolution is a myth and they should teach creationism in school. Then you got wrinkled old white dudes telling women what they can and cannot do with their own bodies. There are even some who make absurd statements about how a woman's body can determine if the sex was consensual or if a rape occurred, and if so, perform an internal termination of the ill-gotten fetus.

If people only took the time to try and understand Shakespeare, they would find the rest of the world a much simpler place. Don't ask me why, but somehow everything else seems to make more sense once you have mastered the bard. It can help you find your purpose, the reason why you are here. Everybody has a path to follow. A destiny to master that will show you how everything in your life has meaning.

One thing is for sure. It can be a real confidence builder. Just look how far you have come since your big epiphany of purpose. Now that you can clearly see all the obstacles in your way, it is like stepping around bullets in the Matrix. You are running up walls while the rest of the world is moving in slow motion.

Not only do you feel smarter, you are smarter. I don't know what did it. Maybe it was the mushrooms. They could have woken up some long dormant brain tumor now sending synapses short-circuiting throughout your brain and stimulating your thought process. It kind of reminds me of that John Travolta flick where he sees a bright white light one night and wakes up the next day knowing everything. And then it turns out to be a brain tumor. But it's not a tumor. At least I don't think it is. Maybe it is more like the film where the writer takes a pill that makes him ten times smarter, except without the improved math skills in your case.

You needed to get to this place in your mind to have this perspective worldview in order to be able to do these things you needed to do. I know. I know. If you ask me, it sounds like a bunch mental masturbation. But this is your life. I am only a spectator on the sidelines, just another face in the crowd. You are the one who figured out in order to fill the mind with knowledge your body needs to be an empty vessel. What the fuck, you were already a social nomad. So it wasn't too big of a stretch to reach the point of foregoing the many conventional relationships people normal seek out to help give their lives meaning, even the most up-close and personal ones you have always longed for.

What you are attempting to do is quite unprecedented in its magnitude. Of course, nobody ever said changing the world was going to be easy. But at least you found the only tool available to achieve such a lofty goal. So, who needs family, friends, or female companionship when you have a good story to tell? Even if you are making most of it up as you go.

It is almost as if somebody else was writing it at times. An alter ego, another part of yourself that you kept locked away because you were too afraid to release the beast, worried he might go around tearing apart your safe, secure little world. You were practically writing it in your sleep, waking up with a pad and pen next to your bed with some barely legible words scribbled on the pages that you later had to decipher.

It is also the best work you have ever done. Hell, I got to say, all modesty aside, I truly mean this from the bottom of my heart. It is the best thing I ever fucking read. I bet you feel the same way, too. I mean, shit, after all, you edited the thing so many goddam times I doubt even Steven Hawking's can count that high. You have to know that you accomplished something here.

_I wonder if Beethoven knew when he was writing the 9_ th _it would turn out to be the greatest piece of music ever composed. Or did Shakespeare know Hamlet would be the best literary work ever written? Do you think Michelangelo knew when he was painting the Sistine Chapel it would become the most famous artwork created by man?_

They must have known. They must have also known the great personal cost it would have on them. You can only give so much of yourself before there is nothing left to give.

Or next thing you know, you will be going around talking to yourself or jotting down your philosophical ponderings in letters that you won't remember writing.

A U Thor

CHAPTER SEVEN

### BOUND IN A NUTSHELL

1

**7 a.m., Wednesday, September 11** th **2019**

On the morning of the last show Howard Bickle would ever host, he finally pieced together the last connecting link to the intricate web of deceit. It had been four long years since the Gaza Strip bombing changed the world he once knew. Howard still had that last image of Amy burned into his mind. She had just rushed in shouting out something that he had to listen to the audio stripped down of all others sounds in order to make out what she was yelling. Then there was only the high-pitched feedback stinging his ears before going deathly silent.

Everything after that seemed to move either in slow motion or on fast forward. Howard felt his on-air statement played out at a snail's pace. He could not maintain the stoic presence Walter Cronkite exhibited on a number of occasions when having to report tragic news. Even while visibly affected by the news of President Kennedy's assassination, Cronkite was still able to articulate his report in a professional manner. Howard felt he slurred his words and stuttered a few times, even experiencing an emotional moment when he wished PBS had commercials. Of course, it was all just in his mind, and Howard equated himself quite well. Cronkite would have been proud.

Things began to speed up when he was finally off the air. The whole country wanted answers and wanted them yesterday. The people's cries for quick, decisive, and brutal justice went unanswered, even though just about every news station and media outlet in the country voiced their strong opinions on who was responsible for the barbaric act of treachery. Former Vice President Burden, now President Burden, would not allow himself to give in to the natural bloodlust for vengeance justly felt by everyone in the entire country, feelings he shared, but could not in good conscious act on without knowing the facts first.

The media quickly turned on him, accusing him of being a weak and cowardly man who had no business sitting in the Oval Office if he did not have the balls for it. At first, it was just the Right-Wing conservative pundits and talking heads, but soon they all chimed in with their disappointment. It was not long before the whole country was calling for his impeachment. Hundreds of thousands of angry letters poured into the White House, matched by almost as many bumper stickers demanding the same sentiment: IMPEACH BURDEN. While months passed by without American forces taking any action, Israel struck back hard against any suspected enemy stronghold throughout the entire Middle East.

The angry American citizens and the disgruntled media machine had to wait until after the 2016 Presidential election to get what they wanted, never considering how careful they should have been when wishing for it. An election won more from a raw emotional response of who would satisfy their primal desires, than one based on the competency of the candidate, their leadership abilities, or experience in office. The people were not even all too concerned about the candidate's ability to form intelligent thought.

An ex-Governor from Montana, Sandra Buchannan was the perfect catalyst for bringing about a fusion reaction of unparalleled proportions. She did not have the proper background or essential intelligence to serve as governor, no less the Commander-in-Chief of a devastated nation. Barely graduating high school, she was a cheerleader who gangbanged the whole football team one wild night and got knocked-up. A hypocrite from the start, she had a secret abortion at sixteen, even though years later she claimed to be a stanch advocate of the Pro-Life movement. She dropped out of community college at nineteen after getting pregnant again. Her boyfriend at the time, who she was only dating because he was helping her pass her college classes, insisted on doing the right thing. They had one more child after getting married.

Growing up in a small town in Montana, she ended up becoming a gym teacher at the local high school she went to and, in an ironic twist of fate, also coached the high school football team. Her husband, on the other hand, was the requisite effeminate music teacher. A big hunter like her father, she didn't get into politics until taking up the cause against stronger gun control.

While the majority of the nation's citizens were crying out for stricter regulations after another mass shooting at a grammar school left many children dead, Buchannan was spouting out fear mongering, ludicrous ramblings that would have made people like Ted Nugent seem levelheaded and sane. She attracted the attention of a fast-growing grassroots movement calling itself The Patriot Party. One of the old President's strongest critics, The Patriot Party embraced her as one of their own.

Once she stepped into the spotlight, the thirty-five year old ex-Governor from Montana never wanted to step back out. She loved her fifteen minutes and was determined to keep the clock ticking. Winning the support of the religious right, the NRA, and the conservative party, she practically guaranteed herself a favorable outcome.

By the time the election came around, she was able to ride a wave of patriotic propaganda all the way to the White House. Her party's choice for her Vice President sealed the deal. The somewhat more levelheaded members of their party were not ready to hand over the keys to the kingdom without having someone around who knew their ass from a hole in the ground. Flint Morgan, former party candidate for President, fit the bill perfectly. Or so they thought. He proved to be quite the Cheshire Cat.

Howard had recently come across some startling information that could implicate the new President in the death of the old one. Moving about in a heavy haze of depression since Amy Carlson's death, Howard had his journalistic instincts jolted back to life after retrieving a package from a safe deposit box with a key bequeathed to him by Amy in her will. The only thing in the safe deposit box was a flashdrive Carter Burke kept hidden.

Thinking about the information he found on the flashdrive, Howard started reflecting back on the days just after the bombing.

2

The day he went to Amy's funeral service, Howard was in a subdued, somber mood. Most of the country's focus was on the Presidential funeral procession that many of the former President's biggest detractors attended in a show of support for the dead President. Once called the greatest threat to America's security, they now hailed him as their fallen leader, a martyr in the great fight for freedom, democracy, and the American way of life. Howard did not go to the reading of Amy's will. A few days after, he received the special delivery letter sent to him by her executor. Along with the letter, there was a safe deposit box key sealed inside the official envelope. The letter contained a simple message from Amy:

Dear Howard,

I didn't have the chance to check out what Carter Burke left for me in the safe deposit box. I'm hoping this is just an unnecessary precaution on my part in the unlikely case that Carter's paranoia turns out to be genuine. If anything should happen to me, I know I can count on you to do the right thing.

Forever yours,

Love Amy.

After retrieving a flashdrive from the safe deposit box, Howard found that it contained the financial records of some of the biggest military contractors operating around the world, including WhiteCliff, Vice President Morgan's private paramilitary company. The ex-Senator from Missouri was no longer the official owner of the company, having stepped down before he ran for President back in 2012, but still maintained an interest in the day-to-day operations of the billion-dollar company. After losing the election to President Baca, Morgan insisted he would not run for office in 2016, but did accept the VP position once Sandra Buchannan became the party's candidate, which was an unknown condition to her getting the nomination.

Amy said Carter Burke told her to follow the money. Howard decided he would track down Carter to see what he meant by that. Carter had been missing in action ever since he backed out of attending the Peace Accord. The network's top Foreign Correspondent, Carter had not returned any messages asking when he planned on returning to work.

He just seemed to have vanished.

Howard began his search by starting with the most obvious place. It had been over three weeks since anyone last spoke with Carter. Howard figured someone must have checked in on him by now, but knew a good investigator never made assumptions when it came to running down clues. Or ever be surprised by what you may find.

Standing in the bedroom doorway of Carter's San Francisco condo, Howard gazed down at his corpse sprawled out on the bed. Carter had a contorted, grotesque expression of pure fear glued on his face. His open, dead eyes seemed to be staring up at the ceiling in shocked amazement over whatever had happened to him.

Howard took out his phone and dialed 911. The emergency services operator picked up after two rings, giving the obligatory introductory information while asking questions pertinent to the call, after which Howard simply said.

"I am calling to report a dead body."

3

"I wish I had something more to tell you, Howard. We are just going to have to wait and see what the autopsy reveals." Detective Gene Rollins told Howard as he took out a bottle of Dewar's from his bottom desk draw and poured a shot into a paper cup Howard made due with from the water cooler, while Rollins just daubed a little into his coffee mug.

They were old friends from Howard's days as ADA. Rollins was the lead investigator on many of the cases Howard prosecuted. As one of the few people he still trusted from back then, Howard felt he could confide his suspicions about Carter's death to his old friend, but held back on revealing why he had them. If he turned out to be right, he did not see the point of putting his friend in harm's way. And if he turned out to be wrong, he didn't want him thinking that he had gone totally off his rocker.

"Is Douglas still the Chief Medical Examiner working down there? I would like him to do the autopsy, if possible." Howard asked his friend for the professional courtesy while sitting in his office, located in the Mission District of the SFPD.

"Yeah, the old coot is still down there. Howard, what the fuck is going on? Do you have any reason to believe it was anything other than a heart attack?"

"Nothing concrete, just some strange coincidences that got me shaking my head. I was just running down some leads for a story I am working on when I decided to drop in on Carter to see how he was doing. He has been out of work for a couple of weeks, down with the flu." Howard told him as much as he could without revealing any connecting link to his suspicions about Carter's death.

"We did a background check on your Mr. Burke, and he came up squeaky clean. He was a forty-two-year old, unmarried man with no outstanding debts, which I know isn't exactly conditions conducive to having a heart attack—more likely, just the opposite. There were no run-ins with the law. The guy didn't even have any overdue parking tickets. As far as we could tell from his condo, there weren't any empty bottles of alcohol in the recycling bin, or cases of beer filling up his refrigerator. We didn't even find a liquor cabinet. He was definitely a non-smoker, and there were no tell-tale signs of any drug use other than some aspirin in the medicine cabinet." Detective Rollins said as he adlibbed the information from a police report he pulled up on his computer.

"That sounds about right. Carter was always a straight arrow, a real Boy Scout." Howard said as his friend poured another shot into his paper cup.

"Not like some people we know, huh." Detective Rollins admitted as he splashed a little more scotch in his coffee mug.

"Hey, life ain't worth living if you can't stop to smell the roses every once in a while. It is too hard of a world not to cut lose every now and then, as long as a man knows his limitations, that is."

"Yeah, and do you know yours?" Detective Rollins asked his good friend, while supporting a serious expression.

"Most of the time," Howard replied honestly.

"I know you, Howard. Once you sink your teeth into something, you won't let go until you get down to the bone, no matter how hard you have to chew."

4

A few days later, Howard was able to get his hands on a copy of Carter's autopsy findings, which determined his death to be from natural causes brought on by a sudden cardiac arrest.

"Isn't forty-two kind of a young age for someone to have a heart attack, especially someone as physically fit as Carter was?" Howard questioned the findings of the report, more from a gut instinct than the age of the deceased.

"It's rare, but it can happen sometimes. Often enough, there is any number of possible contributing factors that could have played a role." Dr. Douglas informed Howard of the multiple variants.

Standing down in the SFPD Mission District morgue, on opposite sides of an open storage unit with the empty body tray pulled out, Howard and Dr. Douglas debated the accuracy of what the autopsy revealed.

"Is the body still here?"

"Yeah, I believe so. I don't know what good it will do you. There was no sign of foul play. But if you want to take a look, be my guest. Someone is supposed to be by tonight to transport him to the funeral home for final services before cremation. Supposedly, the family wants a quick service.

"What family? As far as I know, Carter was an only child, and both of his parents passed away years ago." Howard said while thinking what he knew about Carter Burke, which admittedly was not much.

"I received an e-mail from some private security company I never heard of, and they set the whole thing up. Said some aunt out in Nebraska authorized them to see to the remains. I thought they would be here by now."

"Was there a toxicology done to check for any kind of poison in his blood known to induce a heart attack, like say a syringe full of potassium chloride?" Howard asked, even though he was pretty sure he already knew the answer.

"I did not find any compelling medical evidence pointing to anything other than natural causes. There wasn't any petechial hemorrhaging in his eyes, which would rule out asphyxiation as cause of death. I did not find any signs of blunt force trauma or any other of physical abuse. So, with nothing else giving me a reason to suspect foul play, I did not do one."

It was a few minutes after six pm on a cold Friday evening, and no one else was around, giving Howard the opportunity to ask his friend for another favor.

"I know it is a longshot, but would you mind checking the body for any needle marks. You know that injecting an air bubble into someone's vein with an empty syringe could bring about the desired result most toxins would."

A loud buzzing sounded out in the nearly empty morgue, echoing off metal cabinets and walls.

"Damn, that will be the private security guys coming for the body. Howard, you can go check the body if you want. I will go try to see if I can delay them a few minutes." Dr. Douglas suggested.

In the other room, Howard frantically looked the body over and noticed a puncture mark on the back of Carter's neck. Alerted by approaching footsteps echoing off the morgue floor, he could hear the sound of voices getting closer. Using his cell phone, he snapped a quick shot of the puncture mark just before they came to take Carter away.

The two private security officers entered the room with Dr. Douglas. They didn't look too pleased to see Howard standing over the body, holding the dead man's hand in a show of grief for his deceased friend.

"Who is that?" the elder of the two officers asked Dr. Douglas in a gruff manner reflecting his displeasure at seeing someone else in the room.

They already previously agreed to kill the medical examiner if he tried to prevent them from taking the body. Albert Ross, an old vet, had no problem adding to the body count if necessary. He believed his orders would always be in the best interests of his country. Something he would do anything to protect. Jason Anderson, his rookie partner, was still a little wet behind the ears when it came to making the hard decisions on protecting matters of national security. Embedded in Afghanistan for three years, Jason never saw any real action while there, or had the misfortune to run over an IED.

"That is Mr. Bickle, a colleague of the deceased here to pay his last respects, since he won't be able to attend tomorrow's memorial service." Dr. Douglas rambled off the first thing that popped into his head.

"Well, we do not mean to give him a bum's rush, but we have a schedule to keep." Security Officer Ross cited his hurried timetable.

"I am done, fellows. He is all yours. I gave him my final farewell. I could swear I almost heard him saying his last goodbyes, too. He will be missed by many of his colleagues at the network."

Once they left with the body, Howard let out a big sigh of relief while indicating to Dr. Douglas that he found something.

"Here, check this out. See what you make of it. I have a feeling you might be as surprised as I was. I found that on the back of Carter's neck." Howard showed him the picture. "It is a puncture mark of some kind. You didn't notice any other such marks when you examined the body?"

"There were no visible puncture marks at the time, but it is possible that after the body came out rigor a hidden puncture mark could have become visible to the naked eye." Dr. Douglas hypothesized.

By the time Howard left the Medical Examiner's office, he had more questions than answers, questions that would remain unanswered over the next few years. It was not until Howard decided to take over Amy's blog as The D.C. Insider that things began to heat up. He used whatever information he uncovered over that time to make those hiding in the shadows feel more exposed to the light. It was a slow process at first. Most people kept their minds focused on the bloody breath of vengeance building up in their collective lungs. The people needed to have their blood lust satisfied.

The strong tensions that already existed between many border nations exploded with a long brewing deep-seated hate directed at the closest perceived threat to their way of life. Ancient enemies and longtime rivals renewed old hatreds that fed off long held bitter grudges as warring nations fought battles centuries old.

The highly volatile border existing between India and Pakistan exploded into violent nighttime raids with each side shelling the other with random mortar attacks during the day. Their ground forces stalemated each other, gaining and losing territory as neither side was willing to dip into their ample supply of nuclear deterrents just yet. The tipping point to making pragmatically rational decisions had not come to pass, but could be clearly seen on the next horizon. Farther North West, tribal wars raged as Middle Eastern countries fought separately to kill each other and collectively to wipe Israel off the face of the planet. Israeli forces had to defend against rockets fired into border towns from Hezbollah in Lebanon, while fighting off Syrian forces battling to regain control of territories like Golan Heights, which they lost back in the 1967 Arab/Israeli War.

Soon wars raged all across the globe as many country's economies plummeted into ruin, bringing about almost total anarchy in many major cities. Chaos and disorder soon became the norm of the time.

By January 2019, things started to get real bad for America, from within and without the country. The one enemy the rest of the world seemed to unite against was the United States, being the principle player in orchestrating present day events and conditions. Many of her old allies turned against Lady Liberty, even before the breaking news that shocked the entire world.

Conspiracy rumors had started to surround the new President about her being complicit in the death of President Baca. Like many conspiracy theories, still yet unproven, no one wanted to believe it was possible. Nobody thought Watergate could be true until two intrepid investigative journalists broke the story of the century.

Most international and commercial flights were suspended. It became very difficult to leave or enter the country, unless under special permission granted for humanitarian aid missions and other imperative reasons, decided upon the individual merits of the request. Businesses began to fold as import and export trade goods no longer flowed back and forth on a perpetual stream of commerce that once fed the global financial markets.

By September of 2019, food and fuel shortages started creating long lines at gas stations and grocery stores that sometimes broke out into violent riots when there was not enough to go around. Mass transit ceased to run on time at first, then not at all. Infrastructure fell into ruin from neglect with bridges collapsing and tunnels flooding.

Mother Nature was not content to sit on the sidelines while all this wanton destruction took place. After all, she was the biggest, meanest bitch on the planet. Typhoons and monsoons ripped through Southeast Asia, inundating the coastal areas of Malaysia, Vietnam, Cambodia, Taiwan, Japan, and the Philippine Islands with extreme flooding. While on the other side of the world, the island areas in the Atlantic suffered through hurricanes and severe tropical storms. Torrential rains and seventy-five mph winds plagued the coastal plain states, along with the Caribbean Islands throughout the Greater and Lesser Antilles.

5

Driving into work that day—for what would turn out to be his final show, Howard had just about pieced together the whole Machiavelli puzzle of deceit. He could not even comprehend the consequences it would have on the country if made public. Howard started wishing he stuck to comedy when choosing a career path.

Listening to the radio on the way in to his PBS studio set, Howard turned up the volume as a news report came on commenting on President Buchannan's approval ratings dropping to an all-time low. She could not seem to escape the conspiracy rumors surrounding her Presidency.

"President Buchannan's really on the hot seat this week. Congress has formed a special bipartisan committee to investigate financial irregularities with the funding for her Presidential campaign. There has been a recent slew of information leaked onto the internet, all pointing to missing cash contributions and where most of the money actually came from," the disc jockey reported.

"Howard Bickle announced earlier this week he would be airing a Special Investigative Report live tonight, and one of his three unidentified mystery guests would be none other than The D.C. Insider, via a satellite feed from and undisclosed location."

After learning what he knew, Howard was not sure if he should release the information to the public. He felt it might do more harm than good if the people learned the truth. Not to mention how other countries might react.

He wanted justice for Amy and all the others, but justice at what cost. It could possibly mean the end of life on earth. At least as we once knew it. He did not want to be responsible for that. Because he knew that was exactly what would happen. Deciding the greater good would be keeping the truth hidden, Howard was going to let it go, until last week, that is, when he found a bug in the signature pen he always carried with him.

It was a normal day, just like any other. Leaving for work, he took out his pen to jot down something on a notepad. The radio was on low, but he heard a strange distorted feedback coming from the speakers as he wrote on the notepad. Waving the pen in front of the radio while turning up the volume, the feedback squawked out even louder. After taking the pen apart, Howard found a listening device inside it. A government issued one.

"Now, let's turn to other news from around the world. In Africa, ethnic cleansing has reached new heights with genocidal massacres going on throughout the Sudan, Uganda, Somali, Rwanda, and other warring tribal nations. With very little humanitarian aid coming in or U.N. Peacekeepers to keep things in check, the entire continent is close to becoming nothing more than a mass graveyard. While the news from the land down under, is no news at all. Australia has cut off all ties with the outside world and is enforcing a strict embargo against any who try to invade their air space or territorial waters. It seems the onetime penal colony has taken a page from the ancestral roots of their English forefathers by practicing their own form of Splendid Isolationism."

The news continued on about how bad things were getting out in the world these days. Howard started getting a hopeless feeling burning inside of him, wondering if we may have finally gone too far. It helped make him feel better about reversing his previous position, deciding to let the chips fall where they may, and not stand idly by letting them get away with it. If meant to survive, we will. If not, Que Sera Sera.

When he announced his Special Investigative Report on last Friday's show, and who one of his special guests would be, it was a ruse to throw off the scent of the President's men, who were out actively trying to hunt down the mysterious blogger and detain him as an enemy combatant. His on air confession would play out quite nicely with his other two anonymous guests, who gained his attention in completely roundabout ways. One he came across on his own, while the other one approached him.

The one he found was The Author. At least that's what he was calling himself. He told Howard his new novel, called The Book of Tomorrows, contained a powerful message the people needed to hear. The anonymous author was a struggling writer fed up with all the hypocrisy and lies spread by those we count on to tell us the truth. It was something Howard could easily relate to, knowing the stark reality of his novel's tagline, which simply stated that 'if we do not start living smart, we are all going to die stupid'. How true, how true, Howard thought the day he happened across the website under the same name as the book—plus the dotcom bit.

After making contact through his website (he didn't have an agent or any people), Howard learned that The Author was a big fan of his. Said he loved Howard's show, and that it was last bastion of hope for finding intelligent thoughts broadcasted on television. Howard invited him to come be a part of that hope for an evening, also asking if he would mind holding on to his anonymity for just a little while longer.

Naturally, Michael agreed to the terms. The shock of getting the email with the phone number asking him to call was enough of a mind numbing experience to make him want to run and hide. He always harbored an internal fear of success. It is something most everyone hungers for at some point in life, but it is another thing altogether when it unexpectedly comes your way. It could make one covet the opposite desire than originally sought. So as for staying anonymous, it was what he had planned on doing all along, if he should ever have the opportunity. He just never expected what would happen afterwards, or during for that matter.

CHAPTER EIGHT

### A VICIOUS CYCLE

1

Howard's other guest was a rather odd duck who contacted him with an incredible story and some highly impressive credentials that checked out. The thing that really sealed the deal for Howard was this person's desire to remain anonymous, too. He was someone calling himself The Environmentalist.

Dr. Alan Vanderbrock VI Ph.D. patiently waited for the link to the satellite feed connecting him to the New York City PBS studio that would transmit the signal back to his undisclosed location. After receiving a callback from Howard Bickle's booking agent, Vanderbrock had to do everything he could to subdue his elated emotional response, managing a huskily whispered reply.

"That would be just wonderful. Please extend my gratitude to Mr. Bickle. I promise I will not disappoint him."

Vanderbrock felt his credentials should be enough to speak on his behalf for being a suitable guest for Howard's show. He had a Doctorate in Environmental Biology and a Master's in Virology. He mainly studied the effects deadly viruses had on the environment. But now, Dr. Alan Vanderbrock VI Ph.D. only wanted to expose those in the U. S. Government who betrayed and deceived him into doing what he swore he would never do—create a powerful weapon that destroyed life.

Fearing they might think he was some kind of a crackpot, Alan was cautious not to reveal too much of the reason why he thought he would be a good guest. He did not want them thinking he was another mad scientist going around shouting the sky was falling. So when making inquiries into the possibility of being on the show, he guaranteed what he had to say would give Howard an exclusive to one of the most important news stories of this or any other century. Understandably, Howard's people wanted to know more before agreeing to the booking, but Vanderbrock stood firm. They reluctantly agreed to his terms once Howard gave his pre-approval.

The impetus to present his story to the public came to him after seeing Howard's show for the first time, which was practically a first in itself, having never watched much television in all the years he spent just taking up space on the planet. At least, that was how Vanderbrock came to view his accumulated time spent being a part of the problem, instead of part of the solution he always intended to be.

He could not believe he let them bamboozle him the way they did. Especially, after falsely convincing himself he had the upper hand the whole time, thinking he would be able to outmaneuver the den of vipers he aligned himself with while working for a greater good.

Alan was the last surviving descendant from an Old Dutch immigrant family. His ancestor, Daniel Alan Vanderbrock II, came to America in 1625 when only five years old. Daniel's mother died of consumption on the long voyage across the sea, while his father fell into the bottom of a bottle and never climbed back out. Unprepared to raise a son on his own, Daniel's father drank away the family fortune, earned from the small haberdashery he once had big dreams of re-establishing in the New World. Daniel Alan Sr. died face down, drunk in a gutter, drowning in less than two inches of water.

An orphan living on the streets of New Amsterdam before his eighth birthday, young Daniel grew up hard and fast. He started out as a petty thief, stealing anything he could get his hands on, just so he wouldn't starve to death. A master pickpocket before he turned thirteen, he became the leader of his own little gang of vagabond ragamuffins by fifteen. Knowing how a life of petty crime would only lead to an early grave, Daniel Alan Vanderbrock II quickly adopted to the American way of making your fortune, by finding the legal means in which to cheat others out of what was rightfully theirs.

Trading trinkets and other worthless baubles with the native Lenape tribes for the sacred land their people had lived off of since the birth of their nation, Vanderbrock's first priority was securing the valuable real estate. A ruthless businessman, he then went on to fleece trappers out of beaver pelts and other expensive furs. Over the years, Daniel Alan Vanderbrock II obtained the wealth his father only dreamed of making in the plentiful New World.

Daniel started thinking about his own legacy after the colony fell under British rule in 1664 and renamed it New York. He wanted a son to carry on the family name, someone to inherit his fortune. It would take him another fifteen years to see that dream come to fruition. Nevertheless, he would not live to see whether his family would prosper for generations to come, inadvertently establishing an unenviable tradition of grandsons never knowing their grandfathers.

Over the years, the Vanderbrock's had their thumbs—fingers and whole hand at times—stuck in many different pies. They would traffic in any kind of financial endeavor they could earn a buck from or whatever merchandise they could sell, which included the slave trade. Knowing the real power of wealth came from the influence it could buy, Daniel Alan Vanderbrock III continued a more favorable family tradition his father set in motion by using his fortune to control political tides and steer them his way, as would his son's son.

At the start of the Revolutionary War, Daniel Alan Vanderbrock V stayed loyal to the English crown. It was a decision made more out of sheer necessity of position after the British army seized control of New York City. The English would hold the city throughout most of the war. It was only after he could see an end that was not favorable to their side that he pulled a reverse Benedict Arnold maneuver, betraying the British by spying for the colonists.

Still spoken in good standing in public settings over the years, an air of distrust continued to follow the family name when the subject of private conversations. Their betrayal of the British reminded some American patriots of their initial disloyalty to the country they called home. But like old politicians and prostitutes, the Vanderbrock family name eventually gained immense respect for their shrewd business dealings. Almost a decade after the war was over Daniel Alan Vanderbrock V was the proud father of twin sons. Daniel and Alan Vanderbrock were born in 1785, beginning a new family line of which only Alan's ancestors truly prospered.

The twins and their offspring continued expounding on the nefarious deeds of their ancestors over the next century. When most of New York City went up in flames during the three-day draft riots in July of 1863, the two grandsons of the twins were able to avoid the fire and the war. Daniel and Alan Vanderbrock III brought their way out of serving in the Civil War. They paid a three hundred dollar fee setup through the Conscription Act, offered to all those who could afford it. Many people in poverty-stricken neighborhoods took to the streets in protest of the unfair advantage available to the wealthiest residents.

Alan kept his roots planted in New York City to increase his fortune after the war, while his cousin, Daniel, brought great shame upon the family name. Forever branded a fool for his incompetent folly of trading away the property that would be home to Rockefeller Center for the rights to the Brooklyn Bridge. Daniel Ricardo Vanderbrock III soon found himself excluded from further family business dealings. He committed suicide by throwing himself off the newly completed Brooklyn Bridge in 1883.

Afterwards, his cousin became ruthlessly hardened, young man. Alan would step on or over anyone who got in his way. Returning home from college with a law degree, Alan aligned himself with those immersed in the political corruption that permeated Tammany Hall. Boss Tweed's firm control over the city created many opportunities for unscrupulous men to obtain great amounts of wealth near the end of the 19th Century.

Now his great grandson, Alan Vanderbrock VI, sat waiting as he reflectively climbed through his family tree to see if he could pinpoint a moment from the past that would define his future actions. He could only find one constant trait passed down throughout the centuries, a dogged determination to finish what they started. It was a point of pride, an inbred arrogance. His great grandfather was a true capitalist, the real carpetbagger. Of course, this did not bother him anymore than it did his grandfather when called an outlaw bootlegger during prohibition. Yet, it was not the misdeeds of his ancestors that set Alan on a different path. But rather the duplicitous, vile acts of his father, who went on to become one of the most morally corrupt members of the Vanderbrock family—a United States Senator.

Alan swore he would never be a man like his father or any other member from his family tree. He wanted to use his inheritance to help make the world a better place. The hardest part, nobody wanted to listen to anybody else when it came to how we lived our lives. We are an arrogant race that might end up dying stupid because we refused to evolve with the changing times. That did not mean he wasn't going to try to do something about it. He could not just stand around and let it happen. Not if he could do something to prevent it. And he truly believed he could.

However, no matter what Alan did, it seemed the family name would live in infamy. Cursed by the sins of his father and his father's fathers, he felt the best way to escape destiny was to follow his own path, which ironically led him right to his unintended fate. Sometimes life has its own plan for us, and it does not make any difference if we are willing participants. It just consumes us in its grip and will never let go until we submit to a will that is not our own.

Alan graduated from the best schools with the highest honors in his field of study. Valedictorian of his class, he was voted most likely to succeed. And success was his for a while. He made great breakthroughs in environmental biology. He came up with some new, innovative ways to help reverse the effects of global warming. Foolishly, they shot down his ideas one by one, with certain corporate power players unwilling to risk their seat at the table. By using false science to debunk Alan's scientific methods, they created a public debate where none should exist.

Feeling like he had his back up against it, Alan decided if he couldn't beat them, he would join them after the military came a calling. They wanted to enlist his services for a top-secret project they said would be for the betterment of everyone. There was a growing concern in the country about being unprepared for a biological attack. Alan did not exactly believe they were telling him the truth, but figured he would have a better chance at beating them at their own game by being on the inside looking out, instead of always on the outside looking in.

Everything seemed on the level at first.

They provided him with a high-tech facility and a top-notch staff. Won over by the enthusiasm his colleagues had for the successful completion of a project vital to National Security, Alan fooled himself into believing it could all be true.

2

"Are we having a private conversation, or is this water-cooler gossip that anyone can join in?" Dr. Henry Patel Ph.D. inquired as he stepped into the small cafeteria of the underground laboratory, located deep under New York City.

"Relax, Henry. We only discuss conspiratorial plots and government takeovers after lunch. Morning breaks are strictly reserved for mundane, everyday topics with no deeper meaning other than 'how was your weekend' or 'do you have any plans this weekend'." Dr. Lisa Wong Ph.D. explained coffee-break protocols to her colleague.

"Or ask a fellow colleague if they have heard back anything about funding for their pet project?" Dr. Vanderbrock asked about pending project approval.

"Still waiting," Dr. Patel said with a regretful sigh. "But you know the system of red tape we all have to go through to get anything approved around here."

"Tell me about it. You need two different requisition forms filled out in triplicate just to order more coffee." Dr. Wong commented.

"You think they would at least provide us with some decent coffee for all the trouble they make us go through to get it." Dr. Patel complained about the quality of their morning Cup of Joe as he took a sip from a cup he just poured.

Alan slid over a container of powered coffee creamer, along with one filled with sugar.

"I find the best thing to do is just dilute it enough to where you can still tell its coffee, but without the nasty taste of the horrid beans used to brew it."

"No wonder Jasper keeps working all the time. I bet he is in there now bent over a microscope." Dr. Patel said as he poured some non-dairy creamer into his coffee.

"He was quite excited about some of the latest results he got back on your virus he has been mapping." Dr. Wong suggested a reason for their colleague's absence.

Unsatisfied with the additives, Dr. Patel dumped the rest of his coffee down the breakroom mini-sink.

"I think Jasper has the right idea. What do you say we go join him and see what kind of miraculous breakthrough he has discovered?"

Dr. Vanderbrock and Dr. Wong followed suit, nodding in agreement, as they also emptied their coffee cups.

"Let's go. Who knows, maybe he has discovered a cure for baldness." Alan joked while rubbing his receding forehead.

Walking out of the breakroom and down a short hallway, the three research scientists came to a biometrically sealed laboratory door where they each took turns gaining access to the lab using a retinal scanner.

Heading into the lab area, they actually did find Dr. Jasper Lamar Ph.D. bent over a microscope. Projecting a concentrated, serious demeanor, he was someone completely absorbed in his work.

"Say, Jasper. What has got your attention held so fixed? Do not tell me you found the missing link." Dr. Patel said with a playful gibe.

Dr. Lamar did not respond at first. It was almost as if he totally blocked out any nonessential input to prevent breaking his concentration on the matter at hand. It was not until his colleagues were standing next to him that he acknowledged their presence with a declaratory statement that instantly fixed their attention.

"We have all been duped."

3

The weeks following Jasper Lamar's shocking discovery gave Alan some time to collect his thoughts. He kept wondering what the true purpose was for the work they were doing down in the lab. Alan Vanderbrock VI had a hard time figuring out just who was to blame for the deceitful lies used to make him an instrument of their destruction.

The morning after Dr. Lamar's startling revelation, they were all told to take the rest of the week off. Word came down from the top that they deserved some time to unwind after all the grueling hours they worked. Of course, nobody knew whom it was at the top making all the important decisions. They just passed the information from one department head to the next, until finally working their way down the chain to them.

Alan and his colleagues were given assurances that they would be richly rewarded and fairly compensated for the sacrifice they all had made to their careers when signing the confidentiality agreements in their employment security contracts. There were severe restrictions forbidding them from publishing their findings in scientific journals. The confidentiality agreement legally bound them to keep their work top secret, citing it was of vital importance to National Security.

After the mysterious deaths of his three colleagues, Alan was in constant fear for his life. He believed there were those in the government who would do anything to keep him silent.

While on their forced vacation, Dr. Jasper Lamar and Dr. Henry Patel accidentally drowned on a fishing trip when their rowboat overturned. It sounded like a reasonable explanation of how the tragic event could have transpired. Everyone simply accepted it. Even Dr. Lisa Wong did not have any suspicions. It was just fate.

The only one to find the story rather fishy was Alan. None of it made any sense. The two men didn't socialize outside of work, and neither one of them ever professed any love for fishing. Alan would have bet that they didn't even know how to cast a line, much less scale a fish. They were not the outdoor type.

Alan was not taking any chances. He decided to make it hard for them to find him. It was not too difficult of a task to accomplish, being he did not have much of a social life to begin with. Nobody would miss him. He never gave too much thought to the pursuit of carnal pleasures with members of the opposite sex. Not that he was gay or anything. Alan just didn't put much emphasis on sexual intercourse. He worked around plenty of female colleagues before, but they were either married or quite homely. Never putting out any signals, he did not attract the desires of many women, so at least he didn't have to worry about any pursuing him.

Dr. Lisa Wong turned out to be the exception.

Lisa seemed drawn to him for some strange reason he could never phantom. Jasper was the handsome playboy type, and Henry was married with seven kids. He figured that was the reason he didn't figure out what was really going on under the New York City streets. Her alluring ways distracted him from finding out the truth sooner. Which it turned out was part of the plan from the start. She was there to keep an eye on them and to make sure they stayed on track. The bigwigs at the top could not afford any information leaking out about the work they were doing down in the secret laboratory hidden under Rockefeller Center. The public would view their actions as morally indefensible, but to them they were absolutely necessary.

Believing he was working on a serum for some sort of antidote to combat biological weapons, they actually tricked him into secretly creating one.

The second to last time he saw Lisa was at the memorial service for his fallen colleagues. She said she did not suspect any foul play in their deaths, quoting the old bumper sticker maxim about how sometimes shit just happens. Alan was not ready to chalk it up to happenstance just yet.

Lisa also warned him that spreading unsubstantiated rumors could be just as dangerous. The country was already growing impatient with the new President's political policies and the struggling economy. The public wouldn't stand for another scandal without heads rolling.

Alan wanted to keep in contact with Lisa, but he could not shake off this creeping malaise he felt crawling up his back. He wasn't the kind of person to give into paranoia. But knew you should never ignore a gut instinct telling you to beware. It was like having your own built in early warning system telling you danger was lurking around the corner. Still, he did not fully give into his fear-induced panic until after Lisa's accident.

That was what the authorities called it. Alan was not buying it for a second, though.

The report said her tire blew out while driving down the highway at over seventy-five miles per hour, causing her car to flip over and land in a ravine. Devastated by the news, Alan sank into a terrible depression, feeling guilty about not trying to protect her from harm, instead of just saving his own ass.

He should have known better, but allowed his ego to get the better of him. Taken in by her flirtatious advances toward him, she pursued him with puppy dog eyes, lulling him into believing she could actually be physically and intellectually attracted to him. Otherwise, he would never have acted on those same impulses he equally felt toward her, always maintaining a professional demeanor at the office.

Jasper Lamar got very jealous over the attention she paid to Alan, and not him. Lisa seemed to reject any possible notion of romantic feelings for Jasper, which only made Alan even more attracted to her. Jasper was the kind of man who always got the girl, and Alan held a slight resentment toward him because of it.

Alan never suspected that Lisa's feelings weren't anything but genuine. When he heard about her accident, he felt incredibly guilty about not staying in touch with her. Too paranoid to attend her funeral services, Alan went underground, living down in his hidden lab beneath the secret government lab under Rockefeller Center.

It was not until the day he spotted Lisa catching a cab in Time Square, two weeks after her funeral, that Alan realized what a fool he had been. He decided it was time to go public with what he knew. Only he wasn't sure of the best way to go about getting it done to make it mean something. Alan just knew he could not let them get away with it any longer.

He started watching Howard Bickle's show on a regular basis after the Gaza Strip bombing. Alan heard some good things about the show, in that it was just about the only place left to get an accurate reporting of the important news of the day. Impressed by Howard's way of asking the hard questions, he refused to take talking points and sound bites for answers. Alan thought it would be the best place to present his story to the public, while also keeping his anonymity intact on the condition they concealed his identity, thereby preventing him from serving a long prison sentence for violating his confidentiality agreement.

And if that did not work, there were always ways to make people listen.

CHAPTER NINE

### LIFE WE ARE BORN WITH

1

Born into a vastly changing world, Angel Grace Savin would never know the peace of mind many have enjoyed from living in a free country. Although, the chaos and disorder that has plagued the rest of the planet ever since mankind evolved from apes was well known by many outside of America—except of course for the natives they killed off to possess their land and those they enslaved to work it. But in the not too distance future, it seemed that the fortunate son's would finally know the true cost of freedom. It would be a hard lesson for them to learn. Those still entranced in old ways refused accept what was real and what was fiction, what's wrong and what's right, what's good and what was evil.

We took too much for granted. We believed we would always have the natural resources needed to sustain life, along with all the modern day conveniences and creature comforts money could buy. It started falling apart when people lost the ability to access the many freedoms wealth provided. They realized the world they once knew was gone. People began to panic, reverting back to a survival of the fittest mentality, forgoing any charitable contributions or humanitarian aid toward their fellow man.

Most times change occurred incrementally, slowly evolving in the same manner life did. However, sometimes there were unexpected spurts taking place, game-changing events that forever altered the course of life on the planet. Dinosaurs experienced what was probably the most dramatic change to have occurred since life first formed after a six-mile wide meteor abruptly ended their existence. Unfortunately, the human species never took climate change seriously enough.

Many people living in the 21st century felt global warming was a hoax perpetrated by climate scientists seeking fame and fortune, with many of those same people placing their faith in a god to save them. Because many of us believed we were made in the image of a Supreme Being (which diversely varied from faith to faith), we also thought our god or gods would never let anything destroy his—or hers or their—creation, at least not without saving the faithful worshipers, while leaving the rest of the sinners (non-believers) to burn.

We were God's children, loved above all other creations. It was something many people could easily believe whenever looking upon their newborn child for the first time.

Ryan Logan remembered the very first time he laid eyes on his daughter in the hospital maternity ward. She was the only baby not crying out the wailing call normally associated with the initial experience of being able to vocalize your presence for the first time. She just laid peacefully in her crib, taking in all the wonders of her new, spacious surroundings.

Viewing the world outside of the womb for the first time, must be something only newborns could handle. The initial shock of being able to see, hear, and smell would probably drive a more mature mind insane.

The thing that caught Ryan's eye was something neither him nor Hope purposefully conceived as he gazed at her name misprinted on the front of the crib. Labeled on the little chart was her last name first, first name second, and middle name last, which read: Savin, Angel Grace, because they left the a off the end of what should have been Angela. But the first time he read it, he saw Saving Angel of Grace. Ryan liked the way that sounded, even though he wasn't the kind of person to give into any sort of religious superstitions or theories of divine birth. He did not put much faith in destiny, but the thought did bring a smile to his face.

Angel's mother, Hope Rosemary Savin, had lived a troubled life. Hope's long battle with addiction prevented her from making good decisions all the way back to her wild teenage years. She suffered through the same self-inflicted wounds brought on by alcohol and drug abuse that many people did. Unable to escape the trappings pervasive to poverty stricken, urban neighborhoods, she married her high school sweetheart, who dropped out of school in the tenth grade to work in his father's auto mechanics shop.

Before Angel ever left the womb, she came under attack from outside forces beyond her control. Her mother's ex-husband went ballistic after getting an early parole from prison. He came home to find his soon to be ex-wife, who filed for divorce while he was inside, was pregnant by some seventeen-year-old punk. Needless to say, he felt his actions justified, even though it did land him right back in the slammer to finish out the rest of his sentence.

After smacking Hope around, fortunately only hitting her in the face and not the stomach, Chico Ramirez set out to kill Ryan. He did not have time to get gun as his rage overtook his better instincts to be quick about it. Besides, he would get much more satisfaction from beating Ryan to death with his bare hands. Chico decided to forgo any precautionary measures, also thinking the kid would not be able to put up much of a fight. He was just some skinny punk kid who used to date his niece before knocking up Hope.

Chico took the bus over to the apartment complex from jail. He no longer had a valid driver's license and needed to be careful not to do anything to break his parole. Then again, they would probably consider beating somebody to death as a definite violation. So the first battle Chico fought was between common sense and his burning rage, which the latter won.

It was around five pm on a mid-October Friday when the bus dropped Chico off outside the 7/Eleven on the corner of the apartment complex. Daylight savings time had not kicked in yet, and it wouldn't be dark for another couple of hours. He still had an old buddy who lived there with a car he kept parked out in the back parking lot. After paying Hope a visit, he figured that would be a great spot to lay low and stake out the place. Chico had to do all he could to remain patient. Every conscience thought he had was screaming out for him to go running up to Ryan's door, kick it in, and beat him to death right in front of his mother, if it came to that.

Nearly four hours later, Ryan finally showed up. The only trouble being that he was not alone. Anthony Zangrando was with him.

Ryan came out to the back parking lot to meet up with somebody coming to buy some weed from him. It was the best way for him to make ends meet, knowing he would need as much money as he could get his hands on to provide a proper nest egg for his kid's future.

The guy Ryan was meeting was running late, and Anthony's mother had just called him to come in and do his homework. Seeing his window of opportunity open up, Chico tightly gripped the steering wheel of his friend's car while clenching his teeth in anticipation of what was to come. After waiting for Anthony to get inside, Chico stepped out of the car. He stood in the shadow of the burned out lights of the carport and called over to Ryan, who mistook him for who he was meeting.

"Ryan," Chico voice came out in a hushed, but pronounced voice.

"Trey, is that you? I didn't see you pull in." Ryan said as he walked around the carport and saw Chico standing there clenching his fists.

2

Michael had fallen asleep around noon. He got home about eight-thirty that morning, back working a graveyard shift. He woke up just before eight pm, stirred from his restful slumber by a pungent odor coming from the garbage can in the kitchen section of his studio apartment. He instantly knew the source of the rotten smell. It was emanating from the remains of one of those microwave dinners he usually had for supper. A couple of days sitting at the bottom of an empty can, one of those trays sure could generate an awful smell.

After getting dressed, Michael also emptied the small garbage can from his bathroom, along with the one he kept by his bed to help top off the half-empty kitchen can. Taking a few swigs from a plastic grape juice container, which he diluted fifty percent with water to make it last longer, he left to take out the trash.

There was a slight chill in the evening air as Michael walked around back to the dumpster behind his apartment. He normally threw his garbage away in the one across the street, but he wanted to check his mail while at it. Turning the corner down the alley leading around back, Michael went by the mailboxes, figuring he would get the mail on his way in, when he heard a loud angry voice yelling at somebody in a threatening manner. Never being one to run from trouble, whether directed toward him or somebody else, Michael moved at a steadily cautious pace over to where the angry voice was coming from, which also happened to be where the dumpster set at the other end of the parking lot.

"I am going to rip you a new asshole, boy. You got a lot of nerve sticking your dick where it don't belong. You should know better than to fuck with another man's wife."

"Fuck you, asshole. You think I'm scared of you. You ain't nothing but fucking loser. You are either going to end up spending your life behind bars or the rest of it right here and now if you don't turn around and walk away."

It was not until he heard a second voice raised in sharp reply with an equal hostility Michael realized somebody was threatening Ryan. And they did not sound like idle threats, either. Rushing over with the garbage bag still gripped in his hand, Michael stopped a few feet behind where Ryan stood by the dumpster.

"Do we have a problem here?" Michael asked in a firm, unwavering tone, indicating that the person directed at should take it seriously.

Chico seemed to think about it for a second, but decided against taking any further action. Michael presented him with an unknown contingency he was unwilling to confront right then. Walking away, he took a wide birth around Michael and Ryan. But before disappearing from sight, he left a forewarning of things to come.

"I'll being seeing you around, you little punkass bitch. You can count on it."

"What the fuck was that all about?" Michael asked once they were alone.

"That was Hope's ex-husband." Ryan said as he let out a little sigh of relief. If necessary, he would have defended himself. But was also glad it did not come to that.

"Is he going to be a problem for you? He didn't appear to be the understanding sort." Michael said in a light, casual tone, playing down the incident. He knew Ryan would not want him making a big deal about it.

"Nah, he is just some fucking asshole loser who can't accept the way things are. I don't think he will try anything too stupid. He does not want to end up right back in prison. That is why the fucker tried to ambush me back here." Ryan reasoned that Chico would not risk his freedom to gain his revenge, but then had another thought pop in his head that needed a quick response. "I better give Hope a call; see if he stopped there, first."

A blue Honda Civic pulled into the parking lot as Ryan was making the call. Going over to go do what he came back there to do in the first place, the blue Honda left within two minutes of arriving as Ryan returned still on the phone. Michael did not need to be privy to the entire conversation to know what Ryan heard made him angry.

"He did what. That motherfucking piece of shit, if I see him out here again, he is going to wish he was still locked up." Ryan paused to listen for a few seconds for what Michael surely assumed were pleas from Hope asking him not to go after Chico. He also could tell she must have said something about letting the proper authorities handle it from his next reply.

"Why did you go and do that? I would rather deal with this my own way. But never mind, I'm coming over, right now."

After hanging up his phone, Ryan turned to Michael, who looked almost as concerned about the situation as he imagined Hope did.

"Is everything all right? He didn't hurt her or anything, did he? The baby's fine, right?" Michael asked as the thought just came to him, momentarily forgetting about Hope's delicate condition when Ryan was on the phone with her.

"He stopped by there, all right. Said she called the cops on him. Look, Monop, I am going to make sure she is okay, but I do not want to be around when the cops get here. I don't feel like answering a bunch of stupid fucking questions that those assholes always have. So after I check in on her, I'll come over and smoke a blunt."

"Sounds good, unless you want me to hang around out here? I mean...if you need anything, you know you just have to ask." Michael offered his further assistance as he threw out the garbage bag he was holding the whole time, tossing it in the dumpster setting five feet in front of him.

"No, that's fine. It is all good, Monop. I'll be by in a few." Ryan said before heading to Hope's apartment as Michael went to check his mail before heading back to his place.

It turned out Ryan did not have to worry about any further confrontations with Chico for the immediate future, and for a good bit after, too. Once the police arrived, all they needed to see was a beat-up pregnant woman. It did not take long after that for them to put out a warrant and arrest Chico. Hope also told them about the threats he made against Ryan, who wanted to avoid speaking with them about it.

As Michael was walking up his steps, he could see the patrol car sent to arrest Chico arrive just as Ryan was getting to Hope's place. Ryan would not be able to avoid them, now.

If Michael didn't show up when he did, the cops would have never made it in time to prevent Ryan's confrontation with Chico from escalating into a fight to the death. Ryan would have fought him with every fiber of his being, but he also knew the odds of a favorable outcome were not on his side. Chico had about forty pounds on him and just spent the past two years with nothing better to do other than pumping iron, which was clearly visible, even in the dark.

Ryan felt he owed Michael a huge debt of gratitude, and one day would repay the kindness. Michael was definitely a true friend, someone you knew you could count on in a pinch.

3

Eight months later

Lost in thought, Michael did not respond to the knocking on his door for almost a minute. He woke from his trance-like state after a louder, more forceful banging sounded out. Then a familiar voice called out his name, well sort of.

"Monop, are you awake in there? C'mon, get up. I have someone I want you to meet."

"Huh, oh, hold on sec. I'm coming, I'm coming." Michael called out after popping out of his lost in thought moment. He stood up from the black cushioned chair he always sat on while watching TV, or in this case, zoning out on.

Michael did not really catch the part about Ryan having someone who he wanted him to meet and was pleasantly surprised to see him holding Angel in his arms.

"Oh, my god, isn't she just the little beauty." Michael said finding himself reflexively speaking in a voice normally associated with a woman commenting on someone's infant she came across while strolling through the park one day.

"Well, you just going to stand there and gawk, or are you going to invite us in?" Ryan asked with a gleam in his proud papa eyes and a big smile raising his cheeks.

Moving out of the way, Michael took a few steps back. Once inside, Angel locked eyes on Michael. After a moment of fixing her gaze on him, she did something that astonished Ryan and Michael. She smiled at him while holding her little hands out, wanting Michael to hold her.

"Wow, she has never done that before. The only two people she will ever let hold her without making a fuss is either Hope or me. She would even fidget uncontrollably anytime my mother tried to pick her up. Which I think made her decision easier to move in with my sister living in Denver." Ryan explained how Angel's unusual reaction to Michael was not part of the norm, but gave in when she began to fidget in his arms after not getting her way right off.

"Do you mind?" Ryan asked Michael if he was okay with holding her, figuring it was not something accustomed to him and might make him feel awkward.

"No, not at all, here give her to me." Michael said with a pleasantly accepting smile beaming from his face, brought there by the simple act of a child's attention. "I mentioned to you how babies seem to be fascinated by me for some strange reason. I always chalked it up to the childlike innocence they can still see in my adult eyes."

Taking her gently in his arms, Michael cradled her up against his right shoulder with her eyes remaining fixed on his face.

"Well, hello there, my sweet angel. My name is Michael. What is yours?"

"Didn't I tell you her name before?" Ryan said a little confused. "I know I have not been around much. I have been real busy lately. You just cannot imagine all the things you never thought you would ever need until someone else in this world is totally dependent on you."

"I would imagine it must have been a real wakeup call. The kind of thing that gets you thinking about the future in ways you never thought you would." Michael shared his innate knowledge of the joys and responsibilities of parenthood, even though he did not have any children, at least none that he knew of. He could still empathetically understand the feelings it brought to someone's life, just from being around some of his friends with infants. Those toddlers had a similar fascinated reaction to him, which also included babes he just came across waiting on lines at different stores. Yet Angel's strange attraction to him seemed different somehow.

"I guess you do know something about it." Ryan said.

"Just not in the paternal way you now do. I can see how it has already affected you. That is pretty obvious. You have a gleam of joy beaming in your eyes." Michael stated while bouncing Angel in his arms. "So, are you going to tell me her name or what?"

"Oh, right, yeah. Michael James Carducci may I introduce you to Angel Grace Savin. So, you see, you already knew her name, which she definitely is one. It doesn't matter if it is only because they accidently left off the a on the end of Angela."

"What, you named her Angela but the hospital made a typo on her birth certificate, and what, you decided it was fate or something." Michael replied with a glib smile.

"I suppose you could say that. But seriously, Monop, I am not kidding. I have been around a few babies before, and she is nothing like any of them. She hardly ever cries and always seems happy to just be alive." Ryan told Michael about how his daughter differed from other babies in a pleasantly unanticipated way.

"That is because she absorbing everything for the first time, and it appears she likes what she sees through her infant eyes. I cannot imagine what that must be like to experience. No wonder we can't remember anything from when we are that young. The shock of it must be too difficult to recall." Michael waxed philosophical for a moment before sitting down with Angel still in his arms, and her head nestled against his shoulder.

"Did she nod off?" Ryan asked after noticing her closed eyes with her head nuzzling Michael shoulder.

"Yeah, looks like I bored her to slumber." Michael joked as he tried to choke back the emotional reaction to the touchingly sweet moment he would always treasure. It was the first time in weeks he felt completely human. Michael realized when he started writing The Book of Tomorrows, that for him to have any chance of accomplishing his lofty goal to effect real change in this world, what he would have to become to fulfill his quest for knowledge, and what sacrifices he would have to make. Although, he had started to go a little stir crazy, recently, talking to himself, a God he didn't believe in, and even to some stuffed animals he setup on a chair in front of his TV.

Looking at his sleeping daughter, Ryan noticed something in Michael's eye that suggested the possibility of a teardrop forming under his eyelid that he seemed to be doing everything he could to hold back.

Michael lived alone and often worked alone. He did not have much physical or friendly verbal contact with many people anymore. After a while, he also began to realize he did not like many people very much. As a matter of fact, there were very few he could actually stand being around for any length of time. When he started working for SecureWorld, Michael allowed himself to drop his guard, believing he met a few people at the Putney-White site that he could call good friends. Alas, they all turned out to be two-faced, petty backstabbers, who he later regretted getting to know.

"Monop, you okay? You got this strange look in your eye." Ryan asked without indicating his suspicions of what.

"Oh, it's nothing. I am just a little tired. She is definitely a little angel. You sure did give her the perfect name, even if it was by accident."

"I'll tell you something that I have not told anyone, Monop. Until the day I saw her in the maternity ward, I was not sure if I could handle it all. But once I laid eyes on her, I knew I would move heaven and earth to do whatever I had to do to provide her with everything and anything she will ever possibly need. Just one look changed my entire life." Ryan confessed to his initial fear of failure, while also stating his firm convictions to succeed at any cost.

"One of the few constants in life is change. Too bad most people do not seem to be willing to evolve with the ever-changing times. But then again, most people under twenty-five—present company excluded—take everything we have achieved in this world for granted, many of them never even knew a world without cell phones, videos, internet, or home computers." Michael commented on the futility that came from trying to understand what makes us tick.

"Most people don't want to bother learning anything new that does not directly affect their lives. They are too lazy to move off the couch and too dumb to know better." Ryan offered some of his own insight on the subject.

"That is for sure. I swear I have worked with some real stubborn mules in my time. This guy I relieve refuses to correct what he now knows is wrong because of some sort of pigheaded arrogance. The thing is. It's not something subject to interpretation, like discussing the meaning of a poem, but the spelling of the word left, which he spells L-I-F-T. I pointed this out to him one day. Not trying to insult him or anything, but just to make him aware of the facts, and the fucking asshole gets all pissed off at me. And then continues spelling it lift out of spite. It is unprofessional and makes us all look like idiots." Michael vented in a hushed voice about his co-worker's frustrating inability to accept facts, trying not to disturb Angel's slumber, especially since he usually found it hard not to express feelings of anger, brought on by what he felt was righteous indignation, without resorting to more colorful language.

"I guess there will always be those who cannot take advice from others, even if they know they are wrong and the other person is right. It is like they say about leading a mule to water, but not being able to make him drink." Ryan agreed.

"Yeah, but once you get him there, you can always waterboard the motherfucker." Michael pointed out with a blunt, mocking symbolism that made Ryan laugh in a bewildered manner as his meaning became clearer. "That is why I decided to write The Book of Tomorrows as a fictional story. I like to employ a little sledgehammer subtly in my writing. Maybe I will eventually be able to hammer my message home that way. If I can hook them with a good story, I can also sneak in some vegetables to go with their candy. I really just want to start the conversation. What they do after that is up to them. I doubt I will still be around to see how it all turns out. But that does not mean the future isn't worth fighting for, especially when there are those with so much life ahead of them."

Michael always had a great respect for all life, never understanding our strong penchant to kill one another. He thought we should have evolved beyond our primitive selves, going from Homo sapiens to Homo superiors, like David Bowie once sang. We are all born to live and die, from dust to dust. One person's life is not more valuable than another person's is. Even if they were someone born to do great good, it would not matter. The cosmos doesn't depend on only one person's destiny to sustain our world. That is why there are so many of us, to pick up were those who came before left off. Life goes on no matter who survives its trials and tribulations. We all carry heavy burdens on our backs, like the destiny we all must follow to find true peace of mind.

"I really ought to get going before Hope starts calling all over the place for me." Ryan said as he reached in his pocket and pulled out a bag of weed with some really tasty looking buds in it. He took a couple large buds out and put them down on the coffee table. "I would have burned a blunt with you if the circumstances were different, but here, I'm sure you will find a good use for these after I leave."

"I totally understand and respect your choice. I have known many parents who I often thought made the wrong one under similar conditions, but always felt it was not my place to tell them what they should or should not do around their children. I also really appreciate the thought." Michael thanked his friend as they both stood up simultaneously. Michael handed the still sleeping Angel carefully back to Ryan.

"Take it easy, Monop. I'll talk to you later."

4

Christmas Day 2018

Ryan stood waiting on line in the crowded 7/Eleven holding a bottle of wine in his hand. The two people on line ahead of him took turns having their different needs filled, which slowed down the progression of commerce to a snail's pace. The first person at the counter was an old black man staring down through the glass counter at the wide variety of lotto scratchers. Unable to find the one he wanted, the sales clerk skimmed through the choices with the old black man guiding his seemingly futile search for what he called his lucky one.

"No, not that one, that's not it. That is not my lucky one."

The sales clerk patiently continued searching through the selections, pausing and pulling out one anytime the old black man saw what he thought might be his lucky one. After scanning through nine more scratchers, he finally found the lucky one he wanted.

"That's it. That's it right there. That is my lucky one. I almost always win something whenever I play that one." The old black man stated his preference with a joyously elated Christmas day cheer, feeling as if he just received a present from Santa.

After making his purchase, he stood off to the side frantically scratching at the card with a dime he carried around especially for that purpose. He lingered around wanting to prove to everyone in the store how it really was his lucky one.

The next person in line was a small Asian woman, who was somewhere between her late thirties to early forties. She was purchasing an Ice Mocha coffee drink, along with a pack of peppermint Lifesavers she picked out from a display on the counter. Even though her bill came to three dollars ninety-five cents, she still searched through a small change purse to come up with the ninety-five cents. Counting out the coins on the counter, she was up to eighty-five cents and sliding over the last dime to complete her transaction when the old black man got everyone's attention, exclaiming his dismay after his lucky one turned out not to be so lucky after all.

Once Ryan stepped up to the counter, he put down the wine bottle and asked the sales clerk for what he came there to get in the first place, with the wine being an impulse buy inspired by his main purchase.

"I would also like a box of Trojans to go with that." Ryan informed the sales clerk with a confident voice matching his casual demeanor, not giving into the childish humor some people still found amusing.

"They usually do." The sales clerk was unable to resist the urge.

Before leaving the 7/Eleven, Ryan received a text message from Hope asking what was taking him so long. Walking back to their apartment, Ryan could not help feeling the weight of all the changes in his life since Angel was born three years ago. He moved in with Hope after his mother went to live with his sister, Kathy, in Denver. Kathy was unemployed with two kids, plus one on the way, a husband in jail, and in desperate need of some financial support. Their mother worked in one of the few jobs left that there was always a demand for and someplace to gain employment. She was a nurse.

Ryan's mother left after Angel had her first birthday, almost two years ago. He understood his sister's situation and that her needs outweighed his, which was not a monetary one. He was quite capable of providing for his family. Making money always came easy to Ryan. The thing he missed was not having his mother around anymore. It was the first time in his life he was completely on his own. Except, it wasn't just him he had to take care of now, which really did not bother him. However, doubtful thoughts still lingered.

Recently Ryan received a fortuitously unexpected windfall to provide a secure financial shelter to protect his family's future prosperity, which also motivated his stroll to the store that early Christmas evening. At the end of November, a letter came in the mail from the executor of his late uncle's will, informing him that his uncle left him his house and property.

His Uncle Harry, his mother's brother, had a construction business Ryan used to work at in the summer during his school breaks. Regrettably, Ryan still had a bit of a devil lurking in him from his youth. He had a big falling out with his uncle after he accused Ryan of stealing tools from work and some money from his wallet. Walking away denying his guilt, it took him a few years to come to terms with the fact that he did it. He stole those things and much more. It was how he lived back then. Some days, the only way to get him and his sister fed was by doing convenience store grab-and-dash-robberies.

When Ryan was thirteen, and his sister fourteen, his mother had to put in so many hours to become a nurse that she got sick and laid up in bed for almost a year. Ryan's father was a drug addict, who never really had a job to be unemployed from, and mostly lived off his mother. It was why Ryan never respected his father or even looked at him as one. His mother trusted him, knowing Ryan had a good head on his shoulders. She knew he would never get involved in anything like that, with his father being an addict. It may have kept Ryan from delving too deep into that pond in which many people willingly swim, while many others sink.

Carrying around the regret of stealing from his family, Ryan went to his uncle a few years later when he was able to pay him back the money and for the tools he stole—which he mostly sold for food to feed him and his sister when his mother was sick, something his uncle never knew back then. He wanted his uncle to think he was sincere when he came to apologize for what he did. He told him that whatever the need or reason, you should never fuck over your family, putting it in words his uncle would know came from the heart. Only waiting until he saved up the money he owed took much longer than expected.

When he finally made it to see him, his uncle was dying of cancer. He had been sick for a long time, and never knew what it was. He kept putting off going to the doctor, always using the excuse of being too busy at work to take time off. Whatever was ailing him all those years, he learned to live with it. There were times when it inconvenienced his schedule from getting stuck on the toilet, sometimes being unable to go and others not knowing when it would stop. Some days he would even have to sit there with his head slump over a garbage can when he got it at both ends. It was hard to believe the kind of things some people could learn to live with and eventually get used to, but it all catches up with you in the end.

Ryan lost touch with his uncle over the years. He always meant to visit him more often. It simply amazed him how quickly one could lose time. His uncle was divorced long before his illness took over his life, forcing him to shut down his business. However, he still owned the house and property, which had a backyard area he used to store equipment.

It was ten to eight when Ryan turned the corner and headed down the little alleyway leading to the back apartments where he and Hope lived, at least for the moment. Coming up on the steps to their second floor apartment, Ryan kept reflecting on how people can slip out of our lives, even when only living a few miles away. It was something he felt Monop knew full well and good. His old friends and family were no longer a part of his life, not talking to anyone from back home for years, now.

Reaching the top of the stairs, that was the first time Ryan had thought about asking Monop to move in with him once the house was legally his. He figured it would really help him out to get a break from his constantly increasing rent. Besides, Angel simply adored him. Her initial fascination was not a fading curiosity and with Hope going back to work, it would be good to have him around to watch Angel when both of them had to go out. Ryan did not trust some stranger to watch his kid. The thought seemed quite insane to him.

As he turned the doorknob and stepped inside the apartment, Ryan announced his presence with a celebratory cheer.

"Honey, I'm back to celebrate and raise a glass to our good fortune..." Ryan's voice trailed off as it took a moment for his eyes to convince his brain what he was seeing was real.

Standing on the other side of the room with the kitchen table separating them, Chico was holding Hope tight against his body with a big knife pressed up against her throat.

"Is that right? You didn't tell me you had any reason to celebrate other than the holiday. Why wouldn't you want to share the good news with me, my dear? I am your husband after all. Or did this little punk-ass bitch knock you up again? If so, I am going to teach you the cost of sticking your dick in the wrong fucking hole." Chico spewed out his threats while pressing the blade against Hope's throat, losing all that her name provided.

"You better put that knife down and get the fuck out of here while you still can, Chico." Ryan stood his ground, clutching the wine bottle tightly in his hand as he addressed Hope next. "Where's Angel, Hope? Is she alright?" Then back to Chico. "Because I swear, if you hurt her in any way, you will never leave this room alive. Now stop this bullshit, get the fuck out of here, and I won't call the cops."

"Don't let him hurt our baby." Hope pleaded with the sharp blade pressed hard against her throat as it started to pierce the skin, causing a dripping red line to form underneath it.

"Bitch, shut the fuck up, or I am going to do a hell of a lot worse than anything you could ever imagine." Chico shifted his threats to Hope.

Squirming around in his arms, Hope managed to twist her body around enough to be able to spit in his face.

"Fuck you, Punta." She screamed at him as his eyes widened with a fiery rage about to explode behind them. "I was using birth control the whole time we were together."

Hope shifted her gaze back to Ryan for one last look. Her final plea left her lips on a whispered breath of air, as the words, "Save her," seemed to float across the room to him. But Chico abruptly silenced them as he slashed the blade across her throat in one clean sweep.

Hope's head tilted back for a moment from the force of Chico's hand ripping past her. Before her bobbing head fell lifelessly forward, a thick, spraying stream of blood gushed out in gurgling red spurts.

"NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!"

The agonizing cry of anguish left Ryan's throat in a shocked tone unable to conceive of what just happened. The reality of your surroundings when in extreme life or death circumstances could blur when a person's inherit primal rage comes rushing up to the surface to take over both body and mind. It was what some called Hulking out on adrenaline, giving someone incredible strength once their savage nature took control.

Letting Hope's lifeless body drop to the floor, Chico reached inside his pants to pull out a gun he had tucked in his waistband, but did not have time to yank it free. Ryan was on top of him in an instant flash of movement Chico never saw coming as Ryan slammed the wine bottle into the side of his head with a wicked force. The bottle exploded into flying shards of glass, mixed in with the rosy nectar splashing red blotches all over Chico, making it hard to tell what was vino and flowing blood.

Chico fell to his knees right in front of Hope's body, holding one hand up to his head while still reaching for his gun with the other. Not giving him time to recover, Ryan swiftly grabbed at anything he could get his hands on to use as a weapon. During his initial assault, he had pushed past the dinner table, which still had the plates and silverware on it from their Christmas meal. After grasping hold of a thick ceramic plate, Ryan kicked Chico in the chest, sending him sprawling backwards to floor. Holding the plate by the rim, Ryan slammed it down hard on Chico's throat just as he was looking up at him, giving Ryan a clear target.

Gasping for breath with a broken windpipe, the big man flayed around on the floor, mimicking a large fish just pulled out of the water and dropped on the deck of a boat. The gun stuck in his pants had fallen out and was lying on the linoleum floor. Ryan bent over and picked it up as he fixed a cold gaze on Chico.

Ryan slid back the action to load a round then pointed the 9mm Beretta at Chico's head. He stood there a moment without saying anything as Chico gained recognition of his reversal of fortune.

"Well, what are you waiting for, you fucking pussy?" Chico choked out his words as he spit up blood, feeling he was not going to make it out of this one.

Ryan remained stoic in his demeanor. A rock planted firmly in place, his gun hand was steady and firm with his finger pressing up against the trigger with an applied pressure that would eventually give in and fire the round.

Oblivious to the loud shuffling of many feet running up the apartment stairs, Ryan firmly stood his ground as his mind fought a battle of opposing wills. The open front door filled up with the menacing forms of police officers pointing their guns at Ryan, who was standing over a bleeding man on the floor with a gun. Unaware of the cause of the disturbance, they came in response to a 911 call from a neighbor. The stern voice of the group leader barked out orders.

"Drop the gun and get on the floor with your hands behind your head. I won't ask you twice."

"Go ahead. Pull the trigger. Do it, you fucking pussy." Chico dared, choking on his words.

Almost unable to reverse the momentum, his powerful rage urged him to give in to his darkly disturbing need to seek retribution, but it all disappeared at the sound of Angel's voice crying out to her daddy.

"No, daddy, please stop."

Pointing the gun barrel straight up in the air as he raised his hands in surrender, Ryan snapped back to his senses. He now had someone totally dependent on him, who he would not be able to be there for if he was dead.

"Alright, I give up. I acted in self-defense, trying to protect my family. This man is responsible for everything that has happened here. So, let's just take it easy, fellows. There is a child in the room. Be careful how you go." Ryan explained as much of the situation he could to the men with their guns still bearing down on him. "Look, this is not even my gun. It's his."

Chico was still gasping for breath, starting to choke harder and harder as he found it more and more difficult to breath.

The group leader nodded to one of the officers, who moved across the kitchen and took the gun out of Ryan's hand, decelerating the situation from escalating into further mayhem. After they relieved him of his weapon, the high tension enveloping the room quickly dissipated as they began to question him in a non-confrontational manner. It would take most of the night to explain everything. All Ryan could think about was how the tragic experience would leave his daughter with emotional scars she would have to deal with for the rest of her life.

Around eighty-thirty that morning, Michael pulled into his assigned spot in the back parking lot as he arrived home from work. The sight of a police presence was not too uncommon of an occurrence that it surprised him much anymore. But while heading over to his apartment through the alley by the mailboxes, Michael started getting a real uneasy feeling about what happened. He shot a quick look over to Ryan's apartment and began to realize that was where the police seemed to be focusing most of their attention.

Michael started moving towards Ryan's place at a rushed pace, bringing about an alerted presence to the officers taken position at the bottom of the stairway leading to his apartment.

"Hold it up right there, sir. This area is a crime scene until further notice. I cannot let you pass. Do you live in one these apartments?" An officer inquired what he was doing there.

"What happened here? My friend lives up in that second floor apartment. Has something happened to him? Is his daughter okay? Tell me she is alright." Michael asked with an increasing urgency to his words, nearing panic mode when inquiring about Angel.

"We cannot release any information to the public at the moment. If you leave me your name and number, I will see to it somebody gets back to you."

Michael was not about to let it go that easy. Right now, he did not care if they arrested him. He was going to get some answers. Although, he didn't have to resort to such extremes as he heard a young voice crying out for him from the apartment below Ryan's place.

"Monop! Monop! I want Monop." Angel's tearful voice cried out.

She broke free from the hold of a neighbor woman Ryan left her with while the police questioned him all night about what happened. She ran straight into Michael's arms, crying out about her mother as he held her tight.

"Bad man killed mommy, Monop." Angel said as she buried her head in his shoulder. "He killed her, he killed her."

Michael fought back the building sorrow he felt for Angel's loss, wanting to remain strong in her time of need.

The neighbor woman Ryan left Angel with, along with two officers, came over intending to separate them. The neighbor woman insisted the father entrusted the child's care to her while he was talking to the authorities.

Angel began screaming out her unwillingness to return to the neighbor's apartment, wrapping her arms so tightly around Michael's neck, he found it hard to breath.

"Hey, what the fuck is going on out here? Let her be. She is fine with him." Ryan stepped out of the laundry room where he was giving his official statement.

"Are you sure about that, Mr. Logan?" one of the officers asked.

"Of course I am." Ryan replied to the officer before calling out to Michael. "Monop, can you take her to your place. I'll come over once I am done here."

Michael just nodded to Ryan as he started around front, heading for his place with Angel still holding on to him tightly, but not so much that she cut off his air again.

Angel did not appear too psychological affected by her mother's tragic death. She didn't have nightmares or show any signs of nervous jitters. There was no posttraumatic stress making her jump at shadows. Nothing seemed to frighten her anymore.

She had the violent image of her mother lying in a pool of blood imprinted in her mind, along with her daddy pointing a gun at the bad man who killed her. Angel thought her father would have shot the bad man, if the police were not there to stop him. In truth, she wanted him to do it. He was a bad man who hurt her mommy. He deserved a harsh punishment for his actions, which turned out not to be necessary. Chico Ramirez died on the way to the hospital from his wounds.

Michael moved in with them after Ryan officially took possession of his inheritance, which turned out to be the best medicine. The house had three bedrooms and there was the huge backyard where his uncle used to store construction materials and equipment. There was also a big tree right behind the house that was perfect for a tire swing, which Michael strung up the first week there. Working on graveyard allowed Michael to be around during the day for Angel with Ryan spending the evenings with her. Michael would sometimes just stand in her doorway and watch her sleep, staying there for of an hour on some occasions.

Ryan had a growing concern for her safety out in the increasingly harsh world. Things were getting bad, and it seemed like they were only going to get worse. He did not trust sending her to a public school and felt lucky he had a friend like Michael, who said he would homeschool her. They were able to find lesson plans to download off the internet, with Michael augmenting the assignments to teach her other important life lessons not found in schoolbooks.

It was time to plan for the worse of times, now that the best of times were long gone.

CHAPTER TEN

### MFCBG

1

Michael often thought of himself as a gang of one.

Dating back to when he was still working as a union labor in the construction trade, Michael developed the philosophy that if he couldn't get respect, he would settle for fear. At present, in order for him to be able to live in the volatile environment of having gangbanger neighbors threating his life on a daily basis, it became necessary for Michael to fortify his old personal code with the new maxim—don't run, don't hide, stand tall, or die. By combining the old philosophy with the new, he became a gang of one—the MFCBG (MotherFuckingCharlieBronsonGang), of which he was the sole charter member.

Somehow, someway he managed to survive the hostile aggressions spewed at him from his gangbanger neighbors without ever having it escalate from a verbal to a physical confrontation on any given Sunday—or any other day, for that matter. Afterwards, there was nothing left in this life that could scare him. Michael truly felt no fear. No one could hurt him anymore.

Near the end of 2019, the crime rate had skyrocketed around the country, especially in poverty-stricken neighborhoods. Most states already had to make massive budget cuts to avoid bankruptcy, forcing many government services that people depended on to close down for good. Unemployment benefits, food stamps, Medicare, and other welfare programs were no longer available to help the impoverished masses get back on their feet during hard times.

There were also drastic cuts made to police departments, emergency medical services, and fire departments, forcing many of them to run on skeleton crews. Sticking to her usual backwards manner of getting things done, President Buchannan approved the hiring of private military contractors to help protect the neighborhoods the police no longer could, using a hammer to push in a thumbtack. The residents in the wealthier cities and towns who could afford it had the luxury of a private security force policing their streets and watching over their homes and businesses.

The people living in the urban ghetto neighborhoods, who were unable to afford private security, turned to local street gangs for protection. For the most part, the gangs wanted to keep things running smoothly, so everyone could conduct their business, do their jobs, and most important, make money. They knew in order to accomplish this, the people needed to feel safe when they left their homes and still be sure it would be there when they got back.

Some neighborhoods had even less crime than when the police were in charge of maintaining law and order. Of course, the gangs were not bound to follow any legal means for enacting punishment on those that caused trouble or broke their laws. Gang justice was often swift and brutal, executing a punishment that fit the crime more often than the sentences handed out in courts of law.

Michael was living with Ryan and Angel in a section of San Jose now ruled by three different gangs, who agreed to a truce between them that was shaky at best. Ryan already had good street cred with all three gangs, especially after taking out Chico, while Michael no longer had any fear of death. He no longer cared if he lived or died. But lately, he discovered a new reason for wanting to live. There was a new future to root for he never knew he would have a stake in preserving. It brought a joy to his life he never knew before and thought he never would. He began to hope for a time when there would be better days.

2

Mature beyond her very young years, Angel learned to read, write, add, and subtract all before her fourth birthday. Born December 31st 2015, she was an extremely bright and perceptive child, along with being an eager learner. It did not hurt to have your own private tutor homeschooling you. Michael and Ryan both agreed that signing her up for kindergarten classes when she turned five was no longer the viable option open to many parents it once was.

Society slowly began to crumble back into the dust from which we once came. It was no longer safe to send young children out into the world unprotected. You could not depend on their teachers, the police, or even emergency medical assistance when truly needed.

A systematic plague seemed to be taking turns infecting many people with a bloody vengeance aimed at schoolchildren. School shootings rose drastically after the Gaza Strip bombing killed the President, along with other high profile leaders from around the world.

Michael taught Angel the basics at first, but soon moved on to subjects better suited to prepare her for growing up in an uncivilized world. Potty trained and walking before she turned two, Angel soaked up knowledge like a sponge. She seemed intuitively aware of what she would need to know when she got older.

Michael worked out his own educational program, one he would have stacked up against any public school system, which was a joke long before things started going to hell. He taught her only the facts and just the facts, leaving mythical legends and spiritual belief systems where they belonged, lost in the literature of a good story. Instead, he focused his curriculum on actual science and accepted historical accounts, telling her all were subject to the scrutiny of who was telling the story. She would have to decide what was true and what were legendary tales passed down over the years as fact.

He passed on an old mantra he imparted to Ryan and his friends when he first met them, telling her that she should never be ashamed of what she didn't know, and only what she refused to learn. He left out the part about if we don't start living smart we are all going to die stupid. At least until she got a little older. He did not want to rob the innocence of childhood from her, but felt he should prepare her for the savage land we now lived.

He told her about the many different religious beliefs around the world. How much they all differed from one another. Saying it would be up to her decide which one, if any, to believe. It was also a great way to teach her geography, something he wished he had a better understanding of when younger. If you grow up in the same place all your life and never travel anywhere farther than the next state, Michael knew what a small view of the world that could give you.

However, all work and no play made Jack a dull boy, or Angel a dull girl, which she was anything but. A vibrant, active imagination, she always looked on the bright side of life. Something Michael wished he could manage more often in an increasingly darkening world. He setup a healthy physical education program with plenty of exercise and fun activities, keeping in mind that entertainment was the real name of the game.

She liked watching old Bugs Bunny cartoons, Sesame Street, and shied away from the girlie shows about unicorns and magic princesses. Michael taught her how to use a computer, showing her the website he built for The Book of Tomorrows, where his novel was available to read for free for the past year. It was something he felt he needed to do to make sure he got out his message.

Angel once asked him if he believed Jesus was the son of God, without having any previous pretext from discussing the subject.

"We are all God's children," he told her.

"Do you think my mommy is up in heaven?" Angel asked Michael out of the blue.

"I definitely think she is in a better place and at peace." Michael answered her as honestly as he could.

They were sitting at the kitchen table working on her multiplication tables. He felt she was too young to comprehend the math problems, but she wanted to try anyway.

"I can still remember back to when I was just a few years older than you are now. I got really sick and had to spend what seemed an eternity in the hospital. It was actually only two months, but the school thought I missed too much time, and I should repeat the third grade."

"What was wrong with you?"

"They never found out. I basically cured myself, but it was touch and go for a while from what they told me. My mother said that I ran a fever of 103 for two weeks straight. Nothing they tried could break it. That was how I found out I was allergic to penicillin and some other medicines that would have cured most people."

"Did you have to repeat the third grade?"

"No. My mother sat with me every night I was able and taught me my multiplication tables, which was what I would have been learning in school at the time." Michael told her with a proud, but solemn tone in his voice as his thoughts began to wander.

"Are you okay, Michael? You look sad. Were you thinking about your mommy up in heaven? I bet she and my mommy are the best of friends, just like you and me." Angel inquired with a touching, sweet innocence.

"I'm sure they are. What do you say we pick up on the math lesson tomorrow? This way you can go play out back, while I take a nap."

"Okay." Angel replied as she stood up and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite."

Michael could feel a few teardrops trickle down his cheek, unable to hold back his emotional reaction as her loving words deeply touched his heart.

The joy he felt from knowing there was someone who cared for him helped dull the pain of loss he carried in his heart since his mother passed away a little over three years ago. His father could not even call to tell him the news. His sister did. She said their father had completely fallen apart, sinking into mournful depression that prevented him from making the customary call any son would expect to get from their father under the circumstances. His father always played the role of the big, tough man, even though he was an inch shorter than his son was. But when it came time for his big scene, the part he had been playing all his life, he just simply choked. He was lion that whimpered, instead of the mouse that roared.

Michael blamed his father for his mother's increasingly depressed state of mind, which he believed directly led to her illness. It is hard to want to live if you feel you have nothing to live for, something Michael knew all too well. He even thought about killing himself afterwards. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. Not the book, not his desire to leave behind something important, nothing was all he had left. Knowing his mother never got the chance to read it was the thing that burned him up inside. She would have been so proud of him. He just knew it.

He felt all alone in the world, as if it abandoned him. Or maybe he cut out on it. Other than his sister, not one single relative gave Michael a condolence call. He could not afford to fly back for her funeral. Still living in his San Jose apartment at the time, the loss of just one week's pay could be enough to sink him into a deeper debt he would never be able to climb out from underneath. If any of his old friends heard, no one bothered to give him a call, which did not surprise him since he lost touch with most of them a long time ago.

Michael felt his mother had been on a downslide ever since he moved to California. He used to get a call from her at least once a week for the first couple years, often with him unloading his failed attempts to make it in Hollywood on her already worrisome shoulders. Never thinking about the effect it had on her to hear her son sounding so despondent, Michael needed someone he could vent his frustrations to, but soon started to regret his actions.

The first year he was gone she broke her hip, which he only found out about after the fact, weeks later. Diagnosed with a treatable form of cancer, Michael learned about his mother's condition months after she went under the knife to remove the cancerous tumor, just before he moved to Santa Cruz to work with his friend. So when the opportunity arose to fly back east, Michael went back home for the first and what would turn out to be only time.

His mother was out of the hospital two months, still going through a slew of tests to make sure the cancer didn't come back. Michael could not believe how much she aged since he left. He sensed she could see it in his eyes the moment he walked in the door and saw her for the first time.

Not long after he went back to California, he began getting calls from his aunt Betty, his mother's older sister by one year. She started calling Michael out of the blue, telling him how depressed his mother was. Michael sensed she was trying to lay some sort a guilt trip on him. He just did not know to what end. There was nothing he could do by moving back that would make things any better. His mother would not want that. She knew he was out in California trying to find his place in the world. One thing for sure, it definitely was not in Yards Creek, New Jersey. That much was obvious to anyone who knew him.

Although she hid it quite well, Michael could feel his mother's sadness for her children's disappointments in life. It was a systematically reoccurring condition Michael felt weighed on her. She blamed herself for her children's failings. But Michael knew nothing could be further from the truth. She was a saint. He truly believed she did the best she could. She loved her children for who they were and not who somebody else thought they should be.

If he had to lay the blame at anyone's feet—other than his own, for which he was quite culpable—it would be at his father's feet. Michael came to think of his father as his Dr. Frankenstein, and him his monster. And there were many times when Michael felt like a monster. He could sense the dark beast lurking under his skin, wanting to break free and tear the world to pieces. Luckily, Michael managed to keep the beast caged through his writing, letting his words vent his frustrations to the world.

3

**8:30 a.m. Tuesday, September 10** th **2019**

"Hello, Howard Bickle here, what can I do for you?"

"Mr. Bickle," Michael said, sounding even more nervous at the sound of Howard's voice on the other end after expecting a secretary or someone else, anyone else.

"Yes, I know who I am. May I ask who you are?" Howard said after brief moment of silence.

"Oh, yes. I am sorry, Mr. Bickle. I did not mean to leave you hanging. It is just that...well never mind that. I am Michael Carducci. I received an E-mail asking me to call this number."

"You are The Author. You wrote The Book of Tomorrows. Is that correct?" Howard wanted to make sure he had the right person.

"That's me, Mr. Bickle. You visited my website, I take it."

"Yes I did. Please, call me Howard. Can I address you as Michael? Or do you prefer The Author? I think you might find we have a lot to talk about, if you are not too busy. But what I would really like to know, do you have some free time tomorrow?"

Michael sat down on the edge of his bed, feeling the sudden shock hit him. The moment he walked in the door, he headed straight for the phone in his bedroom. Ryan and Angel were still sleeping, and he did not want to disturb them. He was so grateful that Ryan asked him to move in with them when he took over his uncle's house at the beginning of the year. It was the perfect setup, with easy access to the highway.

"I have plenty of time, today and tomorrow, Mr. Bickle...I mean Howard. I take it you visited my website, TheBookofTomorrows.com. What would you like to know? You can ask me anything you want."

"Actually, I wanted to know if you would like to come on my show tomorrow night to talk about your book. I was very impressed by what I read. I believe many other people will be, too." Howard told Michael the reason why he wanted him to call.

"Say what? Come, again. You want me to be a guest on your show, tomorrow night." Michael said in complete disbelief as he sat on the bed wondering if he should try pinching himself.

"I know this is short notice, Michael. But I think you would be a great addition to my special tomorrow night. It is going out live on PBS, ABC, NBC, and CBS. Only FOX passed. One thing I wanted to ask is if you would mind retaining your anonymity for a while longer. I see that you are using the penname The Author. I like the sentiment of putting your work ahead of any potential fame it might bring you. I do not know many other struggling writers who wouldn't be trying to sell themselves with their work."

"Well, I truly believe that it should be all about the work, which is why I decided to call myself The Author. Because, it is not about me. It's about the work." Michael stated his philosophy on the subject, never really sure if he meant it, or if he was just too afraid of getting what he wanted and not be able to handle it.

"So, what do you say, Michael? Are you free tomorrow to tell the world a good story? I think there are a lot people out there who could really use one. We all need to feel that there is something in this life to give us hope. Something to unite the people in the dark times we are now facing. If they have nothing to look forward to today, how can anyone believe there is still hope for a future tomorrow?"

Michael and Howard spent the next two hours talking about everything and anything, forming a friendly bond of mutual respect. They shared an understanding for what a dark future the world might hold if no one did anything to prevent it. They could both see the writing on the wall and did not much care for what it read. Michael could not believe that someone else thought the way he did, even though he more or less knew it the first time he saw Howard's show. Thinking to himself, everything really does have meaning. You just got to know where to look for it.

After finally getting off the phone with Howard, Michael let out a loud victory yell. As he jumped up off the bed, he fell to the floor laughing. His leg went to sleep on him from sitting for so long.

Ryan and Angel came rushing in his room to see what the commotion was all about as they stopped in the doorway, unsure why Michael was on the floor rubbing his leg and laughing.

"Monop, what is it? What happened?" Ryan asked.

Angel went over and sat on the floor in front of him.

"Are you okay, Michael?" She stopped calling him Monop after moving in the new house. "Did you fall out of bed and hurt your leg?"

"No, my little Angel, it is nothing like that. My leg just fell asleep while I was on the phone." Michael explained as he looked up at Ryan. "You will never guess who just asked me to be on their show tomorrow night."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

### PRESIDENTIAL MEAT PUPPET

1

With a fiery rage building up inside her, President Sandra Buchannan sat hunched over her big desk in the Oval Office. Eyes glued to the monitor of a personal computer, she had been scouring the internet for any negative stories about her, of which there were plenty. As a matter of fact, it seemed like every news and media outlet with a blog page, a social network site, or a twitter account was out to get her.

Setting on a coffee table in front of her desk were the unread, latest editions from most of the major newspapers left in the country—The Washington Post, The Wall Street Journal, The New York Times, The New York Post, and some others. The Associated Press, Reuters, and a few other highly respected, well-established news sources only ran stories they knew were statistically accurate and fully fact checked. They mostly reported on how her approval ratings were in the toilet, or how the unemployment rate had reached new heights.

While the truth might hurt when shoved in your face like that, it was still better than having to read the outrageous editorial comments and personal opinions from the independent media outlets and social network sites. The hateful things she saw written about her came from people who were not professional journalists and did not personally know her. The ludicrous lies and absurd allegations caused her to fume out forced, angry breaths through gritted teeth.

Scanning through webpage after webpage for the last few hours left her with a stiff neck, a sore back, and what felt like carpal tunnel syndrome in her aching wrists and fingers. She was under attack, with all sides blaming her for everything wrong in the country and around the world since she took office. They blamed her for the near total breakdown in foreign relations, along with military campaigns bogged down in never-ending quagmires after successful surges failed to bring an end to the wars raging in the Middle East since the Gaza Strip bombing. There was a deep-seated hatred for America festering in the minds of our enemies, which was even starting to infect relations with our once dependable allies, turning some of them into new enemies.

She believed the mysterious D.C. Insider was the main instigator for all the negative press aimed at her. The infamous blogger wrote about a far-reaching conspiracy surrounding the death of President Baca. The blog reported that the financial records of some well-known Middle East terrorist organizations linked back to the Montana Armed Defense Militia of American Nationalists or MADMAN—a radical homegrown militia group based out of her state. The D.C. Insider also claimed to have proof that President Buchannan not only has a friendly relationship with MADMAN, but at onetime was also an actual member before her bid for Governor. The anti-government movement began when members of different militia groups united around the common cause for Montana to secede from the United States to become a sovereign nation.

Any innuendo possibly hinting at or suggesting that she might have been a part of the plot to kill the former President was what got her anger boiling over with irrational thoughts flooding her mind. She wanted to strike back hard and swift against whoever was responsible for spreading these treasonous lies.

The people were crying out for someone to take action against America's enemies before she took office. So when they came to her and told her it was her turn at bat, she boldly stepped up to the plate. But how quickly they all turned against her.

Unjustly persecuted, she felt like someone sold her a real lemon and stuck her with the huge repair bill. The country was already on the brink of financial ruin when she took office. The economy got worse. Our military forces were unable to bring a quick and decisive resolution to the Middle East conflict. Attacked in the press for her failed policies and eviscerated on social networks with conspiracy rumors running rampant, the media machine ate it up like Halloween candy.

As President Buchannan sat back in her chair, feeling the aches running throughout her body, she thought back to a time, not so long ago, when she was still the darling of the press. They could not get enough of her folksy speeches as she willingly pandered to their fears, whipping crowds into a fiery frenzy anytime she walked out on a stage. Only now, they would probably boo her when doing press briefings. If she did press briefings, that is. It felt like everyone in the country was taking turns sticking needles in Buchannan voodoo dolls.

Once hailed as the savior of their party, the press revered her determined spirit, even calling her the last true maverick. The people just simply adored her, while Senators and Congressmen spoke her name with great respect and admiration. Reflecting back to a time when she was the talk of the town, she wanted to preserve those memories in a bottle and forever relive that fleeting moment in time.

2

Governor Buchannan went over to answer the front door in response to the knocking from her arriving guests. She held the same inhibition and doubt she reserved for the historic Middle East Peace Accord she did for her visitor's reason for wanting to see her that day. Not sure what to think after receiving a call last week from someone claiming to be a representative of a large group of people in the country who viewed her as their Great White Hope.

Those were not the exact words the man on the phone used, but more or less, how she interpreted their meaning.

Pausing a moment to make sure she presented a good appearance the people came to expect from her, the Governor brushed her hands down her skirt, straightened out her professional outfit, while checking her hair in the hallway mirror. Liking what she saw of her reflected self, she put on her best politician's smile of implied sincerity before answering the door.

"Welcome to my lovely home, ladies and gentlemen. Please, come on in. I am very glad to have the company of other likeminded true Americans on this sad day of remembrance, even if it is slightly diminished by the misguided actions of others." Governor Buchannan welcomed her guests with the tactful diplomacy of a typical diplomat.

Derek Wincott shook her hand with a vigorously hearty greeting, exuding a heightened enthusiasm just to be in her presence.

"I cannot tell you how happy I was when you accepted my request to meet with us today. You have shown a strong will for wanting to preserve our God given freedoms, along with the moral fortitude that built America into the greatest country in the world. We salute you for all your patriotic hard work, and hope that we might be able to convince you to continue your excellent work from a more influential position of power."

"Why thank you for the kind words and for your consideration." Buchannan said as her guests stepped inside with Wincott handling the introductions.

"Madame Governor, I am very pleased to introduce you to three representatives of the Patriot Party, a dedicated grassroots movement formed to seek out and get elected into office those patriotic Americans who want to preserve our way of life that bleeding heart liberals are destroying with their socialist policies."

"There is no need to be coy with a straight talker like Governor Buchannan, Derek. She has always spoken her mind with a candid honesty rarely seen in politics anymore." A well-dressed elderly woman stated with a true sincerity in her words.

"Governor Buchannan, may I present Mrs. Alma Williams, one of the co-founders of our organization and a highly respected member of the business community." Wincott said before moving on to the others. "This gentleman is Marcus Floyd of the law firm Floyd, Burrows, and Brown."

"I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Governor Buchannan. I have been a strong supporter of yours since you took office and helped make the great state of Montana a relevant political entity that will no longer be ignored."

Floyd praised her efforts with a firm handshake expressing a vote of confidence.

"No one will take us for granted when we have someone like you in our corner fighting for our state's rights. God bless you, Governor." A younger woman dressed in a simple, reserved fashion said, denoting a more middle-class lifestyle from the other two.

"Last but not least, this is Mrs. Alice Crosby, one of your most loyal constituents, and the proud mother of two honor roll students, along with being the wife of one of the finest assets to our city's workforce." Wincott finished with the introductory pleasantries.

"Once again, you are all welcome in my home and if you follow me, I have some refreshment set out in the parlor, which I believe we will find better suited for our purposes here, today." Governor Buchannan said while shaking Mrs. Crosby's hand.

Less than an hour later, they had settled down in the parlor with the Governor serving coffee, tea, and cake to her guests. Her husband—Peter, her sixteen-year-old daughter—Rachel, and her fourteen-year-old son—Kyle were there to lend family support.

Derek Wincott had just finished pitching his proposal to the Governor, who seemed hesitant to indicate which way she was leaning. He did not want to push her into making any quick decisions. This was not a hard sell situation and more of a gentle nudge effort to get her to consider the possibilities.

"I know it must be a lot for you to digest right now, but unfortunately time is not on our side here. We only have a year before the convention rolls around to pick our party's nominee for President." Wincott expressed the need for a timely response, though.

"Will that be enough time to win the nomination?" Governor Buchannan asked.

"With you for a candidate and me as your campaign manager, you'd be a shoe-in for the nomination. I have already conducted some straw polls, and I could practically guarantee you a five point lead in the polls before Super Tuesday, next March."

Wincott let the information sink in for a minute, then added another motivating incentive to help her make a decision.

"When members of the Patriot Party first approached me to come here and try to convince you to run for President, I had no intention of coming out of retirement. Then I took a good look at you and your record as Governor. Once I saw that you had many of the same qualities people in our party deeply care about, and after watching some videos of your debates and town hall meetings along the campaign trail, I knew I had not only a winner, but a real difference maker in you, a true game-changer."

"I really appreciate your interest in my career. Everyone I asked about you said you were the best of the best before you retired after the last election. Some said you gave it up because there weren't any candidates left you would be willing support." Governor Buchannan said flattered by the possibilities he saw in her.

"That is true. I would never consider supporting any of the clowns we got running now. They are all a big joke, if you ask me. I would not even consider any of them for Vice President." Wincott said in a half whisper that no one else could hear. They were standing off to the side, with the others sitting down on lounge chairs and a couch centered in front a large television mounted on the wall.

Her son flipped through the channels, stopping on CNN as they were announcing the start of the Peace Accord after the long delay.

"Hey, Mom, the Peace Accord is finally coming on."

"Thank you, dear, I will be there in a minute." Governor Buchannan said to her son, and then to Wincott in the same hushed voice as before. "I need some time to think about everything. If you need me for anything, I'll be in my office. I need to weigh all the pros and cons my decision will have on my family and the rest of the country. But, one thing I will tell you right now. Once they sign that Peace Accord, no one will be able to beat the President, not even if you could somehow dig Ronald Regan."

"You shouldn't under estimate yourself, Governor. I believe you are capable of surprising quite a few people once you get the taste for it, including yourself." Wincott left her with that last ego booster before going over and joining the others gathered around the television as she headed down the hallway to her office.

She sat in her office watching a video of one of her political debates for governor, instead of the Peace Accord. It would be akin to someone watching home movies during the first moon landing. The video was from her big debate night when she absolutely buried the incumbent former Governor of Montana. Some of her supporters likened it to the trouncing Kennedy gave Nixon during their famous debate that had Nixon sweating bullets by the end and made Kennedy a lock to win the Presidency. After seeing how she got over on the former governor, she started to believe her own press, too.

The way she had a natural instinct to go for the jugular when taking down an opponent reminded her of the thrill she got out of hunting. She started to think that maybe she had been underestimating herself all along, and that this Derek Wincott could also see it in her. With him as her campaign manager, she might just be able to run that Socialist Muslim out of the White House, and get this country back on track.

With a light knock on the slightly ajar door to her office, Derek Wincott poked his head inside with a seemingly more subdued demeanor in his manner and voice.

"Madame Governor, I am sorry to disturb your thoughts, but I am afraid there has been a terrible incident at the Peace Accord just a few minutes ago. We do not have all the details yet, but some kind of explosion, some say nuclear, occurred in Gaza City killing everyone at the Peace Accord, including President Baca."

Governor Buchannan sat there blank-faced for almost a minute before responding.

"There is no one who can stand in my way now. I will be the next President of the United States of America." Governor Buchannan stood straight up, almost standing at attention with a determined confidence building up inside her, while showing a cognitive dissidence toward the tragic event.

Wincott liked what he saw in her at that moment, along with the moments that followed as she went back with him to be with family and friends during this horrible event. She knew how to play to a crowd, whether just working the room or when filling seats at a major venue. A complete natural, she really knew how to sell it.

3

Snapping back to reality, President Buchannan straightened up behind her desk projecting a more authoritative presence one expected from the Commander-in-Chief as she reached over to the intercom on her desk and hit the call button.

"Yes, Madame President," the voice of her secretary came through the intercom. "How can I be of service?"

"Is Chief of Staff Wincott in the building, today? If so, send him in. If not, call him and tell him I want to speak with him a.s.a.p."

"He is in his office right now. I will send for him right away, Madame President. Is there anything else I can get for you? You have not had your lunch yet, and it is already half past one."

"No that is okay, Betty, I am not hungry, just Mr. Wincott will do for now, thank you."

The moment Wincott walked into the Oval Office President Buchannan let lose a tirade of complaints, wanting to know what he was going to do to fix it.

"Do you see all the lies they are spreading about me?"

Buchannan did not give Wincott a chance to answer her as she told him about the lies herself.

"They are attacking me in newspapers and magazines, on cable and network news shows, along with every form of social network or blog site out there. These radical, bleeding-heart liberal socialists think they can spew whatever garbage they want without having to worry about the consequences their libelous words of traitorous dialogue will have on our troubled nation. They are really no better than terrorists who hijack our planes and fly them into buildings. We should call them what they are, enemy combatants."

She paused to check and see if Wincott's face was expressing a silent agreement or a shocked disapproval, before continuing with her paranoid rant.

"They blame me for everything, even for things that happened before I became President. The economy was already in shambles from the previous administration's failure to act when morally justified in doing so, allowing these terrorist nations to go unpunished. It made us look like weak cowards. Like we no longer had the guts for it, anymore. Well, I got plenty of guts. That is why the people elected me their President in a landslide victory not seen since McGovern."

"Madame President, that is why I first came to you, we needed someone who not only had the bark but also the bite to show this country's enemies our Alpha dog was still the biggest, best badass on the block. That way they would think twice about ever attacking us again." Wincott said to show her there were still loyal advocates in her corner to help get her ready for the next round.

"Yes, I know I can always count you to stand by my side. But, we still could not prevent the global markets from crumbling into a worthless pile of rocks. There are too many destabilized regions around the world keeping the markets from freely flowing. Once the commerce of everyday business stopped, the supply and demand dried up. Consumers could no longer afford to keep a roof over their heads or food in their family's bellies."

Pausing to take an exasperated breath of frustration, she continued expressing her feelings of personal persecution.

"So when I got in office, I gave the people everything they wanted. But do I get any appreciation for my efforts that only fell short of a victorious campaign because we did not put the might of our military forces on the ground the moment the mushroom cloud went up. There was no more time for diplomacy. It was a time for action. And when we did not take any right away, they grew stronger from our perceived weakness."

"The conflict in the Middle East may be dying a slow death. But, rest assured, we fatally wounded the beast. The war is over. We just have to wait until the fighting has stopped. Sometimes the last battle fought takes place when the other side has already won, and your enemy has no chance of victory, but will still fight to the death out of foolish pride or an unwillingness to accept defeat." Wincott explained how even though your side won the war, you still should not go hanging up any large banners claiming mission accomplished, because there were always a few bugs to work out and battles left to fight.

"Damn insurgents always muck everything up. They are just like cockroaches entrenched in your home. It's practically impossible to get them all out. Just like the ones infesting this country with their filth and disease. They pervert our children's mind with their lifestyles choices, which they insist is not a choice at all, and they are born that way. Then when I give in to some of their claims of inequality, allowing them to have legally binding civil unions, they still call me a Neanderthal.

"I do not think I ever really knew the venomous hate President Baca had to put up with during his Presidency. You really do not have any idea what it is like until you sit behind this desk." Buchannan waxed philosophical for a moment as Wincott continued trying to boost her confidence with some more praise for her accomplishments.

"Look Sandra, there are always going to be those you will never be able to satisfy, even if you performed the civil unions yourself, while doing abortions. You can give them all free healthcare you want, appeal the 2nd amendment, legalize all drugs, and there will always be those with hate in their hearts. There is only so much you can do to stimulate the economy during a Recovery. You did, and are still doing, everything you can, Madame President."

"I did, didn't I? I gave the people what they claimed to want most. I made marijuana legal nationwide for medicinal and recreational use, which also created jobs that stimulated the economy and cut down on crime at the same time. Do they thank me or show me any respect because of it. No, they just keep on attacking me like some rabid dog. And now this D.C. Insider is claiming to have access to sensitive government documents considered articles of national security, and he is going on Howard Bickle's special show tonight to supposedly reveal some big conspiracy in the government that has a connection to the Gaza Strip catastrophe."

Wincott told her something that should have calmed her down, but instead had just the opposite effect, sending her into full panic mode.

"That is what I was looking into just before you sent for me. I was running down a lead from a source of mine at one of the major networks, being that all three are going to air a live feed of Howard's special. It is supposed to be all hush, hush over there. So, I told him if the subject of the special report were a matter of national security, than anyone involved with transmitting it would be accountable for his or her actions. That is when he told me it is definitely not about a government conspiracy, but an old sex scandal."

President Buchannan sat forward with an attentive posture of expressed interest, indicating she wanted to know more about the sex scandal, and asked Wincott to clarify. "What sex scandal? Who's scandal? Do you have any other information?"

"Since it was not a matter of national security, he wouldn't tell me anything more about it. The only other information I could squeeze out of him was that it had something to do with a twenty year old gangbang with a high school football team that led to an aborted pregnancy. I knew it could not possible have any connection to the White House, especially with your staunch position as a prolife advocate, not that I ever thought for a moment that it could be..." Wincott's words trailed off as he noticed the frantic look in the President's eyes.

Buchannan stood up from behind her desk, walked around front to where Wincott was standing, and then went back around the desk in a trance-like state of shocked confusion. She just stood there a moment before turning as if to say something. Finding she was unable to articulate her thoughts at that moment, Buchannan sat back down behind her desk.

"Madame President, are you okay? You look like you just saw a ghost."

All the flesh tones of her skin seemed to drain out, leaving her with a pale white complexion as the worry lines on her forehead crinkled with forming sweat dripping down her brow. Her heightened, shocked appearance was in tune with her manic behavior as her irrational words came stammering out of her mouth like an idiot wind.

"You-you-you, have to stop him. You have to stop that show from airing, at all cost. Do whatever is necessary. I don't care what you need to do to stop it. This show must not go on. Do you understand, Derek?"

"I am not sure I do, Madame President. Why is it so imperative to prevent the show from airing?" Wincott asked with an implied ignorance.

She shot him a no duh look that told him not to go there. However, her guilty eyes did the talking for her, almost saying, do I really have to tell you.

Acting like someone having a delayed reaction to a joke after getting the punch line, the meaning of her words became clear to Wincott in an embarrassed double-take moment of clarity, before pointing out the obstacles in the way.

"There is not enough time to get a court order barring the network from broadcasting it. The show is coming on in forty-five minutes. It would require implementing extreme measures at this junction to stop them. There might also be considerable collateral damage that could snowball into an even bigger scandal."

"I do not care if you have to claim him an enemy combatant. Just get it done, Derek. I am giving you the fully authority to do whatever you have to as a matter of national security. You have carte blanch to act. Just do not let me down. You are my most loyal friend and trusted advisor. I do not know what I would do without your steadfast devotion. You are the only person who truly understands all the pressures of this office. My husband doesn't even get it—or a great many other things, as well."

Wincott expressed his unwavering commitment to duty and his stanch loyalty to her as he acquiesced to her complicated request.

"You know you can always count on me to be in your corner, Sandra. No matter how tough of a fight you are in, I will never let you down. I give you my word. I will get it done. Do not give it another thought."

CHAPTER TWELVE

### SOME VICIOUS MOLE OF NATURE

1

**5 p.m., Wednesday, September 11** th **2019**

Getting ready to leave for the television studio, Michael felt nervous jitters running throughout his entire body. San Jose's KNTV, a NBC affiliate, was located less than twenty minutes from Ryan's house, where a satellite link was setup connecting him to Howard Bickle's San Francisco PBS studio. Michael could not decide what to wear at first, before realizing it did not matter what he wore since he would be having his identity concealed. He decided to wear his hat, though.

The rustic brown Stetson was a Christmas present from Catherine Ryan. She was the mother of two of Michael's friends, who he had an affair with in his early twenties, when still living in Yards Creek, New Jersey. Eighteen years older than Michael, the old Rod Stewart song, _Maggie May,_ always came to mind whenever he thought back on their relationship. The Stetson became a symbolic connection for him, linking the past to present and the future. He wore it tilted down on back cover picture so people could identify The Author's persona with his novel, but not necessarily to him.

Even though it was getting increasingly more and more dangerous to travel long distances, Michael would have made the trip to Howard's San Francisco PBS studio just to meet him in person. During their long conversation the other day, Michael and Howard developed a mutual respect for each other's perspective worldview. It gave Michael some hope to know there were other people out there who thought they needed to do something about the pervasive greed guiding men's minds in their pursuit for power and wealth.

They were not like those crazy conspiracy theorists going around making absurd claims about secret camps built by FEMA to house people for when the government took over the country. Debunked by numerous experts, the stories were still popular with many people joining the growing militia movement. Funny thing though, since President Baca's death, many those reports disappeared from the right-wing media bloggers and so-called conservative journalists.

Knowing how hard it was to get people to see the truth after having the wool pulled over their eyes for so long, Michael stuck to the facts when writing his fiction. It turned out not to be too far from the truth.

Looking at himself in the bathroom mirror, Michael took off his glasses as he searched for the person he called The Author. The alter ego he created for himself seemed to take on a life of his own when writing The Book of Tomorrows. Only, he could no longer be sure which was now the more dominant personality left behind, him or The Author.

"Now that you are going to be on TV, are you going to become a big star, Michael?"

Turning at the sound of Angel's misconception of stardom, Michael knelt down, ruffling her blonde hair.

"Even if I was not having my identity concealed, I doubt anyone will focus too much on me, which is the point I am trying to get across in the first place. It is not about me. What I am trying to say is the important thing I want people to take away."

"You are very important to me and daddy, Michael." Angel said.

"And you and your father are the two most important people in the world to me. But what I meant to say was I no longer want to be a star. Now, all I really want is to preserve the peace of mind I have finally found being here with you and your father."

"You will always be a star to me, Michael." Angel said, giving him a hug before leaving.

Michael had to fight back expressing the emotional joy he felt in his heart. He only wished there was a way he could ensure that joy would continue for years to come, but could also sense dark clouds on the horizon. He began to feel like he was holding a losing hand, and no matter how many books he wrote, or specials Howard aired, nothing could stop the force of nature coming their way.

Ryan and Angel were waiting by the door to wish him luck as he walked out to the living room. The warm feeling he got inside knowing there were people in this world who truly cared for him, as he did for them, kept Michael's spirits from sinking with the weight of that hard reality bearing down on him.

"Well, how do I look? I know nobody is going to see me, but I still want to present a professional appearance." Michael said as he brushed his hands down the sides of his black leather suit jacket, worn over a black dress shirt, and black jeans, along with the Stetson resting on his head.

"You look just fine, Monop. They will be calling you the new man in black." Ryan commented on his attire.

"I think you look like a real movie star." Angel insisted.

"I better get going. The special is coming on at six. I already programmed it to record. I'd kind of like to see what kind of a fool I made out myself. At least, I won't have to worry about tripping and falling on my face while walking on stage." Michael said, in reference to the actual stage freight he felt whenever contemplating success.

He was afraid they would all see him for the fake he really was. Just one look and everyone would know he did not belong. Sometimes he wondered if it was what held him back, or if he really did have to live his life exactly as he did to be able to reach this point in his mind. Fate or fantasy, he could not be sure, but also came to realize it did not matter much either way. The world would keep turning with or without his contributions, unless of course we totally fuck things up.

While the future still weighed heavily on his mind, especially now there was someone else in his life he wanted to make sure would have one, Michael's present state of anxiety came from not being sure what he was going to say once that red light grew bright on the TV camera. He almost threw up the first time he thought about it. After which, he started worrying that he might vomit when asked about his work, or suddenly develop an uncontrollable stutter or cough. All the scenarios he could imagine were like bad dreams haunting the hours until the moment was upon him.

This was his big moment, too. He could not afford to choke when the time finally arrived. He needed to be able to articulate his storyline in a skillful, competent manner so people could clearly understand what he was trying to say with his good story. Thinking back to when he first came up with the idea for The Book of Tomorrows, inspired by his mushroom mindtrip (which was something he would definitely not be mentioning), he now realized he had to build that better mousetrap he used to wonder about.

It is one thing to come up with the concept for a perfect future society, but another thing entirely when trying to blueprint it. At the time, the only thing he could think of was the old Popeye cartoon where Olive Oil sang about what she would do if she were president. It was basically that simple. Next thing he knew, he outlined what he believed would be the Five Key Principles of Survival for living in a devastated world, which were: 1.) Equality for All, 2.) No Wealth or Money, 3.) No Conflicting Belief Systems, 4.) Population Control and, 5.) a Universally Spoken Language.

Michael truly believed by following those five rules we would be able to start anew, without falling into the familiar trap of repeating past mistakes over and over again. We would have to rebuild a New America on science and knowledge, instead of myths and legends. After that, everything started falling into place, fitting nicely together like a puzzle.

Always being a-cart-before-the-horse-type person, Michael jumped right into his story, making most of it up as he went. Everything around him seemed to have meaning. Starting to think about his purpose in life, he remembered a soliloquy from Hamlet asking, "What is a man?" Looking at the movie poster tacked up on his wall of Kenneth Branagh's 1996 film version of the complete play (which many productions cut that particular soliloquy from), its true meaning struck him with a lightning bolt of clarity.

Inherently believing we all know right from wrong since the moment of our births, he also thought it was our free will that separates us from the beasts that sleep and feed. We are all born with the power to do great good with our lives, or become a great evil when we give into our darker primal natures. It was what he deemed the choice of having Our God Part.

2

After his mother passed away, Michael was not sure if he would still be alive if it were not for writing The Book of Tomorrows. Figuring it had already saved one life, his only hope now was to wait and see if it could have the same effect on many other lives out there just as lost in this world as he once was. But sometimes a simple act of human kindness can be a real lifesaver.

Ryan probably did not know he saved Michael's life for a second time when he asked him to move in with him and Angel, considering it was Ryan who provided him with the source of his initial psychedelic inspiration. The thing Ryan did not realize at the time, he was also offering Michael a new life.

It had finally come to pass that Michael would no longer be able to afford to pay his rent. The income for ninety percent of Americans remained mostly unchanged over the past two decades. The top one percent controlled ten percent of the economy, leaving over fifteen percent of the country living below the poverty level.

The government's definition of poverty was a joke, claiming a family of four making under twenty-four thousand dollars per year was at that level, but in reality it should be twice that figure. For a single person, the figure was less than twelve thousand per year. The rent for most studio apartments in San Jose, CA averaged one thousand per month, taking up your entire yearly budget.

Michael found himself stuck within that demographic at the start of 2019. He did not have much time to consider it, since he had two houseguests for the first two weeks of January. After Hope's murder, Ryan and Angel had to move out of her apartment, adding insult to injury. The apartment manager said he was very sorry for their loss, but since neither of them was officially on the lease, they would have to vacate the premises.

There was also a slight delay in transferring the paper work into Ryan's name before he could move into his uncle's house. Michael told him they could stay with him until then, even if it would be a tight fit. Angel did not want to leave after Michael took her there while the police questioned Ryan about Chico's death. Declared a justifiable homicide, Ryan did not have any charges filed against him.

Michael remembered the day he went over to see the new house, located at the end of a dead end street that buttressed against the 101 State Highway. There were no other homes on the mile long stretch of road, only other businesses long since shut down. It was a nice secluded location. The house set at the front of the property with the large backyard behind it, along with a giant shade tree to provide cover on hot sunny days.

"Wow, this is a really nice setup. It is a great location with nobody around to bother you." Michael said as he stepped out of his car.

"It needs some renovations. I have to change it back into a house again from the business my uncle converted it." Ryan said.

"That shouldn't be too difficult of a job." Michael predicted.

"Let's go inside, daddy." Angel said, tugging on Ryan's sleeve.

"Come on in, it is all legal, now. I am the official owner. What a fucking mindblower." Ryan said with a spontaneous moment of realization before catching his choice of words.

"Daddy, you said a bad word." Angel said with a semi-shocked look on her face that grew into a smile.

"Yeah, I know. Daddy slipped up, but I better not hear any slipups from you." Ryan warned her not to do as I do, but to do as I say.

"I won't." Angel said in the disillusioned sad way of a child not wanting to disappoint a parent.

"I won't, either." Michael said. "But I surely do have to agree with the sentiment."

Once inside, they walked around the place, roughly laying out some of the most immediate changes needed as they counted out three bedrooms. When they stopped in front of the third bedroom, Angel and Ryan exchanged knowing looks suggesting some sort of secret between them that Angel was just dying to reveal.

"Now, daddy, can we tell him, now."

"Sure, if you want. Go ahead and ask him."

"Ask me what?" Michael wondered.

"Daddy and I wanted to know if you'd like to move in with us."

Taken aback, Michael did not know what to say at first. He just looked around the place, taking in the thought of it all.

"Well, what do say? I know they are raising your rent next month, and if you move in here, you won't have to pay any rent."

Michael gave Ryan an 'are you kidding me look' before asking for verification.

"Are you serious? Do you mean that? I can stay here with you two. I cannot think of anything I would like better."

"Then it is settled. You can give notice to the manager tomorrow and move in today if you want."

Angel hugged Michael's legs, which was as high as she could reach.

"I am very, very happy you will be staying with us, Michael."

"Me too, kiddo, me too," Michael said with a few tears forming in the corner of his eyes that he could not prevent from falling.

3

Dr. Alan Vanderbrock VI Ph.D. waited in his secret underground lab, hidden right under the noses of those government fools who tried to play him for one. They betrayed his trust and murdered his colleagues, well at least two he knew of for sure. There was just no way Dr. Lamar and Dr. Patel came to their untimely deaths by some unfortunate accident. It was a premeditated act, probably planned out way in advance, a contingency in case they ever figured out what they were really doing down in the government lab hidden under Rockefeller Center.

Not that Alan ever fully trusted the government. They did not have a very good track record when it came to being upfront about their true intentions. The military once did a forty-year research study on the effects of syphilis when left untreated on a group of African American men. They observed and took notes as they watched them die right before their eyes. They did not even inform any of the six hundred dirt-poor sharecroppers they had syphilis, saying they were treating them for "bad blood". Starting in 1932, the study reprehensibly continued until 1972, long after they started successfully treating the disease with penicillin in the late 40's.

Alan had his own contingency plan he devised the moment he went to work for the government. There was a time when Alan thought of bringing Lisa into his confidence to tell her of his suspicions. He just did not have any proof until Jasper made his discovery right before their mandatory vacation time. Then when he saw Lisa walking in Time Square after her funeral service, Alan realized what a fool he had been. Luckily, she never saw him, so she could not tell her superiors that he was on to their ruse, which probably would have ended up getting her killed just to tie up loose ends.

At first, Alan wanted to expose them to the world so everybody could see them for who they truly were. Only trouble with that was no one knew who was who in that hidden world of dark secrets. They were what Alan called the Shadow People. Always moving around dark corners, making plans, and giving orders, they never stepped into the light long enough to reveal who they were. So, he could expose all the secret experiments and research he did, but nobody's head was going to roll, at least not one the public would ever know about. He also had to be careful to keep his own attached to his shoulders, if he was going to do anything to stop them.

Not a particularly brave man, no one would cast him as the hero of a story. It wasn't that he felt he was an extremely righteous man, either. He just could not stand all the lies polluting the minds of the people, along with the planet.

Calling himself The Environmentalist, Alan started blogging about a secret government lab buried under New York City somewhere, just not where. He wanted to build his audience, so when the information went out the world would definitely hear it loud and clear.

There was so much traffic on the worldwide web, with half the people on the planet having some sort of social media site they used to communicate with each other, without ever having to meet anyone face to face. Plus, with the vast amount of conspiracy websites making so many outrageous allegations, it was hard to get anybody to take any of them seriously, unless you built up a loyal following, that is. That was why Alan contacted Howard Bickle. He figured it would be a great way to gain the exposure he needed, along with the credibility factor of being on the show of one the most respected names in journalism today.

Alan was going to be one of three anonymous guests on Howard's Special, titled: Exposing the Dark Secrets from the Past. Howard's other guests were also having their identities concealed in shadow from undisclosed locations, so the government could not barge in an arrest anyone already wanted by the law or who might be by the time the show ended. Since every guest already went by a pseudonym, no one minded the extra security measures.

Most everyone in the country had heard of The D.C. Insider, someone as notorious as other government whistle blowers, like Julian Assange and Eric Snowden. However, not many people heard of The Author, or knew the pivotal role his book would play in destroying what remained of present day civilization, before providing the means to save tomorrow for future generations.

While setting up everything for the show, Alan never spoke directly to Howard Bickle, only through some intermediaries, who provided him with all the pertinent information. Since Alan was keeping his location hidden from everyone, including Howard and his people (Alan did not trust anybody, anymore), he had to conceal his own identity on his end, unless he would rather have them pixelate his face. Knowing how technology can sometimes be used to the opposite effect designed for, Alan was not taking any chances and came up with a much easier and less tech savvy way of concealing his image. He simply turned off the light. It was dark enough so nobody could see his face, and light enough to cast a shadowy presence.

A text message appeared on the screen of Alan's computer setup in front of him. It informed him of the incoming video feed from Howard's studio, and he should initiate any precautionary measures he needed to enact. Alan flipped off the light switch on the wall behind him, and the room fell into a shadowy darkness. They said Howard would give him a call just before the show started to make sure he had everything he needed, while also introducing himself.

Alan turned on the video conference feed as Howard's now familiar face appeared on his monitor.

"Hello, Dr. Vanderbrock, it is nice to finally see you. Well, be able to hear you, at least. Do not worry, I will call you The Environmentalist while on the air, but please just call me Howard."

"I appreciate that, Howard. I know you understand the lengths some people in power will go to keep their secrets hidden. I do not think President Buchannan would think twice about taking me or The D.C. Insider out with a drone strike if she knew where to send one." Alan told Howard what he seriously believed.

"I completely understand how you feel, although I certainly hope there is enough sanity left among those in power to prevent such a thing from happening. But it also does not hurt to be cautious. You never know how the winds of change may blow from day to day. I would also like to thank you for being a part of this special tonight. When I heard about your request to stay anonymous, I thought you would be the perfect addition to show. Aside from the aliases, you and my other guests are all fighting for a common cause."

"Yes, I know. These are dangerous times we now live in, Howard. The freedom of speech our Forefathers built this great country on is under attack from forces within our own government that will strike out with extreme prejudice against any perceived threat. So, believe me, I am taking no chances with anyone finding out my location. I just hope you are doing the same on your end. Though, I cannot imagine anyone viewing The Author as a radical extremist. He is just a writer, after all."

"I am sure you know how powerful one's words can be when choosing the right time and place to speak them. Still, we have taken special precautions with every guest. From what I understand, they will be bouncing the satellite feed off of so many servers that nobody will be able to trance yours or any other link back to its source." Howard assured Alan before signing off. "The Author will be going on first, then you, and then The D.C. Insider. We'll provide you with the video feed if you want to watch while you wait."

"I'd like that very much. I also want to thank you for this opportunity to tell what I know about the duplicitous nature inherent in our government's policies. I am taking a big risk in doing this. It might be an even bigger risk than whatever The D.C. Insider has to say." Alan boasted to Howard how his story might blow his out of the water.

"Having a little inside information on that count, all I can say is I certainly hope not." Howard expressed his dismay at the possibility of Alan's story being the bigger one. If the topic weren't so deathly serious, it would all be funny. "Take care, my good sir. I will be talking to you again, shortly."

Howard's image vanished from the screen, leaving a still shot of his studio set until the show started.

Sitting back with the light still off, Alan thought he would check out The Author's novel that seemed to impress Howard so much. He did not believe it could be anything too incendiary to cause anyone to want to harm the writer. It was only a novel.

4

Pulling up to San Jose's KNTV studio on First Street, Michael drew in a deep breath before letting out a long, heavy sigh. He could feel nervous jitters tingling throughout his entire body as his hands started to shake for a moment. Michael resorted to a Bruce Lee type of isometric breathing exercise to regain his composure and inner strength. It was the only way to control his anxiousness. Looking in his rearview mirror, he attempted to build up his confidence with some reassuring words

"This is the moment you have been waiting for, and you are not going to blow it now. You have got them all fooled. You are going to walk in there just like you own the place. Nothing can stop you. You got this. You are the coolest, and now it is fucking showtime folks."

Inside the KNTV studio, Michael sat in a little room waiting for the show to begin. A beeping sound coming from the monitor setup in front of him alerted Michael to the incoming transmission. A few seconds later, Howard appeared on screen with a quick welcome before he went out live.

"Hello, Michael, it is nice to see you and finally put a face to the voice. How are you doing, over there? Are they taking good care of you? Listen, I do not want you to worry about a thing. Just be yourself and speak freely. Express your thoughts however you wish. This is still PBS, even if it is one of the only stations left. The major networks will also be airing this special worldwide and will have a five second delay to bleep out any content they feel is inappropriate or offensive."

"Thank you, Howard. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate this, along with everything I have seen on your show. If it was not for voices like yours, and there are not many left, I hate to think of what would happen to the world."

"As long as there are still people out there listening and ready to stand up for everyone's right to liberty and prosperity, there will always be hope for a brighter future. Okay now, Michael, they are telling me will be going live in one, two, and three..."

5

Sitting on the bleachers waiting for a friend, sixteen-year-old Sandra (Sandy) Pollard would prove she was no coward. She was not afraid of a bunch of big, muscular boys. They would not do anything to her she didn't want them to, which was what her BFF Bridget never understood about her. The future Mrs. Peter Buchannan sneaked out of her house in the small Montana town just outside of Billings. Her parents had gone to sleep, just before midnight on Christmas Eve.

Sandy knew one thing for sure, that there was no way she was going to miss out on what would be the biggest party of the year, which might even be one of the last parties ever.

If Bridget was right, planes were going to be falling out of the sky when the clock struck midnight on New Year's Eve 1999. Y2K was no joke to Sandy. She read about it the newspapers and magazines. Some claimed there was no need to worry. That was generally when she started to worry. She did not trust the government or anyone who worked for it. Politicians were all crooked, snake-oil Salesmen, trying to take advantage of the people they were supposed to be helping. It was hard for her to imagine how anybody could be a Senator, a Congressman, a Governor, or even a President. She would never want all those people poking around, looking into her past, just so someone could get some dirt on you, all to win an election.

So she was free to live how she wanted, without having to worry if it would come back to bite her one day. Bridget just better hurry up. She was her way in to what was not only one of the biggest parties of the year, but it was also at Kyle Martin's parent's house. The dreamy varsity quarterback was a high school Senior, while she was only Sophomore, but had a crush on him since her Freshman year.

Bridget claimed she had screwed the center a few times. Sandy could never tell exactly where Bridget separated reality from her bullshit. Although, she did have some firsthand knowledge and personal experience since last June's Prom night dance. Their friend Jenny was with them the day they got drunk on Peppermint Schnapps and had what Bridget started calling their dick sucking party. But those boys were from the same grade as them. The ones at the party would be more experienced and not so quick to squirt all over her dress.

Kyle was more of a real man. He turned eighteen last week, and she would do just about anything to get with him. She'd only need one night and then he would be all hers. She was going to rock his world all night long, if Bridget would hurry up and get there.

"Hey slut, how much are you selling it for, tonight?" Bridget called out as she walked around the bleachers.

"Fuck you, bitch. You are the only slut I know. Why do you think I hang out with you?"

Sandy snapped back the quick retort with the friendly trading of profane barbs.

"Watch your mouth, girl. Or the only dick you will be sucking tonight will be your own."

"At least it is bigger than yours."

Sandy walked down the bleachers to where Bridget waited. They were both well prepared for the evening. They wore dresses that could easily bunch up and be unwrinkled without having anyone noticing or guessing how it got that way in the first place. It was always a good idea to prepare for any contingency, especially ones you were willing to do whatever it took to make happen.

"Well, come on, now. We haven't got all night." Bridget said as they started walking across the field to a house setting on the opposite side of the road that ran past the football field.

"No, just until about five a.m., my parents never wake up earlier than six, and usually sleep in on the weekends." Sandy said calculating how long her window of opportunity would be open, so she could close the deal.

"Oh, I almost forgot I had these." Bridget said reaching into the front of her skintight jean pocket. "I got them from Riley, of all people. Here, take one. You will be ready to rock with the bad boys all night long."

Sandy looked at the little blue pill in Bridget's hand for moment, deciding whether or not she would take it based on its appearance. It did not look like much of anything. It could have been an M&M, but what it really was blew her mind with feelings of euphoria she had never felt before that day. They were feelings of pure ecstasy, which made sense since that's what she took.

After that night, she dropped her nickname and didn't see much of Bridget anymore. Her memory of the party was vague images of many groping hands moving all over her naked body, prodding and poking at her, shoving her body forward, and her head down, all ending in a big sticky mess. Her parents were none the wiser and never found out about that night or the uninvited guest she brought home from the party. She wasn't even sure who introduced her to her inconvenient new friend, who she needed to get rid of as soon as possible.

As President Sandra Buchannan sat at her desk, she had a blank look mapping her face. Feeling as if everything was coming full circle, she did not know what Derek could do to prevent Howard Bickle from airing her dirty laundry to the nation. She just knew if anyone could, it was Derek. Ever since the first day they met, he had been a loyal advocate and devoted soldier fighting off the vicious attacks blasting away at her good character with hateful lies.

Reaching over and picking up the remote from off of her desk, President Buchannan pointed it at the television mounted on the wall and clicked it on. Flipping through the stations, the opening credits for Howard's special were rolling on the three major networks, along with the San Francisco PBS station where Howard broadcasted his show from, with his three unnamed guests at different undisclosed locations. They were a bunch of cowards afraid to show their faces on TV. If she knew who they were, she would throw them all in Guantanamo Bay and never let them out.

6

"Good evening ladies and gentlemen, Howard Bickle here with a Special Live Report coming to you simultaneously from PBS, ABC, CBS, and NBC, because we all felt it important to make sure everyone in the country hear what we report here, tonight. The three majors all agreed to put aside competition and advertising dollars for the evening so that we might get the news out to as many people as we could."

Howard paused a moment for what would normally be a break for applause, except there was no studio audience in the house today. Howard wanted to keep it as low key as possible, so he would not have to worry about any leaks coming from him.

"We have forgone having a live studio audience, and I will simply begin by introducing tonight's first guest. Now, he is not someone I think the government would consider a threat to National Security, which at least one of my other guests they would definitely consider just that. No, this man is a writer who calls himself The Author, and he has written an incredibly profound novel called The Book of Tomorrows. Now, while he might not have any big secrets to reveal, he did write a really good story with a unique philosophical view of this so-called civilized world we live in. So let's cut to The Author, coming to us live from an undisclosed location."

As Howard's words finished, he popped off the screen and a shadowed figure appeared. From the silhouette cast by The Author, it was easy to see that he was wearing an old Indiana Jones type hat. They asked Michael if he wanted his voice altered as well as his image concealed. He did not think that would be necessary. There weren't too many people out there who would recognize him by his voice alone, so he figured he would be fine, plus he was curious to see how he sounded on television. He always wondered if he had one of those voices that just did not transmit well when recorded.

Overcoming a childhood lisp, Michael was still a little insecure about how he sounded, believing his voice came out in a tone that did not ring in the ears as someone to be taken seriously when speaking in public. He could still remember back to the time he practically froze when standing up in front of a classroom making his presentation for the business-marketing course he took in community college.

As soon as he was done with his nervously delivered oration for a product he came up with for his team, Michael walked out of the class and never went back, not even to any of his other classes. The project he pitched wound up being something now used on just about every packaged food product that needs to keep from going stale, which was simply the addition of a zip-lock seal. Years later, he wondered if one of the students from class (or even the teacher) pitched his idea to one of the big food companies and made a fortune off of his idea. It would not be the first time he thought of something and then a few years later somebody else invented it.

The thing about his present situation was that he would only be speaking to a camera. There was no studio audience or anyone else standing around that would be listening to him, being too busy with their jobs at hand. So, Michael felt incredibly relaxed and calm, with only a slight momentary passing shock of Howard introducing him before asking him about The Book of Tomorrows.

"Hello, good sir. I hope you are comfortable where you are. I'd like to start things off by asking, why did you decide to use an alias like The Author, instead of an actual penname?"

Howard began with the most obvious inquiry people would come to while browsing through Michael's website to decide if they wanted to devote any time to writer they never heard of or his work.

"Hello, Howard. I am very comfortable. I also want to thank you again for asking me to be a part of this special night. I have been a great admirer since I first saw your show. You put on a program about issues people need to discuss, instead of being a part of the everyday rating circus. So I guess you could say I took a page from your book by making it about the work and not me. I am only the messenger. I am not important. The message I am trying to get out is."

"And what is that message?"

"Basically, if we do not start living smart, we are all going to die stupid. The thing is, we don't have to, all we need to do is stop being ashamed of what we do not know, and only what we refuse to learn. Ignorance is no longer bliss, not that I thought it ever was. Our species needs to continue to evolve into a higher intelligence, Homo superior, if you will. But it is hard to convince people to put faith in themselves and to trust Our God Part to guide us on the path to our fateful destiny. I believe it is the only way to find true peace on earth."

"Is that what you mean by following Our God Part?"

"Yes. I believe we are all born inherently knowing right from wrong, and that God lives inside each and every one of us, making anyone capable of being Gandhi or becoming Hitler. It is what separates us from the beasts that sleep and feed. We are the only species ever to live on this planet and do the things we do, like having this conversation on a TV show in a building we built and every other thing that we do that no other species has. I mean, the dinosaurs had rule over the planet for one hundred sixty million years, and they never did anything beyond evolving into bigger dinosaurs. And if that meteor didn't wipe them out, they would still be just dinosaurs. So basically, that is what I mean about Our God Part. We are imbued with the free will to choose our own path, which I believe is the missing link people have been searching for and never finding, because it has been right in front of their eyes the whole time."

"I do not know if I have ever thought about it that way before. That is a unique perspective. It has a certain knowledge that rings true. But, why write a fictional story? Do you really think you can change the world with a good story?"

"I believe it is the only way, Howard. What are words but merely letters following each other in long and short distances of space? Well, they are the most powerful weapon ever known to man. Just about every war ever started began with words quoted from some book. Granted many times misinterpreted by those reading the text, sometimes ignorantly and others times purposefully. The Crusades, the Spanish Inquisition, World War II, and the Salem Witch trials are just some prime examples of people killing because of the words of others, whether they be spiritual in origin, like from the Bible and the Quran, or from the insane hateful rants of a madman who hypnotized an entire country into looking the other while they slaughtered six million innocent lives.

"Words kill, not guns, bullets, bombs, or missiles. The thing many people fail to recognize is that while words are the most powerful weapon, they are also the most easily defeated. Just do not react to words and only direct action against you or others—and I do not mean just loved ones, I mean everybody. Otherwise, if we turn our backs on our fellow man, what is life all about, then?"

Michael paused almost as if waiting for Howard to give him an answer, wondering for a quick moment if he was making sense or just rambling on in a verbal masturbation. He was saying everything he wanted about why this was something important he accomplished. It felt like he was only talking to Howard, since he was alone for the most part, putting him at ease and in a relaxed state of mind. He almost panicked after sitting down and realizing he did not bring something to drink in case his mouth went dry. But right before he went on the air, someone dropped off a bottle of water, which he didn't even need.

"So, do you think there is still hope for the future? Do you think you can enlighten people to the truth, or do you think they would rather continue keeping faith in the lies they believed all their lives?"

"I am not sure we deserved to be saved from the world we made for ourselves. Back when I started The Book of Tomorrows, there was a new hope brewing in the minds of those people who could see through the dark lies spread by the racial slurs of hateful bigots and corporate power players. It gave us hope that the promise of a better future might one day be a reality. Regrettably, the fortunate ones were not going to let that happen. It reminded me of the way they went after Kennedy, all because he wanted to help the people by changing things for the better."

"Are you worried about any controversy your book might arouse in the minds of those who do not use words to argue their point?"

"Not really. People are going to think what they are going to think and do whatever they are going to do, and there is nothing I can do about that, except the one thing I am unwilling to do, keep quiet. Besides, I am mad as hell, and I'm not going to take any more of the hypocrisy and lies without shouting out at the top of my lungs that the emperor has no clothes."

"Well, good sir. I must say you make a valid argument for change, but I also fear we may be too late to prevent the coming darkest many people can see on the horizon."

The lights flickered for a second on Howard's end of the live feed, and then cut out completely with a high-pitched feedback stinging Michael's ears. The few people in the room with him went into panic mode as they rushed about trying to figure out what went wrong. After several minutes and a few phone calls, everyone started focusing on an outside feed coming from one of the major affiliates showing Howard's San Francisco studio engulfed in a blazing fire.

Michael could hear mixed voices talking about an explosion of some sort. Someone even said it was a drone strike. Standing up, Michael experience a rather nasty head rush as his legs gave out from under him. Falling down in a motionless lump, his body banged loudly off the floor.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

### WHAT ABOUT THE OTHER 90%

1

Michael drove slowly down the long ghost town road. A variety of shutdown businesses lined both sides leading to Ryan's house, where it came to a dead end. He was in no hurry to go home, even though it had been over twelve hours since he left for the San Jose KNTV studio. The sunrise was brightening an otherwise cloudy day with some dark ones moving in on the horizon. Michael did not remember much from the time he fainted to when he woke up in the hospital with all those people hovering around him.

First, there were the doctors and nurses standing over him with disconcerting looks as they checked out medical charts and x-rays. Michael remembered the nurse's reaction when he opened his eyes for what must have been the first time since hitting the studio floor. She was standing next to a doctor going over what looked like an x-ray with another doctor, who was shrugging his shoulders with a discouraging headshake. The startled expression of the nurse made Michael think they might not have been expecting him to wake up.

After alerting the doctors of the change in their patient's condition, the nurse went over to check Michael's vitals: blood pressure, pulse, and temperature. There was another nurse in the room over by the door holding back some men in dark suits, who seemed to be real anxious to talk with Michael for some reason. They tried to push their way in the moment he opened his eyes, but the nurse stood her ground, saying something about having to wait until after the doctors informed the patient of his condition.

Michael tried to sit up, but felt some air tubes running from his nostrils holding him back, along with the nurse telling him not to move just yet. As the two doctors came over, one of them instructed the nurse to help out with the insistent visitors, who still wanted to get in the room. They shut the door so the doctors could have a private word with their patient. Even without all the subtle clues, Michael could sense there was something seriously wrong with him. He just knew they were not going to be giving him good news. He felt something pop in his head right before he hit the floor.

Upon confirming Michael's suspicions of bad news, the two medical professional seemed baffled by his reaction. He tried explaining that he pretty much knew there was something wrong with him. So he had already dealt with all the stages and was ready to accept his fate. This did not seem to do anything to help them understand his response. After the doctors left, the nurses were no longer able to keep out his insistent visitors, who forced their way in. Michael figured they were law enforcement from the moment he noticed them in the doorway. He just was not sure from which department or branch of government.

When the doctors left the room, there were some uniformed police officers out in the hallway holding back reporters, who were also anxious to talk with Michael, but settled for the doctors, for now. Three men in suits came in to talk with him. Well actually, only two of them asked him questions, the third one just stood in front of the hospital bed staring at Michael, reading his reactions.

"Mr. Carducci, we are aware that you have just been through a very traumatic experience. We also understand you have been given some difficult news, but unfortunately, we still need to ask you some questions about last night."

"I have a few questions of my own. Like, what the hell happened to Howard? Who the hell are you two guys? And who the fuck is he?" Michael could feel his head starting to clear. The cobwebs his subconscious mind spun since the stinging feedback rang out in his ears were almost gone. He seemed to wake up on the grumpy side of his hospital bed, which just being in one was enough to put him in a bad mood.

"I am Agent Kirkland of the FBI, and this is my partner, Agent Donaldson." Agent Kirkland said as he and Agent Donaldson held up their identifications. "We are here on a matter of national security and need your full cooperation, today. We want to move on without having to ask more questions from a different location. So, if you could just bear with us for a little while, the sooner we get through this, the quicker you will be able to get out of here and go home to your family and friends. Are you married, Michael?"

"No, but something tells me you already knew that, along with where and who I live with. So save your sanctimonious bullshit and ask questions you want me to answer. In case you are wondering, my present situation does not provide me with a lot time to waste on useless, obligatory questions that you already know the answers to, so why don't you just tell me what the fuck happened to Howard."

"How well did you know Howard Bickle?" Agent Donaldson kept to his script of standard operating procedures, undeterred by Michael's frustrated reaction to their presence.

Michael decided he would not be able to get them to waver from their respective duty, especially with the third man in the room. He could sense the man standing in front of his bed Agent Kirkland neglected to introduce was not a FBI agent, and someone they did not want to disappoint. He also thought the mysterious third man needed to be satisfied with Michael's answers before they left him alone. So he tried to do just that.

"I don't. I really do not know him very well, at all. I never even met the man. He contacted me through my website e-mail, asking me to get in touch with him. I called him around 9:00 a.m. Tuesday morning, using the number he sent me. He asked if I would like to be a guest on a special show airing last night. I said yes."

"He just contacted you out of the blue. You had no prior communication or connection?" Agent Kirkland asked, sounding a bit doubtful about the way things unfolded for Michael.

Michael's sudden good fortune was somewhat perplexing to him, too. If it did not just happen to him, he might be skeptical, as well. But also sensed he was not telling them anything they didn't already know.

"He said he saw the website for my new novel, and he really liked what he read. We talked for a while, making arrangements for my appearance. He told me about how his other two guests were having their identities concealed, and asked me if I wouldn't mind remaining anonymous, too. Since I intended on doing so anyway—I call myself The Author—I told him I would prefer it that way."

"May I ask the reason why you did that? You are not a wanted fugitive, like The D.C. Insider, or a whistle blower, like this other one calling himself The Environmentalist. So, why stay hidden? I thought all you writers wanted to be famous, always waiting for that big moment in the spotlight. You telling me, you have no desire to see your name in the all the newspapers and magazines?"

"Is that what is fucking bothering you guys? I don't want to be famous." Michael laughed for the first time since waking up. "Maybe I just hate answering a bunch of stupid questions I know I would always be getting asked. You know, the same kind of questions you are obliged to ask over and over again, even though you already know the answers most times."

Not feeling they were getting the answers they were looking for, Michael told them what they wanted to hear.

"Because my novel is not about me, it is about the story. I didn't want people wasting time on me. I am not important. My story is. If you do not believe me, why don't you just go check out my website and see for yourself. I explain it pretty clearly in my mission statement I posted on the site, along with the complete novel, which is available for people to read for free. So you see, not only am I not seeking fame, but I don't really give two shits about fortune, either."

The man standing silently in front of the bed seemed satisfied by Michael's answers, apparently confirming what they already knew. With having no clue to the whereabouts of Howard's other guests, Michael was the only one they were able to contact from the show. Of course, no one knew Howard was The D.C. Insider, except for Amy's original informant, who knew someone else had taken up the mantle after her death in Gaza City.

After questioning Michael for another hour or so, he was finally able to get out of them what happened to Howard, just not how. Then again, they did not tell him anything he couldn't learn from listening to the radio, logging on to the internet, or turning on a television. While the FBI agents informed him that Howard died in some kind of explosion at his San Francisco PBS studio, it was all they would tell him. Michael had to wait for the news to hear what the general consensus was as to the cause of the explosion and who was responsible.

The most popular theory was also the most unbelievable.

Michael was having a hard time swallowing what he heard on the radio and wanted to check out what the cable news stations were saying. Pulling up and stopping in front of the house, he did not have time to shut off the engine before Ryan and Angel came rushing out to greet him.

"Michael, Michael, you're home. You are finally home." Angel cried out, running over as he opened his car door and stepped out.

Ryan walked out on the front porch and appeared to be looking Michael over for any signs of injury. While he did not see any physical damage to his person, Ryan instantly sensed something different about him.

Angel wrapped her arms around Michael's legs, preventing him from moving until he bent over and picked her up. He grimaced with fatigue from everything he had been through over the past twelve hours. Ryan took Angel from him as he reached the porch.

"Here let me take her. You look like you have been through the ringer. We tried to call the San Jose studio several times, but couldn't get through for hours. When we finally did, no one would tell us anything because we were not family."

"FBI agents questioned me all night long." Michael said in a nonchalant manner, omitting telling them about his trip to the hospital. Or what they found while examining him. It was not the right time or place. He did not want Angel to know until his time came. She had already been through so much. He hated the thought of adding any extra sadness to her already hard life, which if what he suspected turned out to be true was only going to end up getting harder.

"You okay, Monop? Did they give you a hard time? I can imagine some of the questions they asked you. Questions I'm sure you did not have the answers they wanted to hear." Ryan accurately surmised one of the reasons for his late return.

"Everything is just fine. I am good. There is no need to worry about anything coming back on me. They just wanted to check out my story, making sure I am who I said I was." Michael explained their reluctance to accept the fact that he was not interested in fame or fortune. Something Ryan had to admit baffled him, too.

It took Michael a while to figure out what to do with The Book of Tomorrows, once he finished it. He always seemed to find out after the fact what he needed to do in the first place. After searching the internet, he found plenty of places where you could build your own website and download anything you wanted to sell or give away.

His original plan was to publish the book for free and sell the screenplay rights, along with the script. He just needed to get enough people to visit his website to create a buzz that would get him the recognitions he desired. Then, just two weeks before getting Howard's e-mail invitation, Michael discovered that he could have self-published his novel as an EBook and sold it for however much he wanted, or just give it away. No more worrying about rejection letters from agents and book publishers, he would have total creative control over his work. He could even make considerably more money from the sale of an EBook over the traditional royalties paid by publishing houses. The author retained anywhere between sixty and eighty percent of their book sales with EBook companies, compared to the ten to fifteen percent publishers gave their writers.

Inopportunely, by the time he discovered the EBook industry, there was not much of anything selling on the internet, or anywhere else, that wasn't an essential need. He had planned on adapting some of his screenplays to sell as EBooks, and possibly sell the scripts as a result, but once again, he was late to the party. A day late and a dollar short seemed to be his life story. It is hard to learn about something you had no prior knowledge of its existence, unless somebody you knew told you about it, or you happened across the information by accident.

It was how Michael first found out what a flashdrive was, which he felt was one of the greatest inventions since ATM cards gave people the freedom to do their banking whenever they wanted. Websites, domain names, and other helpful tools he found were readily available to those wanting to conduct business on the worldwide web, if you knew what to look for and where to find it.

On their way in the house, Michael had a sudden thought come to mind.

"Hey, did you check and see if the show recorded? Maybe I can piece together what happened by watching it." Michael asked with a hopeful spark at the thought of learning something new.

Angel wanted Ryan to put her down so she could go ready the playback on the DVD recorder Michael setup before he left. Waiting for Angel to get out of hearing range, Michael told Ryan they would have to prepare for what was coming next.

"What do you mean? What's coming?" Ryan asked with a bit of confusion registering on his face.

"Hell, hell is coming to town, Ryan. And if I am right, there won't be no stopping it unless we prepare ourselves for the worse. I seriously do not think things are going to be getting better any time soon. As a matter of fact, I can almost guarantee they are going to start getting worse pretty quick." Michael gave his foreboding warning of an increasingly volatile world.

Feeling a little lightheaded, Michael held on to the doorway to catch his balance as he stepped inside the house.

"Hey, are you sure you're alright, Monop? I get the feeling there is something you are not telling me." Ryan voiced his concern for Michael's health, taking advantage of Angel's absence.

"It is nothing to worry about, right now. We have other more important matters we need to deal with at the moment. I will fill you in on the details when the time is right. I give you my word, okay."

"Alright, I will let it slide for now. But I know how much you try to hide things when it comes to your health, Monop. I can hear you getting sick some mornings when you come home." Ryan told him he knew of Michael's health problems as Angel called out from the living room.

"It is ready for playback, Michael."

"We're coming, dear. We will be right there." Michael said to Angel, and then tried to ease Ryan's worried mind. "Look, I have been much better, lately. I don't want Angel to start worrying unnecessarily. So when we start preparing for those worse case scenarios, I do not want her to have to live in fear. If she knows what to do when the time comes, she will never have to be scared of anything or anybody. She will just be ready."

2

Over the next five years, Michael prepared for the worse and hoped for the best. He even started to think the doctors made a mistake when they told him he had an inoperable brain tumor that would end up killing him within the next five years or less. Actually what they said was, he had anywhere from one to five years or could also go at any minute, if the tumor in his head burst. Expecting the usual shocked reaction, ranging from anger, denial, bargaining, and depression, Michael just jumped to acceptance by making the simple statement.

"I guess it was a tumor, after all."

Michael then started asking them questions to things he wanted to ask someone in the know for a long time. The first thing he asked about was why we only use ten percent of our brain's capabilities.

"What about the other ninety percent, why do we have it, if no one uses it?"

"That is an old urban legend, actually. There is no unused portion of the brain that we can harness to increase our intelligence. However, we all have the potential to become smarter by acquiring new knowledge." Dr. Newman informed him.

"I guess you do learn something new every day." Michael deduced.

It was information Michael easily accepted as factual, considering Dr. Newman was a neurologist. But, he also confirmed the possibility that the tumor could have stimulated some of his higher brainpower.

Waking up later on that day after taking a nice long nap, Michael went right to work on implementing his safety precautions. He started off with his primary project, converting an old root cellar located under a trapdoor in the kitchen into a bomb shelter safe room.

The root cellar had concrete block walls and a hard dirt floor. It ran the entire length and width of the house, with a ceiling height varying anywhere from three feet at its lowest point to nearly six feet at its highest point. More of a subbasement than a root cellar, the area directly below the kitchen and living room was part of a space centralized under the trapdoor, which he could seal off easily enough from the rest of the root cellar, turning it into a safe room.

On the end of the house closest to the highway, Michael was able to dig out an escape tunnel that slid down to a ravine leading to a culvert. Since the house set on an upgrade from the highway, he did not have to worry about water flooding into the root cellar, while also serving as a drainage system. In case the surface conditions became untenable through either natural or manmade disasters, Michael designed a ventilation system to allow for an extended stay underground, predicting anarchy would be the rule of the land before too long.

Being that Ryan's uncle owned a construction company, Michael was able to make use of whatever he found lying around in the yard and storage sheds. In what used to be a deck, door, and window company, there was plenty of lumber at his disposal, along with some Styrofoam sheets to help sound proof and insulate the safe room, which Michael planned to keep hidden from prying eyes. He wanted to make a safe place for Ryan and Angel to hide out from those who would try to hurt them in an uncivilized world.

He did not know how much time he had left, and he had no plans of sticking around and being a burden. According to what the doctor told him, he would be able to function normally, and it would not affect his cognitive abilities or motor skills until the very end. Then one day he would probably wake up unable to get out of bed, and there he would stay. Or, it could happen at any time and without warning. Bending over to tie your shoe, reaching for a book on a shelf, or while you were sleeping, the possibilities were too many to contemplate and really did not matter anyway.

Michael never cared that much about when, where, or what from, only how he died. He would stand tall to the end and accept his fate. Even if that meant he had to sacrifice his life so that others may live. Then so be it.

When he was not working on fortifying the root cellar, stocking it with supplies they would need, Michael devoted much of his free time to Angel's education. Only, he was no longer just teaching her the fundamentals contained in a normal school curriculum—reading, writing, and arithmetic. He also taught her about astronomy, the history of the world (past, present, and ancient), and the geography of the planet. He showed her how to avoid uninhabitable shelters and where to find edible food to help maintain a good nutritional regime, even under harsh conditions.

Admittedly, Michael had to teach himself many of these things, first. While his grades were above average when it came to English, history, and basic math classes, he was not well versed in the other academics. He failed chemistry, barely passed biology, and walked out of an algebra class, which along with geometry he never got. Brushing up on the basics, Michael soon found he was able to learn more in a few years of individual study than he did throughout his entire twelve years of formal education. Of course, there was no internet back then.

But Michael's main emphasis was on teaching her self-defense techniques and skilled weapons training. Starting off with swords and staffs, Michael focused most of his lessons on knowing when to fight and when not to fight. He downloaded copies of Sun Tzu's The Art of War and Bruce Lee's Tao of Jeet Kune Do. After studying these and other instructional and philosophical teachings, he then passed on the knowledge to Angel, and later on Ryan, too. He wanted Angel to be smart when facing any confrontational situations. She needed to act without hesitation or thinking about what she was doing or whom she might be doing it. Strike hard and fast, be quick and swift in your movements, and never linger to gloat or mock your enemy. Always respect your foe, even if he does not respect you. It is all about survival. Who wins or who loses does not matter, only who survives.

Instinctual awareness was one of his biggest concerns. He trained her to read people's faces, to know who to trust, and who to be aware of when meeting strangers. In judging the character and morality of others, he told her the one thing we should never forget or abandon was our humanity. If we were to lose that than we might as well revert back to savage beasts, because we would be no better, and actually worse. Animals do not generally kill for enjoyment or take pleasure in the misery of others. They are cruel by nature, but do not get off on the cruelty of their acts. It is instinctual. They don't think about it.

Michael told Angel do not become part of the problem and only try to be part of the solution, if you could, otherwise, take care of yourself. Never hurt anyone that does not deserve it, but do not be fooled into thinking anyone would pay you the same courtesy.

It is a hard world that was only going to get harder.

Michael also warned her not to give into her dark side when dealing in manners of mundane banality or the doldrums of boredom. Reflecting back on his own experience with a Lord of the Flies type childhood mentality that festered while growing up on top of a mountain with a bunch of adolescent terrorists, he said you should only embrace your inner savage beast when absolutely necessary and only for as long as needed.

It has always been easier to be bad, compared to being good. Being good was hard work, while being bad was usually a good bit more fun.

Many people used to look to religion to keep their morality in check, praying to their god to keep them from giving into temptation, claiming the flesh was weak, but their spirit strong with faith. This was not a bad system of control people used to civilize the world, but it is also one that can be easily perverted from within and without by those who misinterpret it, whether done intentionally or accidentally.

He viewed what many refer to as the soul as more of a lifeforce that represents all living things. The difference being, the human lifeforce was a much stronger one. It not only gave us the ability to dominate the world, but to alter it, reshape it, and remold it in any way we pleased. No other creature before man has ever had a lifeforce powerful enough to accomplish that.

In trying to understand the meaning of life after his mother passed, Michael came up with his own belief to our purpose for existing. He concluded that we keep living lives until we get it right, and then we transubstantiate, become a part of all things, existing everywhere and nowhere, a beautifully serene utopia that no words could ever describe. There is no judgment or looking down and watching over loved ones. He figured it to be the best way to explain people who believe in past lives or reincarnation. Michael often felt that he might have lived in medieval times or even in the old west, and maybe he was a bad man in one or all of his past lives. It would explain why he found life in his present world so difficult, and why he was trying so hard to get it right this time.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

### GREATER GOOD IN THE EVIL THAT MEN DO

### (AND SOME WOMEN TOO)

1

Within hours of the drone strike on Howard Bickle's San Francisco PBS studio, President Buchannan was on the verge of a complete nervous breakdown. The media machine was crying out for blood, assailing the airwaves, cyberspace, and the printed press with rumored stories about an American citizen killed on U.S. soil by a government ordered drone strike. While speculation and hypotheses ran rapid as to who could have ordered the strike, one thing everyone seemed sure about was that it originated from within our country.

No one directly pointed their finger at the President, but conjecture and innuendo were the golden rules of modern day journalism. In the past, many cable news outlets made wild accusations that they backed up by saying things like, 'we do not know if the missing girl is dead and probably murdered by her boyfriend, but if she is dead, this is how he could have possibly did it'. Along with repeating endless sound bites and talking point, the Ken and Barbie doll anchors would run the same story over and over, repeated on their other network news shows, quoting their colleagues' own ludicrous speculations to prove the validity of their story.

The day's headlines were all variations of the same thing worded differently, with the general gist being; U.S. GOVERNMENT MURDERED HOWARD BICKLE WITH A DRONE STRIKE ON HIS SAN FRANCISCO PBS STUDIO. The stories that followed asked questions, rather than doing any investigative reporting to confirm or rule out what they suspected to be true. The questions varied, but the answers they gave generally backed their claims.

Did the U.S. Government deem Howard Bickle as a danger to National Security and classify him as an enemy combatant? Could the order to launch a drone strike on American soil have come from President Buchannan? Was the government trying to silence The D.C. Insider? Who is The D.C. Insider? Could one of Howard's other guests, The Author or The Environmentalist, be The D.C. Insider? What is the big secret worth killing American citizens? How does the government justify the collateral damage of the three other lives lost in the blast? Why use a drone to take someone out when they could have just sent in S.W.A.T. to secure the broadcast from revealing sensitive government secrets? What could those secrets be?

They would then proceed to construct a narrative that supported their unsubstantiated theories. Some fact checked their stories using the tabloid newspapers as their sources, which sometimes proved a more expedient method for gathering information, like during the OJ Simpson trial when the tabloid rags constantly got the scoop on the established press. Just not the most accurate, being that they were not bound by any kind of journalistic integrity.

President Buchannan had been asking herself some of those same questions as to how this could have happened. She told Wincott to stop him any means necessary, but he could not possibly think she meant to take him out with a drone strike. There was no way she sounded desperate enough for him to think that was what she wanted. She remembered he told her that their options were limited. Time was running out and they did not have many good choices left open to them. She thought at the very worst, they could have blacked out the entire city of San Francisco. But, it would not be something resulting in the deaths of innocent American citizens.

How could Derek possible think that she would want that? And for that matter, where the hell was he? She called for him over an hour ago. What was taking him so long to get here?

Reaching over and hitting the intercom button connecting to her secretary, President Buchannan was getting tired of waiting around.

"Betty, has Chief of Staff Wincott checked in, yet? I need to see him a.s.a.p., Betty. Did you have him paged?"

"Yes, Madame President. He is supposedly on the grounds somewhere. We just have not been able to locate him." Betty's voice came out of the intercom with an apologetic tone for disappointing her President.

"Send somebody to find him then. I want to see Derek Wincott in my office within the next five minutes. This is a priority one request from your President. See to it that it gets done."

Without waiting for Betty to reply, Buchannan cut off the connection and continued to stew in her own juices. She told all her other advisors and aids that she wanted to be alone until Wincott arrived and would meet with everyone concerned after speaking privately with him. Her erratic behavior over the past couple of days did not go unnoticed by those closest to her. Convicted in the court of public opinion, she never got the chance to defend herself.

2

Derek Wincott was a loyal soldier in the army of God ever since he was a child. His devotion to his faith was unbound. He knew for the good to survive in this ever-changing world filled with the immoral practices of deviant minds the wicked must suffer for their sins. He devoted his life, body, and soul, to seeing this cause fulfilled.

Derek was taking some time for quiet consolation in the White House chapel, someplace no one ever thought to look for him. As far as anyone knew, Derek Wincott could have been anything from a Christian, a Jew, a Muslim, or even an atheist. He never spoke of his religious beliefs to anyone other than his God or his mentor, who was also his savior. His mentor redeemed his life. Giving Derek a new path to follow, he saved him from wallowing in the degradation prevalent in the wicked world man made from the beautiful gift of life given to him by God. There had to be a reckoning coming soon. If it came about during his time, he vowed to lead the wicked right through the gates of hell and stand guard to prevent them from escaping, if needed of him.

These were just a few of the things Sandra Buchannan never knew about him. She would later learn very quickly how little she knew Derek Wincott. Although, a rather moot point by then. Knowing the truth was not going to help her, and it certainly would not save her from her day of atonement, even if the sins she paid for were not the ones she was guilty of implementing. But her guilt was undeniable. She made her bed a long time ago when she had sex with the entire football team in the boy's locker room showers.

Wincott got the full story directly from one of the sources. This person threatened to be Sandra Buchannan's Judas goat and lead her to self-slaughter. It was not the first time the filth climbed back out of the gutter wanting to leave a trail of slime all over Buchannan's reputation and ruin her political career. It all stemmed from a wild night of debauchery that Wincott had to hold back his disgust from the knowledge of whenever in Buchannan's presence.

If Sandra Buchannan truly believed in one thing in this world, it was the loyal devotion of her Chief of Staff. Derek had been with her since the beginning of her Presidency. He was instrumental in getting her elected. Standing by her side through the good, the bad, and the ugly, he also kept the hounds from her door when things started falling apart. The people needed to blame someone for their troubles, other than themselves of course, and the leader of the nation was an easy target for the bitterness they felt when times were hard.

The people could forgive their leaders for many things that the pressures of public office can put on one's shoulders. They could forgive alcohol or drug addictions, depending on what kind of drug, that is—cocaine, amphetamines, barbiturates okay, heroin, acid, PCP not so much. They could deal with minor corruptions and shady business dealings. They could even forgive their incompetence in office, intolerance of those who were different from them, and their ignorance of the facts. But there was one thing they couldn't forgive.

Wincott knew the public would never stand for another sex scandal that would bring great shame upon the Oval Office. Many people still had the knowledge burned in their memories of an intern going down on the President while sitting in that sacred symbol of our nation's royal palace. Then to have it all written down for the public record in graphic detail during the hearings and testimony was too much for good, Christian folks to handle. It was a stain on the dignity, honor, and faith in God the Founding Fathers' built our great nation. A stain that was more damning than the one he left on her dress. Never mind about what the people would think about a female president involved in a high school gangbang that left her pregnant and having a secret abortion.

Most of those who were there on that night of depravity were too intoxicated to remember exactly what happened, except for Riley James, the team mascot. From the way Riley told it to Wincott that day he slithered out of the sewer to squeeze a little more juice out of Buchannan, she showed up with her slutty friend to a Christmas party at the star quarterback's house, Kyle Martin. Everyone knew Sandra had a big crush on Kyle. But what she did not know about him, he didn't even know about himself until that night.

Her slutty friend, Bridget, was screwing the center according to Riley, and Sandra wanted to make it with the quarterback. They were both already half in the bag by the time they arrived at the party. Riley said he had no clue how they got it, but someone gave them ecstasy. That was when things started to get really wild and crazy. Again, he could not exactly remember how it all came about—he was drinking pretty heavy back then—but somehow they all ended up in the boy's locker room showers. The school was right next door to Kyle's house, and he had a key to the office the coach gave him for when he wanted to come in early to study film.

Wincott intercepted the letter sent to Presidential nominee Buchannan and thought he lucked into the thing he had been waiting for to get the upper hand on the candidate. He saved it for the time when he would tell her the role she had been playing in their Shakespearean plot of deception.

Meeting Riley James for the first time, Wincott had to hold back the instant revulsion he felt toward the man. A sleazy, repugnant fellow with dirt and grease caked under his fingernails, Riley had yellowish rotting teeth, a flabby overhanging gut, and a repugnant odor of sweat and perspiration that suggested he hadn't had a bath in a week or two. He spoke with a slurred lisp that made him sound drunk, which he was most times, ejecting a spray of spittle whenever he pronounced a word with an S sound.

Riley crawled out from under the rock he had been living since graduating high school to blackmail Buchannan during her bid for governor. Buchannan did not remember who Riley was until the day she saw him in the crowd on the campaign trail for governor. She could not stand any reminder of that night, recalling how he prematurely ejaculated on her ass before ever getting his chance. At the time, she found it funny with her drugged out state of mind making her laugh harder than intended, which got everyone laughing at him, too. If she never took that damn ecstasy pill, it would not have gone down like that, and she would have never done what she did.

And that was not even the worse of it. When getting banged in the showers, by she did not know how many guys, she looked over and saw Kyle going down on his wide receiver and running back. She thought she was seeing things at first. Then she saw him bent over beside her with his team mates leap frogging back and forth between them. After that, she knew how wrong she had been.

Riley James swore he would get even one day. He thought that day had come twice after seeing her name on a billboard as a Presidential candidate. It turned out to be his worse mistake. One he would finally have to pay the piper for his wicked ways.

"So, how much do you want to keep quiet this time, Mr. James?" Wincott said as he surprised Riley, who was waiting at a prearranged spot for the meeting.

"Hey, who the hell are you? I don't know you."

"Take it from me, Mr. James. You do not want to know me. I am here on business. My time is money and that is why I am here, to find out how much, and when and where, real simple."

Riley seemed hesitant at first, but then decided to deal with this man.

"Okay then, if it was worth ten grand to her when she was running for governor, it should be worth at least five times that much for my silence now that she is running for President." Riley explained the logic behind his figure.

"Sounds reasonable enough, would you prefer that in cash or would you like it wired to a numbered account of your choice?" Wincott offered him the option already knowing what his answer would be, having checked out his previous dealings with Buchannan through discreet sources.

"Cash, cold hard cash is what I want." Riley stated his preference with a definitive answer.

"Fine, that will not be a problem to arrange. Here, call this number in two hours and they will tell where you can go pick up your money. I take it that this will be our final transaction." Wincott said as he handed Riley a business card with only a phone number on it.

"Oh, sure thing, I'm not a greedy man. That's why I only asked for fifty grand, instead of one hundred grand, or one-hundred-fifty grand, or even as much as a half a million. It would probably be worth that much, but you might think about other solutions then. This way I help make your decision easier." Riley told him his reasoning, figuring they might decide to kill him instead of parting with a large sum of money that would not be easy to hide. Nobody would kill him over fifty grand.

"Very well then, I would hope we never meet again if I were you, Mr. James. Good day," Wincott warned Riley before walking away.

"You don't have to worry about me. I'm moving out to Arizona." Riley promised. It was a promise he would have kept, if he had the choice.

The next time Riley James saw Wincott, he wished he had never met him in the first place. If not, he probably would not be sitting in an empty warehouse, tied to a chair, while having his face pummeled into a bloody pulp by someone who appeared to be enjoying his work.

"Look, you don't have to do this. I will go away, far away. So far away, you will never see me again." Riley pleaded for his life, spitting out blood with each word.

His two front teeth were completely gone, while a sturdy hanger on the bottom row had split down the middle. When Riley showed up for his money, somebody hit him from behind. He woke up in his current predicament, not knowing where he was or if he would ever walk out of there alive. The man tuning him up for the past ten minutes took a break when a dark sedan pulled up and Wincott got out.

"Did you get anything out of him yet?" Wincott asked the big man who answered him in an English accent.

"No, I was just getting him nice and docile for you, first. I figured he would be much more forthcoming that way. I always promise the client full disclosure whenever I take a job. Your livelihood depends on keeping up a good reputation in this business. People want to know when they hire someone like me that I will get the job done proper."

"Well, I must say, you have done a real proper job, so far." Wincott praised his man's work.

Stepping over in front of Riley, Wincott reached inside his suit jacket. Riley cringed with fear, shutting his eyes and turning his head away. He was unable to move the rest of his body with his hands and feet tied securely to the chair. Believing Wincott was reaching for a gun to shoot him, Riley breathed a sigh of relief when he pulled out a manila envelope, instead.

Wincott smiled, knowing he had his man right where he wanted him, fearing for his life, expecting death at any moment, but with a lingering bit of hope to ensure his cooperation would be sincere and truthful. It was how most interrogators failed to get accurate information when resorting to extreme methods. Too much stick and not enough carrot will only provide you with whatever they think you want to hear in order to make them stop, which usually only led to false intelligence gathering that could do more harm than good. People needed some small measure of hope, something to hold onto to get them through their ordeal alive.

"Here is your money, Mr. James. You can walk out of here with it on one condition. I want to know everything that happened that night. I want you to sign off on a full and detailed statement, so that we can let you go without having to worry about you anymore." Wincott told Riley while holding out the envelope in front of him.

"But I already told you what happened. She showed up with her friend, already half in the bag. They took some ecstasy that everyone was into at the time. Next thing we knew, we were all in the high school's boy's locker room shower gangbanging her and her friend. What more do you want then that?"

Wincott did not say anything to Riley, but instead just nodded to the big man, who was wearing a wife-beater t-shirt, which accented his muscular upper body. With a quick flash of a fist, the big man punched Riley in the mouth, smashing in more teeth with a thudding force, causing the split tooth to break free as even more blood started dripping from his gums.

"If you don't start being more forthcoming with me, Mr. James, you are going to end up spending all your money on dentures. So let me enlighten you as to what I know of that night from my own research. You were the one who gave them the ecstasy. It was the only way they would let you in the party. After all, you were not really on the team, at least not as a player. You were the team mascot, which I believe was an owl or some kind of foul. It must have been pretty hot and sweaty in that costume. It must have gotten you pretty steamed up inside, standing on the sidelines while the players got all the applause. Is that why you dosed the quarterback, who you also later tried to blackmail?"

Riley sat silently listening to Wincott's accurate account of what happened that night.

"If you already know everything, why do you care what I have to say?" Riley wondered what the point was.

"I just want to hear it from you. Think of it as an intervention. You will feel much better after unburdening your conscience of the guilt you must feel for the role you played in the death of your school's star quarterback. You did try to blackmail him, too. Didn't you?"

"Hey, I never meant for him to kill himself. He drove into that big semi on his own. I didn't make him do that." Riley defended his actions, which only brought on another nod from Wincott, followed by another fist to the face.

"Oh yeah, and just what was it that you were threatening him with, Mr. James? What could have driven a young man with a bright future to end it all?"

"He was a fucking faggot, alright. The guy was on his knees sucking off his wide receiver and running back, right in front of the girls his teammates were fucking. I don't know if he was gay before that night, but the ecstasy must have brought it out in him. I did not make him suck anybody's dick. He did that all on his own."

"No, you were just the only one sleazy enough to blackmail him for it. His teammates all stood by him, and nobody would have ever known about it if it not for you. Like I said. I did my research. I also found out that you never made it with either girl because you blew your load before ever reaching the Promised Land. Did that make you bitter? Did it turn you into a total loser, or were you already one by then?"

"Yeah, I'm a loser. That's right. They never accepted me, always laughed at me. So why shouldn't I make them pay? Why do I always have to lose?"

"Because, Mr. James, you are a loser." Wincott said as he reached inside his jacket once more. Only this time, he came out with a gun and shot Riley in the head.

3

The phone ringing in Wincott's pocket brought him back from reflecting on the demise of Riley James. Startled by the sound of the phone he had been carrying on him for the past five years that never rang before, Wincott answered it before the third ring. Listening intently, he left the White House chapel and headed straight for the Oval Office.

"Yes, sir, I understand completely. I am on my way to tell her. I will leave the line open." Wincott said in a soft-spoken voice, after which he left the phone on and slipped it back into his pocket.

On his way to the Oval Office, Wincott walked by some of the President's top advisors and cabinet members, who desperately wanted to speak with their President about the Howard Bickle incident, but forced to sit around waiting because the only one she wanted to see right then was Wincott. Passing by their knowing looks of frustration from having to wait on him, Wincott smiled to himself while thinking their time would be coming soon, and wished he could be there to see it. But, a higher purpose fell upon him, even if it meant falling back on plan B.

The President's private secretary stood up from behind her desk when Wincott walked into the outer office.

"President Buchannan has been trying to reach you all morning, Derek. Where have you been this whole time? She is about ready to blow a gasket."

"I was just out getting all my ducks in a row, Betty. You know how she hates incomplete data." Wincott made up an excuse Betty would understand.

"I will buzz you in." Betty said.

"Don't bother, I'm well liked." Wincott replied smugly as he walked in the Oval Office looking like he did not have a care in the world.

"Where the hell have you been? I have been going out of mind with all that has happened."

"I just wanted to make sure I had everything I needed in place before coming to see you. We need to move very carefully over this political minefield laid out before us. These kinds of situations can be real tricky if not handled with the proper finesse." Wincott said in an ambiguous way that only seemed to confuse her.

"Derek, no more bullshit, I want the truth. Did we launch that drone strike on Howard Bickle's studio? Were you the one who gave the order to do that?"

"No, Madame President, you did."

"I did no such thing." Buchannan stood up from behind her desk with an angry confusion working on her nerves. "How could you even think that I would give an order like that? I wanted him stopped, not dead."

"I beg your pardon, Madame President. But your specific orders were by any means necessary, which I told you might be extreme given the timetable we had to work with." Wincott shifted the blame back on her.

Caught by surprise, Buchannan could not believe what she was hearing. Derek always stood by her side in times of crisis. He defended her actions against any who tried to oppose her policies and decisions.

"How can you say that, Derek? You know me. I would never have given that order. Why would you do something like that?"

"I am truly sorry about all this, Sandra. But you need to look at the bigger picture to understand the necessity of my actions since the day I first knocked on your front door. Everything has been working for this moment in time when everyone will see a beautiful dawn rising on a new world order."

"What the fuck are you talking about, Derek? Have you gone completely insane?" Buchannan yelled at him as she moved around to the front of her desk. She went over to him, placed her hands on his shoulders, and tried to shake some sense into him.

Reaching up, he took both of her hands in his and forced them down, holding them tight.

"Now I want you to listen to me very carefully, Sandra. This can still work out for you if you cooperate. We do not want this situation to get ugly. You have a choice that most leaders are never given." Wincott explained as he held her in place.

"Derek, you are hurting me. Let go of my arms. Have you lost your mind? I am the President of the United States of America, the most powerful nation in the entire world. Who do you think you are, telling me what I have to do and not do? I am the one who tells people how it is, and what I want them to do." Buchannan helplessly squirmed in his grip, while ranting about how powerful she was.

"Sandy, you don't know shit." Wincott let her go and slapped her hard across the face.

Stumbling back a few steps with her hand raised to her reddening cheek, Buchannan's shocked look was consumed with a fiery rage as she threaten repercussions for his heinous act of treason.

"I will have you thrown in the deepest dark cell I can find for that. You will never see the light of day again."

"I do not think so, not unless you want to be sharing the cell next to me. So shut up and listen to what I have to say."

Buchannan paused from her angry rant for a double take moment of bewilderment to Wincott's words. She could not believe what he said, but at the same time sensed a confidence in his words that seemed unshakeable.

"What the hell do you mean by that? I have done nothing wrong. You don't have anything on me." Buchannan boldly claimed her innocence of any wrongdoing as she started back around her desk to call for help, but once again hesitated after Wincott set her straight.

"I would not do anything rash if I were you. Not unless you want the whole world reading about a wild night in the boy's locker room showers, while facing impeachment for the drone attack on Howard Bickle, along with your ties to a militia group operating out of Montana linked to the Gaza Strip bombing. There is enough evidence connecting you to all these events in some degree or another, including the murder of Riley James."

"Who the hell is Riley James, and why would I murder him?"

"He was there that night in the locker room showers. Or don't you remember your team mascot. You paid him ten thousand dollars to keep quiet when you ran for governor, didn't you?"

The look of confusion plastered on her face told Wincott that she did not know about the first time Riley James extorted money out of her.

"Someone in your camp has been keeping things from you. It must have been your husband who paid him off the first time. Too bad for Riley I intercepted his attempt this time. But Sandra, you can remain clear of all of this trouble, if you do not make any waves. You can retire from public life and go back to Montana to live happily ever after with your family. I can even make this whole Howard Bickle mess disappear by labeling him an enemy combatant, which would justify your actions. It won't help your approval ratings. But let's face it. You were never going to be re-elected. We just need to you to go away quietly. The country has been through so much already, do you really think the people would stand for a scandal of that magnitude. It would tear this nation apart."

"Who do you really work for? Who put you up to all this? I can think of only one person with the clout to pull something like this off."

"Would you like to speak with him?" Wincott asked as he removed the phone from his pocket, still on with the other party listening the whole time. Putting it on speaker, he held the phone out in his hand.

"Hello, Sandra."

4

Sitting alone in the back of a limo, Derek Wincott was on his way to meet the man who changed his life and put him on the path to spiritual enlightenment, helping him fulfill his destiny to be able to live forever in the paradise of the lord.

When the two men in dark suits showed up at his door, demanding that he go with them, Wincott did not know where they were taking him, and they refused tell him. He was not sure whether the reason for the abrupt trip would bring praise upon him or punishment for some misdeed he was unaware of as yet. The one thing he did know was who gave them the order to pick him up, which was why he willingly went with them.

The Independent Fundamentalist Mormon group formed their own religious sect after they broke from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (LDS). They united together from many separate sects as they fell under the guidance of one man called the Architect, who had been secretly bringing together the numerous Independent Fundamentalist sects over the years to prepare them for the Restoration of all things. In order to receive the Blood Atonement, they first needed to gather all the heretics in a United Order to live in an egalitarian communal society as written in the Law of Consecration. The Architect told them it was the only way to achieve Exaltation—the highest degree of salvation, which would allow them to live as gods and goddesses in the afterlife.

The Architect's identity was a well-guarded secret kept from public knowledge, with only a few of the faithful having any contact with the man. There were rumors he was a very rich and powerful man, who had fallen away from his Mormon faith, until receiving a vision from God. Not unlike Joseph Smith's First Vision, when God the father and Jesus the son appeared to him as separate beings and instructed him to restore the true Christian church with the correct doctrine of faith.

Over time, the Architect built up a strong cult following of parishioners, whose loyal devotion became an unbreakable bond that no one could ever sever. His followers became fanatic zealots, who worshipped the ground he walked upon with almost the same frenzied madness shown by the Charles Manson cult. They would do anything asked of them, having full faith that their salvation will be of the highest degree of exaltation, no matter what they made of their mortal shells.

Derek Wincott was a true believer who would do anything asked of him, even if he did not understand why. He had been busy for the last two months researching a new assignment given to him. He was presently on hold until he received orders to approach the unsuspecting asset instrumental to the success of his mission.

He was to befriend this person to the point of becoming their closest confidant. The person also must never suspect his eventual betrayal right up to the moment he brought the hammer down. There was a contingency plan devised in case their initial plot failed to yield the irrefutable results needed. No one from either side of the aisle could ever be able to contest what had happened.

Accepting his assignment without any reservations to the magnitude of its importance to their cause, he did feel pity for what its success would do to his target's reputation. He might not care so much if the person did not exhibit many of the same qualities they held most dear. Wincott consoled his guilty conscience with the rationalized justification that if the person were in his shoes, they would do the same thing.

When Wincott arrived at his destination, he knew it could mean only one thing. He had the honor of a face to face meeting with the Architect, someone very few people personally knew. Rumors always abounded about whom he really was, with many wrongly guessing his true identity. The only thing everyone seemed sure of was that he was a rich and powerful man, someone who had his hands immersed deeply in the types of business investments responsible for the financial security of global markets. He made the kind of deals that could make or break a country, either providing them with an influx of wealth or bankrupting their economy with a single stock trade.

Wincott realized that the Architect personally chose him for the vital mission and was counting on him for it to succeed. Still, he never actually expected to meet the man, himself. It was an incredible honor. But, the moment he stepped out of the limo sent to pick him up, he knew who wanted to see him. Staring out at the many acres of open-fields off on the horizon, Wincott took a deep breath of fresh country air, which had a slight whiff of manure lingering in it. He was standing next to a large horse corral, with a lone rider galloping around and over an obstacle course filled with artificial hedges and gully creeks.

The rider was a big man who stood out on his horse with the same domineering presence John Wayne always exhibited in those old westerns. Circling around the corral, he dismounted near where Wincott stood patiently waiting, highly impressed by the big man's skillful agility. As he walked over to him, Wincott recognized him right off as his astonished mind left him dumbstruck by the knowledge of someone he never suspected could be the Architect.

"Derek, it is a distinct pleasure to meet you." The big man said as he stepped through the space separating the elongated horizontal fence posts and extended his hand in friendship. "I cannot tell you what a honor it is knowing there are true believers like you who are willing to put it all on the line for our great cause. You make me so proud, son."

Wincott did not know how to reply to such high praise, getting flustered like a little school girl just asked out on her first date.

"It is me who has the great honor of standing here in your presence, today. It is such a pleasant surprise, considering I thought we would not meet until after successfully accomplishing our goal. And now that I am here, I understand why it is so imperative that no one ever connects the two us together."

"Knowing how the possibility exists that we may not get the chance afterwards, I felt I owed it to you."

The big man reached into his jacket pocket and handed Wincott a special burner phone.

"That phone is untraceable, and you need to carry it on you at all times, but never use it. You will be covertly working for me a long time while I continue getting things in place for the day when we will be ready to make our move. It may take a few years, which during that time your target needs to believe you are their most trusted ally and friend. Maybe then, at that moment, they will know that their only chance will be to go along with our plan, after realizing they never had a choice."

"I am sure I can do that without any trouble. I have been studying the target ever since I received my assignment package. I think I already know how to play this one. It should be an easy task to accomplish, getting close to the target, but you can never tell the unpredictable nature when you have cornered your prey. There is always the chance they might strike back even knowing they would not survive the effort." Wincott accurately predicted.

"Regrettably, that is why we need plan B."

5

"Flint Morgan, you bastard. I might have known this was your handy work. If you wanted to be President so bad, why didn't you just run for the office yourself, instead of trying to pull off this impossible charade? Because if you think you are going to run me out of office, you have got another thing coming. I will take you down with me before I let you get away with this." President Buchannan said while walking back around her desk. She sat down as if to prove that she still ruled the throne.

"I am real sorry to hear you say that, Sandra. I wish there was a way I could make you listen to reason. It is not as if you were enjoying your time sitting in that chair. Don't you feel you would be better off back home in Montana with the family, instead of having to deal with the insanity on a daily basis, 24/7? I bet you have not had a good night's sleep since the day you took office."

"That does not mean I am just going to shirk my responsibilities that the people of this great, but troubled, nation have bestowed on me when they elected me their President, and not you, Mr. Vice President. If you remember correctly, they rejected you as someone unfit to be the leader of this country. So, what makes you think they will accept you now?"

"Because just like you, Sandra. They do not have a choice, either. So I implore you not to continue down the path of self-destruction, for yours and Derek's sake." Flint pleaded with her a final time, knowing it was useless.

"It will be you who won't have a choice Mr. ex-Vice President. I am going to call a cabinet meeting to address this situation, and you will see who holds the power, here." President Buchannan boldly stood her ground, never knowing how shaky it really was as she reached for the intercom, but paused a moment for Morgan's rebuttal.

"Sandra, you are a fool if you believe that. Real power is never given. It is always taken. I am sorry, Derek. But I am afraid it will be necessary to move on to plan B."

"I understand, sir and completely agree with your assessment. This situation has become untenable." Wincott agreed with Flint as President Buchannan started getting an ominous feeling of foreboding creeping up the back of her neck that made her wonder if she could get to the intercom before something terrible happened.

"Flint, you better think about the consequences of your actions here, today. No matter what happens to me, this is not going to turn out well for you."

"That is where you are deathly mistaken, Madame President. Derek, my most loyal soldier, I will see you after the exaltation, go with God my son."

"And may God always be with you."

As Wincott finished his sentence, he quickly reached inside his jacket a pulled out a revolver. With a solid, steady aim, he shot the President in the head as her eyes widened in fear at her imminent mortal demise. Buchannan's head jerked back from the force of the bullet passing through her skull. It burst out the other side, leaving a blood spattered mess, along with small chunks of brain matter, on the window curtains directly behind her desk.

Wincott had discreetly locked the door when he came in, giving him a moment to remove the SIM card from the burner phone and swallow it. The secret service agents banging on the other side of the door were able to break into the room just as Wincott put the revolver under his chin and pulled the trigger.

ANOTHER INSIGHTFUL INTERLUDE

Well it looks like you are really in the shit now, Smucko. So tell me, what are you going to do about it? Are you just going to sit around on your hands? The time for covering your ass has long since come and gone. Now that you got a real fucking shit-storm coming your way.

What, have you lost your nerve now that it is not only your own ass on the line? You know as well as I do what those savages out there would do to that sweet little thing. It won't matter to them if she's only nine or ten. They will rip into her like a cheetah taking down an antelope.

Hey, don't go getting mad at me. You were the one who wanted to save everyone from going the way of the dinosaurs. So, tell me. What do you think about your big plan now? Would you still do it all over again, or would you just say, fuck it? They are only going to end up getting what they all deserve.

The one thing nobody can say is that you didn't try to warn them all. Not that I am the kind of guy who goes around saying I told you so, just the kind who says what they said they were not going to say.

So what is the difference anyway? We are still pretty much all fucked.

This might be a good time to start rethinking your whole 'I do not need a gun' philosophy. I don't care if you are a natural born killer or just plain psycho. Bullets will still kill you. Then who will be around to protect them. Ryan is a good man and great father, but he is not a warrior. Oh, he can take care of business when needed. His life and death battle with Chico certainly proved that. But it also changed him in a subtle way that I am not even sure he senses.

You always wondered what it would be like facing death head on, full bore balls to wall. Would you fold up into a fetal position crying out for mommy to come save you, or would you go all Tarantino on their asses? I think you know the answer from past experiences with extreme situations of just about any kind. It is when you are usually at your best.

Something just snaps in the back of your mind and the next thing you know you are on autopilot, a real force of nature that at times seems unbound. It is kind of like the way you write. You cannot plan your attack any more than you can outline a story once it takes on a life of its own.

Besides, it is like they say how every boxer has a plan until he gets punched, then everything goes out the window, and you have to get by on pure instinct. It is something you and I have relied on to get by all our lives. Plans are for pussies.

But then again, all the prep work you did shoring up the house, making it a safe and secure environment for that little girl to live, makes me so proud of you. What you did there may turn out to be more important than anything you might have accomplished from people reading The Book of Tomorrows. But once the power grids start to fail, it will be just a matter of time before the barbarians will be pounding at the gates.

Then no one will be safe, anymore.

A U Thor

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

### PRAGMATIC ANARCHIST

1

One has to be practical when waiting for all your hard work to payoff. The more intricate the plan, the more patient you will have to be, especially if it is a plan nearly ten years in the making. Not that you designed it to take that long, but sometimes even the best laid plans can result in anarchy when things take longer than intended, even if anarchy was part of the plan.

In order to achieve your ultimate goal, everything needed to be in perfect alignment. Flint Morgan realized that the moment he lost the 2012 Presidential election to Bharath Baca. So, this time he was not leaving anything to chance. He would wait until he had all his people in place, and ignore the political spin his party regularly used to shine up a turd and call it gold. After a while, they became prone to believing their own press, becoming real susceptible to the same lies the media spin-doctors used to create doubt and controversy where none existed, while also adamantly asserting factual accuracy on topics proven universally false.

Flint Morgan had a vision that the end times would soon be here. His mission was to make sure those chosen for the great exaltation were ready to live like Gods in heaven, while also acting as the Judas Goat ushering all the sinners to the gates of hell to make sure the devil got his due. After having his apocalyptic vision, Morgan re-invented himself as The Architect, and his loyal followers soon worshipped him as a God. The converted believed he would lead them to the Promise Land, winning over more followers than Joseph Smith ever did. He claimed God told him to lead the chosen down the path of fulfillment and to make sure all non-believers suffered for their lack of faith.

Morgan conveniently had his celestial vision shortly after he lost the 2012 election. He had made many clandestine connections with foreign governments around the world through WhiteCliff, the private military contractor he founded. It took longer than expected to get his people in positions of power to make sure everything went according to plan. Morgan needed people with the same devotion and dedication to their common cause that Derek Wincott clearly demonstrated.

As the main financial backer behind The Patriot Party, Morgan was able to build on the racial hatred that had been spewing President Baca's way long before he ever took office. Utilizing the same conservative media machine that convinced him he would win the 2012 election in a landslide, Morgan easily swayed their powers of persuasion. He had them ramp up the tension with fear mongering news broadcasts the poor ignorant masses were normally susceptible to believe.

At the time, the Presidential candidates running for his party's nomination proved to be nothing more than a clown parade of incompetent buffoons. Morgan needed to find someone who the people would embrace as one of their own. He needed someone who was not too bright, but just not dimwitted to the point of becoming the punch line for Late Night talk show hosts. It had to be someone whose every move he could manipulate. That was why Morgan chose Sandra Buchannan to be his Presidential meat puppet. The obscure, but feisty, Governor from Montana fit the bill perfectly.

The Patriot Party was a bogus grassroots movement he assembled from his most loyal followers to help convince Buchannan to run for President. There were very few people from his inner circle who knew his true identity and his ultimate goal. They were people like Derek Wincott, who he assigned one of the most difficult tasks because of his steadfast loyalty from the beginning. It was easy to stir up hatred for President Baca in certain areas of the country, where they all wanted to scream out the one word burning on the edge of their tongues like hot soup, but were afraid they would be branded as the hypocrites and bigots they were. They were the kind of people who went around preaching about the sanctity of life, then go out and a kill doctor performing legal abortions.

Morgan had Wincott convince Buchannan to take extreme measures in preventing Howard Bickle's Special from airing, not only to keep Vanderbrock quiet, but also to stop Howard from reporting that he was The D.C. Insider. Morgan knew Howard was not real The D.C. Insider, since he was Amy's main source from the beginning. She might have gotten too close to the truth if she lived. The information Carter Burke found that sent him into hiding could have made things much more complicated. Inopportunely, somehow Howard Bickle, of all people, got ahold of that information and discovered evidence indicating that somebody was trying to frame Buchannan for being part of the plot to kill President Baca.

Howard never knew who Amy's source was. So when he started blogging as The D.C. Insider, it did not take Morgan too long to figure out whom the new Dread Pirate Roberts was. Shortly before Buchannan's death, a special bi-partisan committee formed to investigate financial irregularities in her campaign for President. There were allegations of ties to a subversive militia group called MADMAN, based in her home state. Just like the special committee, Howard followed the money. But he had help from a source they did not have access to and would never consider if they did.

During his time in the DA's office, Howard not only cozied up to those in law enforcement, but also had occasion to befriend some of those on the flipside of that coin. One of these trusted individuals from the wrong side of the track was an old money launderer named Harvey Gunderson. Howard could never get anything on him to bust him for, but got to know him while working a case involving a typically despicable client of his.

Gunderson had agreed to help Howard take him down as long as no one knew about it. It would be bad for his business and health if some of his other clients ever found out. He was also afraid of what his despicable client might do if he ever disappointed him, being that he was a full-blown psychotic sociopath who threatened Gunderson's life on more than one occasion. Gunderson knew he owed Howard for saving his hide. A debt Howard came to collect after finding the financial records Carter Burke stored on the flashdrive in the safe deposit box Amy left him the key for in her will.

2

"So, what have you got for me, Harvey?"

"You sure you want to be messing around with this kind thing? Let me tell you. This is some pretty heavy shit you had me looking into. I got out just in time before someone could back trace me. So, please take this thing. I do not want anything more to do it." Harvey Gunderson said as he handed Howard the flashdrive.

Twelve days before he decided to air his special show, Howard met Harvey at a Palm Springs resort. Harvey called Howard within twenty-four hours of giving him the flashdrive to see if he could make heads or tails out of it. Howard was more apprehensive than excited about what Harvey would have to say, especially after he made Howard drive all the way out to Palm Springs.

The moment he heard Harvey's voice on the phone, Howard could sense a nervous, paranoid fear. Harvey may not have been some big, tough mob enforcer, but he was no coward, either. A rather short, pudgy man, Harvey Gunderson had a Joe Pesci complex, in the sense that he could be the meanest, toughest guy in the room when someone got on the wrong side of him. He spoke with a slight European accent germane to his native tongue, even though he spent the last fifty-five years out of his sixty-seven on this earth in America.

"Come on, Harvey. I have never known you to flinch at anything before. What has got you acting so cautious?"

"There is enough hard evidence on that flashdrive to not only have President Buchannan impeached, but also thrown behind bars for the rest of her life. And not one person in the country would stand by her or doubt her guilt."

Howard let his friend's words sink in a minute as he slipped the flashdrive in his pocket displaying a bit more caution of his own.

"There is just one thing, Howard. I do not think any of it is legit." Harvey added before Howard responded.

"What, do you think it is fabricated?"

"Not that anyone would ever be able to prove in a court of law. But it is the lack of evidence that can sometimes prove the negative."

"Huh, what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Look, Howard. There are maybe two or three people in the world capable of doing what I am suggesting, not counting me. But that is just the thing. If you are good enough to do this, then you should damn well be good enough to hide it, unless, of course, you want somebody like me to find it."

"You are saying it is the lack of evidence that points to there being a bigger conspiracy. That someone is setting up Buchannan to take the fall. But who could pull something like that off? It has to be someone in her own party to be able to get that close." Howard reduced his list of suspects to a few select people, none of whom seemed to be her enemy.

"I would just be real careful about what you report from now on, Howard. I mean, I think the dumb bitch should never have been a candidate, no less elected. But I still believe we live a democracy, and this is still the land of the free, where you do not always have to agree with who is in charge. That is what makes America a great country. I would sure hate to think that was no longer so."

"I completely understand where you are coming from, Harvey. I have been having my own doubts lately, wondering if it is going stay that way. People are willing to use extreme measures when they feel righteous in their cause."

"You know what the real scary shit here is? Whoever designed this whole intricate plot, if that is what's going on, had to be planning it for quite some time. You cannot rule out the possibility that somebody has orchestrated everything that has happened since, and including, the Gaza Strip bombing."

"You are certainly right about one thing. That is a real scary thought. But who would even be capable of manipulating foreign governments to work with us, some of who are our sworn enemies, while also having the political power to influence a Presidential election at the same time? Who has that kind of clout?" Howard wondered.

"All's I know, to be on the safe side, I am taking a long vacation, right here. I do not even plan on looking at another computer screen for the next few weeks, maybe months. If I were you Howard, I would throw that flashdrive in the Pacific on your way back to Frisco." Harvey advised Howard.

"Now, you know I cannot do that. I do not know what I am going to do just yet. But I refuse to be a pawn in anyone's game. So I am not going to air information that might do more harm than good. I knew it was to be too good to be true. Buchannan's barely smart enough to balance her checkbook. She could never conceive, plan, and implement anything this intricately detailed. She has to be just what the lack of evidence is telling you she is—a pasty."

"Yeah, but who's?"

3

After leaving Gunderson, Howard drove back to San Francisco with the sneaking suspicion someone was following him. He could not be sure. He even thought there might be more than one car shadowing his movements. Howard decided to open a safe deposit box in a bank he did not have an account. He also stopped by a lawyer's office, again someone unknown to him—not that he didn't trust his lawyer, but figured it would be the first place someone would look. He needed him to draft up a document as to who should get the safe deposit box key in case of his sudden demise.

Howard had to think long and hard about that one. There were not many people he explicitly trusted, and those that he did he did not want to get involve. Now that he thought about it, he did not have many close friends, except for Amy. She was the only one he knew he could confide in and be assured she would know how to handle the information. Most of his colleagues were just that, colleagues, work friend's, not the kind of people he would share confidential information or take slow walks with down the beach. He could say the same thing about most of the women he was intimate with throughout his life, except again for Amy, along with his deceased wife.

He never wanted to tie himself down in one place for too long. The world moved too fast to stand still and just smell the roses, especially if you wanted to keep on smelling them in the future. Howard did not believe it was everybody's duty to fight for a righteous cause. But if you had the ability to do something that could make a difference and sat around doing nothing, then you were just being a part of the problem by not being part of the solution.

In the end, that logic led to his decision about whom he could trust with the information. It was someone who could do something about it without getting hurt—former President and Vice President Jim Burden.

Howard and Burden remained on friendly terms after Burden appeared on his show with Flint Morgan. He never gave Flint Morgan much thought after that day, at least not until he accepted when Sandra Buchannan asked him to be her running mate. Morgan said he would not run in 2016, but then again, he never said anything about not being Vice President. It struck Howard odd at first. Then he heard from some reliable sources from the other side of the aisle that it was a special condition for granting her the party's nomination, with some fearing she was not well versed in foreign affairs, among other things.

Howard asked Burden to be a guest on his show after he lost the 2016 election—mostly from being unwilling to declare war on Middle East countries without actionable proof. Howard wanted to talk to him about everything that had happened in the country since the Gaza Strip bombing, which was not exactly an accurate description of events since no one actually dropped a bomb.

The Strip was the bomb, well at least buried beneath it was. For a long time—some say up to fifty years before that now second horrific day on 9/11—one of the warring factions, fighting for control of that strip of desert for the past sixty years, buried the nuclear bomb deep beneath the sand. It was a sort of doomsday device. In others words, if they could not have it than no one would.

The threat of mutually assured destruction was a popular military tactic used during the Cold War. But like in Stanley Kubrick's 1964 masterpiece of dark comedy, _Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learn to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb_ , you have to tell somebody about it or else it defeats the purpose. No one ever took credit for detonating it or burying it in the first place, which was one of the reasons Burden was reluctant to act on specious evidence. No one claimed responsibility or made any demands when it was over. Most rebel groups would want to take credit for making such a bold statement, even if they had to become martyrs for their cause.

Burden declined to appear on Howard's show back then, but now wanted to speak with him in person. So when Howard got the call from him the day after he met with Gunderson, they scheduled a meeting at the former President's home.

4

Burden was waiting out front wearing a golf outfit and standing next to a golf cart when Howard pulled around the driveway of the large palatial estate, equipped with its own golf course and Helipad.

"Are you up for a few rounds, Howard? It certainly is a lovely day for it." Burden asked Howard as he got out of his car.

"Yeah, I could go for some of the great outdoors about now." Howard agreed.

"So, how are you, old friend? Are you still keeping your nose to ground?" Burden asked Howard as they both got in a golf cart. Burden did his own driving, while his Secret Service protection detail followed behind in a second cart.

Burden often felt the lifetime protection detail was an unnecessary measure in his case. When in office, he received death threats on a daily basis. But there was not even one attempt made on his life while President or since he left politics. Some members of his party were trying to convince to run against Buchannan in 2020, although he remained very reluctant to the notion.

Like many former Presidents who left office under unfavorable conditions and criticisms, Burden was also able to polish up his image through his humanitarian aid work in this country and overseas. While on the other hand, President Buchannan's initial success with troop surges against our enemies most fortified defenses turned into another quagmire after the fighting was over. The insurgents dug in for the long haul and their planned blitz attacks, along with lining the roads with IED's, made it a hard road to travel.

"You know, Howard, I have been meaning to get your opinion on something I am not sure I even want."

"They have asked you to accept your party's nomination for President, haven't they?"

"How did you know? I was told they were keeping it all hush-hush."

"I have my sources, but this is really more of a gut instinct. There is that, and they do not have anyone left who wants to run, especially knowing the big mess Buchannan is going to leave behind."

"From what I understand, it will not be pretty. Of course, that should be an argument for having someone more competent in office. Or we might become a third world nation, if we are not careful."

"On the bright side, by then, every other country will be a fifth world nation." Howard injected a little levity into the conversation.

"So, seriously, Howard, what do you think? I am not sure if I can put up with all the politics. I have always been fine with doing the job. That is why I got into public office in the first place. I wanted to change things for the better."

"Well, after you hear what I am going to ask of you, you might want to go live in a nice cozy igloo up at the North Pole, considering all heat that is going to be generating around here, if I am right about this."

"Why, what have you found out, Howard?" Burden asked as he stopped at the first hole.

"I am not sure I should say. I cannot prove what I think is true, and I cannot disprove what I think is false. I really just want to ask you for a favor." Howard said as they stepped out of the cart. "Would you be okay with receiving a package in the mail in case of my sudden demise? What you did with it after that would be up to you."

"It all sounds so cloak and dagger, Howard. Are you planning on doing something that you think might get you killed?"

"I am going to air a Special Show on 9/11, which is when I plan on revealing to the world that I took the place of the original D.C. Insider, who died along with many others in Gaza City, and that I have uncovered evidence of a conspiracy so staggering, I dared to wonder if I should even report it." Howard confessed his role as a part time rebel blogger.

Burden did not seem too surprised that Howard was the infamous D.C. Insider, or at least he was now. He knew it had to be someone with Howard's background and political views, but wrote him off as a suspect, which of course turned out to be right back then. Now was a different story, though.

"Well, I'll be damned. You old son of a gun, I should have known you had some influence on those stories. So, who was the real D.C. Insider?" Burden asked like a kid wanting to know a big secret.

"Amy Carlson," Howard said, figuring there would not be any harm in telling him, considering he planned on revealing it to the world in two weeks.

"I will be damned." Burden repeated his shocked sentiment. "But how did you know it was her?"

Burden did not need an answer as he noticed the slight blush of Howard's cheeks upon having fond memories of his time with Amy.

"Oh, I probably should have guessed that one, too."

Burden was well aware of Howard's reputation with the Ladies, and most times, he was in awe of him because of it. He did not know where Howard got the energy. Hell, he was only a few years older than Howard was, and he would be plumb tuckered out most nights by nine o'clock. But Burden also sensed she meant more to him than the normal one-night-stands he usually had.

"You know I will do whatever I can, Howard. But try to be careful where you step or on whose toes you land. There are some people out there who leave behind some awfully big footprints when they pass by. So, do not get someone's boot up jammed up your ass, while trying to get them to stick their foot in their mouth."

"I always do my best to keep them on their toes, Jim. That is why I am having three anonymous guests on that night, all from undisclosed locations, only I will be one of them. One of the other two I have not heard back from yet, but I am sure he will welcome the opportunity. He is someone calling himself The Author. He wrote an incredibly insightful novel about saving our future tomorrows. You should check it out. It's published on his website and available to read for free. My other guest claims to have a big story of his own. But he would not go into details. He seems a little paranoid, but his credentials are solid, though. He calls himself The Environmentalist."

"Sounds like quite a line-up you got there, Howard. Although, I am sure your last guest will be the one having his sanity questioned by the end of the night."

"Let's just hope that is all they do." Howard added as Burden stepped up to a golf ball with his driver and took a big swing.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

### CART BEFORE THE HORSE

1

Sitting alone for hours down in the damp and dark of his lab hidden deep beneath the streets of New York City, Alan Vanderbrock found it hard to move, feeling locked in a hazy daze of mass confusion. It did not take too long to figure out what had happened after he lost the satellite feed connecting him to Howard's studio, just not how or why.

The internet was all a buzz with reports about a giant explosion at Howard's San Francisco PBS studio. Everyone with a news feed, blog site, and twitter account volunteered opinions, whether asked for or not.

The cause of the explosion was the subject of much debate. There were reports claiming someone planted a bomb in the basement. Others decided against running wild conspiracy theories and stuck to the more tangible possibilities of a gas leak or a boiler room explosion. However, the most popular theory by far was a drone strike. There were even some eyewitness statements saying they saw something streaking through the sky hit the building.

Who was responsible and why they did it (if not some misfortunate accident) became a widely discussed topic. The question of who was normally found lying somewhere hidden in the reason why. There had to be quite a few people in positions of power who might not want Howard's Special Show to go on. But as to who could launch a drone strike on American soil, there was only one suspect.

Alan had his own suspicions, which he felt more confident about after the crime scene unit confirmed the explosion was indeed the result of a drone strike. Truly believing, if certain people knew he was the guest calling himself The Environmentalist, he would have been the intended target. But since no one could get a fix on his location, the next best target was Howard's studio. Alan also realized that their prime objective was most likely to eliminate The D.C. Insider, whoever that was.

Like most everyone else, Alan did not think The Author would have made it onto anyone's hit list. After all, he was not some investigative journalist, who would be the most logical target. Before the transmission abruptly ended, Alan could have sworn he heard a familiar ring to The Author's words. They sounded like something he read or heard somewhere, but could not quite place where or when. Not until he visited The Author's website and read The Book of Tomorrows.

As it turned out, Alan Vanderbrock was one of the few people who actually read Michael Carducci's novel When You See After Dark, which also served as sort of a prelude to The Book of Tomorrows. They were both works of fiction, and the main characters were also writers. So, it was not too hard to figure out that Michael Carducci wrote both books. They contained similar themes, plus there was one particular passage from Chapter Six in When You See After Dark that if The Author and Michael Carducci were not the same person, then he plagiarized Carducci's work when he was talking about how Words Kill.

Carducci's book was a semi-autobiographical dramatization of his life that Alan happened upon a copy of purely by chance. Or maybe it was some sort of karmic moment of purpose. Only, Alan did not put much stock in superstitions about destiny or fate. He placed his faith in tangible realities. Carducci claimed his novel to be partly truth and partly fiction, but changed the names to protect the guilty, because there were no innocents. At least that was how Carducci put it. So in order to continue his dramatized story into the future, he modeled The Author after his previous fictional self, to serve as his alter ego, yet again. He developed his story by simply wondering what might happen if someone found his first book after the fall of civilization and used it to rebuild the world based on science and knowledge instead of on myths and legends.

Alan was not sure if Carducci ever thought anyone would connect his previous work to his new novel. Considering, he published The Book of Tomorrows on his website under The Author. Either that or he did not care if someone put two and two together. However, his first novel was nowhere near as controversial as his new one was. He hit on some hot button issues known to incite some people to express their moral outrage with bullets instead of words.

The Author's Five Key Principles for Survival could be enough to get him on someone's hit list. He might earn the ire of some Second Amendment gun-nuts, along with religious fanatics, prolife-extremist, militia-minded patriots, corporate power players, and right wing conservatives all calling for his blood. There was enough inciting material contained within the pages of The Book of Tomorrows to make the threats leveled at Salman Rushdie after he wrote The Satanic Verses pale in comparison to what The Author might receive. Not that he seemed unaware of the potential consequences his words might have on others, even going so far as to saying if someone did not threaten his life or even try to kill, then he did not do his job.

Alan understood that kind of passion. He could relate it to his own at one time. But now, he felt weakened from the weight of something The Author mentioned that was affecting millions of people on a daily basis. A new psychological disorder he called BLS—Battered Life Syndrome. He said it knows no prejudice and infects all people regardless of age, race, size, gender, wealth, or religion.

While Alan thought The Author was brave for what he was attempting to do, he did not think he had the means to get his written words out there so the people would at least have the chance to hear them. No matter how important or imperative your message was, it did not do anybody any good if no one heard it.

People never wanted to believe the worse, and always hoped for the best. Alan tried to remain positive. Yet, he could only come up with extreme measures to stop us from destroying ourselves, ones he could not even comprehend anyone implementing. Until people started dying, that is.

2

The first confirmed case of the virus dubbed STARS (Symptomatically Transmitted Respiratory Syndrome) popped up in Africa in early May of 2020. It started in Uganda, before moving on to the Sudan, Rwanda, Kenya, Ethiopia, Somalia, and eventually the entire continent. Barely making the news, the STARS virus appeared to be just another strain of influenza. No one took it too seriously at the time. The only note of concern was the high mortality of those infected with it. Out of the first three hundred-recorded cases, two hundred-ninety-five patients expired from the illness.

It was not until it began to spread to other countries, or started popping up in other places far removed from the source, that people around the world began to take notice. There was no discernable pattern. It infected everyone without prejudice—young and old, male and female, rich and poor, big and small, tall and short, along with any race, nationality, or religious faith.

Medical experts determined that it was an air born pathogen, easily spread by a single cough or sneeze on a crowded bus, subway train, or in a movie theater. Normal flu vaccines had an adverse effect on the infected. It killed them. Most normal flu medicines and antibiotics had the same effect. By the time it reached the United States in July of 2020, the Center for Disease Control (CDC) stepped in, but could not find a cure or a way to prevent it from spreading.

Soon, most everyone around the world was walking around wearing surgical masks wherever they went. The mortality rate was an extremely high ninety to ninety-five percent. The only common denominator was that everyone who died from STARS either smoked cigarettes, drank alcohol, used hard drugs (excluding marijuana, which actually helped reduce the fever in some cases), or unhealthy people already in poor physical shape. About ten to fifteen percent of the United States population was immune to the virus.

Alan Vanderbrock was not sure where the STARS virus came from at first. Since it started out in Africa, he did not think about his virus that the government tricked him into making for them. It was only after STARS found its way to America that Alan was able to piece things together, realizing it was his creation killing all those people around the world. Many countries in Africa were in the midst of a major pandemic not seen since the Spanish Flu wiped out nearly one fifth of the world's population between 1918 and 1920.

Six weeks before the 2020 election, Alan felt his suspicions confirmed when President Morgan invoked Executive Orders, using his powers of office to suspend the Presidential election, the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights, indefinitely. He declared Marshall Law in major cities throughout the country that were in the midst of the pandemic sweeping over the globe. Afterwards, President Morgan quarantined the infected and relocated them into the same FEMA camps that President Baca's strongest critics always said he would do one day. Then Alan figured out how the virus was spreading so quickly. It was an intentional act done with malice of forethought.

Devastated by the knowledge that he could be responsible for such atrocities, Alan refused to give up and decided to strike back anyway he could. Alan figured that Morgan and his people must have come up with an antidote to release the virus on the public so brazenly, being that it was an air born disease that spread very easily. He thought they must have taken precautions against having their own bug bite back. They might be morally bankrupt individuals, but they were not insane. At least not in the cuckoo for coco puffs kind of way.

3

The heavy banging on the steel door grew louder and more forceful with a persistent determination that would not relent until being able to break on through to the other side. Not satisfied with the effort applied so far, several gunshots rang out, ricocheting off the steel door, quickly followed by more hard thudding thumps. It sounded like something powerful was trying to ram through the door, which shook in its frame, but still remained in place.

Inside the room, Alan Vanderbrock was thankful for his fortuitously assigned private laboratory that could have just as easily gone to Dr. Lamar, Dr. Patel, or even Dr. Wong. He had stumbled upon a hidden service elevator behind what he thought were closet doors. It had been inoperable for many years, but that was not what took him by surprise in a most unexpected way.

Stepping in the elevator with its doors open and carriage stuck in place, Dr. Vanderbrock remembered upon his first inspection of oddly located elevator the even stranger discovery he accidently made when a trapdoor in the floor opened up. It sent him sliding down a long tunnel chute, where he eventually popped out of a wall vent and onto a mattress.

Alan did not know who made the hidden emergency exit (thinking it could not be used for any other purpose), but found it even harder believe where he landed was a place to which he had family ties. Thinking, the whole setup must be something one of his ancestors constructed from back when they owned property at Rockefeller Center. It was a long, old story his family still lamented on back when he was a young boy, claiming someone cheated their family out of a great fortune. He did not know what purpose the elaborate passageway once served, but Alan decided that he might have occasion to put it to good use one day, if necessary. Now that day had finally come. Alan hurried to escape through his hidden exit just as the steel door finally gave in from the forceful blows.

After successfully managing to sneak back into the secret government laboratory undetected, Alan knew if someone discovered his presence, he could make a mad dash for his old lab. The only problem, what he needed was located in a more exposed area of the lab that he would have to enter to retrieve it.

Alan needed to find a genetically engineered sample of his virus. The one that Dr. Lamar was working on when they were all told to take a vacation. He felt it would be too late to stop the madness from taking over if he did not do something to prevent the virus from spreading. It must be what Morgan wanted in the first place. But why would he do something so horrific. Was he trying to bring about the end of the world? You never can tell what some warped minds were capable of doing if given the opportunity to revel in their madness.

Alan attempted to make a vaccine from the sample of his virus, but someone had genetically modified it, making it air born and easier to spread. His original virus only spread by direct contact with an infected person's blood or sweat. Alan needed to find a sample of the mutated STARS virus in order to create a vaccine.

Willing to go to any extremes necessary to prevent the coming holocaust he helped create, Alan knew the only way to test his vaccine would be on someone infected with the virus. Since he was unwilling to use it on any humans, he decided to be his own Guinea Pig, which meant he would have to infect himself. It did not matter to him anymore if he survived the test. He could not face going on in a world he felt responsible for destroying. Either way it turned out, Alan planned on punching his own ticket when over. But he wanted to make sure he left something behind to let the people know who was truly responsible for the end of civilization.

Time was running short. It appeared the STARS virus seeped into the New York City atmosphere to the point where there was no safe place to hide from it. Alan knew if they caught him trying to gain access to the lab, he would disappear and probably never be heard from, again. Although, getting inside was nowhere near as difficult as he imagined.

It seemed that the beast had attacked its master and bit him right on the ass. It worried Alan that he was able to gain access so easily. More than if he came in with guns a-blazing. It kind of went against his theory that they had created a vaccine to prevent them from contracting the virus along with everyone else around the world. Alan also figured anyone callously coldblooded enough to release this pestilence on an unsuspecting world probably did not care too much about a few underlings.

Once inside the secret government facility he worked at for over two years, Alan started to get really nervous by what he found. They had sealed off the main entrance and appeared to have abandoned the place. Moving around the big empty structure gave him the creeps. Although he saw no signs of life, he could sense another presence, which made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

Making his way over to Jasper's lab, Alan found what he came for in a little refrigerator, but there was only one sample left. After putting the sample tube in his lab coat pocket he wore to blend in, Alan thought he would just be able to leave the way he came, being that there was no one to stop him. Or so he thought.

Exiting Dr. Lamar's lab, Alan heard a strange shuffling noise moving toward him from around the corner. He poked his head out to see what it was, never even wondering why the power to the seemingly abandoned facility was still on for him to see what he saw. Dr. Lisa Wong was slowly moving down the hallway toward him, leaning against the wall for support. Her clothing was torn and shambled as she limped along on what was obviously a badly broken left foot, lying on its side in a grotesquely unnatural position.

Caught in a shocked repulsion for a moment, Alan could not see her eyes, or else he would never have spoken her name out loud. "Lisa, oh my god, what happened to you?"

When she looked up, Alan's horrified reaction told him he should never have come back here. Lisa eyes were not only bloodshot red, but they were actually dripping blood, along with her ears and nose. The moment she sensed Alan presence, Lisa sprang on him like a rabid dog, trying to bite and claw at him with a savage fury.

Alan lost his balance, unprepared for the sudden attack. He fell backwards as Lisa landed on top of him, scratching and clawing. She was able to bite a good chunk out of his right arm when he put it up to defend himself. Managing to throw her off of him and get back to his feet, Alan's horror story turned into a full blown gothic tale of terror. Over a dozen more lab technicians and doctors, infected by whatever strain of the STARS virus turned Lisa into this monstrous creature, came around the corner and started chasing after him.

Running down hallway corridors, Alan came to a glass door used to separate certain lab sections in order to contain whatever hazardous materials they were working with at the time. Using the retinal scanner, he managed to gain access to the other side just before the savage hoard could reach him. Sealing the glass door shut, Alan thought he heard something coming from behind the chaotic rampage of diseased minds chasing him. It sounded like a large group moving forward in a mechanically methodical manner.

Alan's attackers soon found themselves becoming the victims of a vicious assault that might not be as savage in nature as their frenzied attack, but carried out with a ruthlessly extreme prejudice. Even though they were already half dead, Alan still sensed the fear of death coming from them as a giant blazing flame blasted down the hallway, engulfing them in a firestorm.

Lingering for a moment, Alan knew he should be going as quickly as he could. Then he saw Lisa's face pressed up against the glass, with her bleeding eyes pleading out to him just before the inferno engulfed her. He felt great sorrow and pity for her terrible end. As her charred body fell to the floor and the smoke began to clear, Alan could see who was exterminating his ex-colleagues. Thrown off by their Hazmat suits at first, he looked bewildered by the men on the other side of the glass holding flamethrowers.

Upon seeing Alan, they tried to turn him into a human torch like Johnny Storm of the Fantastic Four. But luckily, the glass prevented the flames from reaching him. Knowing they were not going to give up that easily, Alan took off down the hallway toward his old lab.

4

Landing on the mattress on the floor for only the second time since discovering the unique escape route, Alan did not think the men in the Hazmat suits would be able to follow him if they tried. But it didn't matter if they did. The moment Lisa bit him, he knew he would contract the same disease, and he was not going to wait around for that to happen. There was just one thing he wanted to do first, hoping he had enough time before succumbing to his infliction.

Alan brought a tripod and video camera with him to stream a live video telling everyone how the government betrayed them. He also brought one other item he never used before and hoped he never would. Sadly, he no longer had a choice in the matter. Taking out the .38 caliber snub nose revolver, Alan fiddled around with it a moment before he was able to open the chamber to load in a round. He figured he would only need one.

The video camera he was using had a Wi-Fi connection. Alan was not sure if the internet would be working, but luck was on his side with many signals to bounce off in the city. Setting up the tripod in the corner, with a chair placed in front of it, Alan turned on the camera and secured the live feed to stream his video on.

Sitting down, he began his story.

"Today is the sixth of May 2021, and I am Dr. Alan Vanderbrock VI Ph.D. I am coming to you live from the same undisclosed location I would have a year and a half ago as The Environmentalist on Howard Bickle's Special Report. But that broadcast abruptly ended after President Buchannan launched a drone strike on Howard's San Francisco PBS studio to prevent me, and others, from revealing the truth about how our government has betrayed each and every one of us with their campaign of lies and deceit. And I am here to tell you that I am not going to take it anymore. I am going to tell you all the truth, the truth they do not want you to hear. But they cannot stop me, now."

Alan paused for moment, feeling a little lightheaded. A heavy sweat started forming on his brow as his breathing became harder. He did not have much time left and needed to finish before it was too late.

"I...we have all been betrayed by our government. This...this pestilence plaguing the land is my fault. I...I was tricked, fooled by the ones at the top. I should have never listened to their lies. I am to blame, I didn't mean for...I did not want this...I thought I was doing good...but found out I could not escape the burden my family name has carried since the birth of this country. I just want everyone to know how...how very sorry I am."

Alan started coughing and spitting up blood in his hand, which he just looked at in a dumbfounded manner.

"I do not have much time left. Just remember, we were all betrayed by our government and President Buchannan...no wait...not her, the other one...Baca...no...no not him. It is the other one...who is the real snake in the grass..."

Starting to cough, uncontrollably, Alan removed the pistol from his jacket pocket and held it up as he leaned his head against the barrel a moment, almost as if to introduce himself to the gun. Rubbing the barrel against his temple, Alan looked directly at the camera as he cocked the hammer, clicking it into place.

"I cannot go on any longer. I screwed up, again. I have ended my life by trying to find a cure for this disease I created. While I am responsible, I am not the only one. Do not trust those in charge. Do not believe their lies. Do not come to the same miserable end I have."

With his last words, Alan placed the cocked gun under his chin and pulled the trigger.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

### A SAVAGE INTELLECT

1

Sitting in front of a lit fireplace, on two lounge chairs, with a round coffee table in between them, Jim Burden poured another drink for his longtime friend Malcom Floyd and one for himself. The thirty-year-old Scotch flowed out in a steady stream, filling the whisky glass halfway. Burden set the Scotch bottle down and picked up the water pitcher next to it as he topped off his own and his friend's glass.

Malcom had been head of Burden's Secret Service protection detachment ever since Bharath Baca tasked Burden with being his running mate in 2012. Now in his mid-sixties and retired for almost five years, Malcom had remained good friends with Burden. A big, tough black man, Malcom was an ex-marine who joined the Secret Service during the Clinton administration. A highly intelligent man, he had a brilliant, analytical mind. It was one of the reasons Burden called him over that day. He wanted his advice on a rather thorny conclusion he came to that he felt long past doing something about it.

Burden's wife, Jenny, passed away last Christmas, and he'd been thinking hard and long about what he could do to honor her memory. Devastated by the loss on the inside, Burden imparted a serene composure on the outside, knowing how he would need to stay strong for the difficult road ahead. His beloved Jenny had won her long battle against breast cancer, only to succumb to the STARS virus a few months later. Burden took some comfort in knowing that she would not be around to see what a big mess the world had become. It would have broken her gentle heart.

Malcom and Burden raised their glasses for a toast to lost loved ones.

"To God, country, friendship, and love eternal, the best things to help us triumph over all of the trials and tribulations we suffer in this life."

"Amen, to that, my brother. And please, accept my deepest condolences on the loss of your lovely Jenny."

They tapped their glasses together with a crystal ding ringing out before they drank.

"You know, Malcom. I thought after beating the cancer she would have smacked that Grim Reaper right in the kisser if he had the balls to come calling on her so soon, again. But this damn STARS virus just wiped out whatever strength she had left."

It had been over a year and a half since Burden received the safe deposit box key after Howard's untimely death. Arriving in a letter two week after his funeral service, Burden wasn't sure what to do with the information he found on the flashdrive. He did not have the necessary proof to file charges or even start an investigation into the matter. That was when Burden decided to accept his party's nomination to run for President in 2020, believing he would be able to accomplish much more in office. But Morgan was not going away quietly.

In March of 2020, President Morgan sent a slew of Good Will Ambassadors around the world to try to negotiate mutual peace agreements among the warring nations doing battle all over the globe. It turned out that Morgan had a much darker plan up his sleeve. It was something to fiendish to conceive, no less implement.

When the STARS virus first made it to the United States in the middle of July 2020, Burden's wife was just getting over her breast cancer. So, Burden was not too upset when Morgan invoked special powers through Executive Orders that not only suspended the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, but the Presidential election in November as well. Jenny came down with the STARS virus just before Thanksgiving and was dead by Christmas. Burden spent the past four months in mourning. He felt that somehow, some way, Morgan was responsible for all this death and destruction, but was helpless to stop him from getting away with it.

"You might say that we are all in a fight for our lives. This country has become a very dark place, along with the rest of the world. I just cannot help feeling at fault somehow. I should have done something sooner, anything. I don't know what, but somebody needs to make a stand. We are no longer looked upon as a world leader."

"We can change that back, Jim. You can count on me to do anything I can to help restore our country's reputation as a great nation once more."

"Thank you, Malcom. I always knew I could count on your support when tough decisions had to be made."

"Just name it, Jim, and consider it done."

Just then, Agent Dean Campbell, the current head of Burden's Secret Service protection, came rushing into the office/den with a CPU notepad in his hand.

"Excuse me, sir. You need to see this." Campbell said as he walked over to where Burden and Malcom were sitting. "It is a suicide video of one of the guests who would have been on Howard Bickle's Special that President Buchannan ordered the drone strike against. He was the one calling himself The Environmentalist. The video has gone viral. It is all over the place. I do feel I should warn you, sir. It is quite graphic."

"Do you mean to tell me this is some kind of snuff film you want to show me? Now, what makes you think I would want to see something like that?" Burden asked incredulously wondering.

"I am sorry, sir. I did not mean to offend you, but it is not his suicide I think you will want to see. It is what he has to say before then I think will really pique your interest, sir." Campbell explained his reasoning for showing Burden something he knew would only anger him.

Burden was a real straight arrow and could not stand pornography in any form. It was bad enough before the internet turned anyone with a webcam into a porn star. The depravity available today was a smorgasbord of filth. But a snuff film that was a whole other animal, one that could get someone thrown in jail just for purchasing one.

Many people in the country were calling for the legalization of prostitution across the nation, just so that Sin City wouldn't have all the fun. Burden was adamantly against it. Prostitution was not the socially acceptable activity that Marijuana had become. Weed was now a forgivable vice. After proving false the hypocrisy of lies over the years, spread by people like newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst and Harry J. Anslinger—the first commissioner of the Federal Bureau of Narcotics—people gladly embraced the herbal remedy.

Nobody needed to come up with any fake propaganda campaign slogans to make people aware of what an immoral act the selling of flesh was. There was no need to use any Reefer Madness film as a scare tactic to convince the average person that getting paid for sex was wrong—even it was the oldest profession.

Watching Vanderbrock's suicide confession, which was exactly how it played out to most people, Burden and Malcom would have come away with a similar outlook, if they were not aware of some inside information the public did not know. They listened closely to hear what they believed Vanderbrock was trying to say. It was obvious his deteriorating physical condition was hindering his efforts to express himself more clearly, so he could expose the true culprit behind all this death and destruction.

"If you want, I can stop the playback before you-know-what-happens." Campbell suggested, knowing once Burden saw it, the image would live in the back of his mind for the rest of his life.

"No, that is okay, Dean. In for a penny in for a pound, as my granddaddy always said." Burden quoted the old philosophy, but after viewing Vanderbrock's final moment, he wished he thought of different one that did not cement the memory in his brain.

"Well, if I was not completely convinced before, I am now. There is certainly no room for any more doubt." Burden stated his reinforced conviction to go ahead with his desperate plan that required the unwitting cooperation of those they were trying to depose, one of whom just so happened to be the leader of the nation.

2

Six months after Alan's suicide confession, Jim Burden went to the White House to discuss reinstating the electoral process, the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights. Burden did not believe for a second that Morgan would just willingly give up his authority. It was the one thing hardly anyone ever gave up without a fight.

Burden was one of the few people in the country who knew what Vanderbrock was trying to say. Only, Alan was unable to compose himself long enough not to sound like some mad scientist. Many people just accepted their initial impression as true, without ever trying to dig deeper into the distraught mind at the end of his rope. Of course, if people had bothered to take the time to think about it, they would clearly see that Vanderbrock may very well have created the virus, but he did not have the means to disperse it all over the planet. That would take someone with great power. The kind of person capable of sending out Good Will Ambassadors to our foreign allies and foes to see who was open to a dialogue on peace talks.

By June of 2021, the STARS virus killed nearly half a billion people around the world. Burden decided he would use whatever means necessary to stop Morgan from whatever delusional master plan he had.

Determined to reduce the collateral damage his desperate plan would surely leave behind, Burden tried to get Dean Campbell to stay away that day. He had no need for a Secret Service agent to watch his back while at the White House. It was the first time since taking over Malcom Floyd's old position Campbell disobeyed a direct order. Burden was not going to give up so easy, though.

"Oh, goddam it, Dean, I left my glasses back at the hotel. Please go back and retrieve them for me. I am sure there is no reason to worry about my security while you are gone, considering where we are." Burden said as they headed up to the White House front door.

"Mr. Burden, sir. Are you sure? Do you think you will need them in there? I am not sure I will be back in time for them to do you any good. I might be able to assist you better from here." Campbell said as he tried to worm his way out of leaving, but this was one line Burden was definitely going to leave casted out.

"No, I'll be fine. It is okay if you do not get back before we get started. I just feel naked without them. For the life of me, I cannot figure out how I could have left them behind. Must have a lot on my mind." Burden feigned some senility to hide his real reason for sending away the young man he had grown to look on as the son he never had.

Not wanting to raise any suspicions, Campbell reluctantly gave in to Burden request.

"Alright, sir, I will see if I cannot get back before things get started."

Burden felt no need for concern over Campbell's resolute determination to be back on time, knowing he would never make it with all the traffic he had to fight to get there and back.

Much in the same manner Morgan's Vice Presidency served as a condition for securing the nomination for Sandra Buchannan, Burden had played a similar role in Bharath Baca's bid for office. Just not over the same concerns pertaining to Buchannan's lack of experience or near total ignorance of how the government worked.

Baca was a Rhodes Scholar and a graduate of Harvard law, which he never practiced in the traditional sense. He was a born politician. Bharath Baca always knew how to talk to people in a way they could relate to, even though the conservative media called him an elitist. They even belittled his humanitarian contributions to society when working as a community organizer before getting into politics.

The only concern his party had in relation to nominating him was his inexperience with foreign policy, something tenuously hanging by a tread from the actions of previous administrations. Baca's predecessors left him with quite a mess at home and abroad, which he would need all the help he could get to clean up. Tapping Burden as his running mate gave them the security blanket of knowing there would be someone with Burden extensive foreign policy credentials. His time spent travelling around the world as a U.S. Ambassador made him the perfect choice, having dealt with foreign dignitaries on a daily basis.

Dubbed a dove for his inaction after the Gaza Strip bombing, Burden was more of an analytical, tactful diplomat, not given into creating adversarial relationships with those he disagreed with on matters of policy. Not a confrontational man, he was one of the few American politicians the leaders of many foreign nations still trusted, some of who knew he was good to his word and would never be false to any man—or woman. So when coming up with his desperate, last resort plan to stop Morgan from destroying what was left of the country he loved, Burden had to utilize his influence with certain foreign leaders.

If the facts ever became public, they would brand him a traitor to his country for what he was attempting to do. Burden felt the only way to beat the enemy from within was by recruiting those foreign enemies from without. The enemy of my enemy is my friend sort of thinking.

Using his influence with certain foreign leaders eager to help bring down the capitalistic beast consuming the whole world, Burden requested that he negotiate terms for a peaceful resolution to the conflict between America and several Middle-East countries. Morgan went along with Burden, figuring he could buy more time for his people to get ready to receive the Great Exaltation from the Lord, while leaving all of the sinners behind to burn in the fires of hell—basically what would be left of Los Angles.

Morgan needed to buy some time to help calm down the manic hysteria infecting many major cities under quarantine. The government had relocated the sick and indigent into FEMA emergency hospitals and housing. There had been a series of uncontrollable riots sweeping through several major cities and suburbs. The people under quarantine fought back, unwilling to leave their families and homes. Morgan had to invoke Marshall Law to keep order and prevent total anarchy from sweeping over the land.

By then, many people were dying and did not have the strength left to resist, but those who could chose to fight back with everything they had, with their rallying call, _Live Free Or Die Trying,_ ringing out to any rebellious dissident unwilling to give up.

Entering the White House front lobby, Burden felt a strong patriotic pride well up inside him as he passed through those grand old doors. The last two administrations may have sullied the White House's reputation, but Burden thought if his mission was a success here today, he just might be able to restore some of that old luster for future generations, even if it meant blasting the venerated old building off its foundation. He felt it was his duty as a loyal American to defend this country from any form of tyranny or hostile powers from abroad or at home. It was an oath he swore to keep to his death, if necessary. Which now looked like it would be the case.

3

Khalid Al Sawari had waited patiently for many years for this time to come. It had been such a long wait. But now that it was finally here, he would not fail to do his duty to Allah and strike down with furious anger all those infidels responsible for poisoning his homeland with so much death and destruction. The one thing he never would have expected was that he would be working alongside his enemies to achieve that goal.

It was almost too good to be true. But Khalid could not dismiss the possibility that the American might actually be on the level. There were countless skeptics among his people about the offer that had come from one of the very few Americans they still respected and trusted, leaving him room to hope. The former President always treated the Muslim people with respect, no matter what office he held, if any.

Leaving office with some of the lowest approval ratings of any President (until Buchannan got in office, that is), Burden's image with the American people was severely tarnished. However, many people in the Middle-East praised him for not jumping to conclusions after the Gaza Strip bombing, when everyone else in the country and around the world was screaming for blood. Burden was not the reactionary leader Buchannan was and well respected for being levelheaded in times of crisis. He refused to give in to the blood lust for vengeance the people craved so badly, which ended up costing him the election.

Even so, Khalid found it hard to believe Burden would be willing to go to such extremes to set things right. He was an honorable man. Someone with the conviction of his words as proven by the action his courageous sacrifice would cost. Khalid recalled, how just a few short hours ago, he stood and watched Burden swallow, without hesitation, the GPS tracking locator that he knew would kill him in less than twelve hours. Not that he would have to worry about that if everything went according to plan.

The locater served as a guidance beacon for a powerful laser orbiting the planet. Disguised as a communication satellite, it was actually an awesome weapon of mass destruction, equipped with a high-powered laser. Once locked onto the GPS tracking locator, it could target anything or anyone anywhere on earth with pinpoint accuracy, even below the surface or underwater. The laser was set to trigger when Burden reached a depth of three hundred feet below sea level, where the White House Deep Underground Command Center (DUCC) was located.

Burden needed to give President Morgan a good reason to take shelter down in the DUCC to be able to target the nuclear reactor that powered it. The potent laser was strong enough to move through earth, rock and steel, swiftly cutting through anything on the way to its target, creating such a critical mass in the process that it would turn the bunker's nuclear reactor into bomb. Khalid's assignment was to give them that good reason to retreat down there where they would all feel a false sense of security.

Flown out to Burden's mansion in a private helicopter, Khalid met up with his men at the rally point after giving the tracking device to Burden. It was a pre-condition to their operation, so Khalid could tell his fellow conspirators that he personally witnessed Burden swallow the tracking device. Khalid had to convince his people they were legit. America's badly sullied reputation affected the minds of many foreigners with a deep seated skepticism, especially the ones that were its sworn enemies. There was not much trust left to go around.

In position now and waiting for the last two hours, Khalid wondered what could possibly be holding up former President Burden's signal. He knew any extended delay was the one thing Burden could not afford to have happen. There was a slim margin of error in the intricately timed operation to make sure they achieved their goal.

Arranged through President Morgan's Chief of Staff, the one pm scheduled meeting would also serve as a late lunch. But Morgan was running late. It was already a quarter-to-three, and it started to look like it might turn into an early dinner. Tactlessly, Morgan wanted Burden to wait on him, just to let him know who was in charge. The President liked to let his alpha dog howl every once in a while to keep the other barking dogs in line.

Khalid knew his men would also be thinking how Morgan's delayed arrival could ruin all their hard work. Caleb Al-Rahi and Mohammed Fasil were two of Khalid's most trusted men, who did not share the same faith in the American he did. The American's were infamous for reneging on their treaties in the past, whether made with the indigenous Native Americans or those they brought across the seas in chains of bondage. Khalid's men also understood American politics, and the silly games played by those in power.

While his men may not have much faith in the American's dependability to follow through, they would live and die on the strength of their loyal devotion to Khalid. He was as steady as the Dome of the Rock from which Muhammad ascended to heaven from, and they would follow him to the gates of hell, if necessary.

4

Like a young woman venturing out on a blind date, Flint Morgan took his time. One thing Morgan fully believed was that true power is never given. That it is something always taken. Which was why, he succeeded where Burden failed. Burden did not have the same strength of conviction Morgan had to go out and take what he wanted. It was the true American way many of the weaker minded could never comprehend. If you want something in this world, and want it really bad, you have to go out and take it, because no one is going to just give it to you.

Of course, Morgan would not want to appear to be doing anything considered petty, so when the scheduling conflict came up he simply blamed the mix up on his personal secretary. Burden's meeting with the President overlapped with a White House tour of a Bear Cub troop from Morgan's home state of Missouri. The Bear Cubs were a private charter, organized by members of other Boy's Clubs that could no longer turn a blind eye from the depravity infecting their sacred organizations. Those ACLU bleeding heart liberals got a court injunction to prevent them from discriminating against certain groups, mostly the gay and lesbian alliance, but also had problems with those who did not share their good Christian faith.

When Burden arrived on time for his meeting, Morgan's Chief of Staff, Harry Billingsley, told him that there was an unfortunate scheduling conflict and the President would be with him just as soon as possible.

"I am real sorry about all this, Jim. But you know how it is, sometimes. These public relations tours can slip through the cracks and then before you know it you find yourself dealing with a scheduling snafu, just another one of those unforeseen contingencies you have to deal with on a daily basis around here." Billingsley explained as Morgan passed by on the way to the Oval Office with the troop of Bear Cubs trailing behind.

"Sorry about the mix up, Jim. I will be with you, shortly. We are on the last stop of the tour, a group photo with the President in the Oval Office." Morgan said apologetically.

"Oh please, take all the time you need. I would not want to rush these fine young men along from a memory I am sure they will hold dear for the rest of their lives." Burden said with a casual hand wave, indicating he understood the situation, except understanding did not curtail his pending need to stay on schedule.

The radioactive tracking device he swallowed was starting to break down from the acids in his stomach. He could feel a slight nausea building up inside of him. Burden started to believe he made a tactical error in swallowing the tracking device on an empty stomach.

As Morgan moved on to the Oval Office, Burden noticed Dean was able to make it back on time because of the delay. He purposely left his glasses behind in an effort to get Dean out of the blast zone. He was not even sure how far the extent of the damage would spread out from the White House.

Dean also found the delay troubling, especially after walking over to Burden and handing him his glasses. The ex-President started looking a bit peaked. Dean could tell the radioactive material in the tracking device eating its way through Burden's stomach was already starting to have its effect on him.

"How are you holding up, sir? You are starting to look a little under the weather." Dean inquired, well aware of what was troubling him.

"I will be fine just as soon as the children are at a safe distance. Then, I will signal Khalid. It should not be too much longer." Burden informed him of his intentions to delay matters further, if necessary.

"I just hope he will wait for your signal. We are two hours over schedule, and I am not sure just how patient of a man he is. This is not an opportunity they will let slip by." Dean emphasized the need to hurry.

In order to prevent Morgan from getting away with all the havoc he created, Burden knew their extreme method to accomplishing that feat would leave behind some collateral damage. He always hated that phrase, collateral damage. Designed to sound so arbitrary, instead of the horrific reality it could sometimes be when implemented in populated areas. Wanting to call the whole thing off the moment he saw the Bear Cubs, Burden knew it was too late to stop.

It had been over four hours since Burden swallowed certain death. Who would be calling on him earlier than he expected.

Twenty minutes later, the Bear Cubs were on their way out as Morgan walked over to apologize about the delay.

"Please, once again, accept my deepest regret for the scheduling mix up, gentlemen. Things can get a little hectic around here sometimes."

"You certainly do not have to tell me about it." Burden said, having prior knowledge from his time in office.

"Well, if you'll just follow me, I think we can find a nice comfortable place to do this." Morgan said as he led the way to a large conference room setup with refreshments and food.

Burden waited another twenty minutes after the Bear Cubs left before pressing a button on his watch to send a pager signal to Khalid, telling him it was time to launch their assault.

5

It was not a sophisticated plan of attack, more a cowboy operation of coming in with guns a-blazing. Their assault was swift and brutal. They used reinforced Humvee's to ram through the gates to clear a path for a delivery box-truck bomb.

Even though the assault on the White House was a vicious attack that came with a sudden fury, the defenses held back the hostile invaders with a formidable force of their own. Secret Service agents, along with other security personnel, blasted away at the large box truck racing up toward the White House front steps.

Packed full with C-4, the box truck still managed to do considerable damage to the front of the White House without a direct hit on the target. It blasted out the windows and front wall, also killing several Secret Service agents as it exploded with a lethal force.

Once the assault began, the Secret Service agents in charge of protecting POTUS rushed the President down to the DUCC, along with the other White House personnel, cabinet members and visiting dignitaries. Being rushed down to the bunker at a hurried pace, Burden's delicate-condition could no longer take the increased strain on his already diminished faculties. He collapsed on the floor and began throwing up blood. Dean ran over to Burden as he spewed out another red spray.

Morgan instantly realized whatever was wrong with Burden seemed too coincidental not be connected to the assault. Never one to hesitate once he made up his mind, Morgan ordered his agents to restrain Burden.

"There is something very wrong about all this. Agent Carlson, secure Mr. Burden. I think he is part of this somehow."

Agent Carlson and the two other agents on his security detail drew their weapons and held them on Burden, forgetting all about Dean Campbell's presence. The three agents made a fatal error in judgment, most likely not viewing another Secret Service agent as a threat. Dean proved them wrong as he drew his weapon, and with several quick motions, shot all three agents right between the eyes.

6

Miles above the earth, in orbit around the planet, the powerful satellite laser started coming on line. Once the tracking device eating its way through Burden's insides was at three hundred feet below sea level, the depth of the DUCC, the GPS unit sent a signal to the satellite. Designed in a cone shape, the nose of the satellite started to open. When wide enough, the cannon of a laser protruded out like a stimulated phallus ready to explode.

After locking on target, the laser fired down a steady beam of bright, searing light. Blasting through the celestial firmament, it burned through the atmosphere on its way down to earth. Locked on target, the powerful laser beam shot out of the sky, momentarily distracting the combatants fighting on the ground below.

It crashed through the roof of the White House with such a destructive force that it sent large chunks of concrete and debris flying into the air.

Staring up at the steady stream of light descending down from the heavens, Khalid did not notice the large slab of concrete flying over him until it was too late to do anything. The dark silhouette shaded him in blackness just before it landed on top of him with a heavy thud.

Khalid's men continued on with their brave fight, knowing they may lose the battle, but were going to in the war.

7

Making its way down to the bunker, the laser cut through the ceilings and floors like an extremely hot knife through butter. As it burrowed through the bunker ceiling, it locked in on its target. Engulfing Burden in its powerful beam, it instantly fried him into a crisp pile of ash. Dean was on the move chasing after Morgan when distracted by the laser blasting into Burden, quickly killing him in a horrid way. With no time to mourn the loss of his friend, Dean swore Burden's sacrifice would not be in vain.

Shooting at the two fleeing figures heading for a hidden door, Dean hit Billingsley in the upper right shoulder just as he made it through the concealed exit. Unable to slam the hidden door shut behind him, Billingsley fell to the floor as Dean bashed through with a powerful force. Drawing his gun with his left hand, Billingsley took a few wild shots at Dean, missing him completely.

With an accurate steady aim, Dean fired two clean shots and double tapped Billingsley in the chest. Dean looked around for Morgan, thinking there was no place to run, nowhere left to hide. But the sight of Morgan getting into escape pod setting on a monorail track took him by total surprise.

Thrown off for a few seconds by the elaborate escape route, Dean's confused state gave Morgan just enough time to get in the pod and take off. Firing several shots, Dean unloaded his clip at the pod streaking down the monorail at over two hundred mile per hour.

As the laser burned through the floor, it reached the nuclear reactor powering the bunker. Melting down the core, it created a chain reaction of kinetic energy that exploded with such an incredible force it shook the earth all around the White House within a six miles radius. Fortunately, the blast reverberated out underground, limiting the destruction on the surface, but still contaminated the air for miles around the blast site with radiation.

A mushroom cloud filled the sky over the District of Columbia where the White House once stood. It just seemed to hover over the giant crater in ground as if it would never go away.

8

Morgan had the construction of the monorail emergency escape route begin during President Buchannan's time in office. It connected to a network of subterranean facilities capable of sustaining life underground for many years, if necessary. He knew there would come a time when it was safe to move back to the surface. Engineered with a suicide gene, the STARS virus would die off within four years of its release. After that, they could move back to the surface and start to repopulate the earth with people who would all share the same spiritual beliefs, moral fortitude, and philosophical outlook on life.

When first conceiving his plan to build a better world than the one we had, Morgan knew he would have to take extreme measures to achieve his goal of a perfect society of people who did not kill each other for profit, love, or wealth. He realized a long time ago that we could never sustain the world we lived under the conditions present at the time.

The monorail was a single track stretching out across the country. Traveling at the speed of a bullet train, it took Morgan less than twenty-four hours to move across the country where the line ended out in the Nevada desert at another underground facility.

Infamously mistook for the top secret government warehouse used to hide extraterrestrial beings that supposedly crash landed in the desert, Area 51 did indeed exist. The facility did however serve a completely different purpose that had nothing to do with aliens.

Arriving at the top secret, underground facility, Morgan slowly got out of the travel pod with his body stiffened from the long trip. He stretched out his arms and legs, even twisting his back and neck back and forth with joints cracking. Trying to get a sense of his surroundings, Morgan figured he was in the other side's hidden emergency escape route. Therefore, it was not a place where there would be many people hanging around.

The door on this side of the hidden room was visible to the naked eye, with the other side hidden just like the one he went through on the East Coast. Morgan was in charge of all the underground facilities constructed by one his many other companies, aside from WhiteCliff. So, he naturally thought he would still be President of subterranean America, and nobody would question his authority.

As Morgan made his way over to the exit, the door opened and in walked three men wearing military uniforms. Morgan saw the man with the highest rank was in the middle with the other two of much lower rank.

"Excuse me, Captain, but I need you to take me to your commanding officer, right away. There has been an attack on the White House by Middle Eastern terrorists. I need to setup a new command post here and see who is still alive. I am going to need a complete update on everything that has happened over the last twenty-four hours to see where we stand." President Morgan instructed the man standing in front of him wearing a captain's uniform.

The Captain did not seem too inclined to respond to Morgan for some reason. Instead, he just stood there blank-faced and stoic.

"Captain, did you hear what I just said? Don't you know who I am? I am the President of the United States of America. Now tell me where your superior officer is. Who is in charge here?"

"I am."

It was all the man would say. Morgan pressed him for more information.

"How can that be? You are only a captain. Who is your commanding officer?"

"I am God down here, sir. I choose who lives and dies."

"Son, you are not making any sense. I designed these facilities for a General to run each one of them. And, if someone were in charge down here, it would be me, your President. Now who is your commanding officer? Where is he?"

"He is dead, sir. I ought to know, I shot him in the head myself."

Morgan did not respond right away to the Captain's bold confession, realizing this man seemed to believe he was in command of this facility.

"What is your name, Captain?'

"Alexander Cain, but you can just call me General Cain."

The man standing in front of Morgan could not be more than twenty-five, way too young to be a general. The knowledge of this disturbed Morgan more than anything else did at the time. He started feeling he was not in control of the situation, something the man calling himself General Cain proved with his next action.

"Listen, son. I am the President of the United States of America. And I am giving you a direct order from your Commander in Chief to take me to your superior officer. Now, let's get this situation under control before you get yourself in a world of trouble."

"Look, I don't have time to fuck around with you all day down here." General Cain said as he pulled out his sidearm and shot President Flint Morgan in the head, proving once and for all, who was God down there.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

### KING OF INFINITE SPACE

1

Nearly three weeks after the attack on the White House turned D.C. into another big gaping hole in the ground, about the same size as the one where Gaza City used to be, Michael drove to work on what would turn out to be his last day. Well actually, it was the day after his last. Because when he arrived at the job site, he could not gain access through the electric gate.

The power grid on the West Coast hub crashed on his way in to work. It blacked out every state along the coast from Washington to California, including Idaho, Utah, and Arizona. Up to that point, Michael was just glad to have a job. Or else, they might have sent him off to one of those FEMA Camps that popped up all over the country a year ago. Although, who was in charge of the camps now was up to much debate. There no longer was any sort of organized government working in the country. Those in power before the White House attack refused to relinquish what they had without a fight. While, others were not in a position to enforce the authority they thought they had. Accurate information on the state affairs up until that day was sketchy at best. But once the power went out, all bets were off.

Listening to the radio on the way to and from work had become Michael's last resort for hearing any kind of local news report. He wanted to know what was happening in the area to tell which way the wind was blowing, and if it might be coming to blow your house down.

The network cable news shows still up and running continued catering to their viewers as they always did. Though, many of their editorial programs fell by the wayside. No one much cared about the supposed war on Christmas, anymore. People had other, more important things to worrying about than that nonsense. There was no time for bullshit stories they used to call news. But fear mongering was still the main course featured on most of the right-wing conservative news stations, with the owner of the network refusing to go quietly into the night. Injudiciously, the paranoid conspiracy theories they broadcasted only served to incite acts of violence from those viewers still chugging down the Kool-Aid.

No one was safe to move around freely, without having to worry about the so-called legal authorities snaring up the sick and indigent like dogcatchers. They started housing people in FEMA Camps long before everything fell apart. The only ones they left alone at first were people like Michael who still had a job.

When President Morgan was in office, he basically had to turn every state in the country in a police state to maintain order under Marshall Law, when there was still order to maintain. He stripped away many of the freedoms most people took for granted, which made it easier after the government fell into ruins to keep suppressing those freedoms.

Many people naturally resisted anyone who claimed to have the authority over them. But whoever controlled the biggest army was able to enforce whatever laws they deemed necessary. No longer beholden to Miranda or any other legal rights, the powers that be took away the protections people once had. Everything from illegal search and seizures, the right to an attorney, a speedy trial, and habeas corpus were no longer rights we could invoke to defend ourselves. But you were still accountable for anything you said. Freedom of speech was the first thing suppressed under a tyrannical ruler.

Many other rules, regulations, and normal routines became things of the past. Traffic jams, speed limits, seatbelt laws were just some of the contrivances people didn't have to worry about anymore. Even without any traffic to contend with, the commute to work could still make for a hazardous journey. The bumper-to-bumper traffic that used to clog up freeways was no more.

The present thing people needed to concern themselves with when driving just about anywhere anymore was roving gangs running around playing Road Warrior. Their strength was in their numbers, which dwindled each day as more and more of them got sick. The STARS virus became a death sentence to just about anyone who contracted the illness, very few survived once infected.

It was eleven-forty-five at night as Michael made his way down highway 101, heading north towards San Francisco. While the highway was usually barren at that time of night, it was also that way on the ride home in the morning, which was normally jammed packed with traffic on the opposite side of the road he was traveling. He would count himself a king of infinite space, were it not for his bad dreams.

Common courtesy and consideration of others died off long before civilization started crumbling all around us. Some might even consider it the main cause for the collapse. Civility was dead. Long live apathy.

Michael used to find an escape from those feelings by watching programs like The Daily Show, Real Time with Bill Maher, The Colbert Report, and of course, The Hypocrisy of Truth with Howard Bickle. Too bad, the well was dry, now. He had to find another venue to quench his thirst for truth and wash away the bad taste hypocrisy left behind. Which, he found in one of the most unsuspecting places—talk radio.

It was one media source he never much cared for, and would rather listen to some of that old time rock 'n' and roll—you know, the kind of music that just soothes the soul. Michael's normal aversion to talk radio was from associating it with people like Rush Limbaugh, who he thought Al Franken was absolutely right when he wrote "Rush Limbaugh Is a Big Fat Idiot". So, Michael formed a strong bias against listening to talk radio's right wing nut jobs spouting out ludicrous statement that made any sane listener's jaw drop.

Ben Becket was someone Michael often painted with that same brush in the past. He was Howard Bickle's polar opposite when it came to how they viewed the world. But as the world changed, so did Becket. He had his own through-the-looking-glass moment of clarity after all the things he kept saying President Baca was going to do, President Morgan did. Becket felt like the biggest fool in the news business. It was an ego shattering experience to realize how wrong one could be after being positive for so long.

He was very upset with himself for being so blind, but now that he was able to see clearly the lies of deception pulled down over his eyes, he wanted to gouge them out so he could not see no more. Becket was almost ten years younger than Howard, and started thinking maybe he should have had more respect for Howard's years of experience. But Becket had swallowed the tripe his side had been feeding their followers since Reagan was President. Oh, they still dished out their special brand of tripe before then; it just tasted a little more genuine, and not quite so hypocritically rank on the palate.

Becket no longer cared what the extreme right wing network heads said about his one-hour news show, aired five days a week at three. He told his bosses they could fire him if they wanted to, but he was not going to keep quiet now that he could see through all the lies, no longer blinded from the truth. They put up with him for a while, due to the fact that many production companies and studios were not airing much new material.

Even the once unstoppable by any kind of calamity—whether rain, snow, mass shootings, a depression, a recession, or just some good old inflation—the film industry ground to a halt with hardly any new films in production. The studios used to release three or four new pictures on one weekend, and many times all of them made money. Now, they put out one or two new releases a month. Hollywood actors and actresses refused any work offered to them out of fear of coming down with the STARS virus.

Within one year of the first reported case, over five hundred million people worldwide died from the STARS virus. After two years, it was around two billion. The doctors were fighting a losing battle. Everything they tried failed or worked badly. Baffled by the disease, medical experts from around the world held video conferences in hopes of finding a cure, but were unable to trace its origin.

Becket's network fired him three weeks after the attack on the White House killed President Morgan and former President Burden. But Becket refused to quit what he was now doing for the first time since he became a journalist, reporting the news. It was a hard thing to look at your life and see how wrong you were all those years. He used to fight for those who did not care about the people who elected them, and being a part of that hypocrisy for so long turned his stomach every time the thought entered his mind.

Figuring out a way to have his voice heard, Becket went old school, instead of high tech. Even when the power was on, the internet had become an unreliable resource to get information. It constantly crashed for hours on end, and no one ever knew when it would be up and running again, or if you would be able log on through your service provider. So, pirate radio it was.

It was easy enough to bootleg radio frequency signals, and hard to trace. Becket used an old houseboat he inherited from his father years ago, but never did anything with it. He remembered back to the early days of rock 'n' roll how some English disc jockeys did the same thing in order to get the sound of rock music out to the people who wanted to hear it. Broadcasting his show from an undisclosed location, Becket bounced his pirated radio band signal off of so many different towers no one would ever pinpoint his location.

"This is Ben Becket coming to you live from Truth City, USA on this Thanksgiving Day, November 25th 2021. Although I do not know if we have a lot to be thankful for, other than still being alive, that is."

Michael forgot all about it being Thanksgiving, not that he cared much for that particular holiday, knowing it was just as big of a lie as Columbus Day. How could Christopher Columbus have discovered America if he never set foot in this country? This little tidbit of information Michael picked up while doing research for The Book of Tomorrows.

He decided to trace the history of humankind from the beginning of time to give himself some perspective of what he was trying to accomplish with his novel about a better future tomorrow. It much amazed him how most history seemed to be a lie agreed upon by those who wrote it down in the record books. However, by the time he was done, Michael never felt more knowledgeable about the world and why things were the way they were. Not that he agreed with it.

"Oh, wo is me, how wrong can one person be. Yes, that is right, good listeners. I was blind, but now I can see the writing on the wall. It is something we all need to understand before it is too late. That is why TCR, Truth City Radio, is the place to go for the real news. That is right, listeners. We all came to this strange land as immigrants who were too free-willed and stubborn to live under the rule of some monarch. So, we built the greatest country in the history of the world. Well, at least, we used to be great. Now, we are just a pale image of what we once were."

Michael thought Becket was definitely a man reborn. Taking up Howard's mantle of a crusading avenger fighting for truth, justice, and the American way, exuding a sincere patriotism that did not prop itself up on false platitudes and sound bites.

"The lies fed to us must no longer influence our better judgments. My poor unfortunate colleague, Howard Bickle and I did not see eye to eye on many issues we reported. But now, it is with much humility I have to admit that he was right, and I was wrong."

Arching an eyebrow, Michael never heard somebody in show businesses acting so blatantly unconcerned about their reputation, praising someone else, while admonishing their own work.

"I am now fully aware of the cruel prejudices and harsh inequalities embedded in our nobility of hate. Some people believe they are better than others simply because of where and who they were born. Howard had railed against these nepotisms until he became a casualty of war. And make no mistake, good listeners. We are at war abroad and at home, fighting a familiar enemy we live with every day, ourselves. We are and always have been our own worst enemy."

Real impressed with someone he once thought of as the worst of the worst, Michael figured if the first 9/11 could turn someone like Denis Miller to the dark side of the far right, then it could also happen the other way around, too.

"While on the subject, I also want to say a few things about the injustices perpetrated on former President Jim Burden, who was one of the victims of the vicious attack on the White House by fanatical terrorists almost three weeks ago. I have been hearing some purported stories going around accusing ex-President Burden of orchestrating the attack on the White House in some misguided call of duty. This unsubstantiated culpability alleges that he felt it was an extreme, but necessary, measure to remove President Morgan from office before he could do any more damage to the country. But, the proof is in the pudding, and pudding here is just rumor and innuendos."

Michael knew how hard it could be to get people to listen to reason, especially if it goes against everything they believe to be true. People believed what they wanted to, and nothing or no one could tell them different, no matter how much proof or facts you provided.

Michael knew a few stubborn jackasses over the years, but never met one as thickheaded as Security Officer Tim Smiley. He was one of the most arrogant, lazy, stupid assholes he ever had the misfortune to meet and found himself wishing that he never had. Smiley was a fifty-six year old, three-hundred-pound man with the mentality of a child, a spoil brat at that. He was without a doubt the worst human being Michael ever met. He was another one of those mouse men, the kind that roared like a lion, but squirmed like a mouse when someone roared back.

2

"Go fuck yourself, you fat, lazy piece of shit. If you think I give two-shits about what you think, you are sorely mistaken."

Still sounding like he came from the New York/New Jersey region of the country, Michael never thought about how people in California might perceive his roughish Joe Pesci type accent bellowing out of his lungs. It took a long time for him to realize the way he spoke could intimidate some people, while also putting some others off, especially those who normally thought everyone was already dissing them. He figured it was why none of his old gangbanger neighbors never actually physically attacked him during any number of heated encounters he had to endure while they were living there.

Tim Smiley appeared to Michael to be one of those people going around living the life of Riley. But now that times were getting harder day-by-day, he was prone to jump down the throat of anyone he perceived giving him any kind of slight. A gluttonously obese, lazily stupid person, he was the kind of guy who would have to stand naked on his head in front of a full length mirror just to see his own dick. Tim Smiley was a few years older than Michael, divorced twice, and now remarried with two kids. Prone to throwing temper tantrums and kicking things around, he had a childlike mentality whenever dealing with matters that upset him, always running to mommy (in this case Violet Ballard, the incompetent moron in Human Resources dumb enough to believe his complaints) instead handling things like a man.

The thing Tim could not understand was how Michael had the nerve to talk back to him. Tim had over a-hundred-fifty pounds on Michael and was at least four inches taller. 'So how come this little squirt is not scared of me' seemed to be the thought running through Tim's mind, burning him up inside. Of course, he had no clue about the Doberman incident.

The dumbstruck look on Tim's face prevented his immediate instinct to leap into action. It also might have had something to do with Michael's confident demeanor. Not only was he not afraid of Tim, but self-assured that Tim would not be a problem, acting as if he could just swat away the bigger man like an annoying fly that just would not stop buzzing around your head.

So instead of using his words to express his feelings, Tim kicked the draw of a file cabinet in the security office after arriving on site to relieve Michael at noon, just a few hours before the White House went boom. Tim also took note at how Michael did not even flinch.

"Where do you get off speaking to me like that, you fucking, Leprechaun? Who the fuck, do you think you are?"

Now it was Michael's turn to take a step back for his own dumbstruck moment of confusion. Called many different names in the past, but a Leprechaun, that was a first. What Tim did not seem to comprehend was, that once you stopped a charging Doberman dead in its tracks by simply throwing out your hand in a halting motion, while stomping your foot on the ground, and yelling STOP, there was not much left in this life that could intimidate you. Well there is that, plus having a fatal brain tumor you knew could kill you at any moment might also give you a fearless boost of courage.

Michael did not really feel any different since finding out about the tumor. If anything, he felt better. Maybe it was sort of a relief just knowing where he stood. Most people probably could not handle the truth of knowing when they were going to die, or at least, approximately how much time you had left. But Michael would rather know than not know. It freed his mind from making any plans for the future, and let him focus his thoughts on what lay before him.

There was one big difference in his life making it harder for him to say, fuck it. Michael did not have just himself to consider, anymore. There were two other people in his life whose safety and welfare were of great concern to him, which was why he did not want to waste any more precious time. Life was too short to waste arguing with idiots over petty bullshit.

"Look asshole, unless you want a pot of gold shoved up your fat ass, you should leave me the fuck alone. I already told you that I want nothing to do with you and your problems are your own."

The last thing Michael wanted was to get into a physical confrontation with Tim, but he started to feel it inevitable one day.

Flabbergasted by Michael's lack of concern for what he might to do him, Tim looked like he did not know whether to shit or go blind.

"Yeah, if it was not for you and Auggie caving in on SecureWorld's new twelve hour, four day weekly schedules, then maybe I might be home with my family. God forbid something should happen to them while I am doing this bullshit."

"Hey, Tim, if you do not like the hours, quit. Nobody is forcing you to be here. Do you really think this job is going to last much longer? Get it while you can, because it may not be here tomorrow. Now, get the fuck out of my face. I am going home, you dumbfuck."

"You better learn not to talk to me like that, or one day I will make you regret it." Tim threatened again before Michael left.

Hardly anybody ever came in to the site during Michael's shift, now midnight to noon, Friday to Monday. No customers needed to update their servers, no contractors needed to do any maintenance on the building, and no company supervisors or technicians were ever around during his shift. He loved having the site to himself. It was a great place to write, except since finishing The Book of Tomorrows he did not seem to have much ambition left to adapt his screenplays or develop any new storylines. The idea of adapting his screenplays into EBooks would have kept his creative juices flowing and maybe given him the opportunity make some money from the thing he loved, but EBooks were not selling any more than printed ones.

When he originally had his epiphany of purpose, Michael felt as if he already wrote the entire book in his head, and he just needed to access the data when needed. It was not as if he found a box of letters sitting in a shoebox in his closet he didn't remember writing.

But afterwards, he just lost his ambition to write or create. He had other, more important things to deal with in the real world, so alternate realities would have to take a backseat for now. But who knows what tomorrow may bring?

After getting the unpleasant news about his health, Michael started taking a certain kind of energy pill he found that worked really well and stocked up on them. The pills kept him alert and awake, which had become a bit of a problem lately. He did not have the energy he once had.

He never quite understood what the attraction to speed was during his days of youth. He did just about every drug under the sun, except for crank, speed, or any other form of upper. He did not even know what all those commercials for Red Bull were talking about when claiming that it gives you wings. But then again, he didn't drink coffee, something he never understood why people liked it so much.

Michael thought the most logical explanation for his tired, aching body was the tumor in his head. It could also have something to do with being over fifty, even if he still was in pretty good physical shape. Often thinking, he could keep up with or even win a race with someone half his age. The only big drawback, he would probably end up having a heart attack at the finish line and lose anyway. That kind of energy he always had a reserve tank for, but the constant exhausted feeling was something new that he did not like.

The energy pills he stocked up on were not the first thing he tried to keep alert and awake. They were just the only ones that worked. An added bonus he never thought of was that by sleeping less, maybe three or four hours a day, if that, he found a unique cure for whatever it was that made him sick when he awoke from sleeping seven to eight hours or more. Michael figured that the longer he slept, the more time mucus and phlegm had to build up in his throat and stomach. It was a bonus of taking out two birds with one stone.

3

Pulling up to the job site on Thanksgiving, something seemed out of place. It was really dark out as the street and parking lot lights were not working for some reason. Lowering his electric window, Michael realized the moment he press the intercom to call for the guard inside telling him to open the gate what it was that seemed wrong.

Michael pressed the button couple of more times, even though the little red light never came on. Then he noticed that none of the apartment townhouses had power. There was not a single light on in any building. Michael then saw a flashlight beam breaking through his headlights shining out on the lobby entrance.

Tim Smiley lumbered over to the front gate he was unable to open for Michael to gain access. Stepping out of his car, Michael wanted to see what Tim expected him to do about it.

"Wholly shit, do you believe this? The whole street is blacked out." Michael stated in a cordially surprised, but helpless manner, trying to let Tim know what he already knew.

"What the fuck, man? How the hell are you going to relieve me, now?" Tim bellowed his frustrating position of being stuck between the job and a hard case.

"Hey, don't ask me. There ain't shit I can do about the power. Call PG&E if you are looking for somebody to bitch to, but there is nothing I can do about it."

"No, no, no, I got to get back home to my family. So you are not going anywhere, you motherless piece of shit."

"Hey, fuck you, motherfucker. What are you going to do about it? Believe me, I would love to see you try and waddle your fat ass over that gate. Hell, I would even pay good money to see that. But what are you going to do about your car, dipshit?"

"Fuck you, asshole. If you leave me here, I will have you fired for abandoning your post." Tim threatened Michael, who laughed as he turned to walk away.

Before getting in his car, he left Tim with a reality check.

"I'll tell you what, why don't you just go and do that. Because I do not know if you figured this out yet, shithead, but we just got fired. See ya in the funny papers, you dumbfuck." Michael laughed at the irony of the situation as he got in his car thinking there was a poetic justice in the world, after all.

"Hey, get back here, you. Don't you dare turn your fucking back on me. You are going to regret this, you fucking piece of shit."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

### ISLAND IN THE SKY

1

**Noon, Friday, February 28** th **2025**

Storm clouds gathered overhead, threatening to pour down heavy rains upon those scurrying around on the ground. They were dark clouds filled with moisture that would soon burst through the cumulous formations. There was a distant rumble far out on the horizon, followed by streaks of bright light that scratched the sky. The storm clouds seemed to be settling over an area of North San Jose, California, where down on the ground, the scavenging occupants foraged for food and whatever supplies they needed. There were certain items that would no longer be available after the stocks ran out. Sundries and other personal hygiene products were sometimes more valuable than food. Things like toilet paper, deodorant, shampoo, soap, and even feminine napkins became harder and harder to find.

It had been over three years since the power grids failed across the country, along with most of the planet. Many people refused to accept the reality of the world they now lived. It was a hard nut for many to have to swallow after living in the lap of luxury for so long. Many of those wealthy individuals, who never wanted for anything before, found it the hardest change they would ever have to endure. Those who could adapt did, while those that could not fell victim to the heavy winds blowing through their lives in one foul swoop.

Depending on which way the wind was blowing, those caught in its midst had to go with the flow. They became subject to whatever social order developed in the regions it blew through, reshaping the land with its destructive force. Government municipalities fell into ruin. They were powerless to serve the needs of the citizens residing in cities and towns. Village communal habitats sprang up in their place, developing mostly independent of each other. The settlement groups had their own rules and regulations they readily enforced with their own laws and brand of justice.

After the fall of the civilized world, people staked a claim on whatever property they found that suited their needs. Though, sometimes someone else, whether the legal owner or just another squatter, disputed the other person's rights, and whoever was willing to fight for it, kept it. There were no more courts to hold trials and pass judgments on those who broke the old laws of society. No one could legally do anything to anybody who murdered somebody. The only course of action left to the victim's families was street justice meted out by their own hand. Unless you could pay someone else to do it, that is—something that would become a real growth industry to corner, before everybody else got in on it.

The noonday sun could be felt, but not seen, obscured by the dark clouds floating overhead. Driving down Monterey Highway 87 in an old, rust-bucket Ford pick-up, Ryan, Michael, and Angel headed into town to replace certain supplies long used up over their long hiatus. Michael did not want to leave Angel home alone or take her with them, not knowing if the current environmental setting would welcome traveling strangers or be hostile of suspicious drifters. There were a limited number of good choices.

Going into town by yourself could be dangerous if you ran into the wrong kind of people, some of whom you could never tell who they were until it was too late. He would have preferred going in alone to do a little recon and get a feel for the place, before subjecting Angel to whatever unknown dangers lay ahead. In the end, they decided to all go together and watch each other's backs.

Michael and Ryan figured they did not need to worry about anyone breaking into the house. In late August of 2022, some uninvited guests came for a visit and left the place in ruins.

After coming across Ryan's secluded property, the Killer Kings motorcycle gang felt it was the perfect place to lay low for a while. Forced to take shelter down in the safe room with Ryan and Angel, Michael was glad he had the foresight to stockpile everything they would need for the next few years. The safe room remained well hidden. It would be almost impossible to find without knowing where to look. Michael did some extensive work re-enforcing the foundation, making it sound proof. Using steel rods inside cement blocks filled solid with concrete, he basically turned it into a bomb shelter, while also managing to keep it camouflaged at all times. He needed to have the peace of mind of knowing there was a safe, secure place for that little girl to live, even under the most extreme circumstances. Having a cutthroat biker gang living right above you was pretty extreme.

Angel and other children from her generation did not deserve the world left to them. It was unfair. Michael felt the greed of his generation and the generations before his left one hell of a mess. But unfortunately, the clean up on aisle three might just be too big of a spill to wipe away with a paper towel this time.

2

The Killer Kings motorcycle gang numbered forty-three well-armed, mean-ass bikers, who would bite the heads off of rats for breakfast if hungry enough.

"Angry" Adolf Henrik Muller, leader of the Killer Kings, was enjoying his newfound taste of freedom. His gang traveled over three thousand miles across the country to bust him out of San Quentin State Prison, where he was serving a life sentence for murdering a homosexual man during the San Francisco gay pride parade last spring. Demonstrating the reason for the prefix to his name, he beat the man to death on the street after he mistook Angry Adolf for one of his gay buddies. By the time the authorities pulled him off of the little faggot, Adolf had done so much damage that when the medical examiner came to pick up the body, the flesh was the only thing holding the man's skull together, preventing the pieces from falling apart. Adolf must have punched the man over fifty times in the face, breaking the knuckles on both of his hands in the process.

When the Killer Kings arrived at San Quentin, there were no prison guards or any other form of authority left in charge. They must have gotten sick and died, or else they just abandoned their post after the emergency generators they had been using ever since the power went out ran out of fuel. Left locked in their cells, the prisoners were on their own.

Stuck in his cell for the past three days without any food or water, Angry Adolf could not believe the guards would just leave and let the prisoners starve to death like that. If not the definition of cruel and unusual punishment, then Angry Adolf did not know what was.

Sexy Beast was the gang member in charge of the Killer Kings while Angry Adolf was in prison. His moniker was facetiously appropriate since Sexy Beast professed to having raped over seventy women in the thirty-five years he spent terrorizing anyone who crossed his path. They confiscated a welding torch to cut through the cell door, which would not open without the power being on. After freeing Angry Adolf, they considered cutting free the other inmates who were still alive in their cells. Except, anyone left was not worth saving, just a bunch of jungle bunny gangbangers he wouldn't even piss on if they were on fire.

"Oh, fuck me, man. It is about fucking time you got me the fuck out of this cesspool. Can you believe these fucking motherfuckers just left us here to rot? We are going to stop by Human Resources on the way out and find the addresses to some of these motherfucking guards." Angry Adolf ranted, spewing out his words with a spray of saliva.

"Hey, I know how you fucking feel, man. Can't let this kind of shit go unanswered. But I think you should know we picked up this little brown bunny on the way out here. Sort of a free from bondage present, my brother." Sexy Beast explained.

Leaving the prison after getting ahold of the guard's addresses, they headed out to the parking lot where over thirty Harley Davidson motorcycles and one black van waited. Stopping at the back of the van, Sexy Beast opened up the rear door revealing four women inside. Three of them were biker bitches and the fourth was a fifteen year old black girl hogged tied and terrified. One of the biker bitches handed Angry Adolf his leather jacket with the gang's insignia displayed on the back, which was a reimagined picture of the Suicide King playing cards. The design was a version of much meaner looking the King of Diamonds griping a bloody axe, facing off against a just as mean looking version of the King of Hearts holding up a bloody sword.

Angry Adolf threw on his jacket, flipping it around his back as he slid his arms up the sleeves. It came down resting on his shoulders with a familiar, comfortable fit. Wearing a shit eating grin that revealed his tobacco stained, crooked teeth, the feel of the leather on his back was a welcome change that made him feel whole again. But that was not the only reason why he had a devilish grin glued to his face as he locked eyes on the trussed up and gagged black girl.

"I thought she would be a tasty treat for you to snack on." Sexy Beast said as he slapped Adolf on the back.

"You are a good man, Beast. You always know what is needed in any given situation." Angry Adolf held up his hand as Sexy Beast spontaneously smacked his hand up against a not so Angry Adolf's hand. "Where's Lucille at?"

"I left her in San Jose with some of the boys back at a nice spot we passed by on the way out here. I figured it to be a good place to lay low while we see what other fruit we can pick before heading back to Georgia."

"Alright then, let's hit the road and don't forget about those addresses I got from the personnel files. I want to make sure I leave behind something for them to remember me by, even if they will be short-lived memories." Angry Adolf added as he climbed in the back of the van. He moved toward the black girl with a menacing approach. Her eyes widened in terror as the van door shut behind him

3

Angel liked to hang out in the lookout spot Michael setup in the big tree in the backyard. Sometimes Michael would read to her up there, but she was alone on the day the Killer Kings came to town. Hearing a distance rumble, Angel stood up and looked down at the long road leading toward Ryan's house. From her vantage point, she could see a dusty cloud moving down the road like a sandstorm trailing behind what looked like ants running on the ground just ahead of it.

Angel hurried down the big tree in the backyard just as Michael ran out the backdoor of the house and Logan stepped up from working in the garden he setup out back. The sound of many motorcycles grew louder and louder as they got closer to the end of the road and the house. Angel could see the worried look of concern registering in Michael's eyes. Wasting no time, he just reacted quickly to the impending dangerous situation.

"Logan, Angel, it is Zero Hour." Michael called out while waving them over with an urgent tone in his voice and manner of body language.

Zero Hour was a code Michael made up in case of an emergency situation that called for them to seek shelter in the safe room. He even made Ryan and Angel run drills with him to hone their reaction time. He knew how the first few seconds could mean a matter of life and death, depending how you reacted to any potential threats. Ryan and Angel remembered their training, dropped whatever they were doing at the time, and ran directly to the house.

Inside the house, Michael had already opened the hidden trapdoor, which he had also made some renovations to conceal it even further. He designed it so that no one would know it was there when sealed shut and locked down from inside. There was no longer a metal ring to pull it up, which he replaced with a spring loaded release system that once closed and locked from within could only be released from inside. A throw rug rigged to a coffee table that would slide back in place concealed it even further.

As the Killer Kings happened upon the house for the first time, Michael lingered behind for a brief moment. After catching sight of their gang logo, Michael quickly followed his friends down into the safe room, hoping it would live up to its name. Hearing a bunch of motorcycle engines revving up an hour later, he thought they were all going to leave. Unfortunately, around a dozen or so bikers remained behind and made themselves at home.

The three people huddled beneath the floor could hear sound of footsteps moving around above them as they huddled in dark like frightened creatures. It bothered Michael and Ryan to cower in a corner, going against their natural primal instincts to strike back at any hostile invasion violating their personal space. But both men swallowed their pride knowing there was much more at stake than material possessions or foolish pride.

4

Later on that evening, Sexy Beast returned with the main force of the Killer Kings. They went in heavy, not knowing how much resistance they would face busting their fearless leader out of prison.

Getting out of the back of the van, Angry Adolf was looking rather invigorated. He had a lit cigarette dangling from his lips with a long ash that fell off as he stepped out of the van.

"Now that was a real sweet piece of meat, Beast. You sure do know how to pick them."

"It is just too bad that they are all used up after just one meal." Sexy Beast said as he handed Adolf a can of beer.

"Yeah, but there is always plenty more where that one came from, you can count on that. They breed like rats. So once you are done with one, you can just throw it away. There will always be another one waiting around the corner."

"It looks like I found us a good place to settle down for a bit, while we purge the area of all the filthy vermin infecting this country with their diseased lives. They are the true virus, and it is our duty to exterminate them from the land." Beast expressed the motivating force behind their cause.

5

A few miles up 101 South, down in a ravine off the shoulder of the highway, little Kala Johnson lay on the tall grass with her labored breathing slowly dying off breath by breath, until she breathed her last one. Her bruised and broken body, covered with deep scratches and cigarette burns, no longer looked like that of the pretty, young girl she once was. Now, it was only a horror show that would haunt the nightmares of her loved ones for years after the member of The CRIPS street gang found her body.

After the power went out, panic and chaos ruled the day as everyone scurried around trying to hold onto what was theirs, while also trying to find what they needed to survive. When the dust finally settled down, The CRIPS street gang controlled most of North San Jose, with the aid of a Preacher, who still had a strong ministry of followers behind him. Pastor Alvin Peabody was an old, black man, who devoted his life to helping the poor and downtrodden in his flock.

Pastor Peabody knew he would have to make deals with the devil in order to survive what had become hell on earth. To secure a safe place for his people, he struck a bargain with The CRIPS. When it came down to it, they all wanted the same thing everyone else did, respect. If you just treat other people who were different from you like human beings, then nine times out of ten, they will treat you the same way.

Usually when people who come from different walks of life form strong bonds, they were the kind that last forever and will do anything to uphold. After finding little Kala's bruised and broken body, The CRIPS were as enraged as the Pastor and his flock. She had been missing for two weeks when found on the side of the road by one of The CRIPS. She was Pastor Peabody's niece, and his vengeful wrath equaled the intensity demonstrated by the furious gang members. Some crimes could never be forgiven or go unpunished.

6

Six months later, in early spring of 2023, Michael, Ryan, and Angel had been living down in the safe room the whole time. They managed to stay hidden from the Killer Kings, who lived up to their name as they spent their time hunting down vermin and exterminating it. The only problem was some of these vermin knew how to bite back if you let them get too close.

The first shots rang out just after midnight, and Michael would swear they did not stop for at least ten minutes. Huddled down in the dark, Michael, Ryan, and Angel were safe from the carnage taking placing above them. The rapid fire of bullets made it seem like an entire army was attacking the bikers in the house. It sounded like a battle the bikers were losing badly.

Caught for guard, Angry Adolf and his men did not stand a chance when close to fifty members of The CRIPS opened up on them with a variety of automatic weapons, ranging from AK-47s, Mac-10s, and Uzis. The bullets riddled the house, cutting through anything or anyone in their path. Sexy Beast had just stepped out to take a leak off the front porch right before The CRIPS opened fire, hitting him over a dozen times all over his body, with one shot blasting off his penis as he was still urinating.

When the bullets finally stopped, everyone in the house was dead, except for Angry Adolf. Wounded in several places, some vital, he managed to stumble out the back door and was trying to mount Lucille, his hog. He fell to the ground as he attempted to kick start the bike and could see the feet of several gang members from his ground level view.

"You motherfucking niggers are going to pay for this. An army of bikers is going to come back and skin all you coons alive." Angry Adolf dubious threats only brought on a mocking laughter from The CRIPS.

"You can send all the white-trash crackers you want, you motherfucking piece of biker shit. And they will all be just as dead, you punk ass bitch." Trigger T, the leader of The CRIPS, told Angry Adolf right before shooting him in the head.

Stepping up and standing over Angry Adolf's lifeless body, Trigger T spit on him before walking away.

Down in the safe room, everyone survived the carnage unharmed. Michael was able to gain a low level vantage point of the backyard from a section of the root cellar that was not part of the safe room. He was able to witness Angry Adolf's demise, which gave him great satisfaction to see the fucker getting what he deserved after having spent the last six months avoiding falling victim to him and his gang. During the Killer Kings stay, Michael knew there were some really bad things happening up in the house that he wanted to keep from Angel. They could sometimes even hear the anguished screams of their victims penetrating through the floorboards.

Wanting to do something to end the abuses, they could only imagine were going on above them, Michael had to fight back his vengeful thoughts to seek retribution. He knew that would only end up getting himself killed, along with Ryan and Angel. A risk he was not willing to take. Some things had to take priority over the suffering of others. No matter how much it ate him up inside, Michael felt the needs of those under his protection, outweighed those of people he did not know.

They waited until morning before venturing out of the safe room. The damage done to the house was considerable. It was in total ruins, completely shot to hell. Mercifully, instead of leaving the bikers' dead bodies to rot, The CRIPS burned them in a large bonfire before leaving. From his vantage point in the root cellar section, Michael could see a priest of some kind saying a prayer for the dead as their corpses burned in the fire. The house was still a horrific bloody mess. It took considerable amount of time to clean up. But after that day, they preferred staying down in the safe room.

Over the next two years, Michael, Ryan, and Angel avoided contact with anyone. Whether someone just happened by their house, or they had to venture outside for some reason. It was only after their supplies started running low that they finally decided to see what had become of the rest of the world.

7

The time spent in isolation did not pass by without incident. In early January of 2024, Ryan came down with the STARS virus. It was touch and go for a while, but he managed to beat the odds.

After getting caught out in a thunder storm, Ryan came in soaking wet with a chill he just could not shake. They mostly kept to staying down in the safe room ever since the Massacre of the Killer Kings last March. Riddled with blood-stained bullet holes, along with the stench of death, the house no longer presented a proper environment to raise a child or serve as a viable habitat. The damage was too extensive, but at least the plumbing still worked.

Michael kept up Angel's education and physical training, knowing how she would need both when she was older and on her own. He would not be around forever or for even that much longer. Michael realized just how fleeting life could be, especially after Ryan came down with the STARS virus. He was not going to leave anything to chance.

As much as Angel wanted to be there for her father, Ryan would not let her risk getting sick, too. They had all been lucky so far. But the odds were always against them. An old man pushing sixty, with a brain tumor to boot, a young child still susceptible to all the hazards of this world, and a young man with only one lung, it was amazing they made it this far.

Ryan did not even want to accept help from Michael, afraid he would get him sick, too. Then who would be there to take care of Angel. But, Michael insisted on nursing Ryan back to health as best he could. There was not much he could do, except keep to the basics—plenty fluids, keep him warm, and lots of chicken soup. The stuff really did work wonders.

Constantly scanning the short wave radio signals until their batteries all died, they were able to find some scattered reports saying they had engineered the STARS virus with a suicide gene that killed it off after four years. So, whoever unleashed this madness on the planet must of had some method to it, some ultimate goal to restore the world to whatever insane utopian version of the future their sick minds may have conjured.

One morning in February of 2024, Michael was outside chopping some wood to build a fire in the pot belly stove that came with the house. Ryan was doing much better and would soon be up on his feet again. Being older, Michael and Ryan understood the necessary precautions they had to take, but regrettably, an eight year old girl found the logic hard to comprehend, no matter how mature beyond her years she was.

Hearing a soft whimper on the wind of a breezy February afternoon, Michael looked around for a moment, before looking up. Putting down the axe, he climbed up the tree.

"Hey now, little girl, what has got you feeling so sad, today?" Michael asked as reached the lookout he built in the large tree in the backyard.

"My daddy doesn't love me anymore." Angel tearfully cried.

"Oh, come on now, you know that is not true." Michael insisted.

"Then how come he won't let me help him, Michael. I don't want him to die, too."

"He just did that to protect you, because that is how much he loves you. He would never let anything in this world harm you, including his own illness. But you do not have to worry about that anymore. He is much better and very soon he will be up and about, just as good as new."

"You mean that, Michael? You wouldn't just say so, would you?"

"No, Angel, my sweet child. I never have and I never will lie to you. You need to know the truth about this world. It will be up to you and your generation to rebuild a better one. I mean, I am certainly not going to be around forever." Michael said with a slight hint of what was to come.

"Yes you are. You are not going anywhere, Monop. I won't let you." Angel proclaimed as she threw her arms around Michael and gave him a big hug.

"Hey, what do you say we go play a game or something?"

"Why don't you put on a show? I love watching you act out the songs you sing or the characters you read." Angel asked with a big, bright smile.

"Alright, if that is what the young lady wants, that is what the young lady shall have." Michael said a little embarrassed.

Other than teaching her the basics, Michael felt she should have a good knowledge of the arts. He taught her how to play games of strategy, like chess, which she picked up right away. But her favorite entertainment was watching him act out scenes from Hamlet and Shakespeare's other plays or just singing along to musicals while watching videos. One of her favorites was the film version of Grease with John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John. She would sing the female parts and he would handle the male voices, while Ryan would just sit back and laugh. He flat out refused to sing, probably believing he did not have a voice for it. Not that it mattered to them. Michael knew he was no American Idol, but could carry a tune well enough to fake it.

Michael had been pushing himself pretty hard over the past couple of months, and he was starting to feel the effects the tumor was having on his body. He hid the fact that he had been throwing up in the mornings for no good reason he could think of, other than the tumor taking its toll. It was why he insisted on playing nursemaid to Ryan. He did not know how much time he had left.

It wasn't easy, but Ryan became part of the small percentage of people to beat the STARS virus after contracting it. Michael thought because of the built in suicide gene that it might be a weaker strain of the virus

Before the generator ran out of fuel they used to provide light in the evenings, charge their laptops batteries, and listen to the shortwave radio, Michael decided to leave behind something so that those who came after might learn from the terrible mistakes of our past.

He thought The Book of Tomorrows would be his legacy, but felt that it might be all for naught, now. With no power or internet, it would be rather difficult for anyone to benefit from it. Of course, he did have a few printed copies people could copy and redistribute, if somebody should stubble across it sometime in the not too distant future and find it useful.

Human beings have always been quite resilient. We struggle through some of the greatest hardships, enduring unbearable tragedies, and seem to have overcome every obstacle in our way to finding some sort of dominion over the land. It is in our nature to conquer. Even people trapped in the most hopeless of situations can occasionally find some in the most unlikely places.

8

Ever since the night the lights went out in Georgia, along with the rest of the country, Tim Smiley went from living the life of Riley to one ruled by Murphy's Law. It all started going downhill after Michael Carducci refused to relieve him. He did not care if he stayed or not, he just felt Carducci should have helped him get the gate open, never taking into consideration the attitude he had with Michael at the time was not one conducive to having people stick around to do you favors.

As it was, Tim found a welding torch in the maintenance room and was able to cut his way free. The only problem, by the time he arrived home, it was too late.

Up until then, the government went around sweeping up anyone who was not providing some public service or holding a job. But once the power shut down, they started grabbing everybody, including Tim and his family.

Tim had just pulled into his driveway when he saw the heavily armed men in hazmat suits taking his wife and two daughters out of the house and stuffing them in the back of an army truck, along with most of his neighbors already inside. He rushed over to try and stop them, but one of the armed men sent him sprawling to the ground after hitting him on the back of the head with his rifle butt.

Within six months of being stuck in the cesspool called temporary housing, Tim lost both his daughters and his wife to the STARS virus. He was quite literally at the end of his rope.

The virus knew no prejudices. The guards in charge of keeping the detainees from escaping had also succumbed to the STARS virus. Before long, there was no one left in charge of the place. The personnel that did remain were unable to prevent the inmates from taking over the asylum.

Tim didn't care about his freedom anymore. He felt there was nothing left to live for, until Reverend Peter Paul Johns came along and saved his life.

The snapping sound of a branch breaking from the sudden weight bearing down on it with a heavy jolt echoed out in the woods. Tim Smiley landed on his butt in a state of frustrated despair. Adding injury to insult, just not of the fatal kind he was hoping for, the broken tree branch bounced off his head a couple of seconds later. Tim howled out like a baby throwing a temper tantrum with the rope still around his neck from his ill-conceived attempt to end his life

"Excuse me, my good man. You seem to be experiencing quite a bit of difficulty. Maybe I can be of some assistance with that?"

Tim found it hard to believe anyone could mistake what he had just attempted to do, which only added to his confusion after looking up and seeing that it was a member of the clergy offering his help.

"You will just be wasting your time if you think you can talk me out of going through with this. So please, do not try to stop me, Father. I have nothing left to live for, and I cannot take the pain any longer." Tim stated his firm stance, feeling he must have misunderstood the man's offer.

"Oh, I can see that you are quite serious, which is why I offered to help you, my son."

"Are you fucking with me, father?"

"No, I am not as you put it 'fucking with you', and by the way it is reverend. Reverend Peter Paul Johns at you service."

"I don't get it. Aren't you guys supposed to go around talking people like me out of what I am poorly attempting to do?" Tim said with a pathetic, defeated sigh at his ill-conceived method to end it all.

"That depends on whether or not you have a reason to live, my son."

This only seemed confuse Tim even further.

"There were too many people living in this world who did not obey God's laws. He gave them more than enough time to see the error of their ways, but many of them even refused to acknowledge his very existence. So, he smote them like the heathens they were." Reverend Johns pronounced the lord's judgment upon the land.

"So what are you saying, God killed my family because they were unfaithful. Well, that is a bunch of fucking bullshit. My wife was a devout Christian, and she prayed when both of our daughters got sick and even through her own illness she still prayed right up to her last breath."

"Then she and your daughters are with him now in paradise. Sometimes the innocent may fall when the wicked are punished. But they do not suffer the same fate the sinners do. God is harsh, but he is not cruel."

"Does that mean that I can be saved, too? It is not too late for me, is it?"

"Everyone who gives their heart to the lord can be saved, my son, especially if they have a purpose to fulfill."

"I don't know what that could be, other than killing the person I blame for my family and me being here in the first place. I doubt the lord would give his blessing for such a purpose."

"Vengeance has always been a mighty powerful motivating force. An eye for an eye, the lord has deemed as fit punishment for those who transgress against him or against those spreading his word. The Lord God has given you a quest to fulfill. You must bring His wrath down upon this foul demon's human form on earth, just as I have taken up the holy quest to track down a heathen blasphemer permitted to spew out his vile sacrilege to the world. He claimed we all had a god part inside of us, making everyone ever born a god. Granted a worldwide stage to broadcast these perversions on live television, the Lord sent fire from the sky to silence his blasphemous words."

"Who is this person you are talking about, Reverend Johns?" Tim asked as he slipped the noose from around his neck and walked over to the reverend. "There is a familiar ring to what you are saying."

"Well, that is the rub. The devil has always been good at hiding his identity when he takes form in the shape of man. This time he has chosen a particularly sly one, someone we only know as The Author."

Tim Smiley lived up to his last name as for the first time in many months a big, wide smile cracked his chubby cheeks.

"Do you mean the guy who wrote The Book of Tomorrows? Because I know who The Author is then, and where he used to live."

"If he is still alive and living there, then he must be made to suffer the tortures of the damn for his sins. Will you join me in this crusade, my son?"

"Join you, hell I'll fucking lead the way."

9

Gathering his flock and heading down the road to perdition, Reverend Johns' band of faithful followers grew in numbers as they went along. They became a powerful army of God, wielding the vengeful wrath of the Lord, letting it guide their way to salvation and the great day of reckoning.

Acting as the Reverend's right hand man., Tim Smiley led the way to where he knew the devil once did sleep. The only problem, Tim did not have the devil's actual address.

He knew of its approximate location back from a time when he first started working with Carducci. They used to talk about sports, music, and movies, but Tim felt there was an air of arrogance to Michael. He did not know his place or seem willing to accept it. He thought he was better than everyone else was, just because he did not believe in what he called religious myths. It was the book that did it. Made him think he was smarter than most people. Tim remembered the day Carducci came in spouting off about how he finally found his purpose, his reason for being.

Tim knew it was nothing but a bunch of bullshit he was slinging. Just some mental masturbation to make himself not feel like the loser he was. Even if he had fooled the site supervisor that he was on to something after letting him read an early draft of what he was calling The Book of Tomorrows or some dumb shit like that.

It was also how he knew Carducci had recently moved into a house just off the 101 freeway. He came in bragging one day about how his friend inherited his uncle's house that used to be a construction company office, and he asked Carducci to move in with him and his daughter. Apparently, Carducci had been homeschooling the kid, and he would also act as her nanny. That thought always made Tim laugh, thinking what a joke it was. He certainly would never let that asshole anywhere near his kids.

By the time they got to the section of San Jose Tim knew Carducci used to live, the Reverend's flock had grown to well over two thousand, well-armed faithful followers. Before leaving the FEMA Camps, they raided the armory the guards kept fully stocked in case of riots. Commandeering every vehicle capable of carrying a heavy load or many passengers, Reverend Johns led the way with Tim Smiley driving a big black hearse the Reverend picked out special. He wanted the sinners to know who was coming, and their days were numbered.

Pastor Peabody did not share the cause of Reverend Johns and his followers when they came to town looking for a devoted solidarity on their mission from God. The CRIPS gang members, who were still in control of the town, weren't buying Reverend Johns spiel, either.

With his brainwashed followers programmed into being a bunch of Manchurian Candidates, Reverend Johns convinced them all those who were not for them were against them. Anyone who shunned the lord would know his wrath and be made to suffer for their transgressions. So, they killed everybody, including Pastor Peabody.

10

Before leaving for town, Michael had a severe case of dry heaves. He desperately tried to cough up what was not there, but still felt like he was choking to death. He tried hiding his condition from Ryan and Angel, but he had reached the point where he no longer could.

Ryan stood a few feet behind where Michael went every morning to vomit. At least, it seemed that way to Ryan, lately. He knew whatever had been bothering Michael all these years was finally coming to a head, just as it did with his uncle.

Michael also seemed very lethargic, sapped of all his energy. He ran out of his special NRG pep pills he had been taking to give him that extra boost of energy. But trying to do everything while Ryan was sick also took its toll on his aging body. Pushing sixty now, Michael found it hard to believe he made it this long, even long before ever finding out about the tumor in his head.

"Noppers, what is wrong with you? And please don't tell me it is nothing. I know you are sick. Hell, anyone can see that, even Angel's been asking me about it. I think it is time you leveled with me."

"Where is Angel? Is she inside the house? I don't want to upset her."

"She is inside getting dressed. You can speak freely. I just want to know if there is anything I can do."

"There is nothing that can be done. I have already exceeded my expiration date, long ago. I am basically living on borrowed time." Michael admitted.

This only seemed to confuse Ryan, further.

"I have a brain tumor. I've known about since the night of Howard Bickle's Special. I passed out right after the drone strike on Howard's studio and woke up in the hospital. The doctors told me that I had one to five years or could even go at any moment. I did not see any point in making a big deal about it, considering everything else that was going on in the world."

Ryan could not believe how calmly he explained it. Michael could see the shock register on his face and decided to clarify things a bit.

"Look, Ryan. I have already dealt with the five stages. Well actually, I kind of skipped over the first four, and went right on to acceptance. It is not as if I had no idea. I think I always known."

"I am so sorry, Monop. I don't know what to say."

"It's okay, man. There is nothing to say. That's life in the big city, baby. Besides, these last few years I spent with you and Angel have been the happiest in my entire life, even under such extreme circumstances."

"I do not know what Angel and I would have done without you. You saved both of our lives. You do know that. It is also a debt I do not know if I will ever be able to repay."

"I know a way. Promise me this. When my time comes, I want you and Angel to forget about whatever might become of me. I do not want either of you ever to risk your lives to save mine. If you swear you will do this no matter how hard you may find it at the time, then I will be able to go rest in peace. You two are all that matter now."

"I give my word. I will do whatever you say, no matter what." Ryan promised to adhere to Michael's wishes, hoping it was a choice he would never have to make.

Down in the unsecured section of safe room where Michael watched the night the bikers met their bloody end, Angel sat under the small crack Michael looked out of as several tears ran down her cheeks. She did not say anything to Michael or her father about what she overheard. But when they left for town, she was moodily silent for the entire ride.

Michael was still feeling a little ill when they left, but insisted that they go check out what was available in town to replenish their nearly depleted supplies. With Ryan doing the driving, Michael dozed along the way, while Angel sat in the middle, solemn and silent. The sky still looked like it could open up as the sound of thunder got closer and closer.

Slowing down to fifteen mph, Ryan saw something that caught his eye in a strange way. A sign with the name of a town on it welcoming them to a place called Safe Haven, Where Your Faith in The Lord Will Always Protect You.

"Hey, check it out." Ryan said to his preoccupied passengers.

"Huh, what's that?" Michael said as he sat up and had his question answered the moment he saw the sign.

"What does it mean?" Angel asked about the odd declaration of faith.

"Nothing good, I would imagine." Michael added.

They were expecting The CRIPS to be in control of this section of San Jose. Most likely, with the preacher Michael saw at the house serving as their moral authority. He was the one who made sure they burned the biker's bodies, while saying a prayer over the dead. It could be the preacher had more influence over The CRIPS than he thought possible. People will often look to God for salvation on the darkest of days.

Ryan brought along some marijuana he grew both indoors and outdoors—once the bikers were gone. His was planning to use it to barter and trade for whatever supplies they might find they needed most. He felt The CRIPS would definitely be in the market for some good buds, unaware if they had the means to grow any of their own, especially considering seeds were not an easy thing to come by anymore. Ryan was prepared from the get-go.

Cold hard cash, silver coins, gold bars, and diamond rings were worthless baubles that no longer held any value. The only things that had true worth anymore were the ones needed most to survive in the hostile and harsh land. Food and water were the first two priorities one needed to obtain, while shelter was a close third.

Driving through town, they saw people moving about on the streets, some in cars, some on bicycles, some on foot. There was one thing that was easy to tell. They were not members of The CRIPS. The clothes these people wore were a dead giveaway they didn't belong to any street gang, not unless Ozzie and Harriet started one. Everybody looked like someone out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

"I do not like the looks of this. Whenever there is change this drastic, you can rest assure it did not come about through a peaceful resolution." Michael said with a strange sense of Stepford Wives fear.

"Yeah, I know what you mean, Noppers. This is giving me the creeps. I don't see anyone who looks like they could possibly belong to a gang." Ryan stated his considered opinion.

"What do you think we should do?" Michael asked trying to get a sense of Ryan's concern for their safety without alerting Angel.

"Let's take a ride past our old apartment complex, down by where the Walmart used to be." Ryan suggested the most familiar path to travel from which to better judge the present changes.

Everything appeared to be a perfectly idyllic setting. Driving past their old apartments, something caught Michael's eye as he gazed upward out the window.

"Hey, check it out. They have sentries posted on the roofs with what looks like high-powered rifles with scopes." Michael informed his fellow travelers.

"Yeah, it looks like they are covering all their bases." Ryan added.

Coming up on the old Walmart, Michael, Ryan, and Angel found themselves staring at a Farmer's Market setup in the large parking lot. There were over thirty people milling about, walking down the food tables with all sorts of fruits and vegetables laid out on them. There were no prices or signs indicating the exchange rate.

Ryan pulled in the parking lot and parked the old work truck that once belonged to his uncle's construction company. The three wary travelers exited the vehicle and headed over to see what the deal was. An elderly woman, who looked like a Walmart greeter, walked over and welcomed them as they approached the tables of food.

"Hello there, welcome to Safe Haven. May the lord bless and keep you from harm. My name is Harriet Ackerman. I am sort of a tour guide for first time visitors to our lovely Farmer's Market, where the produce is always fresh." Harriet said as she explained her role, wearing an apron smock and surgical gloves on her hands.

"Why thank you for your generous hospitality." Michael said starting off the conversation since he was the oldest and viewed as the head of their family, which Michael did nothing to dissuade anyone of that notion, while also embellishing upon the assumption. "My name is Jack Gilford and this is my son, Randy and my granddaughter, April."

Ryan went right along with Michael's shrewd tactic of keeping their identities secret, knowing how you could never be too careful in choosing what information you will voluntarily give up to strangers. Angel did not express any curious looks of wonder that might tip somebody off, since children were the easiest to read when being disingenuous. Plus, she liked it when Michael said she was his granddaughter, just as Ryan felt the same sense of pride. They looked the parts, which was the important thing.

"What a lovely family you have. Now, how can I be of service today?"

"What is the exchange rate? What do you use for currency?" Ryan asked about the monetary expenditures needed to shop there.

"Every first time visitor receives a complementary week's supply of food stuffs, which is the good Christian thing to do for those who wished to settle down in our little community, or those who are just passing through. Which might you be the former or the latter?"

"Oh, the latter, I am afraid. We are on our way to Denver to meet up with this little ones mother." Ryan said playing along as he ruffled Angel's hair.

"Daddy, stop it. You are going to mess up my hair." Angel acted her part, too.

"Well then, let me get you setup. As for other items for barter or trade, it is whatever the fair market value will bear, which is up to those doing the trading."

"That sounds fair enough to me," Michael said in an agreeable manner.

As Harriet led them to the tables setup in the parking lot with different kinds of fruits and vegetables, Angel started to wonder off towards the shopping mall buildings, which included what was once a Walmart, a Safeway, a Chinese restaurant, a Subway, a UPS store, a Wells Fargo, along with a variety of novelty shops.

While some of the old businesses naturally converted to the new needs they served, other had new merchandise available. The UPS store made for the perfect post office, which Angel found herself standing in front of as she gazed up at a peculiar flyer posted on the wall.

The flyer was a Wanted Poster with a picture of Public Enemy Number One, the most wanted man in Safe Haven. The flyer claimed it was the duty of every resident of Safe Haven to be on the lookout for this wanted criminal and to report any sightings directly to the office of Sheriff Tim Smiley. The thing baffling Angel, it was a picture of Michael in his security officer's uniform.

Angel hurried back over to where Michael and Ryan were gathering the generously offered food as both of them simultaneously thought maybe they had figured this place all wrong. A little too preachy for them, but it seemed like a wholesome enough place, so far.

Feeling an eager tug on his denim shirt sleeve, Michael looked down and instantly saw the wild look of urgency in Angel's eyes as he excused himself and left Ryan to finish gathering the groceries.

"What is the matter, Angel? What has got you so worked up?" Michael asked.

She led him over to the new post office unable to speak out of fear she might yell out her words and pointed to the wall. Michael instantly understood her concern and very much shared it, after seeing the wanted poster.

The picture of him in his security uniform was from an old identity badge that allowed him access to the site. But there was another picture put up next to it of only a silhouette of him from Howard's special. It was a still shot of him covered in shadows and wearing his Stetson, which he thankfully left back at the house. He intended on wearing it, feeling it might rain sometime before they got back, except he forgot it after his unintended morning pit stop.

It was not the picture causing Michael the most concern or even the fact they plastered his face on a Wanted Poster proclaiming him Public Enemy Number One, and he did not even know what crime they claimed he was guilty of committing. No the thing that downright terrified Michael at that moment were the words Sheriff Tim Smiley. Unable to prevent his nervous reaction of scanning the crowd quickly for any sign of Sheriff Smiley, Michael knew he was doing the one thing he could not afford to do, draw attention to him.

"C'mon. We got to get out of here, right now."

Grabbing ahold of Angel's hand, Michael practically dragged her all the way back over to Ryan.

As Ryan noticed Michael's hurried approach with Angel in tow, he acknowledged his thanks for the food and excused himself.

"Don't ask any questions, just smile and wave." Michael said in a soft whisper as they quickly moved over to where they parked the truck.

Getting in, Michael turned and looked back for one quick glance and caught sight of Tim Smiley in his sheriff's uniform gazing intently at him, like someone trying to place a face to a memory. It was until they looked into each other's eyes in a momentary flash that it clicked.

As Ryan started the truck, Michael hopped in beside Angel. Ryan pulled away at a fast, but not a speedy haste. He headed straight out of town and range of the rooftop sentries, thankful for the fog settling in as storm clouds were gathering above and below them.

By the time they arrived back home, the clouds had opened up and began pouring down a heavy, unrelenting rain with the thunder and lightning cracking the sky. It was a quarter after two in the afternoon when Ryan pulled the truck out back behind the house and parked inside a large shed. Michael explained the situation on the way back, and Ryan still could not believe what he was hearing. How could that even be possible when there are no real laws left to follow?

Ryan was leery about the way Michael reacted to the situation. He thought he might do something foolish after he told them he had just become the biggest threat to their safety. Angel could also sense the apprehensive tension building up in Michael as the rain came down even harder, turning the whole backyard into a giant mud hole.

Michael started coughing for a moment behind the backed in truck. He signaled Ryan and Angel to go on in with the groceries, and he would be along in a minute. Reluctantly, father and daughter acquiesced to his wishes for a little privacy as they rushed through the rain to store the food in the safe room. Angel was perfectly fine with staying down there for as long as they had to, so long as Michael was with them.

After faking the need to vomit, something he did quite convincingly, Michael felt his heart sink in his chest as he looked at the side door of the pick-up truck with the company name and address printed on it, along with a useless phone number. Not that Michael figured on them calling before coming over to kill him.

It had to be all Tim Smiley's doing. He must have figured out he was the mysterious writer of The Book of Tomorrows calling himself The Author. Michael mentioned he was writing something important to Tim when they first met and still got along, which did not last long. It turned out to be a blessing in disguise they disliked each other so much. Otherwise, Michael might have revealed more about moving into the house his friend inherited.

That was all the information they had on him, until now. He had no idea if anyone noticed the company name on the truck, but it was too far-fetched to assume otherwise. Seeing how careful they were being with the sentries posted everywhere. Michael figured Tim must have convinced everyone he was to blame for all the hardship and misery in the world. The Author from Howard Bickle's special was someone they could all point their fingers at and call him the bad guy. His heathen philosophy about our God Part made him an easy target, accusing him of claiming he was God. Hell, just look how incensed people got when John Lennon said the Beatles were bigger than Jesus was, and he wasn't even claiming to be a deity.

11

The moment Tim Smiley recognized Michael he knew he had him. There were not many places for him to hide. Tim had the man-power at his disposal to scour every nook and cranny he could crawl under and cower in the dark. He vowed to Reverend Johns if The Author of The Book of Tomorrows were still alive, he would find him and see him burn in the fires of hell for his sins.

Sheriff Smiley questioned Harriet about them, knowing she was the first person they would meet. At first, he thought maybe he was mistaken after Harriet repeated the lies about who they said they were and where they were going. But then she mentioned the truck they were driving had the logo of a local construction company on the doors. She did not know why the Sheriff was so interested in those three. They seemed perfectly harmless to her.

Sheriff Tim Smiley formed a posse within fifteen minutes of seeing Michael for the first time since he left him stuck behind that gate, costing him the lives of his family. The inciting words of Reverend Johns compelled them to take immediate action in seeking out and destroying this devil beast living among them.

12

After putting away the groceries, Angel looked around for Michael. Not seeing him anywhere, she ran back out into the pouring rain. Ryan followed after, calling her back.

"Angel, wait. Stop. Come back here. Noppers will be back in minute." Ryan's voice trailed off as he noticed the crowd of heavily armed men standing in their backyard.

Angel was looking up at Reverend Peter Paul Johns with a curiously arched eyebrow after running into him. He was a young man in his mid-twenties, but possessed a powerful charisma that many found hard to resist. He never raised his voice or spoke out of anger. The people believed his words came from the same breath as the Lord's did.

"Hello, my child. I have come to rid you of the devil who dwells here. Do not be afraid, little one. We mean you and your daddy no harm." Reverend Johns said in a soft compassionate voice that conveyed a comfort in his words most fell for, but not Angel.

"Go to hell, you fucking wacko. You do anything to hurt my friend and I will kill you, myself." Angel threatened the Reverend, shocking his followers with her vulgar words directed at their savior.

Ryan could not help but crack a slight proud papa smile. Although, it might have been easier for them to deal with the situation if she kept her cool. He could not blame her for losing it, though.

The Reverend's reaction was not one of furious rage, but one that did smart after he backhanded Angel hard enough across the face to send her sprawling to the muddy ground.

Ryan began to charge the Reverend, but his faithful followers held him back and then threw to the wet, muddy ground next to Angel.

"I can see living with the devil has taught you some bad manners, my child. But do not worry. All of God's children can be saved with the proper form of remediation applied." Reverend Johns insisted on the possibility of her salvation, but not the cost it would bear.

Standing in the pouring rain wearing a long black and red priest's robes, Reverend Johns called out to the heavens for the devil to appear.

"Devil who believes he is the Almighty One, come out and show us your true self. Do not let the innocent you have enslaved with your evil guile pay for your sins. For it is the only way to save their souls." Reverend Johns called out walking around the backyard, while his followers held onto Ryan and Angel.

Sliding out the sword he kept hidden behind the truck seat, Michael began crawling through the mud on his hands and knees, stealthily making his up to the house. The heavy rain concealed him from view as the dark clouds filled the sky, making it look like night.

Leaping up behind Reverend Johns and pressing the sword up against his neck, Michael held him in a firm grip, totally immobilizing him.

"I see the devil has revealed his true colors. Fear not, this devil will not harm me. He must serve a higher cause." Reverend Johns continued spouting out his spiritual mumbo jumbo, which Michael quickly silenced.

"Shut the fuck up, asshole. One more word out of you and I will slice your fucking head clean off." Michael wanted to make sure he had everyone's attention.

He moved the Reverend closer to the house and to where they were holding Ryan and Angel. Tim Smiley stepped forward with a shit-eating grin across his face.

"Why don't you just give up, asshole? You don't stand a chance. You are a dead man breathing." Tim tried to reason with Michael's common sense, which he was right. He had no chance.

But Ryan and Angel still did, and he was going to do everything in his power to make sure they got it.

"You let them go, and then I will let your boy go. That is the deal, Tim. Do not fuck with me. Or I will make sure you all bleed before I die, and you know what I am capable of doing." Michael swore bloody vengeance if they would not give in to his demands.

Tim did know what Michael was capable of, too. He saw Michael using his sword at work when he showed him what he could do in the parking lot after they first met. Michael always suspected it was one of the things that led to the animosity between them. Tim had an inferiority complex. Michael was in much better shape compared to him, and they were practically the same the same age.

"We let them go, not you." Tim clarified.

"That's the deal." Michael agreed.

"No, you can't. Don't do it, Michael." Angel cried out in anguish, sensing what was about to happen.

"Ryan, remember your promise to me, now." Michael urged his friend to save himself and Angel.

Reverend Johns nodded his head for his men to release Ryan and Angel. Ryan had to hold Angel back as she tried to run to Michael.

"Go on, now. Take her away from here. Get her to safety. Make me proud, Ryan. Keep your word, no matter what happens next." Michael told him as Ryan dragged Angel toward the house, kicking and screaming all the way.

Angel was not easy to contain from all of her training with Michael. Needing to mute her efforts, Ryan resorted to a right cross to knock her out.

"I am sorry, baby, but it is for your own good." Ryan said to his unconscious daughter as he took her down into the safe room, which was out of view from everyone outside and once shut near impossible to find.

Laying Angel down on a cot, Ryan ran to the lookout position to see what was happening to Michael. He was able to get a low level view of Michael still holding his sword to the reverend's throat.

"Alright, now release Reverend Johns." Tim demanded. "They are out of harm's way."

Looking around with a quick eye scan, Michael saw they had him completely surrounded. Releasing Reverend Johns while holding his arms outstretched, Michael just simply opened his hand and let the sword fall from his grip.

From inside the safe room lookout position, Ryan saw the sword fall to the ground as if it were happening in slow motion. He watched as it hit off the ground and splashed up some mud before settling in the muck. Ryan began sobbing heavily. Feeling the agony of his friend's great sacrifice, he knew there was nothing he could do without sapping it of all meaning.

They grabbed up Michael and held him tight as they decided his fate. Tim's initial plan of burning him at the stake was out of the question with the rain seemingly getting heavier and heavier. The thunder boomed out loudly behind them, followed by a lightning bolt streaking down and splitting a tree.

"If he thinks he is some kind of messiah, then we should crucify him like the false prophet he is." Tim suggested a proper punishment as he stared up at the big tree in the backyard.

"A just punishment for such a grievous sinner, don't you agree, devil?" Reverend Johns asked Michael his opinion.

"It is you who will burn for this, you and all your ignorant followers. So, go ahead, do your worse. My time in hell will soon be over, while yours is just beginning." Michael warned them of the damnation they would bring down upon their own heads.

But their blood lust had boiled over to the point of no return. Tim quickly made use of the construction equipment laying around the yard, finding the first thing they needed, a good strong rope. He also found something in a shed that brought a smile of pure delight to his pudgy cheeks as he came out with a bullwhip Ryan's uncle used to keep around as a joke.

"You know, if we are going to do this, we should do it proper. I believe the number I am looking for here would be thirty-nine." Tim said as he cracked the whip in the air.

With two smaller ropes tied to each wrist, they stretched Michael across the front of the big tree, facing it. His shirt ripped off and bare back exposed, Tim drew back the whip and let the first crack wail. Hitting Michael squarely in the middle of his back, it left a large, bloody elongated welt. Tim only was able to gain some satisfaction from the act, due to Michael stanch non-reaction. This made Tim even more aggressive with his next few cracks of the whip, which was all he could manage before running out of breath.

Relinquishing the duty to a much younger man, Tim got satisfaction just sitting back and watching. He found a piece of barbed wire on the ground and fashioned a crown of thorns out of it, which was a perfect fit when he pushed it down on Michael's head. No longer feeling any human emotions of sympathy or regret after his family died, all that remained of Tim Smiley was a hollow shell of a human being.

After distributing the thirty-nine lashes, they used the rope to haul Michael up the front of the tree, pulling him up by running it under his arms. The rain made everything twice as difficult and messy. Finding some big ten-penny deck spikes, a large mallet, and a ladder, Tim had to direct one of his deputies to do the deed, being that he could not climb up the ladder if he wanted to without breaking his neck in the process.

Michael drifted into a nether world, a limbo where there was nothing to feel, nothing to see, nothing to hear, and no reason to breathe. It was not until the first spike hammered through his flesh that he cried out in pain. Unable to get a good angle to swing, the deputy was only able to nail down both of Michael's palms, but also securely tied him to the tree with the rope.

Down in the safe room lookout, Ryan held his hands over his ears after hearing Michael's cries of anguish. He would carry the shame of that day with him for the rest of his life, even though the only thing that allowed Michael to endure his torment was in knowing they were safe.

After they nailed Michael up to the tree and secured him with the rope, everyone left except for Tim Smiley. The rain kept pouring down in torrential showers, blown around by a strong wind. Tim did not care about the rain. Finding a big log, he moved over in front of the tree and sat down with his back to the house.

Tim planned on waiting around for Michael to die. He wanted to savor every moment. He had been waiting for this for so long. It was the only thing that kept him going through the dark times. Finding a plastic tarp, Tim sat on the log with the tarp pulled over his head until the rain stopped around sunrise. Dozing off for a while, Tim never heard anyone approaching him from behind.

A scraping sound along the ground was barely audible. The blade of the sword Michael dropped on the ground was dragging along the mud, until it stopped a few feet behind Tim. Two tiny hands gripped the hilt of the sword with a tight hold. The sound of a throat clearing behind Tim got his attention as he drowsily raised his head, letting the plastic tarp slip off and fall to the ground behind him.

Twisting around, Tim was eye to eye with Angel, whose body was contorting from her hands holding something big behind her. Tim was about to ask what she wanted, when Angel suddenly whirled her arms around, swinging something in front of her with a quickness he did not think the little girl capable of doing. She had something extending out from her hands that had a long red stain dripping down it.

As Tim attempted to speak, he felt moisture freely flowing from his neck. Reaching his hands up to his throat, it took him a few seconds to realize blood was pouring out of his slashed open throat. After staring down at his blood soaked hands in absolute horror, Tim looked up at Angel.

Raising the blade up from the ground, she jabbed it straight forward in a stabbing motion and rammed it through the back of his head after entering through his open gaping jaw.

Ryan woke up a few seconds before and was just making his way out of the safe room when he saw Angel jabbed the sword through Tim's mouth and out the back of his head. Yanking back roughly, she extracted the blade as Tim flayed around on the ground bleeding until his blood stopped pumping out.

Looking up and seeing Michael nailed to the tree, Angel dropped the sword and cried out.

"MICHAEL!!!!!!"

Ryan ran over to Angel as she pointed up at Michael crying for her daddy to help.

"Help him, daddy. We have to get him down from there." Angel said through tearful sobs.

Somehow, Michael was still alive and conscious. He saw Angel creeping up behind Tim, and the suspense of how it would all turn out almost killed him. But when she slit Tim's throat and then finished him off the way she did, Michael never felt prouder of her in his entire life. He even managed to crack a small smile after seeing Tim lying dead in the mud.

When Ryan looked up at Michael, he could have sworn he was smiling at them. His shame overwhelming him, Ryan snapped into action and managed the difficult task of getting Michael down.

The hardest part was pulling out the nails through the palms of his hands. Fortunately, they were not set too deep, and there were only two of them. He found a thin piece of wood to pry against the tree, using the claw end of a carpenter's hammer to yank out the nails without causing him any more pain than necessary. Luckily, the rope held Michael up once Ryan removed the two nails.

Hurrying down the ladder, Ryan lowered Michael to the ground as Angel ran over to him and carefully removed his barbed wire crown of thorns. He was barely conscious and no longer felt any pain.

"You are going to be okay, Michael. You'll see. Daddy and I will nurse you back to health, just like you did for daddy." Angel promised Michael as her tear filled eyes seemed to see what she was unwilling to accept. He was dying.

"I am so proud of you, my sweet Angel." Michael managed to gurgle out a few words through the blood spurting out his lips as he spoke.

"Don't try to talk, Noppers. Save your strength. I am so sorry I left you out there. Please, forgive me." Ryan pleaded as Angel punched him in the shoulder several times, after reminding her of what he did, just not why he did it.

"You're a bad daddy, a bad, bad daddy." Angel chided her father, punching him in the shoulder.

Ryan just took it, feeling he deserve her revulsion.

Michael used his last breath to try and mend their relationship before taking his final bow.

"No, no. Your daddy is the bravest man I have ever known. It took great courage for him to do what he did, Angel. You should be as proud of him as I am of both of you. I love you both so much, and I just want you to promise me when I am gone you will forgive yourselves and each other for any hard decisions made or harsh words said. Then I will be able to rest in peace." Michael said as he coughed up more blood, forcing out his words with his last breath.

"I promise, Michael. We both promise." Ryan said as he and Angel held each other's hands, while tightly clasping Michael's hand.

"Yes, Michael. I promise, but you are not going anywhere. I won't let you." Angel insisted as Michael managed a little smile just before he died.

13

Ryan and Angel interned his remains in large toolbox they used as a makeshift coffin, burying it in the unsecure section of the safe room where the lookout was located. Michael left behind a box with his last wishes that Ryan and Angel made sure they followed. One was that they bury him with the original copy of The Book of Tomorrows and the video he filmed. He also left a final message for Ryan and Angel, telling them they should think about heading out to Denver and seeing if he could find his family.

Afterwards, father and daughter set out on the road together in search of a new life and all the adventures that journey would hold.

FINAL INTERLUDE

I am dead, Horatio.

Well, just look at you now. So tell me. Was it all worth it? Did you get what you wanted? Do you think any of it will matter anymore? Or was it all just a waste of time?

To think, you will never know whether anything you did served a greater good or helped commit a greater evil or both. I guess it is all subjective, now.

Besides, it is not as if you ever had much of a choice, is it? You have always known a normal life was not in the cards for you, any more than fame and fortune were. These things were never going to be yours to have, hold, and love. Your time here served another purpose, meant for something different.

Don't fucking ask me why you. How should I fucking know? But let me take one wild guess. Maybe, just maybe, it was because you could. You had the means along with the strength of will to do it, too.

Not everyone possesses both, you know.

So, that is why no matter how hard you may have tried to change your course, you always ended up right back where you started. It did not matter if you wanted to be somebody famous or just another forgotten nobody. It didn't matter if you wanted to live a normal life and just be like everybody else. You had to make the world fit you, instead of you trying to fit in with it. You knew the only way to fill the mind with knowledge was for the body to become an empty vessel.

If given a choice to do it all over, would you choose the path of Greater Fools again or take a different one that would allow you to be just like everybody else? Knowing you as well as I do and how much you truly believe you accomplished something special in writing The Book of Tomorrows, I don't think you would change a thing.

Ah! But what the fuck do I know?

I am dead, Horatio.

###

### The End

### Volume Two: I, Messiah

### The Book of Tomorrows

### Coming Soon

### Volume Three: The Prophet Warrior

**Also available** **from Alexander Ulysses Thor** :

Forever Tomorrow pt.1: Volume One of The Book of Tomorrows

Book One: Bright Night Past Yesterday &

Book Two: Dark Light Present Today

### About the Author

Growing up in a small town in New Jersey, Alexander Ulysses Thor developed a strong thirst for knowledge at an early age. He moved to California at the turn of the century to chase down his dreams of Hollywood stardom with a screenplay contract offer for $200,000.00 he couldn't refuse. Finding himself frustrated with the vagaries of Tinsel Town gamesmanship, Alexander went back to his first love of writing novels. After experiencing an epiphany of purpose, Alexander finally realized his reason for being. He was born to use the awesome power of the Written Word found in the pages of A Good Story to expose the Hypocrisy of Truth spreading out from living in a Disinformation Age. Born in the early Sixties, Alexander has witnessed the most progressive decades of change since the Industrial Revolution modernized the world with mechanical wonders. It gives him a unique perspective and the proper mindset to take on such an ambitious, potentially controversial project as The Book of Tomorrows.

### A Disclaimer

One thing I want to make perfectly clear, this is a work of fiction. The Book of Tomorrows is not an indictment against any one political ideology, religious belief, or system of government. It is an indictment against all of them. Or, I should more accurately say, the perversion of them. It's the reason for the old adage about how everything looks good on paper, because once the Human Factor is calculated into the equation, it is what usually screws things up.

### Acknowledgements

There have been many famous people who have influenced and motivated me, from those I greatly respect and admire to those I despise as hypocritical puppets and fools, but I'd like to express my appreciation to family, friends, and the helpful advice of everyday, casual acquaintances for their moral support and vital feedback.

One of the side effects of becoming a social nomad is being dependent on advice from the kindness of likeminded strangers and friendly co-workers. People like security supervisor, Jonathan Chico, whose initial input gave me the validation I needed at a crucial time in this novel. Also, I want to thank Sara Cochinwala, Jolene Roper, Logan Goldstein and the boys (Angelo, Trey, & Bora) for helping me see after dark the light of life burning bright in their eyes, to Lindsey and the girls in the office for believing, to Al Festa for being the best man I know, to Delta (Dee Dee) Spaniol for seeing the light even on the darkest days, and to all the good Samaritans giving me hope in every strangers eyes, where I can see a reflection of myself.

While there have been many wonderful, positive, and good things inspiring us, I find what usually motivates people more than anything are the things that really piss us off. Even though there are many people who have irked my anger, I will not name them or give them credit here. And it may very well be the things pissing me off motivating my literary tongue to wag, it is the words and works of those I consider the best of the best stimulating me to express my creative desires in a way that will stand the test of time with the great masters.

One thing I have always been fond of saying, if you want to find the real truth in this world, get to the heart of the matter, forget about the news, the media, politicians, or world leaders, and go ask a comedian. Lenny Bruce, Red Foxx, Richard Pryor, George Carlin, Bill Maher, Jon Stewart, pre-9/11 Dennis Miller, the brilliant façade of Stephen Colbert, Robert Schimmel, Stephanie Hodge, Andrew Dice Clay, Chris Rock, and many more, spew more truth with one joke than most news reports or political speeches ever will. But my real inspirational driving force was born from the works of authors, musicians, and filmmakers, who changed and touched my life with their creative craft and given me a unique insight into the world.

I consider William Shakespeare's Hamlet to be the greatest piece of literature ever written, period. It is so much more than a ghost tale. My favorite musician is Roger Waters, even though Beethoven's 9th is the supreme musical masterpiece of all time. I also like Roger's solo work more than his famous outings with Floyd—oh, by the way, which one is Pink? As for film, there is only one master, Stanley Kubrick. Every film is among the very best of whatever genre he re-created with his visually profound commentary on the human condition. Recently, an unorthodox protégé, a true prodigy of the art, a Mozart of words and celluloid, has emerged in Quentin Tarantino. Nobody does it better now. However, my favorite film is still Bob Fosse's 1979 masterpiece, All That Jazz, maybe because I saw it at young and impressionable age, like when only nine years old I saw Sam Peckinpah's The Wild Bunch at a drive-in.

I must also tip my hat to Bob Dylan, William Goldman (Magic is one of the best novels), Sidney Lumet, David Bowie, Stephen King, Martin Scorsese, Neil Young, Harold Robbins, Sydney Pollack, Led Zeppelin, Edgar Allen Poe, John Houston, Jimi Hendrix, J.R.R. Tolkien, Orson Welles, The Who, Terry Brooks, Michael Cimino, Jim Morrison, Michael Crichton, Oliver Stone, Janis Joplin, George Orwell, Robert Altman, Blue Cheer, Ray Bradbury, Christopher Nolan (Memento is still his best), Eric Clapton, Paddy Chayefsky, Ken Russell, Mott the Hoople and many, many, more. Throughout this novel, I pay homage to these and many other great artists by way of direct quotes, referential phrasing, and allegorical metaphors.

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