 
## SOCIOPATHY

## ~

Mark Fitzgerald

Copyright 2010 by Mark Fitzgerald

Smashwords Edition

## ~

Smashwords License Statement

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

SOCIOPATHY

It's not that I am all that unattractive. Maybe I am even attractive to some extent. I don't like my nose. Funny how the nose is the primary metric of attractiveness. A quirky chin or jaw won't disqualify you.

My nose is too big. And a little inconsistent in its orientation. It veers to one side such that I have a preferred quarter profile. That affects where I sit relative to others.

Yet I adore a strong or quirky nose in a woman. Maybe it validates me. Maybe it is just something special.

### ~

Of the eight, I was the least attractive. Four men and four women. Almost everyone of them beautiful or handsome beyond average. One girl, the one that appealed to me in fact, might not have been up to par. She had a quirky face. Really it was her nose. It was irregular. I liked it a lot and I like her a lot because of it.

Standing in a disorderly circle, without the benefit of having been introduced to one another we were at liberty to assess and concoct each other's back story on the basis of all we were to be privy too; physical appearance and, in due time, dialect or accent. We waited to board the bus. Nobody spoke; as instructed. We listened. To the rules. To the terms of the agreement. To the binding terms of the agreement. The agreement whereby we pledged to follows the rules in exchange for ten days of sensual indulgence and fulfillment in an exotic environment somewhere on earth. We would sup upon and quaff the most sublime food and drink the world offered. All pleasures of the flesh and the spirit were available and discretely proferred. I wondered who among us was a hippie who would spend the ten days stoned on pot and devouring munchies. That would be one of seven because was not surely not that one.

As for matters carnal. No explicit (in several senses of that word) promises had been made, but the "all inclusiveness" of the adventure was certainly made with no equivocation.

I am not sure why I am here. No, I know. I like to indulge. I am just not sure if my indulgences cover the entire gamut. Or if I have the balls to go there. if they do.

The other end of the deal. No one reveals anything. Anything. No names, no history, no age, no occupation... nothing personal. Everyone is to start from scratch with everyone else. You can coin a name for another but you cannot share it or address the other with it. You can express a liking for that which is presented to you but not for that which is unseen or was part of your other life.

Break the rules and you are exiled immediately. They promise to have ways to know of our fidelity.

That's it. No other rules. Play by them and you indulge like Satan would have you indulge but without sin because you ask nothing or exact nothing from another in your excesses.

### ~

I am hungry. Let's get this show started. First, the hoods were handed out and donned; for the last leg of the journey to "wherever". I am sure not one knew where we were in general. A blindfolded bus ride would ensure we were equally oblivious to our whereabouts remotely.

It was dark already. I couldn't tell you which continent we were on as we boarded the bus. I started in New York City at JFK. I assumed the "Helen Keller". My term for having my vision and hearing nullified for the duration of the trip; the agreement. I assume my escort, for the entire journey, was the woman who first met me at the Airport. MIght not have been.

As instructed we spread out on the bus; no one within a couple of rows of another. That's all I can tell you.

My next perception was that of intense sun shining through a double hung type wooden window directly onto my face. I was uncomfortably hot. I threw off the bed coverings. I was in bed. In a tiny little room. A jail cell, so to speak, but not literally. It was just tiny though. Six foot by ten foot at most. A door at one end. A dresser on the perpendicular wall and, tight against the last six foot of that wall, the twin size bed I was stretched out upon.

I don't know that I have ever seen sunlight like this. It is not like New York at anytime of the year. I don't know what time of day it is either. The sun is angled but that tells me nothing without some other frame of reference. Time of day or latitude. I think I have been asleep a long time. It could be ten oclock. It could be two oclock. It is still August. I think.

Were I not wearing underwear, I would be naked. I am wearing underwear I did not pack. My bag is on the dresser. It looks "deflated". Below it, in the dresser, is a wardrobe I did not bring. Quite handsome. Unlabelled. Extremely high quality I think. Not so humiliating to don, as I did. Khakis and a golf shirt. Loafers.

The door to my room was an old style paneled thing. Six panels with an old style crystal cut glass doorknob. Just a passage set, as we say in architecture; not capable of locking. Just of open and closing.

It was uncanny. We emerged from our rooms and into the hall within moments of each other. No one spoke. It seemed that we were to await approval for that. It only seemed reasonable.

We followed our noses; like we were in some coffee commercial. "The best part about waking up is .....". Of course bacon is also compelling to many. It is to me; especially on vacation. The hall led to a stair which led downward to spill out into a large dayroom bathed in sunlight and festooned with fresh flowers, pastries, sausages....... It was like the "continental" breakfast buffet at a hotel. Until you got closer and realized the range of gastronomical choices was unbelievable. Unidentifiable in part as well.

Bacon was not left untouched. I have no idea what ethnic origin half of what I ate was of. I drank juices of fruit that did not exist in my prior reality. The coffee was evil in its richness.

There were only six of us. The girl I had coined as "seven" was absent. As was one of the ten men. All the while I was grazing I kept thinking she would make her appearance. Now, sated, like the rest, I was aware that a male counterpart was absent as well.

### ~

"Good Morning Campers"

I, was the only one who found it funny and chortled out loud as this salutation came across over the speaker in the ceiling.

"I promise, the food gets better".

I laughed again.

"Buy the way, it is after twelve o'clock somewhere... maybe even here... so help yourself to alcohol. It is in the divan. Along with the best smoking substances on the planet. Pace yourself with the opium if you are or become so inclined. Even the tobacco is worthy of revisiting by you who may have conquered it already. "

Your numbers are reduced. Two campers, a male and a female, did not abide by the rules, shortly after we left on the bus last night. They have been disqualified. There is to be no personalization. Reveal nothing of yourselves. You may socialize. We want you to. But do it without any divulgence of yourselves. Or be sent home.

We have invested a great, great deal in this venture. You have only to abide by our simple rule and enjoy yourselves for a week. Please... please honor the pledge you made when you first agreed to this "cruise". Let's call it a cruise, too. It might well have been on the sea too. But we thought this location was just as intriguing and exotic. I promise, none of you will ever figure out where in this entire world you are right now and even when you are return to your homes you will go without any confirmation of where you have been. Enjoy this dissociation of it. You are still on earth by the way.

That's the cruise director's speech, if you will. I hope you enjoy your stay. You can make your special needs known to us. In the suggestion box, you might have seen just as you entered this room. No wish goes unfulfilled.

Parts of this building are out of bounds during the day. You will come to recognize the pattern. We will cater to you as promised but we do not want to co-mingle or fraternize. But I promise, you won't miss a meal.

And that is it campers. You know all you need to know. Thanks for agreeing to come and have a safe journey home in a week or so."

### ~

It was astonishing how quiet the room was when the "speech" over. Someone would speak first, of course and of course it was "Mr. Captain of the Universe".

"I liked the food... could have set out more fries."

That got a huge laugh.

Mine was a courtesy laugh. It wasn't that funny. I fact, I think I've even heard a joke similar to that one before. "Original"...sure.

The other guy liked it. And the girls.

I wish that other girl, "seven" hadn't fucked up. She probably fucked up trying to score points with one of the "prom-kings" So maybe, actually, it's. good riddance.

The "follow up" to "Captain's" quip ( that's it .. he shall be "Captain Quip")... anyway the follow up would have to be funny. Funny is not my forte.

The Oriental chick came through. " Not enough MSG, for my taste." Another round of guffaws, real and otherwise. "Suzy". She will be Suzy; although I think that is a perceived as an insult by Asian women. No matter, we can't use names; real or otherwise.

Suzy wasn't born in the USA. Not with that accent. Nor probably was Captain Quip. HIs was a brogue to match his ruddy complexion and ginger color.

Pending vocal confirmation, I might well be the only America here; wherever here is.

"TDH" ( tall dark and handsome) was clearly a Jew. All the more pork for me then. When he finally spoke, he had the screwy deep gargly "Henry Kissinger" tone.

"Bijou" (the skinny brunette) with the thick French accent was almost as much a genotype as "Inga" (the albino Norsewoman) who apparently did not speak a word of English.

I can't even remember the flavor of the guy they already evicted.

### ~

"Inga" slipped silently across the room to the huge picture window. One by one we joined her. The view was breathtaking. There's a cliché. Sorry. "Breathtaking"? It was astonishing, for certain. The old house we were in sat just below the crown of the hill facing a valley of sorts. Taliesan. That was the word Frank Lloyd Wright used to describe his first school of design. Gallic for Shining Brow. He could be pretentious. When I finally got outside of the building far enough to look back upon it, I realized that it was totally derivative of Wright's Prairie Style. Probably built in the second decade of the twentieth century. On the edge of the prairie; a prairie somewhere in the world; at the edge of the mountains; cleared from the coniferous forest a hundred years ago. The arable land extended about a quarter mile on three sides of the house. Not behind. No more than a hundred yards behind the house was dense forest. It was like looking down into a bowl. No, more like a chafing dish. A canoe? The valley extended more east and west until it was terminated by forest than it did to the south. South if we were still in the northern hemisphere I might add.

I cannot speak adequately of how odd it is to not know where in the world you are. It is not scary. But is it "other-worldly" nevertheless. And that is the best word to describe the feeling too. Like a parallel universe may look the same but somehow it feel different to be in it.

We all made some sort of comments. All of us but "Inga". I made the "nerd" comment. I asked if the hill rising from the valley directly below the midday sun was to the south of us or to the north. The cleverness of my question was at least acknowledged with "hmmmm" or a grunt.

"Captain Quip" and "Suzy", comedic soulmates began the drift back away from the window. Emboldened by their comradeship they took the lead in the desultory tour of discovery of the secrets of "Bad Manor".

There was the usual complement of rooms one finds in a great house of this era. A dining room connecting to the sunroom and to a huge parlor/living room which we were all now entering. The walls almost entirely bookshelves and filled with extraordinarily erudite books of every subject matter. Musical instruments where scattered everywhere; resting in stands. The guitars were exemplary. In tune. Exactly in tune.

Off the parlor was the media room. Media room by virtue of its equipment mainly. Seating for six. Two love seats and two recliners.

The stair to below led directly to the indoor pool whose roof provide the deck from the living room. The pool connected to the exercise room and the racquet court and the two lane bowling alley.

Clearly there was a kitchen, a laundry room and presumably accommodations for staff but there was no connection to these rooms, save via the butler's pantry that must have resided beyond the closed door at the end of the dining room.

I suspect we will never have contact with the "help".

About the bathroom. THE bathroom. Need I say more. Thank god number "seven" and her lover got booted.

Back to the help. They must live somewhere in the building. I think there are areas for them in the attic or basement that must access the kitchen and another bathroom.

Probably we all thought this "cruise" would be cruise-like. With some sort of social convener to keep us amused. A program of activities to reluctantly follow, even though you scarcely had any ambitions to anything other than to stay high and full. And sexed.

I started to fiddle with the old Fender Telecaster guitar. Not plugged in so I could exaggerate my dexterity without revealing how sloppy and atonal my playing generally was. "TDH" played the piano like Gershwin. Even "Suzy" abandoned "Captain Quip" to lean upon the edge of the full size grand with the other girls. "Captain Quip" grabbed a beer and gesturing to me first and then in response, pulled out on for me as well.

"So, you going to play for us too?" I gave him a look, in response, that he correctly read to be both a negation of that possibility and a less than hearty endorsement of our Hebrew friend.

"No. I think I will concede musicianship to his highness, unless you have something to trump him with". "Captain" just waved his hand.

"So, what is your special talent, if not music? I don't have one, so you needn't ask". Captain could feign humility if nothing else.

"I've got nothing. .. and I think, according to the rules, I couldn't speak of it anyway. I guess I could demonstrate it... but to brag on it... that would be verboten."

"The bastard sure can play. I doubt that is an accident. Bastard hardly uttered a word, then suddenly is Mr Virtuouso. That's great schtick!. My guess is he nails the "frog" for sure. Maybe even the albino. I think the Asian is taken already."

My wink was rewarded in kind.

Finally the concerto was concluded and in the last strains I recognized that is was Gershwin. "Rhapsody in Blue".

Grandstanding Jew.

Okay, that sounded ugly. I apologize.

### ~

I stepped outside by way of the sliding door from the pool. On to the little concrete deck which, ten feet from the face of the house, stopped and was abutted by native grass that extended down the hill, across the floor of the valley and up a ways to the trees on the opposite hill.

I walked straight out and down until I was far enough away to embrace the entire façade of the house. It was, like is said earlier, a variant of the Wright Prairie houses. But it also had a bit of a European flavor. It looked like an homage to the style rendered in Bavaria or the Ukraine. Which could be true. This landscape could be that of a European nation; which would mean that south was still my south. I wondered suddenly if that thing about toilet water swirling counterclockwise in the southern hemisphere was true or not.

It was incredibly sunny. Cloudless. And breezy. The breeze was just a degree or two higher than would qualify it as cool. "Cool" seemed to be only days upwind of us.

This was an "experience". Admittedly, faithful to the advertisement: conceptually. Somehow I had envisioned, without actually visualizing, a tropical environment with a cornucopia of diversions. Somehow, I had also failed to forecast, subjectively, the difficulty that this circumstance would pose socially.

I am the boss back home. The "principal in charge". It's my company, the forty man architectural practice. I am engaging and charming and approached and engaged because I "require" it of my associates. Not that I really require it; but it is lavished upon me and I accept it and I am relieved of any burden to being socially proactive.

I intend to abide by the rules though. I have no history here. Nor my fellow campers. Nothing will be shared. That surely is much of the point of this exercise and surely it will create social scenarios that will be as otherworldly as this place is geographically. I'm "in". Still.

I'd reached the very bottom of the hill when I turned to look back and saw "Inga" picking her way gingerly down toward me. In her uniform, care of the Manor, of knee length wool skirt and starched blouse. Sensible shoes; with flat leather soles. Not descending a hill shoes.

She really was the prettiest of the women, on actual consideration. She was thin and lanky. And blonde and pale. Her hair parted to one side, extended to the middle of her back. I understood the part choice immediately. She had a distinctly avian nose. Hawkish. Narrow as well. To have parted her hair on that same strong axis would have been a mistake. She had strong cheek bones and a strong jaw. I suspect many men would not find her attractive. I was suddenly very attracted.

"Is hard... no?" She could have been referencing my pants but, of course, she spoke of the descent she had finally accomplished.

"Those don't help," I said pointing at her shoes. I was almost starting to clarify my meaning when I saw the glint of understanding in her eyes.

"Is chill.. no?

I shrugged. Could have been a yes.. just as easily a no. Body language universally ambiguous.

"You play guitar...no?"

Again I shrugged. This time the universal, modest-yes shrug. "Not as well as I would have thought I would play after so many years of trying.".

"I play too". She said and quickly qualified, "not rock-roll... jazz maybe.. classic. style."

She probably played better than me too. That would make sense.

"I play too." I replayed her statement in my mind and I loved the cadence of it. Instead of the rising intonation I might have expected, her last word, too, was abrupt and lower. It was cute. So Scandinavian. Appealing to a man who has never owned anything but a Volvo. I have a '68 1800 S. A quintessential architect car. A"Ferrari" for the man on a budget. Also, does well as a "college dean" car.

I swung my arm in an arc, westward possibly, downhill for certain, and started to walk. I hoped and assumed she would follow along; maybe even abreast of me.

It was like walking on a primordial plain. The path we each took was the maiden voyage. A breast of each other was a given. There was no path for either of us to obey.

"Is just like Norway, it... " she caught herself. "Please, not to tell.. okay?"

I wouldn't tell.

We ambled almost to the end of the cleared area, to the edge of the forest. It went unspoken but understood that we were not to enter the woods. Not because it was off-limits to us. But for the simple psycho-social taboo that a women should not stray into a situation of seclusion and defenselessness with a stranger.

This time it was her shrug that signaled a revised course. We turned and with slightly more hast, walked back to the manor. The trudge up the hill seemed to tax my system more than her's and I struggled to conceal that fact. When we pushed open the door and stepped back into the pool room, the reverie of nature and a steady breeze was abruptly met by the cacophony of exuberent reverberated voices and the vista of our four remaining campers frolicking on, and in and around the water... entirely in the nude.

"Inga" disrobed and was airborne in her arc toward the waters surface in literally seconds. It shut me down, so to speak. I was simply numb suddenly. I stared in disbelief no less than a few moments then, like I was reliving some horrible dream I mounted, successively each step up the stairs to the living room above. No one called out for me. Maybe they did but I wouldn't have known what name they used. I think I am happier not knowing the names they each attach to me.

I am an alcoholic, by even the most liberal definitions. So there was that for me. The bar was stocked and I could concoct a Manhattan in seconds; as I did. A double. Sitting, deep in one of the recliners, the only cognitions by mind would permit were visual snapshots of the chaos still going on below in the natatorium. "Captain Quip" was absurdly manly, by way of musculature, hirsuteness and utter non-chalance about his nudity. "TDH" less so but he was endowed like no man I had seen before. He was more graceful but "deadly" by way of his weapon. Funny how the image I have of the of the men is stronger than that of the women. Except for "Inga". I ached now recalling her lithe buttocks and long slender waist as she hurtled away from the deck to the pool coping and then her aqualine dive.

Already, her laughter, bubbling up from below, stabbed me in the heart. I was hyperventilating too. Dreading, the moment when they would all climb the stairs, a gaggle of gigging geese and then one of them would ask the inevitable rhetorical question, "hey, why didn't you join us. it was a blast?". They would ask that question knowing full well why I didn't join in and knowing full well I would not answer or would concoct some deceitful reply.

They even dripped all over the hardwood as they entered the living room. I abandoned the "I'm reading a good book" ruse in favor of the " just chillin' in all my spiritual poise in this recliner" schtick.

No one, save for "Inga", even looked in my direction. She glanced and I thought I saw a tinge of "I'm sorry" in her look.

I really do hate women you know.

### ~

Halfway through the first of ten days and I couldn't wait for it to end. I couldn't wait to retire to my room' probably only to fester there dreading the next time I would have to leave it. I felt like an amateur actor on stage for the first time; I was so conscious of my posture... of my hands. ... of the set of my lips.

The "Captain" was all revved up; high school quarterback style. Making jerky little motions with his arms, legs and torso like he was "raring to go". Put me in coach! I wondered if the women were revved up by his apparent virility. TDH was just doing a "slow strut" around the room. No doubt, self-satisfied that his penis had brought acclaim to him yet again. Here were two genotypes. One with so much confidence that the girth of his manhood was immaterial to him ( and to woman). Another, so buttressed by genetic fortune that confidence was immaterial.

And me with neither. I guess that is why we sometimes refer to confidence as "cock-sure".

I was utterly invisible now.

Inga had curled up in one of the big leather recliners, with her long legs drawn up under her skirt. She gently patted her hair with a towel and watched the others. The others were raiding the bar with Captain having already assumed the helm. Captain was a beer man. To his credit I concede. TDH was a wine man. At least that was the impression he was forging as he teased the cork out of a bottle of wine he was also verbosely endorsing. Suzy was gin and tonic. Bijou was waiting for the wine.

I saw an opening. An avenue back into life. "What can I get you?" I asked of Inga. But not loud enough. One word into my next attempt, she was rising already and heading to the bar. It was do or die for me. I rose too and followed her. Just as her elbows hit the bar, mine did too and I thrust my Manhattan under her nose ( well, into her view rather) and asked " can I make you one of these?" She sniffed it, almost immersing her nose in my drink in fact.

"Oh, please yes." Finally, something to do with my hands. I started to come around the end of the bar when "Captain" declared, "no problem, I got this. Now, what's the recipe."

I relented. Calling out the mix from the civilian side of the bar; standing well out the "bubble" of Inga's space. My drink was nearly empty. No resistance was met as I reached over the countertop and refreshed it myself.

I was turning to make my way to the picture window when the Captains said, inevitably, " so, you're not a swimmer?"

"Actually, I'm quite a good swimmer." Which was the truth, though I think I understood the rules of the day enough to know that I was not allowed to elaborate. I was on the swim team in college. I was very good swimmer. "I guess I am move of a lap guy than a cavorter."

"I guess you're just a bit shy, I the best guess"

"I guess I am...now that it has been brought to my attention. For me, skinny-dipping is the the "deep end". They both laughed. Captain with a hint of sarcasm. Inga with a touch of gentleness.

" I'm going to set out onto the porch and smoke. I don't smoke normally but I enjoy it tremendously and I'm here to have fun. Talk to you later." With that declaration, I made my exit by way of the tobacco humidor.

Ten days of tobacco use would be a fulfilling enough vacation for me. I love it. Love it. Love it. But it kills. Incontestably. The rush of nicotine after a long lapse is simply delicious. Similar in so many ways to the first blush of tipsy when you drink champagne. Pleasant. Not mind altering or even mood altering. More like an orgasm than a high. Short lived though. Even one cigarette outlasts the buzz.

I must have whiled away an hour at the least. I could hear the occasional burst of conservation from within; always some declaration by "Captain".

The sun was finally beginning to set; in the east/west. I felt like it was very late in the day. Surely we were at great latitude. I was getting hungry enough to at least to raise the issue of "why aren't we being fed."

Stepping back in, they were already reposing with satisfied appetites. In the dining room, growing cold, was that food that they hadn't managed to consume.

"Oh, there you are, man. You should eat."

I picked at what remained. After I had refreshed my drink. I would have smoked concurrently but I was not in the mood to dignify the disdain my disgusting habit would elicit.

They were down to foursome now. Inga was gone. It must have been eleven o'clock by now. It felt like it .The sun had set not even a half an hour ago.

Drink in hand and a couple of joints in my pocket, I bade all a goodnight. They all responded quite cordially. That surprised me.

### ~

I hadn't smoked pot in a decade or more. With cause. First, it always made me paranoid in social situations. Second, drug testing. For some of my clients, drug testing for all contractors, professional or otherwise was mandatory. Now, at my level in the practice: not being the active service provider, I would never be called upon to be tested. My expectations were quickly met. I anticipated that contemporary pot, and certainly that provided by our host, would be of the highest pedigree. I don't think I had even straightened my arm for the first time before the sharp edges of reality were already becoming rounded. As much as pot is not a social drug for me, it is a muse of sorts. Old concepts seem new, truths read like falsehoods, drama is histrionics... it goes on an on. I recall smoking at party and becoming totally debilitated socially. I rode out the remaining hours of my obligation to be present and endured the fearful drive home. To be rewarded with a couple of hours stoned watching a movie on television I had seen many times before but now, really, for the first time. The"cornpone" made me hungry. What had once been dramatic was just plain silly.

My room was barren. Absolutely without distractions. I didn't need anything. I wandered along so many psychic trails. Some were new; some presented themselves as long lost friends, as déjà vu.

Curiously, I could look upon my humiliation this day with repose. At the time, I was devastated to confront again, after so many years, the same crushing shyness and discomfort that had plagued my youth and early adulthood. I could never be one of those souls who can disrobe in an utterly self-consciousless, spontaneous burst of life. I know I wish I was one of those people. And maybe I could have done so but, my embarrassment at my inertia , initially, had, immobilized me totally and instead I acted out a familiar scenario of indifference. Becoming a successful architect and, more so, being the boss of my employees, seemed to have bolstered my confidence. Maybe it just let me control absolutely the circumstances I found myself in. That is probably the truth.

But I think my new acquaintances are not as social as they perceive themselves. I think they have deliberately excluded me. Surely, apprising me that dinner had been served was to have been expected. Were I drunk, I might feel anger that, stoned, I do not.

I didn't hear her knock, as she said she had. Nor did I notice the door opening gently. I assume I made a queer spectacle backed into the corner where the head board met the south wall of the cell. I opened my eyes at "Excuse please?"

"May I come in?" I think the word is seraphic. She was seraphic if seraphic means almost immaterial, vapor like. It seemed like, should she choose so, she could have simply wafted into the room, like smoke, through the narrow slit in the doorway.

"Please, come in .. of course. "

She spared me the embarrassment of having to explain by waving the air with a "whew". I shrugged and sought in her eyes forgiveness.

But she was seeking forgiveness.

"I am sorry for not being nicer to you today. The others, I think, are not so nice but I acted too much like them today. I am not like them. Also, I am ashamed about the pool. In my country, it is more okay to be naked together. It is not so much to be about sex, I think, as it is in America. As soon as I was in the water, I could tell it was more about sex and not so much about swimming. If you understand. I couldn't wait for it to be over but I was embarrassed to show that I was..... embarrassed. You know?"

"You know I know," I offered by way of a smile.

"I should have come to find you at dinner but I was ashamed for letting you feel left out when I was really feeling the same way."

"It's okay... here. sit." I reached across the bed, kitty-corner, and patted the bed .

All I could offer as her host was reefer . Which she accepted with a grin; surely more taken by the gesture than the prospect of getting high.

We surely got high. Very high.

### ~

The banging on the doors and preposterously boisterous blather made by the "Captain' as he made the rounds of each cell door was the "cock crow" of the second day. The use of the word cock being deliberate. I have renamed him as well. The full extension of his name was "Captain Quiff".

Opening my eyes, for the first time that morning, just as the "Captain" stuck his head into the doorway , he and I share the visage of Inga, entirely nude, stretched out beside me and just now beginning to stir; with no apparent awareness of her condition.

"Oh boy,"quipped "Quiff". And he was off to the next room to spread sunshine.

I was similarly attired. I expected a social catastrophe to ensue within a matter of seconds. I expected her, just as I, to be shocked but shocked to that level reserved for the fairer sex. Perhaps mortified. I had no recollection whatsoever of any sexual interactions with her. Seeing her now, was the first time I consciously beheld her and that was stirring my loins, so to speak, so I made an effort to look askance. We were on top of the sheets so I could not make a gentlemanly gesture of covering her.

With a soft hum she threw her arm over my chest and buried her face in my neck.

And I was erect as I have ever been.

I assume an erection is a matter of great shame to all men. Regardless of magnitude, it betrays your enthusiasm to a woman. It demands attention. It is revealed in a glance. It is what it is. Surely, a woman feels much the same about her breasts at their debut. But breast don't bespeak of sexual intent like a penis.

Inga drew closer to me. As she threw her long, graceful leg over me she encountered "him".

"No, no mister.... don't be so greedy."

She bounced off the bed, taking the sheet and her clothes and leaving me alone with "him".

"He" was very agitated. Angry. Not at all like one who had been recently appeased. My caress did not reveal any residue of lovemaking, nor did smelling my hand belie romance. I could envision a scenario whereby I might have ended up so "fresh" but I cannot imagine having no recollection of that event.

When I made the final step from the stairs into the dayroom, the mood of the room was somber. "Captain" was in a funk. Our number was, once again, reduced. Suzy, the frisky Asian of "Captain's" preference was nowhere to be found. Her room, I soon learned was stripped of her effects and of linens.... of all of the few vestiges that might have been found in any of our rooms. She was no more.

She had been culled. Separated from the herd. Clearly. Just as the other two, "seven" and the anonymous guy had been culled that very first night.

We were left to speculate as to her transgression. "Captain" was distressed. They had enjoyed each other, obviously. "Captain" was also aware of her breech. Her name, as she had divulged was Caroline. She was an American born Filipino. An American of Filipino descent, I should say.

Too much information. In this setting, for certain.

### ~

Suzy had been eliminated. But eliminated was not dead. Mourning her absence would be short-lived. Even for the "Captain". Two women. Three men. I was not optimistic. I can't say that Inga showed any more partiality to me, post-coitus than before. My usual self-deprecating belief would have been that she would immediately seek to be the "Captain's" surrogate Suzy. She just seemed to be impartial, though.

But "TDH" was off kilter, I think. I think suddenly, for him, he had to ponder whether his erudite cosmopolitan schtick could continue to trump the "broiling over testosterone of the ruddy Gallic warrior ".

Somberly we gravitated toward the dining room were the expected cornucopia of breakfast fare from the corners of the globe was laid out. When Inga was turned away I felt "Captain's" left arm encircle my shoulders and his right fist thump my deltoid. "I think we all ate at the Y last night". He was the kind of man we all kind of hate for having the optimism and confidence we all wished we had. I'd have been embarrassed had Inga seen that gesture. But she hadn't. I cursed myself that I felt less hostile toward the Captain suddenly. But it would be only hours, I knew, before he would start wooing Inga; who I was already more covetous of than I wanted to be.

The "voice" came on, just like yesterday. "I hope you all enjoyed your first day." Regrettably one of you took the rules casually and has been removed from the project. I will repeat, once again. We ask only one thing of each of you. Bring to the table no history, whatsoever. Nothing is to be divulged of your pasts and furthermore, we are asking now that nothing be divulged among you regarding your perceptions or private experiences here during the remainder of your visit.

Each of you will find, now in your rooms, a laptop computer that will connect you privately to me. There are no programs on your computers other than a simple word processor to use in our correspondence.

Please, take a moment regularly throughout the day to check in with me. Other than that, you are at liberty to do anything you wish. You men in particular might find it "sporting" to help purge our fields of the thousands of "gophers" that have taken dominion there. There are some very, very fine sporting rifles in the large wardrobe by the piano. Be careful with them. There are also horses, and all manner of recreational vehicles in the Quonset behind us. There is even a ultra lite aircraft that you could learn to operate in a matter of hours. At your own risk and at the lowest practical altitude.

Ladies, I hope you will be suitably amused; though most of our diversions are sporting in nature.

Enjoy your day. Abide by the rules."

"Captain" was at the wardrobe in an instant. The spectacle within awed and humbled him. Even I, with no knowledge of firearms was nearly stunned at the arsenal of extremely well crafted and handsome hardware racked so orderly and proudly within the wardrobe. The quantity of ammo was bewildering. Thousands of rounds I imagined.

Toys for boys.

Six identical rifles. Huge caliber as well. Like the end of my middle finger. Telescopic sights that were a foot long and an inch and half in diameter. "Captain" was savvy enough to have loaded the ten round clip without a hitch. The door to the porch most certainly did not hit his ass as he passed. The rifle report was sufficient enough to elicit shrieks from both girls and a full blown startle reflex from me. Two hundred yards away a gopher exploded and the earth beyond him erupted in a plume.

"Holy shit," declared the "Captain". "You can't miss. I swear to God, this thing is dead on". He ripped off another round and we saw the same carnage; only much further removed than the first fatality. "Try this dude." I wanted to demure but I couldn't see that I would be successful. The scope was amazing. To have that kind of visual fidelity over that kind of distance. I fired at rock. It exploded.

"Dude... are you blind? That wasn't a gopher."

"I'll get me one soon enough," I said, handing back the rifle; which quickly made the round of everyone. The girls were giddy. I bet their panties were steaming too. They were killing gophers. Some girls do I guess.

My interest was in the ultra light plane. Not that I had a scintilla of knowledge about them or about aviation. But I did have a dream, years ago that my dad had somehow acquired one and before he actually wrecked it in the back yard, I took it for a turn and the experience was one of the best ever of my dream life. I would have been overjoyed had Inga followed along but she had a sudden taste for chaos and I wasn't promising as visceral a time as that canon of a rifle was. I was halfway across the field to the Quonset when Bijou called out.

"Wait up."

It was the first time she had addressed me. Her accent was, by definition, charming. She was, of course, very beautiful. Consistent with the theme of this cruise. All in the price.

"What do you wish to use. A horse? Are you a cowboy? You look like you could be a cowboy. "

"No, I want to check out that airplane. Maybe, it is not to complicated."

"I want to ride a motorcycle. I have never ridden one. An iron horse. Real horses scare me."

"Women always love horses," I asserted. "Have I got it all wrong?"

"Hush, you silly person... you only have silly conceptions about women. Maybe someday you will meet a real one."

Together we pushed the huge sliding metal door to the one side, exposing the treasures within the Quonset. And the bounty was plenty. Before I could even scan the building for the ultra lite I was fixated upon a Triumph Bonneville of sixties vintage. It stood tall like a stallion. Not hunkered down like a Harley-Davidson. It was the Carl Lewis of motorcycles. Not a Mike Tyson like a Harley. Next to it was a Bultaco dirt bike. Elemental. Torque over trim. A climber. A warrior.

"Can you drive a motorcycle?"

They answer wasn't yes. It was "hell yes!"

"Take me for a ride... then show me how."

I longed to take the Bonneville but there was nowhere within our midst that would complement her charms. She was the getaway car. Not the terrain mastering sort. The Bultaco would titillate my sweet French friend. It would provide a ride her loins would never forget.

The racket that machine made was ridiculous. Like a popcorn maker. So deceptive. Not unlike the ineffectual noise of a sixties vintage Porsche. At low RPM, it was a Volkswagen. At anything faster than an idle it was a rocket. It would provide a rousing soundtrack to our jaunt.

The torque. The torque was almost calamitous. Too bold a twist of the throttle and the bike would spin on some imaginary axis like a ferris wheel; tossing all riders to earth with indifference. The joy of riding the Bultaco was like that of riding a bull; a bull that would be tamed once bested.

The squeal of a woman at your mercy trumps that of a woman's endorsement of your lovemaking. Bijou was ecstatic as I pushed that feisty little Bultaco to its limits. Like a mechanical bull in a honkytonk. I loved her tight embrace of arms and thighs. Spurred me on to greater reckless ness.

Against better judgment we tore across the valley floor in front of the house and incredibly, but somewhat predictably we were flanked by gun fire to right and left. I could rely on the accuracy of the shooter but not one his, and I assume it was "Captain" shooting, prediction of which way I would zig or zag. So, I went straight ahead as fast as possible toward the cover of the forest. I could se, as we approached the treeline , what appear to be a breach in the vegetation but I dared not veer toward it. We plunged into the cover of the woods; fully fifty or sixty feet from the last point at which we would be visible to the house.

I turned off the bike. "You saw that didn't you? He was shooting at us... well not at us I guess but, god almighty, that guy has a screw loose."

"You think?"

She was quite likeable, this little Frog.

"Did you see that little opening in the trees over that way. It looks like a trail of some kind. Do you want to explore a little."

"Qui".

"There's nobody else here?" That multicultural joke went nowhere; right to where it deserved. We started our lateral voyage to where the path seemed to be.

"I just got that..... it was a joke."

The underbrush, the flora on the forest floor was light. Nothing beyond a foot in height. Nothing too gnarly or thorny. There was a trail alright. Not one too heavily trod. Nor was it too disciplined in its course. It meandered; every obstacle being accommodated by re-routing; never cleared to straighten or shorten the route. This was probably the trail of some herd of years ago. Cows. Sheep. It was a long trail. We had gone about a quarter mile when she queried, "So are you and Helga paired up for the rest of the tour."

"Not that I know of. Why do you ask."

"News travels fast in this burg. I heard you and she had a pyjama party. Without pyjamas. Nest pas?"

"That's the way it looked to me this morning too. But, I honestly don't recall anything sexual with her. If it happened I was too stoned to remember."

"She says you raped her."

I was too stunned to even stop our trek and confront her remark. It was quite possible she was telling the truth. I had raped a girl once before. In college. I would not have defined it as rape at the time. I am better socialized now, I guess. It was rape. She had declined me and I had simply bullied her into sacrificing her virginity to me. I was nearly thrown out of college for it. In the end, she relented. Her cherry had been on the blocks since she has started as a freshman. It would have been wasted somehow and the destruction of my career hopes, though probably deserved, was not in her will. I got lucky. I've been more careful.

When I have sex, it is usually with one of the interns that work for me. They seem willing enough and I am careful not to imply that their careers success is contingent on sleeping with me. That they all seem to assume, I will reward their favors is what amazes me. They come and then go.

"Maybe I did rape her, if you define the term to include whatever she said I did. I don't recall anything sexual like I said. And I'll tell you this, if I must. It has been a good long time since I was last with a woman and when I woke up beside a naked woman this morning my arousal level was the same as any man who's not had sex in a year. So, I don't think we had sex and, if you'll forgive me for being rude, there was nothing about my privates that suggested they had any fun recently. You know, a lot of weird shit seems to happen here, by the way. Besides, I would bet if we aren't allowed to talk about stuff, gossip is out of bounds as well."

"Okay, you win."

We took turns at point; like the marines would say. I liked to follow her for the most obvious of reasons. She was still dressed like a girl scout. A shirt, being contorted by an earnest ass is a sight to behold.

"Stop looking at my bottom". So much for that diversion. I really should have been attentive to nature and all that.

"Then you better let me lead. I can't help myself." I schooched around her quickly as I made that statement and, looking backwards as I went, I was the first to hit the electrified fence.

And fuck did that hurt.

If I reacted like an animal, solely out of pain, it was only for a moment before, Bijou and I both registered the other "shock"; of being prisoners.

The trail was abruptly terminated by the fence; at the gate in the fence. The trail didn't divert to run parallel to the fence as a herd trail might. This was simply a barrier to trespass or further ingress into the forest. Most sinister, the fence which was at least six feet tall and crowned with razor wire extended as far as we could see on each side of the trail.

Moments before, I was having that quintessential fantasy one cannot help having when alone in the woods with a beautiful woman. The one about the meadow where you both falling rapturously in love while you tenderly, and non erotically caress one another in the dappled sunlight

"Is it keeping us in or keeping us out?"

" I think in," I replied. "I think those uprights with the razor wire always point toward the captive side."

"We won't talk about this... anymore than I will say I'm getting a little weirded out about things here. " She was not alone in that.

"We probably shouldn't even tell the others about this.. I doubt we're supposed to know about this. Shit maybe they were trying to hit us with those shots."

We trudged back to the Bultaco. Along the way,I got careless, "You're from Quebec!"

"Fuck off." In several senses of the term I think.

"Sorry"

"Don't ask don't tell.. remember."

"I'm gay."

"Sure you are... you might want to let your pants in on it."

I like her.

### ~

A return to the valley was a return to the firing range. Someone, Captain no doubt was insatiable. It was intimidating driving back to the house; knowing you wouldn't hear the shot that killed you.

It was probably noonish by now. I pulled the Bultaco up to the back door and propped it up on its stand. It felt like it was my ride and no one else's. But only for a moment, as "Captain" pounced upon it and was off.

Everything in this place would bear his scent eventually I supposed. I was willing to sacrifice "Inga". I hoped I could keep him out of "Bijou".

We stepped into the house through the screen door. It close behind us with a whack. The smells of lunch were incredible and as yet unidentified. "Inga" and "TDH" were chatting at the piano. He was tinkling. She was twinkling, perhaps.

In exactly the perfect accent, "Did Hansel and Gretel find the gingerbread cottage in the forest?"

"Nothing but trees and then more trees: Maybe "Curious George" will find it, I know I should talk but I can't imagine him not dying to know what took us so long in the woods. He took off fast enough."

"Inga" made a restrained dash to the porch. As the door opened we could hear the receding whine of the Bultaco and a glimpse out the window confirmed my guess. He was hell bent toward that part of the forest. He was a comical character, in as much as you could predict his every action like an old dog.

"Inga" grabbed the rifle on the porch swing in route to the balustrade and was, within a flash, in firing position. Clearly she was using the scope to better see him. He was headed straight for where we had entered the forest. You couldn't see the path we had found from this vantage. Inga had the most intense look about her. Her jaw bones were flexed. She looked " Nazi" Arian. And with a quick little flick, she released the trigger safety latch. I looked across at Bijou. She had seen it too.

Now her finger was firmly planted on the trigger and the "Captain" was making headway toward our point of arrival by running along the woods, parallel them; not perpendicular as we had. No one was breathing. No "TDH" was watching it all with utter indifference.

Suddenly, the Bultaco stopped short. "Captain" looked around and then, scribing a series of overlayed circles in the turf and raising a twenty foot tall dirt devil, he shot off to some other point that caught his every roving eye. Attention Deficit Disorder.

"Inga" set the rifle back down and whispered to me as she passed, "He'll be sniffing around me the rest of the week I'm sure, too."

"Inga" and "TDH" resumed their conference at the piano."Bijou" and I grazed over the lunch spread. As we both leaned in to take the iced sushi offerings, I quietly opined,"This is getting scary."

"Yes." Then, in case we were being heard, " I guess I am a bit scared of raw food, too."

We sat silently at the table eating food that was beyond compare, just as we had been promised. Along with the remainder of a no doubt priceless wine, that was languishing in the half filled bottle left on the table by our predecessors.

"I suppose we check in with "poppa" soon." I wasn't sure if that was a comment or a command, but I knew it was probably a valid point that "Inga" had just made."

"I think we should learn how to fly. At least as high as the tree tops and a couple of miles beyond the fence," I uttered as discretely as was possible. "After "poppa", okay."

"Okay." And Bijou rose and left for her room.

"Inga" quickly took Bijou's vacated chair. "Maybe tonight you visit my room. no?"

I know my answer, affirmative though it was, lacked conviction. I doubt "Inga" had ever been assented to so ambivalently.

"Inga" scared me.

### ~

There was a laptop on the table in my room. The screen bid me "HELLO". Not even a mouse. Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. ha ha . Press any key. Always works doesn't it.

It brought up the simple request. "Please describe your experience here so far."

"So far so good. Food is great. The toys are great. The poisons are great. Can't beat the weather."

The response was immediate. "Has everyone been abiding by the rules, to the best of your knowledge?".

"Yes."

"Please sustain a measure of vigilance of the ruddy gentleman. His enthusiasm for the proceedings may weaken his self-control. His maturity has not met with our initial expectations. Enjoy your afternoon and the evening."

That was it. I had done my chores. Time to fly.

We pushed the plane out of the Quonset. LIght does begin to describe its substance or rather lack of substance. It is in essence a frame of aluminum tubing approximating the shape of a conventional private plane. The only exception to its openness was the tight fabric skin on the top of the wing and encompassing the other aeronautical necessities. Two seats, in tandem behind a windshield. A tiny propeller facing to the rear connected to an incredibly inconsequential little motor. I could pick the entire craft up and carry it out of the hut. But pushing it along with a single finger was even more efficient.

I always gauge other men by my own experiences; assuming I am a virtual Everyman. Surely most men know the basic of aviation, like I do and have since I was a boy reading Popular Mechanics and other soft-core technical magazines.

There was no key but there was a switch that looked to operate just like a car ignition. And a hand brake. And pairs of pedals and levers that were very quickly identifiable as to function and quite consistent with one's natural expectations.

I felt good to go immediately. But not with Bijou. Not the first time. I didn't want her to be hurt because I did not have the sense to stay earthbound.

I set the brake and started it up. I started immediately and purred like a Japanese motorcycle. God forbid it had a Harley-Davidson quality. No one would leave the earth on a Harley. Not the way they grunted and grumbled. Potato-potato-potato. With each little, ever so slight, nudge of the accelerator, the little bird seemed desperate for flight.

We first took a lap, down and back the valley floor. At no more than fifty miles per hour, ground speed, it took a deliberate effort to keep it on the ground. The valley was long. A half mile at least. With a stand of trees at each end, which probably meant that you would need to be airborne pretty fast to have time enough to gain the altitude to clear the trees. What I couldn't tell from my terrestrial trials was how fast it could climb. Maybe it would turn a ninety and rocket upward. Maybe it was a painful, every foot of elevation a labor of love, type of ascent. Finally, my courage was sufficient. And I think I was losing the interest of my audience and booster club. Bijou was just strolling around aimlessly and apparently bored, each time I glanced toward her. Which was often. I skittered to the end of the valley, almost into the trees and a full quarter mile from Bijou. I made the one eighty turn and gave it full throttle. In scarcely two hundred feet, without my fighting it, she came off the ground. My intent had been to immediately set her down. Fuck it. I was flying and I intended to continue.airborne until I had thebasics of maneuvering down and then I would see if I could nail my first landing.

Long story short. I returned to earth.

Bijou, bless her patience with the whole effort, was enthusiastic with my accomplishment but not inclined to replicate it herself. I browbeat her about that and she relented. By the end of the afternoon we were aviator and aviatrix; separately and in concert.

It gave me comfort to know they was a way over the fence. I made a mental note to myself. Fill the tank.

It was well into the afternoon when we pushed the plane back up the hill to the hut. Captain was again defending the fort from rodents. I shouldn't be so sarcastic. I can see the point.. shooting is fun. I would probably kill a gopher soon enough and probably not give much of a shit about taking that life. Tomorrow.

Amid the gunfire, I asked, "how's "poppa"?"

""Poppa" says I should keep my eye on you."

"Well, if you're watching me and I watching "Captain Quiff"...... by the way, I call him that, then who's to watch you?"

"What is quiff?"

She really didn't know.

"What do you call me?"

"Bijou."

"Little gem, that's nice."

"You're welcome. Do I have a name?"

"You did but I am working on a new one. Ask me later."

I brought up the issue that had plagued me all afternoon. "Your "Helga"... "Inga" to me .. is on my case. She's beautiful... you're beautiful by the way.. but she's latched on to me and I am afraid to resist. Resistance might be taken wrong... it might be taken for suspicion and I really don't want her to be suspicious of me. Not after that deal at lunch. I think she was seconds away from shooting the "Captain"."

"Fuck her Nordic/Arian ass. Fuck her up her Nordic/Arian ass," Bijou comment casually. "It's on me. If I was a guy I'd want to tap that one under any circumstance." She paused, "Nno really, if you have to fuck her to get any closer to the truth of all this, I would. Maybe, I'll fuck the Jew. But I don't think he's all that interested in my flavor. No that's not quite how to say it. He doesn't eat meat."

She winked at me. "Don't fret, hell would freeze over before a good Canadian girl like me would fuck some redneck "mick" like your "Captain"."

"Thanks, I have been fretting."

We crested the hill. "Let's leave this here."

"Won't it blow away?" She was right. I hated to admit. If it were normally tethered. I could not see how or to what. We rolled it into the hut. Walking back to the house, I proposed, "try not to sleep tonight. I don't think I have slept ... fallen asleep, "naturally" since we first landed. Wherever we landed. I think much goes on while we sleep."

### ~

There was a party going on when we entered the house. Somehow, I sensed it was about 7:00 PM. "Captain" was pretty drunk. He's a fun drunk though. One has to admit. One has to concede the truth, in all fairness. He was hard not to like. Simple as a puppy and every bit as enthusiastic. The house was absolutely vibrating. It was the forty thousand cubic foot resonance chamber for the "Best of Hendrix" album. It was like the house was built upon the cosmic center of Hendrix and his soul was returning to earth like the rapture. "Inga" was a dervish. All one thousand beings within her were manifesting at once. She was pandemonium. The "Captain" was an amateur by contrast. We caught up quickly. "Bijou" and me. "TDH" maybe. I don't recall. Alcohol beget pot beget, I actually think, opium.

I didn't keep my pledge to "Inga". "Inga", undeniably, got it on, far, far beyond the need for sexual fulfillment. She didn't make an appearance until mid-afternoon of day three. Bijou had crawled into my bed at about 7:00 AM. The sun had been up for an hour already. Strange time of day to initiate an act that would seem destined for coitus. But we just shared a bed. Shared the warmth of each other. Not so much as a kiss exchanged physically. About 9:00 AM, when it was very likely our association would be soon detected, she said." let's get out of this alive." And she slipped back to her room.

At breakfast, there was such a sense of camaraderie among us. Sincere fellowship. Maybe only feigned by "TDH". Honestly, I could scarcely recall him being part of the previous night's revelry. But God Almighty we had gotten it on. I think I had even plugged in that Tele and cut loose. I am sure it went well. I know I can play like a son of a bitch. I just get stage fright. But not last night.

Predictably, the "Captain" came up to me and with frat brother bravado acknowledged, " the Swede can sure fuck. You're okay with that I hope."

"Knock yourself out." I wanted to correct his perception, He hadn't fucked her. She had fucked him.

"Poppa" piped in, "Welcome to day three, friends. Congratulations to all for making a very full day of it yesterday. We have two aviators amongst us now. Cudos to you both. Unfortunately, our technician has determined that the ultra-lite is not airworthy without some servicing so, it has been removed from fleet of vehicles for you use. The firearms seemed to be a big hit, so, if you check out the wardrobe you will find even more tantalizing hardware. The big cylinders screw onto the ends of the rifles. Try them. It is a curiously thrilling experience. If you tire of gophers, you might find more satisfying prey in the woods. Overstocked species ...so put your minds at rest if you have concerns. Enjoy your day. Check in, after lunch. Take it easy on the opium. It has a way of asserting itself."

We were all less spontaneous than the day before. Maybe hungrier, too. We almost cleared the table of everything. Maybe some of the exotic stuff was left. But we ate a shit load of bacon; even "TDH's" share.

"Captain", eventually made the survey of the wardrobe. Handguns and silencers.

Hamster farts. Those cannon rifles made nothing more than hamster farts with the silencers attached. Different feel of course. Such a ponderous mass on the end of the barrel. But, not so different from before with the barrel supported by something like a tripod or a porch balustrade.

How strange to effect such devastation so far removed with no more than a hamster fart at the origin.

I killed my first gopher. Sorry, but killing rocks gets boring. Killing, it seems is the point of rifles. I'm okay with that. Gophers are . rodents. Rats are rodents. So fuck em all. Let God sort them out.

Somehow, I hate to see the same blood lust in "Bijou". But she simply squealed with every kill. Maybe it was a girl thing. To vocalize her orgasm while a man, by inclination or cultural expectation, makes only a restrained and prolonged grunt.

I will give some thought, someday, to this whole killing thing. It doesn't seem to bother me, like I would have thought. Maybe I will shoot something larger. A deer maybe.

### ~

I think I have "shaken" "Inga". Ditched? No damage done too. Have at 'er "Captain". I bet she can deliver. Would have like a try and I still don't think I had a turn the other night.

I am starting to think that there is not enough program here at "camp conundrum" to keep the six of us entertained for yet another week. The handguns are fun. Colt 45 service automatics. Apparently the "heavy starch basic" of the handgun. Reliable. Not "spy" stuff. "Is that a 45 in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?"

There was a 44 magnum which we all took turns with. Not that you can hit anything far away. I couldn't . But firing it almost gave me an erection, it is so thrilling.

I don't buy into the broken airplane line. I think Bijou and I overachieved yesterday in "poppa's" opinion. I will still make sure there is gas in the fucker.

"TDH" kind of keeps to himself. I should probably be less of a prick and engage him more. Certainly, I was intimidated and asocial at first until "Inga" drew me out. I admit, I easily can be oblivious to the feelings of others even when I should be totally empathetic by virtue of my own experiences. Maybe that's just the way people are. He probably is gay though; he had Bijou's full attention at first and, yet, he didn't close that deal. I plan to close that deal before the week is over. But I'm not in a panic. "Captain" is satisfied and not so frantically trying to mark my territory.

Sometimes I ask myself if my interest in women is rather just wanting something somebody else might covet too. One of the lesser sins though. Not like murder. I am not sure as to the actual count of the mortal sins. Some don't seem all that egregious to me.

I sure don't believe in a God. So that voids at least a couple of the commandments.

From about eleven until we got word about lunch, Bijou and I cavorted in the pool. No, we didn't cavort. That sounds like more fun than we actually had. We both slipped in, sans clothing, with our eyes diverted until we were submerged and then for an hour we just circled each other like prey on the African savanna. Trying to generate conversations that would not get us exiled from camp took a great deal of effort at first. But, there is always popular culture and really, how much conversation among people is just junk talk like that about popular culture. We pretty much agreed on what were the great films. I think her musical taste is wanting. But she is not a musician, I think, so her likings may be more visceral than mine own "intellectual" choices.

Our genitals being both in the same warm stew was a fact that was hard to ignore. And, how odd it is to deliberately, mind over matter, will away an erection. I wonder, if the occasion arises when I will need one, will it be there for me. Deep thoughts in the deep end. Here's another one.. would I be gross out if I knew she had peed in the pool. Probably not. How weird is that. Guy thing probably.

No real need to advise, that lunch was magnificent. Everybody drank too. I was in beer heaven. All beers past, present and possibly future were here. I don't always buy American; particularly at these prices. We were still giddy with each other, collectively. The last evening's "blow-out" had dampened any paranoiac feelings I had had the previous day. Especially about the sinister side of "Inga"."Inga" could party. I think at one point she was down to her panties. I think. I don't remember. I do know she can shake that booty.

I needed a nap. I was on vacation you realize. And "poppa" was probably waiting for me. "Poppa" had a warning; for me in particular I think. Don't be seduced into breaking your covenant with us with anyone; even a romantic partner you might have engendered here. Everyone would be reminded of this. And, rest up, tomorrow will be special.

That was short. Sweet. All I had for the moment was the view out of my room; straight down the axis of the valley in the direction of the path. And yes, if you knew it was there, you could actually see the path.

I probably slept a couple of hours and then lay in bed for at least another hour listening to hamster farts. "Captain" no doubt. But not necessarily. When I looked out the windoe I could see him on the Bultaco with a rifle over his shoulder tearing across the valley. Cowboy. He turned around and headed, again, toward the far end of the valley. He was in perfect alignment between me and the path and heading away from me on that exact axis. He couldn't miss the path. He didn't. He pulled right up to in and then right up into it. On the bike, driven recklessly, he would be to the fence in no more than a couple of minutes. With a minute to take it all in, I expect him to emerge back onto the grassland in five minutes at the most. I wonder if he will keep his silence. I seriously doubt that he can. Nor am I sure he should; given the increasing strangeness of this vacation getaway. I just stared absent mindedly at the path. Since he was on direct access with my window I saw him first when he was about a hundred feet up the path still. He went about another twenty feet when he seemed to eject backwards off the bike both arms throw up and back as he did. It looked like some stunt. The bike managed another twenty feet before it careened off the path into the woods.

There were two possibilities as to what I had just witnessed. I would not be sharing with the others my experience. Not even with Bijou. If I had just seen a murder, she would be much safer not being privy to my knowledge.

I really think I just saw a murder. And I am unmoved. Maybe the distance diminishes the impact. Up close, I am sure his body was devastated. Maybe, I hated the Captain; although he sort of amused me and I had come to enjoy his being around. I certainly think I best not make a sudden appearance downstairs. It might be better to crawl back into bed and put a handful more zzzz between the murder and my consciousness. And I did. I must have been more tired than I realized. I feel immediately to sleep and didn't waken until early evening when "poppa" came on the horn inviting us all to the day room for a meeting.

The captain, AKA the ruddy complected fellow, had divulged his entire history to one of our fellow campers who then apprised "poppa" by way of the laptop in his or her room. The ruddy fellow was escorted from the property. "Poppa" was very disappointed, he went on to add, that no less than half of this group of participants had not held up their side of the covenant and had to be released. In time we would realize that great expense and effort had been invested in us individually and that the loss of so many of our confederates would place a larger burden upon each of us. As would be explained tomorrow when we would be summoned to the day room at an appointed time instead of as our own rhythms dictated

Dinner was already served. It was not last night's crowd. Somber. The social convener of the group was no longer among us. I am not a "life of the party" sort. "Inga" can be, but she needs to be primed and I don't think she "auto-primes". It was "TDH's" idea, that we watch a movie or two in the media room. I was up for that and not a whole lot more. My "manhattans" and pot would provide the reverie I needed tonight. This was not going to be much of a evening of socializing; I felt comfortable to get stupid with these people.

Four lazy boys in the first row. Actually, they were two lazy boy love seat; each for two I was glad "Bijou" sat beside me. I hadn't spoken with her since our swim. "I kind of fucked away today. Slept all afternoon. What did you end up doing?"

"I spent most of the afternoon shooting at shit. It's addictive. I shot the shit."

I probably flinched hearing that last phrase; when I might better have laughed. I might well have been a joke but somehow I was more paranoid than I guessed and it seemed like a tease. Maybe I simply should not smoke pot.

"Then I checked in with "poppa" and had a three hour nap. Which I have NEVER done before. I was tired though. Dog tired. Maybe dogpaddling for an hour in the pool to avoid getting out naked, is a tougher work-out than it seemed at the time."

Hard not to like this girl.

The movie was some political/assassination type thriller. A first run movie as far as I could tell. I'd never heard of it but it had name stars and was contemporary in feel and style. That genre does make for exciting movie-going. Like "Day of the Jackal", the original one, not the Hollywood remake. Curiously, when I looked at the dvd library, every imaginable movie of the genre was there and scarcely any movies not of that genre. "Bijou" scarcely made a peep through the first film nor the second, a great Gene Hackman thing called "The Package".

I think I could shoot a bad guy. From a distance. With a whisper quiet rifle. The "fart" takes the anger out of it. Makes it just business. I have to admit, pot and movies is a marriage made on earth.

I was probably the most wasted of the four of us when I went up to my room. I didn't even make some token sexual overture, as I am inclined to in such circumstance, as Bijou and I parted in the hall half-way between or our separate rooms.

How "Inga" made it to my room before me and why she was naked I will never really know. But she sure can fuck. I crossed a really big one off my bucket list.

### ~

When "poppa" came on the horn, I was, "thank you god", alone in my room. I could begin this day with the pretense of normality. I had nothing in my heart for "Inga" but I seemed to be ripe with her scent or something because I was cursed with "morning wood" and time was not diminishing his ardor. Ardor.. arbor.. wood.. there's a stupid joke there. I'll come up with it, if I don't totally forget the ingredients.

"We are turning the corner today, this fourth day of your visit with us." So declared poppa. "I think you will all agree that the hospitality has been superb. For the remainder of your visit we are going to require your earnest participation in a project of sorts. I am sure you have had no delusion that you would not have to "pay the piper" to some extent, eventually. I will assure you too, that your contribution to our effort will be very, very well rewarded. Beyond anything you might even imagine. But remember, all the old rules still apply. Absolutely. You can still be culled. If we complete this program with only one of you, it will still be a success for us; not so for those who fail us from this point on. Be assured of that.

You clearly realized that you are not alone out here. I can assure you that I have not been preparing your meals. Be thankful. Our staff are graduates of this program who have been invited back as "camp counselors" to borrow the parlance of the boy scouts. Today you will not meet them but, you will engage them... in a lively game of paintball. You will have tremendous fun today. I am very disappointed our ruddy friend could not stay for it. It would have been his cup of tea and I suspect his skill level would have been extraordinary.

It will be freshmen against seniors. You are the freshmen. You will have until after the afternoon luncheon to master the use of your weapons. Then you will make your way into the woods directly across from this building and engage the enemy within the boundaries you will observe within the forest.

Take this seriously. Anyone of you, taking a lethal hit prior to the termination of at least two of your adversaries will be going home. The exception is if you get a kill. If you get a kill you stay You must kill at least two seniors for all of you to be safe from expulsion.

Your strategy is yours to decide. Your sole objective is to kill the seniors. Oh.... most important, if you are hit in the head or the torso, you are dead. When you are hit you are to yell "red man down" Seniors will yell " blue man down". Die or leave the premises. When you are dead, return to the house. Clean up and get stoned.

Eat up. I could take a good number of hours before the game ends. It has taken days, with some groups.

You will have great fun today."

### ~

It had all the promise of fun. As much as anything ever put in front of me. Except I knew it was a training exercise or an elimination process. I doubt anyone of us "freshmen" had any other perception of the situation. We wouldn't discuss it. But we knew it.

I had no experience with paint ball. But, I really doubt the rental apparatus came anywhere near the sophistication of the stuff we were familiarizing ourselves with. The damn guns would push a pellet a quarter of a mile. We could shoot clear across the grass land and hit a tree at the edge of the forest. With reasonable accuracy. All with just a "fart". None of us would volunteer to take a hit. We assumed it would hurt a lot. Maybe none of us would ever know.

We were anxious. Me the most. I think. I understood that "being set home for failure" was probably a metaphor. For the first two of us to be hit, before the first senior, it would probably be just as well that we had been hit by live ammo. I couldn't see how at least one of us would not be culled. I resolved to focus my efforts on covering "Bijou". "Inga", extraordinary piece of ass as she is ...was on her own. "TDH".... whatever.

For the first time and not illogically, the luncheon fare was "comfort food". Burgers, hot dogs, tacos, fries. Food to die for. Food to kill for. Go USA!!!

No adult beverages were consumed. It was a "school day".

We assumed... we hoped, that it would be a fair fight. Four on four. But that had not been promised. Our enemy was experience presumably. They surely knew which defensive strategy was prone to failure. None of us had a clue what an offensive strategy might be. We would simply go in the wood separately and fight, as individuals to stay alive. That was the agreed too strategy. I intended to abide by it until I was under cover of the trees and then shadow "Bijou" and keep her alive. Assuming she and I could manage to enter the forest from directly adjacent positions. We did. "Bijou" and I got the two center positions. She flanked by "TDH" and me by" Inga".

As so it started.

### ~

The forest was chilly. The whole "cruise", beginning just days before Labor day, effectively straddled the change from summer to fall. Which gave me a clue of sorts as to where in the whole fucking world we actually were. At least the latitude. You could see your breath "Bijou" was initially about three hundred yards to my left. I planned to reduce that by about half. At about a hundred and fifty yards she was about nine "house lots" away. Not out of range for my weapon to assist her but out of the range of my skill set for accuracy. And, admittedly I was betraying "Inga", who might be trusting in me to "get her back".

Scarcely had the exercise begun when, from the middle of the forest, "Bijou's" turf, we all heard

, "blue man down". You go girl. "Bijou" got the first kill. She was safe and I could keep myself in the game and cover the others.

For at least an hour, the forest was quite. Fart free perhaps. I saw no action. No one to engage. To annihilate. Finally... "blue man down".

The party was on now. All the freshmen were safe. I could taste the blood of my foes. But damn, the pellet that struck me just under the helmet in the side of the neck, hurt. I looked like I'd been killed; though I had only been killed by the conventions of the game.

"Red man down," and I dragged my humiliated ass home.

I was pretty drunk by the time the others came home. Victorious. I would be a dead man were it not for the skill of "Bijou" and "Inga". As it turned out, all four kills were made by the girls."Bijou" her's and "Inga", three others.

I hope this doesn't effect the quality of the food from here on. It didn't; considering we had killed the cook and the chief bottle washer... as the phrase goes.

I took a huge amount of "grief". Even from "Bijou".

"So, does it hurt... at first." Shit like that. I was okay with it though.

"Poppa" was most pleased. He reminded us that, at least for a few more days we were to be earning our room and board and that tomorrow we would have our work cut out for us, as we did today.

We agreed to another movie night. It seems that our bloodlust was insatiable. We watched "Day of the Jackal"... yay!!! and the "Parallax View". Both the choices of "Inga" and "TDH".

I toned down my "manhattan/pot" thing. It is possible it had undermined my performance this afternoon.

And actually, I think it made me enjoy fucking "Bijou" a lot more than I would have otherwise. And I was straight enough, in the wee hours, to suggest she conclude the evening in her own room.

This has been a very satisfying vacation so far.

### ~

Day Five. Half-way through the program/vacation/cruise/nightmare.

"Poppa" was frank. "Today is a repeat of yesterday, of sorts. The only difference is the seniors will have live ammo. You could die today. If you decline to participate you will die today."

That was the sum total of poppas missal for the day.

It was the most terrifying day of my life.

It turned out to be a almost verbatim repeat of the day before. Only I did not take a real bullet in the neck. The chef and bottle maker survived. They survived because we had paint ball guns instead of real weapons.

That night, in bed, "Bijou" and I just comforted each other by our presence. I couldn't get it up. Not even close and she hardly cared.

No one was surprised the next morning, day six, when "poppa" announced a repeat of the day before, only with live ammo all around.

"TDH" was killed. I guess we killed four of them. Yet still the food was great. I didn't kill anyone. Though I fired on someone and missed I guess.

That night, I proclaimed "fuck it". In the slightest of whispers, in her bed this time, I told her all about me. And she told me of her. Her name was Rodica. She was Romanian by birth, an immigrant to Canada, growing up in Quebec. I had almost had it. It was a coincidence, maybe. I grew up in Canada too. Alberta. Born in Texas but eventually establishing a career as an architect in Manhattan. She was now a dancer. Master's level in terms of training. A "Broadway wannabee", living in Brooklyn.

It was obvious that our fates were already determined. That we were allowed to consort, as we were doing, was just a concession by our masters. We hardly needed to whisper. It seemed to dignify us as individuals, though, by not speaking overtly audible.

We were being trained and groomed to kill people. Probably because there was something about us that made us exceptional candidates. I don't know that I had distinguished myself in any way so far. But still I was on the team. "Bijou" was pretty effective. I don't know if she actually had killed anyone yet. She admitted she had fired on others with not the slightest remorse. Just like me.

I don't think anyone has really been killed yet. Really. Except "Captain". I think someone, maybe one of us or maybe one of them shot him dead. I think "TDH" is a spook. Maybe "Inga". Maybe not. "Inga" is "Inga". What that could mean I do not know.

In the softest voice possible, I whispered " we need to fly out of here." In her softest voice, which I inhaled the very breath with which she used to speak, she said "yes".

I really don't believe in the notion of love but I "love" Bijou. I would die for her. I would kill for her.

I forgot. Her name is Rodica. And mine is Mark Fitzgerald.

No matter how earnest my will to wake up early and escape this nightmare, I slept right through to "poppa's" morning summons. Bijou was still beside me. It was pointless to conceal our association.

Today was a big day, clearly. The real agenda would be revealed. And it was.

"Campers, you are all here for one reason. You share with about one percent of all your peers, the quality of sociopathy. You are not encumbered by the baggage of guilt and obligation to others, that most people are. This does not make you inferior. Not in the least. It is as natural for you to be the way you are as it for gay people to be the way they are. It is what it is. Your propensity, to not be so reflexively compassionate gives you powers others lack.

We kill people. People who deserve to die. We are well rewarded for it.

You are all dead right now. Officially.

The official record is that you were killed in plane crashes. The mourning of your loss has already occurred. Your loved ones are resolved to the sad fact of your passing. You cannot go back. Sorry but that is how it is. But, you are sociopaths. Sociopaths do not care so much. That is why you were chosen among thousands. Go with us now. Join the team.

Some of the original inductees to this program get killed. Because we can't return them to civilian life and they are not up to the standard we required for our program. The ruddy guy wasn't.

You're ability to conceal yourselves from all others was not an imperative. It was a test of integrity. If you are hearing this right now, it is because we have faith in you.

I repeat you are dead, to the world you once knew. But a new world awaits you. A much more rewarding life than your first. Or you can die, at our hands.

We have a commission. Just a matter of days away. All you have to do is pull the trigger. Everything else has been accommodated. All we ask of you is the willingness to do our bidding. You have already used the hardware. Your skill and our hardware are sufficient to the task. You do the least of it and you retire to a life, not unlike the week you have just spent. "

Poppa went on an on. It all sounded great. Except only a fool would believe that they would not end up the "patsy" There is always a patsy. One of the shooters would be fucked over. Would take the rap and die for it. Rest in peace, Lee Harvey Oswald.

We probably are sociopaths. There was surely some reason we were offered this gig. I admit, I don't cry. I understand grief. But the grief of others doesn't compel me in the least. I don't pass any sort of judgment on my peers, either. "Inga" or "Bijou". I don't ask of you more than I would expect of myself. Maybe sociopathy is relative. I know I am cold hearted. But I know I "love" Bijou. You explain it. And I would hate to see anything bad happen to "Inga". "Inga" rocks.

I repeat. "TDH" is not dead. TDH has got to be one of them. One of our handlers. Only "Captain" died. I saw him die.

It's on "poppa". Pull our strings as you wish. I will not be manipulated. This sociopath is heartless but not without convictions.

### ~

It was boot camp from then on. Shooting practice four hours a day. Two sessions Free time in between. I put the Triumph to use; with "Bijou". I taught her to ride it too. She loved it. And I began to feel bad for "Inga". But for me and "Bijou", she was alone. It was "Bijou" who first suggested, then insisted, that we include her in everything we did. How a "seraphic" type could be so mechanically competent at any task amazes me. She could handle the Triumph as if it was really the spritely Bultaco. How a women of so slight a frame, a lanky frame admittedly, could wrangle a vehicle so expertly was a phenomena.

What had evolved for us was a social threesome. I had fucked both of them. Each once. So, I had been fair to each. lol. Now we were just three friends. With benefits to all, I almost wondered? I fantasized the nights I was without company in my bed, if they were not consorting with each other. I am a man, the concept does not distress me in the least.

Maybe I am not someone who can really love. I sure can like though. "Bijou" and "Inga" were two great friends; for now. I was prepared but it didn't become an issue. I was prepared to tell either of them that it would be best if we "cooled it" for a while.

I really wanted to fly that plane again. I am certain it is airworthy. I am not inclined to ask "poppa" for permission. I will just take it out and go for it. I don't think "poppa" is willing to terminate yet another asset. When I headed for it, after our midday buffet, "Inga" was quite agitated. "Poppa" will be angry." I went with this "nah... it's cool schtick". I pushed it out of the Quonset and rolling, freely down the hill, had it airborne within seconds of the engine starting.

Flying rules!!!. There are rules of flying. Presumably. I don't know them and knowing them right now would be of no use to me. Up, up and away. That was the plan. Sort of. Not away. I had two female friends I would not abandon. But up and up and up. Until I could finally see our odd world in perspective.

There were two odd worlds. Beyond the forest in front of our house was another large clearing. With several industrial type trailer, another Quonset hut and helipad. Not abandoned either, it appeared. To the "east", probably only ten miles away was a small community. A farming community for certain. There were bright colored grain elevators in a series along railroad tracks.

This was southern Alberta, Canada. No doubt. I grew up a couple of hours north of here, in Calgary. My guess is we were ten miles west of Nanton, a farm town of maybe a couple of thousand folks; known for great water and a plethora of antique shops.

It was immediately clear to me that I should not prolong my survey of the grounds. If I got below tree line fast enough, it might be plausible that my knowledge had not been profoundly expanded.

I had scarcely been but a few second above the tree tops . Maybe I wasn't noticed for those few moments. It suddenly made sense to continue flying, recreationally for a while. That would look benign and I think I might appreciate the additional training later.

I really did not want to push the ultra-lite up the hill to the Quonset. As it turned out, it could be landed in the narrow strip of land behind the house. Once the engine wasn't pushing it has so little momentum that it that it virtually stops moving .

I went back to the "range", that is to our roost on the porch and joined the girls in firing at anything we could see.

We chit chatted amongst ourselves. The girls were really acting like girls, in as much that much of their conversation was not of much interest to a man. That was okay because I had much to figure out.

One thing had bothered me from the outset. We were initially eight; with "seven" and guy; who were disqualified immediately. But there are only six of the cells in which we sleep. It would seem that six is actually the intended number of campers. I am willing to be that "seven" and "eight" were not sent home. Maybe to the encampment the other side of the forest. I would bet even more that they are actually the staff living above us in the attic; fixing our meals, mending our toys, and changing our linens. Their immediate and dramatic "explusion" was a potent warning to us to behave. And we did behave until "Suzy" gave into "pillow-talk".

I don't know who killed "Captain". Based on what I saw a couple of days ago, he was shot to death. He had found the fence, just as we had. Maybe we are only alive still because we found more it discretely;. from "off the beaten path". It is still our little secret. Maybe "Captain" was just not deemed as reliable or worthy and asset as the rest of us. He was a loveable idiot for sure. But he was not an acceptable risk to management.

If I had to make one final guess. It would be that our little faux and later fierce battles a couple of days were character building exercise. A desensitization process. No one died. As I recall, TDH readied our weapons. We were probably all firing blanks.

This whole enterprise, which was clearly quite extensive was probably some joint venture of the CIA and their Canadian cohorts; dare I say the Mounties. lol. It sure wasn't some private sector, "Blackwater", corporation. Not maintaining this level of secrecy and with such good intelligence. It took "intelligence" to select and lure in the campers they wanted. I know I had filled in several questionnaires in applying for the free "cruise".

I had read recently, a book citing that the CIA had killed something like 40,000 Vietnamese civilians during that war. Killed as in assassinated. Maybe that is justifiable for a nation "at war". But to kill domestically is a different matter. Murders are subject to investigations. The perpetrator must be found... or a patsy. And the patsy must be silenced. Thats what I will be vigilant for. On the behalf of me and the girls.

Not being expert in these matters, I would tend to think we are mission ready. I can only think of one final hurdle that might be set before us. And I really hope it isn't.

But it was.

### ~

"Poppa" was almost conciliatory. "I apologize for not informing you that the ultra-lite had been repaired. My lapse is due to the fact that it has not been as popular with the group as it has been with other groups in the past. Today is the last day of training. It is Friday for those of you who might have lost track of the days. Tomorrow is a total rest day. Sunday is your day of obligation to management. You will go off campus and take care of a problem. After which you become free agents. You may remain with us or retire. Either way, you will have long and luxurious lives as we have already promised.

On Sunday one of you will kill someone who has the potential, were she to survive, to seriously impact the Western way of life; which I think we all agree must be preserved at all costs. She can only be killed the one time; you will all have an opportunity; though only the best opportunity will be taken. Tomorrow you will be totally apprised of the mission.

Today, each of you will kill a person. You will each seek out your prey separately. Our remaining man will go first, followed by the ladies in the order you choose.

Your prey is armed. Not as well as you will be but they do understand the gravity of the situation. They will try to kill you. If they succeed in killing you they may be inducted into the program. If they succeed in killing you, then you were not particularly good assets. You will suit up in camouflage. Your prey does not have this advantage. This exercise is not so much training as it is a chance to desensitize you to killing another human being. Just go out there and get it done."

I went out first, as had been decreed. Within ten minutes I came upon the "Captain". He acted like an acquaintance that I had come upon by chance after a lengthy absence.

"Dude, have you figured this place out yet? This is scary shit. I can tell you about. I know a lot but man we need to just make a run for it, right now."

"I saw you go down. It looked like you were shot to me. They said you fucked up somehow and hade to expelled."

"No man, they "clothes-line" the trail. When I saw that fence I knew we were all up shit creek and I bee-lined it back like a fuckin' fool. I'm not a poker player, I guess".'

He certainly wasn't. He assumed my vigilance would lapse processing what he had just revealed. He was almost lightning fast going for his pistol. I shot him right through the heart. And returned home.

"Biyou" killed "Suzy".

"Inga" killed "TDH"; for a second and final time.

We were ready.

At dinner and as we sat quietly together with cocktails that night, I made the only comment related to the elephant in the room. "I don't feel too bad about it. I always kind of thought I could do that sort of thing, anyway. Didn't pine to do it. So that's something I guess." Glasses were raised. That's all.

### ~

Saturday, day seven of our vacation, we were told that one of us would kill the Secretary of State of the United States; probably the most high profile woman in the world and almost certain to the President in the next election; when the sitting President has to step down because of term limitations. She was to be in town, the undeclared city of Calgary I assumed, for some international conference. It had been determined that she would be vulnerable at three points in her itinerary. This was not going to be a crossfire; like the Kennedy assassination had been. We were all great shots and equipped with superlative hardware. If we got the word to shoot it was assumed we would kill with a single shot. It was not likely, with a secret service detachment intent on actually serving their assignee, that a second shot would be possible. Kennedy's guys were in on it and they let him get riddled.

It was to be a "hit and run" day for the Secretary and for her assassins. She would arrive in the morning at the airport, travel by discrete motorcade to the venue, make a small public appearance and then be driven back to the airport. We, her assassins, were only to be in town the one day.

I hoped I was to have the honor of the first opportunity. I could divine what that could mean. At the minimum it meant that my success would relieve the girls of having to become assassins in practice. It probably meant, as well, that I was the one who was most likely being set up to be the patsy and to be killed before days end on Sunday. I would be famous...as I once thought being a successful architect could accomplish.

I can do this.

But I won't. And it has nothing to do with the inevitability of having been framed.

I WON'T KILL A DEMOCRAT.

I may not have a whole lot of compassion or empathy. It may not be in me to cry for the pain of others, BUT I am sure as fuck smart enough to realize the world cannot succeed if people like me are allowed to steer it solely for their own benefit. Like all people I have a selfish streak but like a person of intelligence, I do not surrender to it absolutely. There is no virtue in that.

Tomorrow, some how, I am going to totally fuck up the best laid of plans.

### ~

The sun hadn't even risen when "poppa" came on. "Rise and shine campers", he said with real enthusiasm. The son of a bitch real likes his job, I guess.

We sat around the table with only coffee and pastry in front of us. I felt like I used to feel every morning when I would rise a five o'clock to deliver papers to the informed of our neighborhood. I felt like I did those mornings you rose early to trek to the mountains to ski for the day.

Our weapons were at the ready. As was a helicopter. As were our individual escorts.

As, I had somehow predicted, "seven" resurfaced. In the light of day she was more "six" than "seven". She was my escort. The girls had their's as well. Both seedy looking men. "Sixes" on the same scale.

The copter ride was short. We were hooded the whole time.Ten minutes south to a town I well knew to be Parkland. Parkland had once been a town: when the grain elevator beside the tracks was relevant. For reasons entirely unknown there were still a few rudimentary business in five or six of the original ten or twelve commercial buildings. There were three vehicles in the yard behind the closed filling station, where we landed. The copter was in and out in less than a minute.

"Six and a half" was not much of a conversationalist. She drove. I smoked. I think it offended her. But, her favor was not too much of an issue with me. I pretty well assumed she would be setting me up to be killed with a few hours so... fuck her.

And that thought suddenly seem imminently relevant. Fuck her . Not literally. But certainly in every other sense and with extreme prejudice; as I think intelligence type say.

I was not going to get many, if any, opportunities to derail this mission. Let alone one which would leave me and the girls alive in the end.

They say never let a rapist take you to the second scene of the crime. Fight the fight you can from your original position.

I know she is carrying a handgun. There is only one rifle among us; surely she is not unarmed. I could commandeer the car, perhaps if I did something fast and lethal to her. A karate chop to the throat like in the sixties spy movies. I wonder if that really can kill a person. Hate to just piss of a contract killer with a gun. I could appear to turn in the seat to watch a pedestrian pass us. That would give me the range of rotation to strike a very hard blow to her throat. Next would be to get the gun and then try to gain control of the vehicle. Bests if the car crashed really. Then the cars behind us would stop and be ambushable. It would be two against one. I think. Maybe it would be four against one. Not much love lost among us sociopaths. And certainly, only a handful are liberals. Bijou and Inga might take up the fight against me from the outset.

I'll wait.

At the edge of the city the main highway becomes a three tined fork with spur highways coming off the main leg to both east and west. And to east and to west, respectively, veered car two and car three.

We drove straight up the primary highway which, in Calgary, actually deteriorates from a highway to a congested four lane street virtually bisecting the city. It would take us downtown. I actually could not think of a downtown venue for an international conference. I wasn't surprised at all when we passed right through downtown, over the river and up the escarpment to the north side of town. We were headed I guessed to the Jubilee Auditorium; a handsome provincially owned venue with lots of close in parking and surrounded by ornamental park on all but one side. The College of Art shared one side of the whole campus. Presumably, there would be the sniper's nest. The only clear candidate for it and therefore subject to quick quarantine by the hundreds of security personnel from fifty nations.

My guess... once I pulled the trigger I would be shot in the back of the head and "six and a half" would present credentials giving her authority to have been there and to have slain the assassin.

If I was given the go ahead to take the shot. I don't know what would happen to me if we passed on it. I think we would simply go home. And team two or perhaps even three would get it done. Team three was Inga's team and it was generally conceded she was probably the most competent among us. I couldn't think of a way to foil team two or three should their turns come up.

It was obvious that we had confederates on site. It was only seven am on a Sunday morning but the fire stairs were not secure. The hole in the strike plate of the door frame has a chunk of pink-pearl erasure stuffed in it. This kept the latch from engaging the frame. We stepped into the stairwell and she was on the first step upward when I quipped,"Did you learn nothing from Watergate?"

"What?" she snipped.

"We need to take that plug out of the door."

"Leave it."

"No, that would be stupid."

"Leave it!"

She could be a bitch. Fuck it, I knew it was there, at least. It was the lesser of my worries right now.

The sniper's nest was perfect. West facing windows. Sun protected like buildings of that vintage, with vertical concrete fins; brise de soleil. Early seventies ecology combined with late sixties brutalism. With operable, double hung aluminum windows behind. The fins reduced the panorama to probably no more than ninety degrees but it was enough to provide a good axis to the rear entrance of the auditorium. Our prey would enter by the rear door. Why we would know that will be speculated about for years.

We settled in. Assembled the rifle. I did. Of course she was careful not to touch anything. I had surgical gloves just as she did but I am certain my prints were going to be left somewhere; probably DNA.

They were actually more clever than I might have figured. She boasted, "You killed the last person to handle that gun."

I gave her the arched eye endorsement. Of course it was every bit as likely that this was the rifle I handled last too. I tend to lean toward the latter possibility.

As quiet as that rifle was, I took a dozen practice shots toward a variety of targets at about the range I needed to be accurate for the kill. The rifle was perfect.

She had brought a snack. Sausage rolls and a thermos of coffee.

"Did you make these?"

"You figured it out partly, I guess. No, I don't cook. The men do. I'm the housekeeper. A woman can't get away from it, no matter her career choice. "

I smiled.

You would think a fellow sociopath, would have more empathy for the thought processes of our kind. I was not oblivious to being handed the plastic cup part of the thermos while she used the sole paper cup. She would pocket her cup and leave the smited sniper among the trappings of his murderous venture. It would look like I had held a long vigil; not so surgically timed as would really be the case.

The public disgust for Lee Harvey Oswald had been much fueled by the mistaken belief that he had lunched on fried chicken and a Coke waiting to shoot JFK. He hadn't, but to the public it spoke volumes in terms of intention.

Enough about him. Today is my day.

We have been here about two hours now. About an hour ago vehicles started to fill the lots. Media remote broadcast vehicles. Now, the limos were arriving. It was not like the academy awards; the "celebrity" was not separately distinguishable from the entourage and there were very, very few civilian star gazers.

Some did arrive at the back entrance. When I think about it, that is probably standard procedure for those at high risk. Probably not even decided in advance. We were probably making a gamble with our location. If the Secretary went in the front door, team Alpha would probably just go home.

If team Alpha went home "empty handed" then the Secretary would certainly die at the hand of "Inga"; if not sooner by "Bijou".

Suddenly "six and a half's" cell phone began to vibrant frantically. One minute our scout said.

"Get ready," she barked. "Shoot if I call it. Make in it one. We won't have time to get away otherwise."

The limo pulled up. The door opened. She called it. I acquired the target and I pulled the trigger and within a millisecond I drew back the butt of the heavy rifle as fast and hard as I could catching her right on the bridge of the nose. She dropped immediately, her pistol, once at the rear of my head, fell harmlessly to the ground. I wanted to take at least one more shot at the limo to reinforce my intent but I figured I would not have a hope of escape if I did "Six and a half" was dead. I took her pistol, her credentials and her money. And her coffee cup. Post mortem, "six and a half" would be "Patsy".

I left that little plug in the door frame. It would help obfuscate the truth. Just like the JFK things We will never know the truth, too many confusing details, . and that is all that matters to conspirators.

Intelligence agent cars get good parking. Because of the phony handicapped parking permit they hang from their mirrors. Also, tends to make the vehicle seem benign. I made the car, and the car and I made it to the public right of way with a minute of having pulled the trigger. I parted company with it at the parking lot of the United Church; among the cars of a hundred devout and early risers.

I was little more than fifteen minutes loitering in the parking lot of the pancake house when a male customer of lesser grooming opened the door to his commensurately decrepit car. He enthusiastically accepted the thousand dollars I gave him for the car and pledged, not to declare it as stolen for at least a couple of days. He seemed reliable.

I asked and he obliged, leaving me half a pack of cigarettes. Seemed like a time to smoke one.

### ~

The Secretary was alive. The limo was damaged. My bad. The mission was foiled for all three teams.

I was alive.It wasn't even noon.

I wasn't going to let them "housekeep" by killing the team shooters. That seemed like a real possibility. They wouldn't be snuffed "in country", but probably in the country and it was to the country I was racing; with every chance of getting there first.

This was absolutely the shittiest car I had ever owned. Nevertheless, it got me back to Parkland The helicopter was not there. I couldn't be sure whether it would return the campers to home base or if, everyone would now return to the camp by car, by way of the support base and the path through the fence. Adjacent to the filling station was an old three storey hotel. It was turn of the century vintage but had gone a "modernization" in the early sixties, I would guess. It was grotesque . Just saying. Cleary, it had been abandoned for twenty years. Officially for twenty years. I imagined it enjoyed the company of hobos for a few years until the railroad absolutely ceased all service to Parkland.

I languished in the kitchen that once served junk food to the tavern. Cabbage rolls. Yum. Hotel taverns for many years where the only place one could get a beer. Hotel lounges the only place to get a cocktail. Hence, there was no shortage of hotels in Alberta.

I might be pretty fucking sociopathic I admit. If I had had the time, I would have fucked "six and a half", dead as she was, right up the ass. just to express my resentment of her intention to kill her. Ugly thought I realize. It just didn't seem enough, to have only killed the bitch. Sorry.

As I had reasoned, cars preceded helicopters. The two Chevy Caprices rolled into the lot about mid afternoon.

I had a pistol with a clip of, maybe nine, shots. All four, the girls and their two handlers got out of the cars at the same time. The rifles were back in the cases, so only the escorts probably had weapons. Obviously, the same weapon I had.

I killed the first guy in one shot. The other guy reacted so well, by virtue of training or instinct, that I didn't even get a shot off at him. I had the better vantage, though. He was pinned behind cars. I took a single glance out the window and my ear drum almost burst as a bullet rocketed past my ear, within inches. I was outclassed. I'd have been killed outright had "Inga" not shot him with her pistol just as he got the drop on me a few minutes later. She shot him with the gun she carried secretly, just like "six and a half" and the "cooks". "Inga" could be assertive.

"Drop your gun or your dead." I admit, I was not at the ready to defend myself. Not until "Bijou", having retrieved one of the "cook's" pistols declared, "you drop it bitch." Inga", balked just long enough for me to regain my strategic composure. The three of us, cursing each other and shifting our bead back and forth between each of our two potential targets were in total limbo. Then the helicopter suddenly appeared and, oblivious to the standoff landed in our midst. And, yet again, TDH, reborn and stepping out of the copter addressed us.

"Okay campers. Set 'em down. Lay them down at my feet."

Which we did. Dutifully.

"We've had a good day,. those of us still alive. Some very bad intelligence misinformed our patron that our target was going to take a stand extremely contrary to its interests. That didn't happen. The Secretary conciliated in her speech today. There is considerable relief that our mission failed. And all of you... one of you in particular, rogue as you are, . are much heralded as the "best of the best" of our kind.

Let's go home campers. The food won't be as good. Thanks to one of you, no one is left to cook for us. But we have the ingredients."

### ~

We, the three of us, by which I mean me and the "girls" settled into Nanton. We have a little quarter section land for putzing on. I have a petty little architectural practice in town. "Bijou" dances wherever she can and teaches at a provincially run venue. "Inga" travels quite a bit; still working for "TDH".

All in all, we're a very happy threesome. I say "threesome", too, for those who might get my drift.

### ~

the end

