
BARBARIANS  
IN  
PARADISE

TERROR COMES TO MAUI

By

Kurt Butler

Writing as Alicia Clemens
Copyright © 2018

by Kurt Butler

All Rights Reserved

All Rights Negotiable

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the author, except for brief quotations used in reviews and critiques.

This is a novel, a work of fiction. Names, characters, settings and incidents are products of the author's imagination.

E-book version published in 2018

Distributed by Smashwords

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# About the Author

Kurt Butler grew up in Hawaii and lives there now on the island of Maui. He has a Bachelor of Science degree in physiology from the University of California and a Master of Science degree in nutrition from the University of Hawaii. Several of his books have been published by major publishers.
TABLE OF CONTENTS

Dedication: To Linda Lingle

Prolog

1. North Shore Rave

2. Maui Bliss

3. Super Sex

4. Suddenly in Jail

5. The Prison Industrial Complex

6. The Hellish Side of Paradise

7. Rescued

8. Invitation to Vengeance

9. The Wild Guys

10. Aka's Agenda

11. The Vandals Escalate

12. The Killer Lab

13. The Napili Bay Massacre

14. Eureka!

15. Aka's First Strike

16. Aka Goes to War

17. Jason's Last Letter

Epilog

Appendix with Manifesto

Bonus Short Story: Why I Killed the Mayor

# Dedication to Linda Lingle

This book is dedicated to former Maui mayor and Hawai'i State Governor Linda Lingle because for twenty years she has embodied the irrational and tyrannical tendencies common among island politicians.

In 1994 Lingle, then Mayor of Maui County, conspired with a coven of quacks to defraud thousands of people of Hawai'i, as well as visitors from other states and nations. They organized an all-day festival of fraudulent medicine that they called a women's health conference. I attended along with several hundred others. There I sampled a smorgasbord of preposterous and hilarious quackery, including a talk by an obviously delusional crystal healer. Lingle also happened to be in the audience.

When the woman had run out of tall tales about her crystals healing diseases and making appliances and vehicles run better, and about an angel who tells her which crystals heal which diseases, she asked if anyone had any questions. No one else did, so I stood up and politely asked whether she had any kind of evidence for her claims. She rudely rebuffed me. I politely asked how she knew that the angel advising her wasn't a dream or fantasy.

At that Lingle hurried out of the auditorium to tell a security guard to call the police. I was to be arrested for disrupting the conference. The security guard told me this when I left the auditorium. I heard sirens. Within minutes several police officers arrived, but I managed to evade them.

Lingle later became Governor. A couple years later, following an unlawful arrest, I was tortured for ten days in one of her prisons. A misdemeanor suspect, later exonerated, I was treated like an enemy combatant. During her two terms she has continued to pursue her bizarre iron-fisted, flower-fascist agenda, and has kept Hawai'i on a collision course with the Bill of Rights and with rational, liberty loving people. If this novel proves prophetic, she would be a logical person to thank.

—Kurt Butler, Author, writing as Alicia Clemens

# Prolog

Jason's troubles started shortly after he arrived on Maui a little more than ten years ago in the first hour of January 1, 2020. He had moved from Boise to The Valley Isle to work and to surf. His plans would be savagely derailed.

The Best Island in the world. That's what Maui was called. For decades the travel media and the real estate industry had raved about the beauties and wonders of Magical Maui. Small wonder that the last remnants of small town Maui were being crushed. Newly discovered fresh-water lenses, deep in the West Maui mountains, more than tripled the island's estimated reserves and eliminated the single biggest barrier to rapid, massive development. Big developers and their political friends secretly projected a population that would rival that of Honolulu, well over one million.

Environmental concerns were banished by visions of profit. Key legislators and regulators were easily bought, and the floodgates were opened. An unprecedented building boom threatened to Los Angelize the island. Real estate prices soared, squeezing out locals and other non-wealthy people. Speculators poured money in and a few lonely voices warned of a bubble.

In the fall of 2020 a global financial crisis, worse than the crisis of 2008, popped bubbles all over the world. Being leveraged to good times and heavily dependent on imported energy and food, Hawai'i's economy tanked hard. The visitor count dropped more than a third in a couple years, and visitors noticed the shabby airport, crumbling roads, empty commercial buildings, for-sale signs, run-down schools and homeless people everywhere.

The mood was dark. Residents seemed less friendly and outgoing, as if too weary to exhibit the welcoming aloha spirit. "Sullen" and "rude" were appearing more often in travel commentaries. The "Best Island" awards from travel magazines were history, as were half the travel magazines themselves.

Maui County was rough on the thousands of young homeless and semi-homeless locals, those who had occasional shelter with relatives and friends. Almost a third of the young local males, at least fifth generation, between 18 and 30, had been arrested at least once and a quarter had at least one conviction. This was more than the percentage who voted. Suicide was the major cause of death among youngsters. Young local women fared only slightly better. Even youths with jobs had it hard and were growing restive.

The County was also rough on non-local homeless people. Most of them had ridden the waves of prosperity to Maui during recent boom times and now were suddenly broke, out of work, sitting on inventory from a busted small business or holding underwater mortgages. Their growing numbers damaged the image of Paradise. They had been urged to visit by the government-supported visitor industry, and urged to settle by the government-supported real estate industry. Then the world crashed and they failed. They came to be considered undesirables.

The County pressured their ilk to leave by running roughshod over their rights and making their lives even harder. But with no money to move and resettle they were trapped in homelessness. So the County, with the help of the State, ignored due process rights and found ways to keep many of them locked up and out of sight.

My kid brother Jason Blue knew little about all this, about the real Maui. (Neither did I until I researched the period to write this book.) An avid skier and snowboarder, he had dreamed of surfing in Hawai'i since he was ten. He still envisioned the Magical Maui he had always seen in surf magazines and films, though he was dismayed in recent years to learn how crowded the water was becoming. Fights over waves were common, and feuds simmered for months and years. Several surfers had been seriously injured in Hawai'i surf turf battles, and on Oahu two had been killed. Jason was anxious to fulfil his dream of surfing Hawai'i before the day when every wave would be solid with surfers.

I was ten years older than Jason and I babysat him so often that I came to be more his mother than Mom was. She and Dad worked long hours to keep us in a nice neighborhood, so it fell on me to help raise Jason. I didn't mind. I loved him. He was beautiful, with red hair, hazel eyes and a dazzling smile. And he was funny and fun to be with. He matured into a smart, athletic, popular young man, and a good young man, honest, dependable, hard-working, and thoughtful of others.

After high school he shined at culinary school in Boise, our home town, and became a sous chef in an upscale restaurant. He worked for five years and saved money. Then, on December 31, 2019, when he was 25, he left Boise with a few boxes and bags of clothes, cookbooks, professional cooking utensils and other basic items. He had the resume that would open doors on Maui. And he had a large cash cushion so he could take his time finding a good job while he learned to surf.

I married my high-school sweetheart, and we stayed in Boise and raised a family. I also did free-lance writing and blogging on environmental and health issues. After Jason left for Maui he and I kept in close touch by phone, email and mail. But a few months later he abruptly stopped writing and answering his phone. I was worried and I called the Maui police, but they would not help me.

* * *

I was planning to go to Maui and hire a private investigator to help me find him when Jason finally called me. He sounded nervous and spoke quickly in short phrases. He said he had been through hell, and that Maui was about to implode. The Great Conflict, or Ka Pilikia Nui was starting. I gathered he had become involved with radicals of some sort. His prediction seemed absurd at the time, but it would prove to be accurate.

In the decade since the conflict began in 2020 there has been a great deal of debate, mostly confused and uninformed debate, about which person or group did what during the conflict. Here is an outline of the facts.

Hundreds, and later thousands, of Maui dissidents who considered themselves victims of a police state called themselves Shadow People. They felt they had long lived in the shadow of what they called the Injustice Juggernaut. Also known as the Maui Machine or the Beast, it was in the service of even larger forces intent on turning Maui into an exclusive playground for the wealthy, with just enough of the best-behaved non-wealthy to serve the wealthy, and no more. They had dreams of the island as the highest of high-end visitor destinations with the wealthiest residents (many part-time) in the nation. All those in the lowest income brackets, unless they were useful, were being "encouraged" by various means to leave.

The Shadow People fought back in creative ways, posting online action and music videos that portrayed their movement as romantic and fun. It became cool to be one of the Shadow People, and hoards of energetic young people rallied to the movement. Their zany antics were both entertaining and alarming. They put the rad into paradise as they fought the Juggernaut by creating chaos and documenting their actions online. They gradually shed the Shadow People identity and became known as the now infamous Video Vandals.

Another group of angry dissidents resisting the Juggernaut also used the shadow concept, but in a different way. These people had similar grievances, but very different methods. They had no interest in fun; they were mostly older and deadly serious. Aka (Hawaiian for Shadow) was a very small group, just five people, but it was ultimately more successful than the Video Vandals. By being more lethal. Unlike the Vandals, Aka did not seek publicity and public support. On the contrary, they had to be very secretive. Aka saw itself as a shadow justice system that quietly, invisibly and anonymously cast its own deadly shadow directly on the agents of the Juggernaut rather than on society or on the local or state government as a whole.

Debate still rages about the Video Vandals and Aka, and the roles they played in the strange and violent events that ensued. Did my sweet little Jason, working with Aka, really pioneer ghastly new methods of murder, then personally use the methods? Did he really become the group's assassin -- Aka's Hammer -- as persistent rumor has it? Did either of the groups' radical actions accomplish anything? Are the groups now defunct or just dormant? What became of the core members?

My recollections, my notes, and the many letters and emails he sent me hold the answers to these and other intriguing questions. This book's purpose is to inform the debate and set the record straight for history. It is based mostly on Jason's words.

Neither my words nor Jason's can match, in concise eloquence, those of Aka itself in its manifesto, printed in full in the appendix. The chapters tell the story of how Aka's manifesto came to be, who wrote it, the personal tragedies that drove them to their extreme actions, the murderous means by which they attempted to enforce their demands, and the results of their actions. This story is fascinating, but Aka's Manifesto itself is the key to understanding Maui's Ka Pilikia Nui, The Great Conflict.

Some of the quoted dialog is, of necessity, conjecture. Though the conjecture is mostly based on first- and second-hand knowledge, and on reasonable assumptions and deductions, some critics will consider this work more historical drama than journalism or history, or at least an odd mixture of the genres. Perhaps they will be right, but I have done my best to be both a good journalist and a good historian in this one important respect: to simply tell the truth.

To government lawyers who think I might be vulnerable to charges of complicity and conspiracy: I'll save you the trouble. The statute of limitations clock has run out. Please don't waste your time and mine.

—Alicia Clemens, Boise, Idaho

# 1 – North-Shore Rave

At about half past ten on New Year's Eve, three animated high school seniors ride in a four-door sedan, going east on Hana Highway. Passing through the town of Pa'ia toward Pau'wela Point Todd is at the wheel of his old but reliable Volt, his girlfriend Cheryl leans against the door to face him, and her best friend Tulsi sits behind him. "I told my parents we were going to watch fireworks at the stadium," Cheryl says.

"Me too," Tulsi says. "My mom would kill me if she knew I was going to a rave."

"The Rave Mobile will be there," Todd says, "so I had to come. It's totally tubular. Alright! There's the lighthouse." He slows and turns left onto the pineapple road, the dirt road that leads to the lighthouse. "I don't want to park too close. Might get penned in." He pulls to the far side of the road and turns off the electric motor and the headlights. "We can walk from here. But first...." He pulls a joint from his shirt pocket, fi res it up, takes a hit and passes it to Cheryl. She takes a hit and offers it to Tulsi.

"No thanks," she says. "I heard Garrett would be here and I don't wanna be all shit-faced if I finally meet him. You know what they say about first impressions."

Cheryl passes the joint back to Todd and says, "I don't know what you see in that guy. I think he's creepy. And he's too old for you — maybe 23."

"Something about his eyes," Tulsi says. "When he smiled at me that time at Pa'ia Bay I almost fainted."

Todd laughs and coughs out the smoke he just inhaled. He composes himself and says, "You can't be serious! Garrett Souza?

He's a narc."

"He is not!" Tulsi replies. "He's a surf photographer."

"That's just his cover," Todd retorts.

"Yeah," Cheryl pipes in, "and his zoom lens mostly takes in the beach bunnies, not the surf action. Any girl who's ever been topless or worn a thong on a Maui beach now has his pecker tracks on eight by ten color prints of her bod. He's a total perv, I tell you. Why do you think he's never had a girlfriend?"

"Plus, don't forget" Todd says, "his dad is Police Captain and got him fast-tracked through narc training. He's been undercover for a year. He's a perv and a narc."

As they all get out Tulsi says, "No he's not; that's such a dumb rumor. He's just a loner. He's shy." She slams the door in a huff and quickly walks a few yards ahead of them toward the fl ashing lights and thumping music. The bright gibbous moon high in the east makes it easy to stay on the dirt road between the abandoned pineapple fi eld on one side and the wind-swept scrub brush on the other.

Fluffy clouds dot the clear sky. It's a cool night, perfect for a party. Cheryl jogs ahead of Todd to catch up with Tulsi and takes her arm in arm.

"Hey, girlfriend," she says. "Are we okay? I didn't mean to put you down. Different strokes for different folks, my grandparents used to say. It's just that you're a beautiful girl and you can do better than Garrett Souza."

Tulsi smiles and says, "Yeah, we're okay. I appreciate your looking out for me and for being honest. But sometimes the heart rules and you have to go with it."

Todd catches up to them and takes Cheryl's other arm in his. They all laugh and skip together towards the music, the lights and the crowd.

As they approach the party circle in the clearing near the lighthouse (really just a platform perched on a steel tower) they hear the crashing surf melding into the techno-rock blaring from the Rave Mobile. This instant party on wheels, a sleek black van, sits in the middle of the clearing pumping out fog and bristling with strobe lights, disco balls and large plasma screens bright with a light show. A crowd of dancers in various stages of intoxication surrounds it.

While booze, buds and XTC are present, the main intoxicant is the music itself – the hybrid they called Pacific trance beat, a techno rockin' rap with English, Hawaiian, Japanese and Chinese vocals. The beat is infectious and impossible not to dance to. The three friends start out together, but Tulsi is soon separated from the couple and swept into the good-vibe crowd of 300-odd revelers. The music never stops as the long cuts loop and merge seamlessly into each other. The strobes, globes and black lights work with the hypno-beat to put the revelers into a dance trance.

Losing herself in the music, Tulsi sways and spins through the crowd, her long brown hair and purple pleated skirt whirling around her. She is oblivious to the pair of eyes fixed on her sensuous form. A half hour later, now on the ocean side of the crowd, she is jarred out of her reverie by a bump from the rear. She urns to apologize and there he is, facing her with a sly smile, the smile that buckles her knees. She blushes and stammers, "I'm sorry," over the loud music.

He takes hold of her elbow as if to steady her, leans toward her ear and says, "No harm. Hey, I've seen you around. What's your name?" He's a little taller than Tulsi, with poodle-perfect curly black hair, lips like Elvis, and big blue eyes. Except for a small soul patch and thin moustache, he is clean shaven. He wears dark slacks and a black tee shirt. And that smile.

"I'm Tulsi Kalama," she says, her heart pounding.

"Hi, Tulsi, I'm Garrett Souza. Nice to meet you. Wanna take a break so we can catch our breath?"

"Okay. I could use a break. And some water. I think my friends have some...." She turned toward where she last saw them.

"No, come, I have something ice-cold stashed in the bushes." He leads her to the edge of the clearing, reaches behind a bush, and pulls out a small cooler packed with beer and blue ice. He twists the cap off a bottle and hands it to her. He opens one for himself.

"Thanks," she says. "I'm not much of a drinker, but this is so nice and cold." She holds the bottle to her forehead and her cheeks, then takes a sip. "Umm, good." She takes several swallows.

Still straining to hear each other, they stroll further from the sound and fury, toward the shadows of a small stand of trees. Finally they can hear each other, as well as the surf crashing onto the rocks 300 feet below. They sit under a heliotrope and he says, with a smile, "Have you decided yet between acting and modelling? Or which one first?"

She blushes and laughs. "As if!" Still thirsty, she takes another good slug of the beer.

"No, I mean it. You're beautiful. Hawaiian-Irish, I bet."

"Yep, mostly. Same as both my parents." Tingling all over, she gazes at the moon, its light dancing on the ocean and illuminating the foam as the breakers roll in. She's tempted to crawl on her belly to the edge of the cliff and peer straight down, but it's a fleeting impulse. She shivers with pleasure as he puts his hand on her back, runs his fingers up on each side of her spine and gently caresses her shoulders and neck. He leans closer and says, "Can I kiss you?" She turns to face him and their lips meet. One hand holds her close and the other explores her body.

The kiss doesn't thrill her as much as she'd expected. She pulls back a bit, stays his roaming hand and leans back on the tree. "Whoa," she says. "Let's talk for a while."

"Okay," he says. "What do you want to talk about?"

"How about the new year that we're celebrating? What will 2020 bring for Garrett?"

He thinks about it for a moment, then says, "I was born on February second. My next birthday will be on 2/2/2020. Sounds like a lucky number, don't you think?"

"Wow, yeah, and it's only a month away. What kind of luck are you expecting?"

He looks her in the eyes and replies with a smile, "Maybe I'll win the love lottery."

She laughs and says, "Love is good. But is it a matter of luck?"

"Sure," he says. "As much as anything else."

They sit silently for a few minutes staring out at the sea. She tosses back the last of her beer. Getting light-headed, she giggles. He runs his hand down the length of her leg, feeling her smooth skin through her thin cotton skirt. She doesn't resist when his hand returns up the leg, this time under her skirt. But when the hand goes under her panties, she draws the line. She weakly shakes her head and softly moans, "No, no."

She suddenly realizes that there's more than alcohol fl ooding her brain, but she's too numb to seriously resist as he eases her away from the tree, lays her on the grass and pulls her panties down. Vaguely aware that he is on top of her and about to rape her, she murmurs,

"No, no. Don't. Stop."

"Don't worry. I won't stop."

"No. Stop it. Get off of me."

"Come on, you cock teaser. I seen the way you look at me.

You want it."

"No, no. Let me up. Let me go."

He slides off of her and props himself on one elbow, a leg across her knees. "Okay," he says. "Go if you want to. Go back to your friends. I won't stop you." She tries to sit up but can't move.

"I knew it. You want it bad." He rips her blouse open, pushes her bra up to her neck and ravishes her breasts with his mouth. He unzips his pants, climbs back on her, forces her legs open with his knees and rams himself into her, which takes some doing since she is dry and she's a virgin – or was a virgin.

"Oh, Babe," he says, pumping furiously. "Nothing like a tight, clean pussy. Like I said, you are beautiful." His pelvic thrusting accelerates into a long spasm as he grunts and moans with pleasure, then sighs with satisfaction.

Clinging to consciousness and awareness only of pain and humiliation, she manages to whisper, "You bastard. I'm going to tell your father you drugged and raped me."

His stout weapon deflates like a pricked balloon. He gets off of her, sits up and stares down at her. After a long pause he says with menace, "What did you say?"

"I know your father's a cop," she says weakly. "I'll tell him what you did to me."

"I didn't force you to drink. So it had a little something extra in it to relax you. So what? As for rape, get serious. You were all over me from the start. You've been wanting it for a long time. I bet you have wet dreams about me. Am I right?"

"You're wrong. And you raped me."

He stands up, gets a beer from his cooler, opens it, guzzles half of it, then pours the rest on her face and into her mouth. She coughs and gags. He opens another, guzzles half of it and pours the rest up and down her body. His rage building, he paces back and forth, then stoops to place the empty bottle on her abdomen and backs up a few paces. She is choking. The bottle falls on its side.

He returns, sets it up again, and yells, "Keep still, bitch!" and again backs up.

He leans forward a little, focuses on the bottle and, making like a football announcer, says in a loud, excited voice, "One second left in the game. The Studs trail by two. This field goal kick is for the game and the championship. The snap.....the kick...."

She is puking. The bottle falls over again. He charges and kicks with all the force he can muster. He feels and hears her ribs cracking. "Oh, no!" he shouts in mock alarm. "The ball was mishandled and he missed it completely!"

Semi-conscious, she hears the crack and feels a crushing pain. She is puking, choking and drowning.

Still in a fury, he yanks her up and, with his arms around her from the back, he maneuvers her to the edge of the cliff. "You think you can threaten me like that?" He pauses to savor her body for a last moment, but is repulsed by the smell of vomit. He places a foot fl at against her tail bone and says, "Smelly cunt. Go take a bath!" He shoves off as hard as he can. She silently tumbles over the cliff and cartwheels to the maelstrom below.

He wipes his hands on the grass to remove traces of vomit, zips up his pants, straightens his clothes, smoothes his hair, picks up his cooler and heads for his car. Midnight is approaching and the bang-bang-bang of firecrackers joins the din of the music and the whooping crowd.

Cheryl, taking a break from dancing, glances around for Tulsi and notices Garrett skirting the crowd and walking up the dirt road. She considers running after him and asking if he has seen her, but thinks better of it.

Todd returns from one of the portable toilets, wraps his arms around her and says, "Happy New Year, Sweetheart," and gives her a big wet one. "I love you, Cheryl."

"I love you too." She glances around and says, "Where's Tulsi?

We have to wish her Happy New Year."

"I thought I saw her wander off with the perv toward those trees.

Haven't seen her since."

"Let's walk over there and look around."

# 2 – Maui Bliss

As the Boeing 797 descended the flight attendant's voice came over the speakers. "Captain Harris and the entire crew want to welcome you to Maui and wish you all a Happy New Year. Hau'oli Makahiki Hou. Have a wonderful year in 2020."

The flight was two hours late, and some of the passengers were grumbling. "Damn!" one woman said. "We're missing the party. I wanted to greet the new year on the beach."

Others were resigned to it and shouts of "Happy New Year" and "Hau'oli Makahiki Hou" echoed through the cabin. Jason Blue ignored them and stared down at the lights of central Maui. He saw fi reworks flashing and felt a surge of excitement. He'd made it to Magical Maui! Though he didn't know a soul on the island, he believed the world was now his oyster.

The jet landed around the time Souza kicked Tulsi off the cliff. It touched down and unleashed a wave of euphoria through Jason's body, perhaps at the exact moment Tulsi's body smashed onto a foamy boulder. They knew nothing of each other. No one could have guessed that months later he would attempt to avenge her murder.

The air was delicious: clean, slightly humid, and much warmer than Boise, but breezy and not too warm. Jason took a cab to the nearby Maui Shores Hotel, a shabby little affair, where he would stay for a week while getting settled. At $250 a night it was the closest thing on the island to a cheap motel. He registered, went to his room, showered, brushed his teeth and got into bed. Lying on his side, he put the extra pillow over his head to muffle the popping of firecrackers still going off in the neighborhood.

He ran through his mental list of goals for his first week on Maui: score some wheels; find a pad; sign up for surf lessons; and get a job. Then, tired but euphoric, he slipped into dreamland with images of waves and of Woman. Not a specific woman, but a feminine representation, seen through a mist, of the love he hoped to find on the island. Though he'd had several brief flings while working his way through college, he'd had little time for real romance. He would not deny himself any longer.

Two week later, true to his character, he had achieved his short-term goals. The car was a mint-condition 2013 red Tesla roadster, a classic and a powerful babe magnet. The pad was a small older house on the west side, north of Lahaina about a half mile up the hill from Ka'anapali Beach. The surf lessons would be at Fleming Beach a few miles north. The job was at The Lahaina Bistro and Bar, a perfect 30 hours per week on four straight days so he would get three straight to surf, hike, camp, explore and socialize.

He quickly settled into a routine: to bed by midnight, up about 8:00, jog to the beach by 9:00, then jog and swim for an hour. After a hearty breakfast he would go to surf shops to get tips on boards, leashes, surf spots and surf etiquette; and to meet people. He got to know a master shaper, a very cool and friendly guy who agreed to make him a board, customized for his weight and the waves he would be riding.

The shaper advised Jason to get to know all the surf spots in the area while waiting for his board. He should study the currents, the waves and the surfers; swim and body-surf to get a feel for each spot; and get to know a few people so they'd be friendly later when he arrives with a board. Jason took the advice and was well prepared when he finally got his board and started his lessons. Within three weeks he was good enough to go out on his own and catch some waves without getting in anybody's way. It soon became an obsession.

When he wasn't surfing, snorkeling or jogging he explored the produce stands and spoke with small farmers about the wonderful fruits and vegetables he found there. With the permission of the property owners he dug up some of the lawn and started a small garden. He planted taro, sweet potatoes, sweet peas, snap peas, Chinese bananas, papayas, cabbage, arugula, sweet basil, and cherry tomatoes. Late each afternoon he would water, weed and mulch. Then, four days a week, he would drive to his job in town.

From 5 to 11 p.m. he worked in the kind of kitchen he thrived in, one that emphasized creative use of fresh, locally-grown produce and seafood. He and Chef Jessie, an energetic woman in her mid-thirties, hit it off from the start. They shared an enthusiasm for good food and a belief that their mission was to bring people to good food by making it irresistible. After six weeks she told him they worked so well together that revenues were rising, and she promised him a raise if the trend was maintained for another three months. He was on a role.

One morning in late February, while jogging on the beach he saw something that he thought strange. Here is how he described it in an email.

I noticed an enormous blood-red graffito spanning most of a 100-foot long, 10-foot-high rock wall that separated a manicured lawn from the beach. It screamed, STOP THE TORTURE! Each letter seemed to drip blood. As I approached the wall for a closer look a man in his mid-30s with weathered skin, sun-bleached thinning blond hair and an unsteady gait, walked by holding a can of beer. He looked familiar but I couldn't place him.

Good morning, I said, and he jauntily saluted and said, And to you, sir.

He was friendly enough, so I walked a few steps with him and asked, Any idea what that means or who sprayed it there?

He turned to me and said, Maybe you'll learn the hard way – like I did. He gave me a demented grin with several gaps where teeth once were and laughed maniacally.

Burned out beach bum, I mumbled to myself. But for days I wondered, what could it mean? Torture? Here in paradise?

Jason walked by the graffito almost every day, got used to it and finally stopped wondering about it. Life was good, and he was enjoying himself. But by March he was lonely and horny. He didn't care for the club scene, and he met mostly guys while surfing. He thought about taking dance lessons, something athletic like salsa or jitterbug. Maybe he could meet a woman there.

One Monday morning, the first of three days off, he felt blue at the prospect of another lonely stretch. On the beach after a jog, as he stood and watched the waves, an attractive woman in a white bikini caught his eye. Her lightly tanned body glistened with beads of sweat and ocean spray. Her sun-streaked brown hair was short, shaggy and sassy. She was jogging toward him along the water's edge. As she got closer he saw that she was more than attractive; she was gorgeous.

He has always been shy around beautiful women, but he seriously wanted to meet her and urged himself to say something – anything. Maybe she would stop and chat. When she got within about 15 feet he said, "Good morning," and felt a goofy smile cross his face. She looked his way, but did not smile or say anything. Just a pretty snob, he thought as he jogged toward the cool turquoise water and dived in. Oh well, he consoled himself, she looks almost 30. Too old for him anyway. He swam out about 50 yards, caught a few small waves, then headed back to the car.

As he sat on a fender brushing sand from his feet with a towel, there she was again, coming up from the beach to the parking lot. He tried not to stare, but couldn't help himself. Uh-oh, she's coming toward me, he thought as he felt his heart pounding. Maybe her car is nearby. Stop staring and don't say anything. She's out of your league. And she's a snob.

She came right up to him, smiled and said, "Hi, I guess that's your car?"

"Yes, it is." He stood up.

"I'm going into town for breakfast. Which way are you headed?"

Think fast, fool, he thought. "How about I take you to breakfast at a great place I know? By the way, I'm Jason. Jason Blue." He offered his hand.

"I'd like that, Jason. I'm Vicky Stride." They shook hands. She retrieved a small day pack hidden in a nearby hedge, took out a green silk sarong and wrapped it around herself at the waist. They got acquainted over breakfast. She told him she grew up on a farm in the midwest, was raised in a Pentecostal family, and was not allowed to watch television, dance or wear make-up. Now she worked as a flight attendant based in Houston and was on a short layover.

"I left the strict religion behind," she said. "But I'm very spiritual, and I still prefer the simple life. I want to live where I can trust my neighbors and leave my front door unlocked, where people help each other. The greed, the violence and the meanness so common now just breaks my heart."

She was simple, old fashion, innocent. He liked that. At her prompting he spoke about himself. She was a good listener, and he was fl attered by her attention, smitten by her beauty. He later wrote:

I invited her to join me for a sight-seeing drive. She accepted, and we hit the road. Beautiful bicoastal views graced the entire drive, with the West Maui Mountains undulating as the shadows of the puffy clouds passed over them. We spent most of the day exploring the upcountry vistas and sampling the fare in small restaurants in small towns. We tasted wine at a little winery in Ulupalakua, a third the way up the southwest slope of the 10,000-foot Haleakala, and bought a bottle of pineapple brandy for later. Then we headed back to the west side, glowing with the warmth of mutual attraction.

By sunset we were on my little porch dancing to slow blues, wrapped in each others arms. She pulled me close and kissed me. Tenderly, then passionately. Soon we were in the sack. We got along naked as well as we did dressed and we had a marathon of loving. As we lay spent and exhausted she said, I think I could love you.

I was thinking the same thing about her, but I was paralyzed by encroaching sleep. She cuddled close and we fell asleep in each other's arms. We slept deep and long. Toward dawn I dreamed I was floating in Heaven, which was Maui. I was happy in this warm, breezy and colorful world. Then, between waking and sleeping, I suddenly feared it was all just a dream. But when I reached out for her I quickly found the smooth skin of her back. My bliss was justified. I slept for another hour, then quietly got up and showered. I had fresh flowers on the table and breakfast ready by the time she got up and showered. Papayas, bananas, yogurt, toast with tahini, and Maui-grown coffee.

Jason was having the time of his life. Maui, Money, nice car, good job, good food, hot romance–what more could a young man want? Their little love fest would simmer on low boil and reach a spectacular climax two days later.

# 3 – Super Sex

Wednesday, Jason's last day off, was tinged with sadness because Vicky had to fly out that night and it would be several weeks before they would see each other again. They had a light breakfast and discussed their plans. He offered to take her anywhere on Maui she wanted to see. Any beach, reef, mountain, hiking trail or fancy hotel for lunch at a beach-front bistro. But she had other ideas. She smiled seductively, leaned close to him and said, "I can cruise the island next time I'm here. I'd prefer we go for a swim, then go grocery shopping, and then spend the rest of the day relaxing together. We'll make a nice early dinner." She put her arm around his shoulder, pulled him close and purred in his ear, "We'll slow dance and drink champagne."

Of course, he agreed and after shopping they passed the day enjoying the cool breeze, soft jazz, chilled durian pudding, sliced mangoes, and iced green tea with home-grown mint. And enjoying each other. Just before sunset they set the table, put the champagne on ice, and put the seafood enchilada in the oven to slow-cook. Months later he described what happened next.

I'm sorry for the coarse language in this letter, but it can't be helped if I am to tell the story accurately. Around sunset horny overcame hungry, and we retreated to the bedroom. We stripped and I lounged on the bed holding her hand, about to pull her down to me, when she pulled away to get the champagne from the kitchen. She returned with our glasses filled, handed me one, sat on the bed with me, smiled mischievously and said, I want you to do me a special favor tonight.

Anything my lover desires, I replied theatrically. I'll be your sex slave tonight.

Great, she said. Here, take this Viagra. We'll have supersex, the hottest of our lives. Look, I'm taking one. It amps up some women too, you know, and I'm one of them.

She put the blue pill in her mouth and washed it down with her bubbles. She held the other one to my lips and said, Open up, and I did. After swallowing the pill, I paused mid-glass, but she gently pushed the glass bottom-up. It tasted a little funny for expensive champagne, but I figured it was from the pill. Her passionate kiss put it out of my mind.

She put our glasses on the bedside table, pushed me onto my back, straddled my prone body and had me inside her in a fl ash.

You going to supersex me now? I asked playfully.

She moved her pelvis artfully, put her lips to my ear and replied in a whisper, No, I'm going to superfuck you.

That was the first time she had talked dirty to me. It was kind of a turn off, but I stayed hard. As I looked up at her face in the soft moonlight coming through a window I was surprised that I didn't see the carefree ecstasy of the previous times. Instead I saw a strange determination. She rode me furiously, as if she was going somewhere. I lost consciousness.

When I half-woke maybe twenty minutes later I assumed my drowsiness was a reaction to the alcohol-Viagra combination. Vicky was still banging away, having a ball. It was only natural. We were both in our prime, charged with lust accumulated over a whole day of flirting, touching and kissing, and now supercharged with Viagra.

We rode wave after wave of orgasmic bliss – at least she did. Only half conscious, I wasn't sure what was going on with me except that I had a huge hard one and she was using it as if it was the last one on earth. I was too weak to actively participate in the party, but I enjoyed it vicariously through her fervor.

At one point she took my hands and wrapped my fingers around her neck and told me to squeeze, squeeze, harder, harder. I assumed it was some kind of kinky sex play. I've heard of people doing things like that to heighten orgasms. But even in my haze it alarmed me, so I was relieved when she finally dropped my hands from her throat to her hips and lay prone on me, a writhing-snake type of prone. I tried to restrain her a bit.

She was wild and her thrusting seemed almost angry, like she was assaulting me with her vagina. I felt her pubic bone crash against mine again and again as she banged away like her life depended on it. Finally, she exploded in a prolonged mother of all orgasms. I passed out again.

Vicky finished super-sexing Jason about an hour after they drank the champagne. He faded in and out of consciousness, unable to move, and finally passed out cold. She got up, got dressed and made a call on her cell phone. Five minutes later she heard a knock on the door and opened it.

"Hello, Garrett," she said. "Come in. You're just in time for dinner."

Garrett Souza entered and Vicky locked the door. "How did it go?" he asked.

"Come see for yourself."

They went to the bedroom. Jason was motionless and breathing lightly. Garrett approved. "What did I tell you?" he said. "The stuff works great, uh?"

"Sure does. He's out cold but his tool's still awake. It's ingenious. And I'm starved. Let's eat."

She took the enchilada from the oven and they sat down to eat. Garrett said, "It's three-hour stuff, so he'll wake up in about an hour and a half. My cousin, Officer Royce Carter is signing in at the substation about now, then he'll cruise this neighborhood until you call. As soon as this guy wakes up you call 911, and Royce will be here in three minutes. He'll be your savior. Now, to be sure there's no misunderstanding, what's our deal again?"

"It's like you said, Garrett, one third of the total to each of us."

"Right, so whatever cash you get from the debit card, Royce and I get two thirds. Don't forget to keep the statement and give it to me."

"What are you saying? You don't trust me?" She asked with mock indignation. She continued, "How am I supposed to know how much you really get for the Tesla?"

"Figure around half the Bluebook. Look it up online."

"Well, I won't, because I trust you. And you should trust me too."

But they would both get away with whatever they could without destroying their profitable relationship. She had no intention of giving them two thirds of the take or even telling them about the Rolex and the gold coins. She knew he would short her on the car.

She said, "Can you guarantee me five thousand on the car?"

"Sounds about right."

"So I'll just take that out of what I owe you. Okay?"

"Okay, but don't forget the statement."

"No problem." She was ready for that. She would doctor the statement, and give them a thousand each. Added to the money they'd get for the car that would be more than they deserved. Garrett didn't get his hands dirty, and he's not taking any risk. Why should he get an equal share?

When they finished eating they walked to the door, and he said, "Okay, now for the hardest part. You ready?"

"Ready," she replied as she braced herself with a wide stance and slight crouch. It wasn't really the hardest part. She was used to getting hit. Her dad had smacked her around a thousand times.

Wham! Souza slugged her with a hard right to her left eye orbit, a guaranteed spectacular shiner, and followed quickly with a hard back-hand to her lip. She gasped and staggered but kept her balance.

He rushed to her. "You alright? You can't pass out now," he said.

"I'm okay," she muttered as she caught her breath, wiped the blood from her lip and waited for the pain to subside a little. "Remember, I can't leave the island too soon. They would get suspicious. I have to stick around and play the role. So he's got to stay in the slammer for at least two weeks."

"Don't worry, Royce knows what he's doing. He'll throw the book at him. See you later."

She closed the door behind him, then found Jason's wallet and took out his Diamond Debit card that she knew allowed only $2,000 per day withdrawal. The real reason she had to stick around was that it would take a few days to withdraw all the money. She had already found his PIN, probably while he was in the shower on their first day together. He had recently changed banks and carelessly left the letter notifying him of his debit card PIN with a pile of other mail on his messy desk.

He wrote:

You won't believe what she did next. First she tore up the room so it looked like an epic struggle had taken place. The noise she made throwing things around woke me, but I was still in a daze and didn't know what was happening. I didn't even know she had drugged me, aside from the Viagra and the champagne. My vision was blurred, but I could see her ripping the dress she had worn that day and yanking fistfuls of hair from her head. Her lip was swollen and purple, and one eye was swollen shut.

When she saw my eyes open she screamed and cussed me. I wondered if I had hit her accidentally while in a stupor. Then she was on her cell phone yelling hysterically and giving my address. I staggered to my feet and put on jeans and a tee shirt. I heard a siren approaching and hoped it was an ambulance because Vicky was in bad shape, and I didn't know why. The siren faded right in front of the house. I heard a car door slam, then a knock and a yell in a man's voice: Hello! Police officer here. I'm coming in.

As Officer Carter entered Vicky ran to him, crying, "Thank God you're here! He raped me. He beat me. He tried to strangle me. He would have killed me. That's him – Jason Blue."

"OK, miss. Take it easy," he said. "You'll be safe now. The medics are on their way. Please step outside while I speak with Mr. Blue."

She went outside and he turned to Jason who stood in the bedroom doorway, groggy and baffled. "What's going on?" he said.

"She says she accepted an invitation to dinner and you beat and raped her. What's the matter, Mr. Blue? Can't control yourself? That's no way to treat a lady."

"Are you crazy?" Jason yelled. "Is she crazy? Vicky?" he yelled as he approached the door. "What's going on?"

"Stay away from her," Carter warned as he moved to block Jason from the door. "Haven't you done enough to her?"

"I didn't do anything to her. What are you talking about? Vicky?!" he yelled more forcefully as he tried to maneuver past Officer Carter so he could ask her what was going on.

"Now you're asking for it," Carter said as he shot a left jab crashing into Jason's nose. Jason collapsed. The pain in his face was peaking when Carter kicked him hard in the groin. As he lay on the fl oor moaning in agony, his nose gushing blood, Carter reported to the dispatcher and asked for backup.

"We need an ambulance and a female officer for a rape victim. And backup for an arrest. The son of a bitch fought hard, so I took him down hard. But he's all right. Bloody nose is all. Oh, and I had to zap him a couple times. That's all." He clicked off.

Jason looked up at him and asked, stupidly, "You zapped me?"

"Yeah," Carter replied. "Just now." He drew the stun gun from its holster and fi red it from about four feet away. Jason felt a hot stinging on his chest and went limp like a rag doll. Carter bent over and cuffed his hands behind his back.

"You fucking son of a bitch," Jason gasped. Pow! He hit him with it again, this time directly on his shoulder, without the wires. The pain was horrendous.

"Watch your mouth, Mr. Blue, and stop resisting arrest." Jason lay still, literally in shock. The ambulance took Vicky to the hospital and the backup squad car took Jason to the county jail. Arrested for the first time in his life on April 3, 2020.

The following afternoon he was transferred to Maui Community Correctional Center, MCCC, an ancient medium-security state jail with 800 inmates crammed into a building built for 400. He was charged with rape, first degree assault, terroristic threatening, resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer.

# 4 – Suddenly in Jail

While awaiting processing into the jail Jason witnessed an act of brutality that sickened and frightened him, though in retrospect it was trivial by Maui jail standards. He and five others sat in the holding cell lost in their own thoughts. They were all downcast, except for Gary, a skinny mainland kid, maybe 19 years old, whose cheerful mood was out of place. He didn't seem to be drunk or stoned, but perhaps schizophrenic. He wasn't bothering anyone, just smiling broadly, with bright, sincere eyes. The guard in charge of the cell looked in the window and did a double-take when he saw Gary's face. He opened the door and signaled, come here, with his index finger. Gary smiled and obliged, and the guard had him step out into the corridor.

Jason watched through the little window in the door as the 250pound guard berated little Gary, who kept smiling. One of the other prisoners urged him away from the door: "You'll be next if he sees you watching." He had been there before. Curious, Jason ignored him.

"You're so happy," the guard said to Gary. "Where do you think you are?"

"I'm in Paradise," Gary replied, looking him in the eye, still smiling.

"What? You're where?"

"I'm in Paradise. You know, Heaven," Gary said with a bigger smile.

Smack! The guard clobbered him on the side of the head with his ham-sized fist. Gary fell to the floor, instantly cured of his cheerfulness.

"You still happy?" he demanded. Gary, fighting tears, shook his head no. The guard opened the cell door and Gary got up and re-entered, now more sullen than the others, with an angry red splotch marring the side of his face and blood from loosened teeth pooling at his lips. Arrested on a misdemeanor trespass charge for allegedly panhandling in a shopping mall, he had not been tried and was supposed to be presumed innocent, yet he had already been subjected to cruel and brutal punishment far worse than he could have been legally sentenced to if found guilty. This shook Jason up. He knew such brutality is illegal even if the prisoner is a convicted mass murderer, but on Maui, he would soon learn, it had always been routine. All prisoners, even pretrial detainees arrested on minor allegations, were fair game.

The situation had always been bad, but it had gotten steadily worse since the Patriot Act of 2015, and the stiffer Maui County and Hawai'i State laws that came with it. Many cops, jail guards, security guards and others with uniforms or badges saw themselves as a guardians of the homeland and were self-righteous in their bullying. These were the circumstances and the atmosphere Jason found himself in.

As he was being led to his cell by a guard, recreation period was in progress and they passed by the television area where about 20 inmates were watching the afternoon news. Something caught the guard's attention and he stopped to watch. Jason watched too, and he saw himself, his mug shot on TV. He looked scruffy, defiant, menacing.

And there she was, Vicky, leaving the hospital in a wheelchair and being helped into a cab. She looked frail, battered and pitiful. Because of her privacy rights under state law they did not name her or show her face clearly, but the strangulation bruises on her neck were clearly visible and the reporters described her bruised and swollen face. About a hundred demonstrators had gathered there to protest violence against women, and express sympathy and support for Vicky.

Coverage switched to County Prosecutor Ken Bertoli's press conference in front of the County Building. A tan, muscular, handsome, hard-driving 52 year-old with his eye on the Governor's mansion, he lost no opportunity to toot his horn as he went after the bad guys, especially in slam-dunk cases like this one. Always impeccably dressed, he was a whirlwind of tough words and quick action. Police Chief Hiram Foster stood behind him like an exclamation point. He was paunchy and pasty but tall and imposing.

With tears in his eyes, seething with anger, Bertoli said to the cameras, "The doctor's report says this rape was the most brutal he'd ever seen. The victim's pubic bone and her entire peri-vaginal area are bruised and swollen even worse than her battered face...." He paused, closed his eyes and bit his lip, fighting the tears.

He regained his composure and continued, "But the perpetrator has been caught. And thank God the legislature finally put the Depo-Provera program in place last session. Vicious sexual predators like this guy can now be controlled chemically."

Depo-Provera treatment, in which synthetic hormone pellets are surgically inserted into the body, is commonly known as chemical castration. It was a fifty-year-old treatment but more widely used than ever. One of the inmates glanced at Jason, recognized him, and soon they all knew who he was. Some of them joked in high voices that he would be turned into a mahu (effeminate male homosexual), and everyone laughed.

At first Jason wasn't too worried. He had faith in the justice system, and he was confident he would be freed in a day or two. But then the local director of Fems Aiding Fems, being interviewed about the case, pulled the reporter's microphone close to her big mouth and shouted, "Jason Blue is an animal! He should be put away for life! He should be castrated!" She then chanted loudly and the crowd joined in, "One, two, castrate Blue! One, two, castrate Blue!"

"Let's go," the guard said. "This isn't your section's rec period." Jason looked around as he was led to his cell. It's called a jail, as opposed to a prison, because the inmates are mostly waiting for trial, waiting for sentencing, in transition to or from a prison on Oahu or on the mainland, or serving less than a year. Whatever it's called, it's a concrete and steel cage with hundreds of little cages inside. A new, larger jail had been under construction for several years, but the financial crisis caused a halt to the work just months from the finish line.

The center of the ground floor is used for eating, watching TVs and the like. The guards' central monitor and control booth is on this floor. It has an unobstructed line of sight through one-way glass to all the cells. The guard at the central control panel controls the cell doors, the main doors of the building, the lighting throughout the building, the public address system, the intercom to each cell, and so on. The inmates are never certain who is in control at any given time, so they refer to that anonymous guard, as well as the module itself, as Central. The announcements of meal times, recreation times, lights out, and such come from Central over the public address speakers. Central communicates with individual inmates in their cells through the intercom system.

Jason's cell was about 10 feet by 12 and built for two. When he arrived three others already called it home. A bunk bed sleeps two, and two-inch foam mats in vinyl covers sleep the other two on the floor. The mats are rolled up during the day. Being new, Jason got the floor along with a young guy who had come in earlier that day, charged with drunk driving. He still reeked of hard liquor. The top bunk belonged to another twenty-something, charged with shop lifting and disorderly conduct. The two young rowdies had quickly become buddies. They introduced themselves to Jason and welcomed him with a torrent of wisecracks.

"So you're the guy they're going to castrate."

"You'll grow boobs and turn into a pussy."

"Prison's a bad place to be a pussy."

"But if it happens, can you pencil me in for your first date?"

They cracked up and knuckled each other. Jason smiled faintly, conceding them the humor, but he was getting nervous about the rapid poisoning of public sentiment against him by the authorities and the media.

The third man sat shirtless on the lower bunk and quietly glared at Jason, looking him over with skepticism and contempt. He was a tall, slender, strong looking, part Polynesian in his mid-forties with wavy hair hanging over his forehead and hiding half his ears. He seemed brooding and slightly threatening.

Jason offered his hand and said, "Hi, I'm Jason Blue. But I guess you've already heard."

"Ryan Kalama." It was a cold handshake, without a nod or a smile.

Sensing hostility, Jason said, "If it bothers you that I'm in here I could ask to be moved to another cell."

"Did you rape her?"

"No! I did not! I would never...I have a sister. I love her. I had a mother who I loved. I respect women...I'm not a violent person."

Ryan's glare softened and he yawned – wide, loud and long, without any attempt to stifle or hide it. "I didn't sleep much last night," he said. He yawned again, a smaller one, while keeping his gaze on Jason.

After a moment Jason's eyes teared a little. He tried but could not suppress his yawn. He said, "Guess I'm pretty tired myself."

Ryan, continuing to stare, slowly broke into a slight smile and said. "I think maybe I can believe you."

Jason was puzzled, but quickly took the opportunity to emphasize his innocence.

"I did not beat and rape that woman," he said softly, eyes locked on Ryan's. Then he looked toward the cell door and slowly shook his head.

"They always say that," Ryan said,. "But I think I can trust you. The cops get it wrong half the time anyway, so I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. Others in here will not. Some bullies and bull queers will assume you are guilty and take it upon themselves to punish you in the worst ways. It gives them an excuse to do the cruel things they enjoy. If you beat and raped a woman they figure they can do the same to you, but ten times as bad. The guards let them do it. They even put them up to it. And sometimes they join in. You better make bail right away or you're screwed, literally."

"I'll get an attorney as soon as I can. But can you explain what just happened? Why did your attitude toward me suddenly change?"

"It's my psychic lie detector system. I'll explain it to you some time. Or maybe not. But, tell me, if it wasn't you, who did beat and rape that woman?"

"Nobody. She wasn't raped and she must have hurt herself when she went crazy on me. She might have had a bad reaction to a drug, but I'm not sure. I'm very confused. It's a long story."

"We have nothing but time in here, my friend."

So Jason told him the whole story, as he knew it. He knew nothing about Souza's involvement, but then recalled noticing the empty serving dishes and two used plates on the table.

Ryan said, "So she had a partner there, someone you didn't see because you were zoned out?"

"I...I don't know. Now I'm even more confused. I can't believe she would...."

"Who was the cop?"

"I think his tag said Carter."

Ryan's jaw dropped and he was quiet for a moment, then he said,

"A big guy with a big crooked nose and crooked front teeth?"

"Yeah. You know him?"

"Royce Carter. He's a real bad guy. Likes to clobber and zap people, mostly small-time drug dealers and the like. He steals their drugs and money, and scares them out of any thought of making waves about it. He also extorts prostitutes for sex, or works scams with them. Hangs around his cousin, Garrett Souza, who's even worse. Souza's specialty is knockout drinks, and he probably provided the stuff your girl used on you. He..... He's a psychopathic killer...." His voice trailed off, his jaw clenched and he stared into space. He closed his eyes for a long moment and sighed.

Jason said, "Really? Is he a cop too?"

"He was a rookie in vice, but he raped and murdered a girl, and got fi red. His father's a police captain. The cops covered up the crime. Charges were never brought. They wouldn't properly investigate and no one could force them to. Everyone knows Souza did it. The girl's parents couldn't find a lawyer to sue him, so they got no justice."

"Sounds like a scary guy, especially if you're a girl. But in my case, what did they get out of it? Kicks and a dinner? And what did she get out of it? A pretend romance with a lot of sex and nice meals?

It doesn't make sense. I mean, what was I scammed out of?"

"Do you have a car?"

"Yes, a Tesla roadster. It's old but cherry. Beautiful car."

"What's it worth?"

"Maybe $60,000."

"Ouch! Consider it gone. Disassembled it's worth twice that to a dirty parts dealer. Hope you have full coverage."

"Almost, but I still don't think Vicky...."

"Come on, man. Your babe magnet attracted the wrong kind of babe. Cars like that advertise that you're horny and you have money. That attracts women who make a living off horny guys with money."

"But we were so smooth together, especially in bed. Not one harsh word between us in three days of being together constantly. We swam, we danced, we cooked and ate and laughed together. And in bed we came together almost every time. It's like we were instant soul mates. Don't you think that means anything? People don't rip off their soul mates."

"Get real. Snaky women like that one make you believe you're soul mates, so you trust them. That's their scam. To them it's an art. But maybe she didn't have to fake sexual passion. Some psychos get off on fucking their victims in their own homes, faking love, stealing trust, then stealing money. Sort of a kinder, gentler home invasion rape and robbery."

"But she laughed all the time. We had a blast. Could she fake that?"

"She was laughing at you, not with you. She was laughing at her private joke on you."

Jason looked down and said softly, "We were so close...or I thought we were. How could she......?"

"By keeping her eye on the prize, five thousand dollars for three days of feasting and fucking. She's good. You know, Maui's billed as a great art center that supposedly has more artists per population than New York or Paris. I think that's probably true, but only if you include the thousands of con artists here."

"But it's too elaborate, too much trouble and risk for 5 thousand dollars. I mean, getting the cops involved?"

"She probably thought she could get more. Maybe she did get more. What about credit cards, bonds, jewelry? Anything like that? Things she might have seen?"

"No, nothing valuable. Wait, I did show her my collection of gold coins. But I had it in a locked drawer. I think I re-locked it. And even if she took the debit and credit cards from my wallet, she doesn't have my PINs. But wait. What did I do with that letter from the bank? I don't remember. But really, I don't think she could..."

"Well, I hope you figure it all out, and I wish you luck." Ryan saw that Jason was in denial and would take a while to face the truth. He knew when to let up.

"Thank you," Jason said, glad to change the subject. "Can I ask what you're in for?"

"Contempt of court. Nothing serious. My wife will bail me out in a few days when she gets the money together." He then indicated by gestures and mouthing the words that he did not want to discuss himself or his case in earshot of the two rowdies because they could be snitches.

That seemed paranoid to Jason. Who would want to spy on someone accused of a trivial misdemeanor? He let it pass and they retreated into their own thoughts. Jason was impressed with Ryan. He thought about their conversation, ran it through his mind several times and wondered exactly why Ryan was in jail. Contempt of court how and in what context?

In the morning Jason picked an attorney at random from the yellow pages and called him. He met him that afternoon in the visiting room.

Mitz Funai came right to the point: "You're in big trouble, Jason.

Did you beat and rape the woman?" "No," he replied.

"Did you assault Officer Carter?"

"No. He assaulted me. Look at me. He broke my nose. And he zapped me twice for no reason. I want to see a doctor."

"OK, if you say you didn't do it, I'll help you all I can. Even if you did do it I'll represent you, but you have to tell me the absolute truth. No BS."

"No BS – I'm innocent."

"I'll need a ten thousand dollar retainer. Do you have it?" "Yes, in my checking account. But how can I get access to it?" "I brought a form that will authorize release of the money to me. It works like a check. Here, fill it out and sign it. The funds will be transferred to a retainer account. When that's done I'll come back for a longer meeting and you can tell me the whole story."

Jason filled out the form. Funai called later that day with the bad news. Denial was no longer possible. Jason had been cleaned out. Just a few hundred dollars left. All he had now was his insurance claim on the Tesla and maybe some gold, but maybe not. He cried softly.

"Well, at least you can have her arrested and get me out of here," he blubbered.

"Sorry, Jason," he said. "I can't work without a retainer. But the Public Defender's office will help you. You're eligible now that you're broke. Good luck." he hung up.

Jason called the Public Defender's office and got an appointment. The next day a petite woman in her forties came to see him. She was one of those beauties rarely seen outside Hawai'i, a blend of Chinese and Caucasian and Polynesian.

"Hello, Mr. Blue, I'm Lehua Wong, your lawyer from the Public Defender's office." She seemed reserved, formal and leery of him. He guessed she wasn't thrilled about being picked for the job. No woman would be, but it was her professional duty to represent him to the best of her ability.

"Thank you for coming. Can we be on a first-name basis? I feel like I need a friend."

"Sure, Jason. No problem. Now, tell me what happened."

He told her about how he'd met Vicky, about their whirlwind romance, and about the last dinner topped off with spiked champagne and Viagra. "She dosed me with a knockout drug. I don't know how she got beat up," he said.

Lehua rolled her eyes. "Come on, Jason. Forgive me, I mean no disrespect, but most guys in here insist on their innocence, at least at fi rst, and I've heard it all. A jury will never buy that. The prosecution is out for blood. You're facing forty years, so you'll have to consider copping a plea. If you're lucky you might get out before your fiftieth birthday."

"Wait, there's more," he said impatiently. "After she drugged me she took my debit card and cleaned out my account. Twenty thousand dollars, probably in two thousand dollar batches, the maximum allowed in a day. The dates of the withdrawals will be dates when I was locked up. Proof that I was the victim, not the criminal. If she got my Rolex and gold coins too, that's another twenty thousand. And if she stole my car, another 30 thousand. You have to get me a bail hearing. Surely the judge would release me on my own recognizance given the evidence that I'm a crime victim."

She locked her eyes onto his and squinted slightly, reassessing him. "I can try," she said, "but don't get your hopes up. You have to understand something about the justice system here. Once you've been arrested and they've started to build a case against you, it develops momentum and it's almost impossible to stop. That's why it's called a railroad. It's hard to stop a train once it gets going, and it gets going quickly here. The police and prosecutors often act before they think, and they hate to admit making a mistake and having to go into reverse on a case. Admitting they're wrong in this case, after making such a spectacle of it, would make them look like fools. You have to abandon any notion you might have that they care about the truth, about justice or about you."

"You mean the evidence doesn't count for anything?"

"It counts only if you can get it, present it and make it count. They have ways of suppressing, losing and ignoring evidence as well as simply refusing to investigate. They can selectively investigate and lie about their findings to get the results they want in just about any case. In your case, I can tell you this much: they would much prefer a conviction in a brutal rape than in a sweetheart swindle, which they would never prosecute anyway. The battered and bloodied lady gets the sympathy over her bankrupt pigeon every time."

"So the truth doesn't matter to them? They'll prosecute victims instead of criminals and knowingly send innocent people to prison for years?

She nodded and said, "Yes, they often do. If they think it will make them look good or it's somehow in their interests, yes, without hesitation. They will destroy your life and crush you like a bug if it's to their advantage. The police compete with each other in zealousness. So do the prosecutors. High arrest and conviction rates mean promotions and higher pay. Mistakes and low rates mean oblivion. So they cover up their mistakes, fabricate evidence, lie under oath, whatever it takes to get a conviction."

Jason later wrote:

I stared past her, stunned. My happy world was suddenly stripped away and I was locked up like an animal, with only 20 square feet to call my own. Had anyone ever gone from Heaven to Hell in less time? I was confused and nauseous. I've always believed in the land of the free, with liberty and justice for all. I took it for granted. Now the earth beneath me seemed not quite solid, and my legs felt weak. Have we lost our liberty, or did we never really have it? Was it just empty propaganda all along, a lie that tricks us into allegiance? And is the justice system at war with the people it is supposed to protect and serve? Is it just Maui or is it like this in the rest of Hawai'i? I was confused.

As if she had read my mind, or had had this conversation many times, she said, It's like this to some extent in all counties and states, but it's worse here than just about anywhere else in the country. Maui County has become a true police state, but most people don't know it yet. And a lot of people won't care when they do find out-until the police go after them for no good reason.

Before Lehua left Jason gave her phone numbers and addresses, and asked her to check up on things for him. The next day she called and told him that his car was gone; his lease on the house had been nullified; the landlord had packed and stored his stuff; there was no Rolex watch, gold coins or surfboard; his job had been given to someone else; and Chef Jessie had a message for him. Lehua had written it down. She told him it was nasty and he didn't need to hear it, but he insisted.

The message was, "Sorry to learn you're a violent psycho. You hid it very well. Now my restaurant is under a cloud. Hope you choke on the prison food, asshole!" He was silent.

"Jason? You still there?"

"I'm here."

"Are you all right?"

"Oh, I'm fine. It's just that my entire life has been destroyed, that's all."

"I'm very sorry, Jason. I'll get you out as soon as I can. I'll fi le a motion for your release, show the judge the bank statement. Bertoli will fight it. He'll say you had a friend withdraw the money or something like that. I'll get the court to order an examination of the bank's surveillance drives. This will all take some time, so don't get discouraged. You will be released."

"How soon?"

"A few days, maybe a couple weeks. I can't say for sure, but I will get you out. I promise."

"Okay. Thanks for helping me."

"I'll talk to you soon, Jason."

Lehua was appalled, but not surprised in the least. Watching an innocent client's life get demolished by Maui County was nothing new to her.

# 5 – The Prison Industrial Complex (PIC)

Back in the cell Jason told Ryan what happened, and his face brightened at the mention of Lehua Wong.

"She's an old friend," he said, "and one of the few attorneys on this island who isn't lazy, incompetent or corrupt. If she believes you she'll fight hard for you."

Jason recounted some of the things she had told him about the justice system, which got Ryan going on his favorite subject. He had enjoyed teaching high school, and he still enjoyed taking a student in hand and teaching him all about a subject. These days he had only one subject on his mind, and Jason had the makings of a bright and eager student. And possibly much more.

"She's right about the competitive zeal among law enforcers," he said, "but there's much more to it. The so-called justice system has become a cyber-bionic bureaucracy, the Maui Machine, the Injustice Juggernaut. It's part human, part robotic and totally voracious. It has abilities, ambitions and appetites beyond those of the simple sum of its parts. All the individuals and institutions that participate in putting us here and keeping us here have merged and morphed into a smooth-running organic machine that ruthlessly captures people, locks them up and keeps them in cages as long as it can, guilty and innocent alike.

"But, why?" Jason asked. "What's their motive? What's their purpose?"

"It's not so much their purpose as its purpose. Think of all the cops, prosecutors, parole officers, prison guards, nurses and custodians, prison construction and supply companies, bail bondsmen, and all the unions and lobbyists that represent all these people and industries. Working in unison, it's a potent political force: the Prison Industrial Complex, the PIC. It's one of the few industries that's thriving in these hard times. They lobby for tougher laws, enforcement and sentencing to keep the prison population growing. If they had their way half the population would be locked up.

"Add to that the power of the media, whipping up hysteria about crime waves and egging on the politicians by 'exposing' some of them as soft on crime. This keeps the taxpayers from asking a lot of questions while their pockets are being picked by the PIC. The media and the PIC pressure and bribe lawmakers to give ever-larger chunks of state and federal dollars to the Juggernaut.

"Don't get me wrong. Crime on Maui is a real problem, no doubt about it. Like everywhere else, there're some bad seeds here. Plus, unemployment and poverty can make good people do bad things. Crime isn't new and it's no reason to sacrifice our most important rights and to allow government to commit crimes even worse than most convicts in prison commit.

"But on Maui that sacrifice is being made. Now the Machine has taken on a life of its own. Even if all the criminals were to miraculously wise up overnight and go straight, the Juggernaut would still need warm bodies to snatch, and it would still find them one way or another. Or create them."

"What do you mean?"

The PA system clicked on and Central announced recreation time for their section.

"I'll give you an example. Come with me."

They left the cell and went to the small exercise courtyard. There Ryan introduced Jason to Willy, a young local who was lying on his back doing leg lifts and sit ups.

Ryan asked Willy to tell Jason how he came to be in the cage.

As they joined him on the floor, Willy sat up and leaned against the wall. This is what he said.

"I got ripped off by a slick used car salesman at Maui Sun Motors. I confronted him and his boss, and demanded a full refund. They told me to get lost. I couldn't afford to sue, so I left and came back with a poster that said, Maui Sun Motors is a Rip-off! I stood near the entrance to their parking lot and held the sign high. The boss came out and warned me to leave or he would call the cops. I was on a public sidewalk and not violating any law, so I refused to leave.

"Pretty soon I heard a siren. Just as the squad car arrived with two cops the boss rushed me, grappled with me for the sign, kicked me in the shin, ripped the sign from me and tore it up. When I tried to stop him he punched me in the stomach so hard I lost my breath and fell hard onto the sidewalk. The cops saw it all, but they talked only with the boss and wouldn't listen to me.

"As I got up one of them said, The gentleman alleges that you took a swing at him when he was just trying to talk to you, and he hit you in self-defense.

"Getting pissed, I said, What, are you guys blind? You were right there."

"He said, 'Now you're insulting us, insulting the force. We can't let you get away with that.'"

"There's no law against insulting dumb cops", I said. He grabbed my arm and held me tight, then pulled out his zapper and held it to my chest and pulled the trigger. I collapsed but he kept it on me. My head was exploding with pain.

"He said I was under arrest for disorderly conduct, obstructing a sidewalk and resisting arrest. They wouldn't let me make a complaint against the boss for assaulting me, even though they saw him do it. The cops, the salesman and the boss lied about everything in court, and the judge believed, or pretended to believe, them. Two cops and two businessmen against a nobody. My Public Defender was worthless. That's how I ended up here."

Ryan thanked him and wished him luck. They crossed to a bench set against the opposite wall and sat down.

Ryan said, "So there you have the typical Maui police action. Willy was a law-abiding citizen exercising his constitutional right to free speech. In this case, as always, the needs of the Juggernaut dictated the actions of the police and the prosecutors, not the needs of justice and the rule of law. The merchant pays the county and state taxes that feed the Juggernaut, so the Juggernaut protects him and swallows another victim whole. In that situation it's inconceivable that the cops would have arrested the tax-paying merchant, no matter what they witnessed.

"Now they have Willy and will try to keep him as long as possible. He'll generate about a hundred thousand dollars a year to feed the Juggernaut, much of it from the federal government. Plus they'll work him for 50 cents an hour and make ten dollars under the table on that. This is standard operating procedure for Maui County. They hire inmates out to corporations to do all kinds of menial labor, especially telemarketing, data entry, assembly line work and construction clean up. Guys aren't forced to work, but they know that refusing can count against them with judges and parole boards. So they figure they may as well get out of their cages for a while and make a little snack money.

"The County and State have never announced that the Bill of Rights has been repealed and that slavery is back. They've never said there will be no due process, freedom of speech or protection from cruel and unusual punishment. But by their unwritten policies and habitual actions they constantly violate our most basic rights. And here is something else they do. When Willy's one year sentence is almost up the guards will harass, tease, threaten and torment him, trying to provoke him into lashing out in frustration – yelling, threatening, throwing stuff, or even assaulting a guard. That kind of thing. If they succeed they'll pile on charges and keep him longer, maybe years longer. The prisoners who are innocent are the easiest to provoke because they are already angry and frustrated. So those who are the least guilty when they are sentenced often end up doing the most time."

"What about civil rights lawyers?" Jason asked. "Why doesn't the ACLU do something?"

"The ACLU will fight like mad for an Arab-American who gets booted from a flight for wearing a T-shirt with Arabic script on it, and for the right of high-school lesbians to attend a prom as a couple, and that's fi ne with me. But they won't they lift a finger for people like Willy. Why? Where are their priorities? I don't understand it. Maybe they can't get any traction here because they can't get attorneys to volunteer to work with them. So-called civil rights lawyers concentrate on a lucrative area of law having to do with discrimination in the workplace based on gender and race. They mostly sue corporations with deep pockets and no taste for legal hassles that generate bad publicity. These attorneys never take on the state or counties for abuse of prisoners. Lawyers here know that if they want to have money and a decent home they cannot go against the Juggernaut. So they become part of it, or at least aid and abet it.

"Now there are plenty of guys in here and in prison on O'ahu for no good reason except that the Juggernaut went after them and no one helped them fight back. There's a guy who's been in here for two month waiting trial for violating a no-contact order because he waved back when his five-year-old son waved to him as they passed on the road going 20 miles an hour in opposite directions. It was a reflex. He's facing a year in jail and his lawyer is not optimistic. Can you believe it? The Family Court system is heartless, corrupt and part of the Juggernaut. Its net effect is to break up families and destroy lives."

Jason said, "Why don't the media investigate? Sounds like some sensational stories."

"Maui has never had an independent press that does real investigative journalism. Many people have gone to the local newspapers and news departments of TV stations with horror stories, but no one will listen to them. The papers and broadcasters have always been extensions of the PR departments of the owners of the plantations, the military, the visitor industry and the county and state governments – sort of like Pravda during the Soviet era. It's almost treasonous to say anything that tarnishes the official image of Maui as Paradise."

They looked toward the door as someone said in a loud voice, "Keoki, how you doing, man? Long time." Several inmates approached the man entering the courtyard and greeted him with a handshake and a brief hug. They stood around Keoki, smiling and chatting. He was in his late twenties, stocky and solid, with long brown hair in a ponytail, a broad smile and laughing eyes.

"Who's that?" Jason asked. "Seems pretty popular."

"Keoki Luna. I got to know him when he was in high school and I was sub teaching. He was a bit hyperactive and a joker. Loved to pull pranks and make people laugh. He was a good kid, curious about everything, eager to learn, especially American and Hawaiian history and politics, but also science and technology." Ryan stood up and Jason did likewise.

Keoki noticed Ryan and approached him, smiling. "Mr. Kalama, what a shock! My favorite teacher in jail! What, you been raising fighting chickens? Growing weed?" They smiled and shook hands.

"Hello, Keoki. You can call me Ryan. We're both inmates now, equal in our lowly status." They all laughed. Ryan introduced Keoki to Jason and they sat down.

"Okay, Mr. Kalama. I mean Ryan. Seriously, why are you here? I heard you got picked up, but I never found out exactly why. What's the charge?"

"Hold on, my man. Beauty before age. What brings you here? I heard you were convicted on a TRO violation."

"That's right. I'm transitioning out now. I did two years in Halawa, the big house on Oahu."

"Tell us how it happened." Ryan said.

Keoki said, "Okay, but you won't believe this bullshit. It was about two and a half years ago. I couldn't find enough work to pay my tuition, so I quit college. I didn't want to burden my family or friends. I became homeless, living on the beach, scrounging for food, working at whatever little jobs I could find. Some days I got hired to hike rental cars. You know, drive them from the lot to this or that hotel. One day about ten of us drove cars to the Grand Makena. The shuttle van was late picking us up, and three of us went inside to use the bathroom.

"Hikers are poor people, and we all looked it. As we were leaving, a hotel man came up to us and said we weren't supposed to come inside. I asked why not, and he said because people come here to see Hawai'i, not Hawaiians.

"I said, fuck you, asshole. He's lucky I didn't punch him out. He told my boss and I got fired. One day I saw a Help Wanted sign in the window of a small restaurant. I went in and spoke with the owner, a haggard looking woman about 30 named Stacy Morris. She had seen me around and knew I was homeless. She was friendly and seemed sympathetic about my situation. She needed help renovating four cottages behind the restaurant.

"She led me around the property, took me inside one of the cottages and showed me what needed to be done. It looked simple enough and I asked about the pay. She said I could have room and board in her cottage, the fifth one, where she lived with her boyfriend Toby. I would work full-time until the cottages were ready to rent, probably in about three months. Plus I would be paid half the minimum wage, or five dollars an hour in a lump sum when I was ready to leave. It would be almost 3 thousand dollars.

"I fetched my backpack and sleeping bag from the beach and claimed the first roof over my head in a year. It never occurred to me to ask for something in writing. She seemed so sincere and honest. Besides, when you're homeless you're not in a position to get formal.

"The next day I got to work, cleaning, painting, repairing the screens, that kind of thing. I noticed that Stacy's boyfriend Toby mostly went surfing, drank beer and smoked weed, though he also helped a little in the restaurant. She and Toby drank a lot after work and were very loud. Stereo, TV, screwing, arguing. After a few days I was started to miss the peace and quiet of the beach.

"Stacy pushed me hard and I put in about 60 hours a week, but I didn't mind, knowing every hour would be money in my pocket. By the eleventh week she had rented two of the cottages and started showing the other two as I was wrapping up the work. I was enjoying a sense of satisfaction from a job well done. Unfortunately, that's all I would ever get.

"When I was finished I told Stacy I was ready to move on. She said she would pay me in a few days. I didn't want to stay there anymore, so I told her I'd come back, and I returned to the beach, planning to stay there until she paid me and I could afford a decent room. When I went back a few days later she said she needed another week. I reluctantly went back to the beach empty-handed.

"When I went to see her a week later she dropped a bomb on me. She said she didn't owe me anything because she had given me room and board, and she denied having promised me money. When I argued with her Toby gestured with his cell phone and said he would call the police if I didn't leave. I left and went to the state wage claim office. They wouldn't help me because I had no written agreement and no proof I had done the work.

"I went to the library and photocopied the state law she violated, theft by fraud, and took it to the police. I asked them to investigate. They refused, so I decided to apply some pressure on my own. I got a poster board and made a sign that said The Owner Of This Restaurant Is A Crook! I picketed the restaurant around lunchtime on a couple days and explained to people what she did to me. It seemed to hurt the business.

"But Stacy still didn't pay me. Instead, she filed a petition for a temporary restraining order, a TRO, in Family Court. She claimed that I abused and beat her and was trying to extort money from her. She was granted an ex parte TRO by a Family Court judge. It enjoined me from picketing until a hearing three weeks later. I wasn't about to wait three more weeks for my money and, according to the law, TROs can't be used to abridge First Amendment rights. So I kept picketing. She called the police and I was arrested. I again demanded that the police properly investigate and charge her with fraud, perjury and false reporting, but they refused.

"The case was fast-tracked as a domestic abuse case because I had lived in her house for a few weeks. According to the law, if you spend even a few nights as a houseguest of a person you are considered to be a domestic partner of that person for life, even years later and even if you had separate bedrooms at the time and had no intimate relationship. It sounds incredible, but it's true. I learned all about it later. No matter how long ago that was, you will always be considered members of the same household. It's easy to railroad a case through the corrupt Family Court system, so scam artist women rip off men and if these victims make a stink the women cry domestic abuse, and the men are taken away in handcuffs. There is no risk to the women in swearing to the lies.

"The prosecutor told the jury that I'm a very dangerous person who came to court armed with nothing but lies and slander against my victim. He said Stacy Morris is an upstanding business woman who extended charity to me, the homeless bum, and I repaid her by turning on her like a greedy cur. That lying bastard knew the police and his own office had refused to investigate my allegations, yet he claimed they were slanderous lies. The jury swallowed the prosecutor's lies and Stacy's lies and convicted me of a TRO violation. I was sentenced to a year in prison.

"Naturally, in my frustration I vented a few times in prison. I told two of my cell mates that nothing would make me happier than to take a baseball bat to Stacy's skull, put a bullet into the prosecutor's head and burn down the damned cottages I had renovated. And it was true; nothing would make me happier. But that didn't mean I intended to do those things.

"You can't control what thoughts pop into your head after you've been scammed like that. Stealing a man's honest labor is like stealing his soul. You know I'm not a violent person. It was just talk. Frustrated, angry talk about fantasies, not real plans. And they knew it. But those lying snitches, looking for a deal to knock a few months off their sentences for robbery, told the prosecutor I tried to hire them to arrange for someone on the outside to torch the houses and kill Stacy and the prosecutor. I mean, I was broke, so how could I hire anyone to do anything?

"I was put on trial again. The jury came back with a compromise verdict: not guilty of solicitation of murder, but guilty of solicitation of arson. The judge gave me two more years. Now I'm getting out. In a few days I'll finally feel the sun and the surf."

Ryan said, "What will you do next?"

Keoki replied, "I don't know exactly, but it will be something special. Guaranteed, bro. I did the time, so why not do the crime? With my record I'm branded for life. I wouldn't be allowed to play their game even if I wanted to. So I'll be raising hell, that's for sure. I can't let those bastards get away with it. There're lots of guys who've been screwed like me. I've met them in prison. When we get out I'll get with some of them and we'll think of something. And I'll get with my buddy Talon. He'll be up for some action. For real, bro. Now tell me about you."

Ryan said only, "Contempt of court. No problem."

Back in their cell, Ryan said, "What happened to Keoki is common. In cases like this if the man presents documents or even voice recordings to the police and prosecutor proving that the woman lied in sworn statements, and demanding an investigation, grand jury hearing, and indictment for fraud and felony perjury, they ignore him. The Mayor, the Governor, the Ombudsman, his elected representatives and all the lawyers also ignore him. They all want to keep the railroad running soothingly. They don't care that innocent men go to jail and women predators continue their crimes. In fact, the President of Women United has said that her group doesn't care if innocent men go to prison, that their priority is fighting abuse of women. Their hatred of men is greater than their love of the Bill of Rights."

Jason said, "Who's Talon? The only Talon I know of was a bigtime pro surfer. Talon Vargas."

"Same guy. He goes by just Talon now. Went to court and made it official. He's Keoki's long-time friend and used to be his big-wave partner. Made his name at Maverick's, then Waimea before he moved to Maui to take on Jaws. Hooked up with Keoki, who's a surfer and jet-skier and knows Jaws like no one else. And he's fearless. He would tow Talon to the perfect spot to take off on a monster, and pluck him out of the soup if he wiped out. Saved his life more than once. His skill and courage allowed Talon to take chances no one else would take. They used to split the prize money 50-50."

"You say used to. But they're still young. Did they retire?"

"Not really. The prize money dried up when the economy collapsed. So Keoki went to college, but money for that dried up too. He ended up homeless, scammed out of his hard work, then in prison."

"What did Talon do?"

"He coasted for a while on endorsements for boards, wetsuits, surfer-style clothing, that kind of thing. When those contracts expired he didn't know what to do, so he hung out and partied a lot. One night he was arrested for public intoxication and contempt of cop. He spent a few months in here. They kept him in the hole most of the time and treated him real bad. He was a different person after his release. He was mad as hell about the brutality he was subjected to and about Keoki being railroaded. He would drink to take the edge off and became an alcoholic and a bit crazy. They say he cruises around the island with cans of red paint and sprays protest graffito all over the place. If they catch him they'll send him back here."

Jason thought about the STOP THE TORTURE! graffito on the rock wall by the beach, and he wondered.

# 6 – The Hellish Side of Paradise

Considering what Ryan said about Lehua, Jason was confident he would soon be released. He passed the time talking with Ryan and other inmates. He heard how the system screwed a lot of innocent people and people guilty of trivial offenses; how it disrupted and wrecked their lives far out of proportion to the crimes they were accused of; and how the Juggernaut enforcers casually made career stepping stones of the bodies trapped in its web. All this was making a lot people very angry.

Jason fumed at the disaster the criminals and the authorities had made of his life, but he came to realize that his case was not a rare deviation from the norm. Far from it. Many inmates had suffered much worse than he had. And he would be free in a few days while they would be left in their cages. His loss of money didn't compare to the wreckage of their lives and the suffering they endured. He wondered if the Machine was creating a generation of sworn enemies, an army of dissidents who would always hate and reject County and State authority.

Jason was still wondering about why Ryan was in jail, but couldn't get a straight answer from him. He would find out only much later. For now all he knew was that Ryan was educated and smart, an ex-teacher and now a small farmer. His grandparents had obtained five fertile acres through the Hawaiian Homestead Program, and he inherited the lush and productive little truck farm the family had started. Ryan and his wife Mele were still deeply in love after almost 20 years of marriage. She was a retired psychotherapist, now a self-taught computer whiz. Or was it visa versa, or did she still do both? Ryan had been vague about it.

The couple had no children. Or did they? Ryan was vague about that too and Jason did not want to seem niele (nosy). He also did not want to pry into why Ryan always seemed troubled and sad. And angry. Maybe dangerously angry. Did they do to him what they had done to Jason? Probably not. What then? Jason resented having been so open while Ryan remained evasive and secretive, and his curiosity grew.

As for getting arrested, Ryan had said that it was harassment. He added, "And now that I'm here they will try to goad me into losing my temper and doing something rash so they can pile on charges and keep me locked up. So I keep my cool. That's important. Always keep your cool. Never let them get your goat. And keep a low profile. Don't stand out. Don't get noticed and you'll be all right."

Jason should have heeded the advice, but hiding inside the herd and being submissive had never been part of his personality. One night Jason made the mistake Ryan had warned him about. He lost his cool and stood out. The food was unusually edible that night, and Jason was taking his time with the baked chicken and large salad after everyone else had returned to their cells. He don't know what their rush was. He preferred being out of the cell as long as possible.

A floor guard approached him and barked, "Finish up! Now!"

Jason replied, "We're supposed to get 20 minutes to eat." He remembered that from a class in institutional food service. He pointed to the clock on the wall and said, "I still have 5 minutes to go."

"Everyone else is done. If it's enough time for them it's enough time for you."

"But I think it a federal law. Twenty minutes minimum for each meal."

A voice over the loudspeaker said, "Bring the inmate to me."

"Let's go," the guard ordered. Jason finished his tea as he stood, put the cup down and went with the guard to Central. He was directed to pick up the intercom receiver at the glass window.

A voice said, "This is prison. You do as you're told. Sitting around relaxing like you're at home – who do you think you are?"

"I only wanted what the law says...."

"This is prison! You have no rights in here! You got that?"

"I haven't been convicted of anything...."

"A judge sent you here," he barked. "That makes you mine. Now you be a good boy and do as you're told. Don't think I won't beat the crap out of you. If you make trouble for me I'll make your life hell. Got that?"

Tired of the argument and a little frightened, Jason replied,

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Pardon me?"

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I got it."

"Yes, I got it, what?!" he screamed.

"You mean sir? I don't have to call you sir. This isn't the military and you're not my daddy or my boss." He hung up and headed to his cell.

The loudspeakers clicked on, and Central said, loud and clear, "Take a look at the famous Jason Blue. He raped a beautiful young woman and nearly beat her to death. He has a very bad attitude."

Hundreds of faces stared out their cell windows at the lone figure walking slowly to his cell. Central went on, "He's a celebrity, so treat him real nice, guys."

A dozen ruffians laughed, whooped it up and pounded on the doors. Central buzzed the cell door open and Jason went in. Ryan looked worried.

"Why did you do it?" he asked.

"Do what? I just wanted 20 minutes to eat. I'm a slow eater. It's my right."

"You don't have any rights here."

"That's what Central said. Whose side are you on?"

"Theoretically you have rights, but in reality you don't. And you broke the cardinal rule. You stood out. You got yourself noticed. Now you're marked. Just for a couple more minutes at the table? Why do you think most guys leave the table once others start leaving? No one wants to be noticed by being a laggard."

"So you all cower in fear and pray you become invisible?" Jason said sarcastically.

"You don't know how serious it is. You're playing with fi re. What else did Central say to you?"

"He said he would beat the crap out of me and make my life hell if I gave him trouble. He demanded I call him Sir. I refused and hung up on him."

"That's bad. That kind of defiance pisses them off. He really can make your life hell. It's not if, but when they get you. Don't get me wrong, bro. I like your spunk. But I want you to know what you're getting yourself into."

"What do you mean? What can they do?"

"For starters they can put you on half-rations for days or weeks, unofficially and unannounced, of course. You'll suddenly find your meal trays have only about half of each item. Guys won't share with you or they get punished too. If that doesn't break you they can put you in the hole, an isolation cell where anything can happen. It's all illegal but they do it because no one stops them."

A few days later Jason worried out loud that Lehua still had not called and told him when he would be released.

Ryan said, "One of their punishments for having a bad attitude is to hold your lawyer call requests. In the morning you make a request through your cell intercom to Central. He puts you on a list of inmates whose lawyers are to be called. As they go down the list the attorneys are called and notified that the inmate client wants to talk. When he gets around to it the lawyer calls Central, who buzzes your cell open and calls you down to a special phone to talk to your lawyer. The problem is, there's nothing to stop Central from withholding your lawyer call request, just pretending he never got it. He acknowledges your request orally, then doesn't put you on the list. There is no log of inmate conversations with Central, so no one can prove he did that. You get angry and frustrated, you act out and they slap more time on you. Maybe that's starting to happen here, so be careful."

"You mean he'll try to make my life hell like he threatened?" he asked.

"Probably. Now you can only hope and be careful. Try to avoid any more incidents. Don't talk back or confront them, even when you're right."

"Okay, will do. Now, what about that SOB calling me a rapist and inviting an assault on me?"

"All you can do is watch your back. Always be ready to defend yourself. Stay where you can be seen at all times. Yell for help if you're in trouble."

Increasingly frustrated and angry, Jason pushed the issue of attorney access. For several days he repeatedly called Central on the intercom and demanded to talk to his lawyer. On the fifth call he screamed, "You can't keep me from talking to my lawyer, you bastards!" Ryan winced and shook his head.

Jason later wrote about what happened next:

A few minutes later two guards came to the cell, opened the door, ordered me out, cuffed my hands behind my back and led me away. I soon found myself in the basement of the jail in an isolation cell, the infamous hole. It measured about 8 feet square. It had a bare wooden platform without a mattress and a small wash basin with a faucet. The guards followed me in and ordered me to strip. As I complied they peppered me with insults: rapist, woman beater, that kind of thing. When I was naked they started pummelling me with punches to my ribs and lower back. They quit when they were tired. It hurt like hell, but not as bad as it would later when I tried to lie down. Again I demanded to talk to my attorney. They replied that inmates in isolation are not allowed to use the phone, and that I would remain there until my attitude changed. They left me naked and aching all over.

Days passed. I was tortured by sleep deprivation. Even animals are allowed to sleep, but I wasn't. With the light always on, heavy doors always clanging and slamming, and guards talking and walking with their hard-heeled boots as loud as they could in the concrete echo chamber, I got little sleep. In fact, I got little rest at all because it hurt so bad to lie down. I was certain I had broken ribs and badly bruised kidneys. I pissed blood. I told a guard to tell a nurse, and he said not to worry about it.

Most of the time I either sat on the platform or paced in a small circle. On the fifth day a guard opened the slop slot, tossed in a pair of boxer shorts and told me to put them on. A little later he brought in a mattress and a blanket. It was an improvement, but because they still left the light on at all times and because it still hurt to lie down, I still slept very little.

They continued to deny me all sanitation. No soap, toothbrush, shower, shave or even toilet paper. The air was dry and I itched like mad, especially on my face. New beards do that. Having no one to talk to, nothing to read and no radio to listen to, time passed very slowly. Every waking minute was long and agonizing, and there were about 1,400 of those each day.

On the tenth day I started to hallucinate. Spiders took up residence in my ears. I could feel them and see them in the reflection in the little window of the cell door. Six-inch-long roaches scurried in under the cell door. They crawled on my face, on my eyes and into my nostrils. I had to battle them for hours. Tiny mice emerged from the concrete floor, got under my skin and ran up and down my legs. I begged the guards to turn the light off so I could sleep. I begged for a sleeping pill. I told them I was hallucinating and begged to see a doctor. They ignored me.

After about twenty days in the hole, I took to lying on my back, kicking the door, then yelling into the crack under the door. I called them criminals and said I would sue them all. I did this for about 15 minutes several times a day. Because of my injuries it was painful to do, but it kept my spirits up. It felt good to fight back, however impotently.

Late one night, one of the guards came to my cell and said that if I continued to kick the door and yell insults I would be punished. Shortly after he walked away I couldn't help myself and I started up again. I had to defy them or I would die inside. Anyway, what could they do to me that they hadn't already done? I wasn't thinking clearly. I wasn't thinking at all.

Five minutes later my cell light and the corridor light went out. It was pitch black. Was it an electrical failure or was the promised punishment imminent? I felt my way to the far corner of the platform, sat facing the door and waited. I heard whispering in the corridor, then I heard the cell door being opened. I heard them breathing. A small flashlight went on and shined in my face. I could see three men in boxer shorts and tee shirts, but I couldn't see their faces, except for one, briefly. His visage is forever etched in my memory. I knew he was a guard.

He said, Jason, my boy, you like to call people names, don't you? You think you're tough? You think you're smart? We think you're a sissy. We think you're gonna be our punk. Grab him guys!

They dragged me into the center of the mattress, surrounded me and slapped me over and over. Six hands from all directions hit me harder and harder until my face was stinging and my ears were ringing. Then they pushed me face down, which made my bruised and broken ribs scream in agony, and they pulled my boxers off. I tried to yell for help (as if help would have come), but they stuffed the shorts into my mouth. Then the filthy bull queers took turns holding me down and sodomizing me again and again. I don't have to tell you, it was the most painful, humiliating, disgusting and nauseating experience I'd ever been subjected to. It tore me up bad and I bled, body and mind. My rectum and my psyche screamed in pain.

They joked and laughed as they left the cell. One taunted me with, They're going to make you a mahu anyway. We figured you might as well get some practice.

Another said, Good night, Honey. Hope it was as good for you as it was for me.

The third tossed something at me and said, Here, three smokes, one from each of us. That will be the going price when you're a mahu. Get used to it. They all cracked up, slapped fi ve, and left. The door clanged shut. The lights came back on.

I puked, flushed the toilet, then rinsed my ass as well as I could with water from the toilet. I puked again. I sobbed in agony and disgust for hours.

Had I just been murdered? I'd heard that Maui has a high incidence of HIV/AIDS and that male on male sex and rape are rampant in jail. For the first two days after the rape I was in a sort of trance. I lay on my side on the platform with my back to the door, every inch of my body screaming in pain. Several times I heard my name called and meal trays sliding thru the slot and later taken away untouched.

I felt a nurse check my blood pressure and listen to my heart a couple times. I couldn't move, not even to eat. Most of the time I was conscious of the sounds and the glaring light over my head. At times I thought I was seeing the concrete block wall I faced right through my eyelids. I was never certain whether my eyes were open or closed, whether I was awake or asleep. Is this what they mean by catatonic?

Several days after the rape, when my breakfast tray was brought I came alive in a rage, jumped to my feet, and pushed the tray back out the slot. It crashed to the floor. A guard came running. I screamed that I would not eat a bite or drink a drop until I saw a doctor and talked to my attorney.

We don't negotiate with hunger strikers, the guard said. And we don't let them die. You will be force-fed if necessary.

After I refused two more meals they took drastic action. Guards and nurses swarmed into the cell with various restraining devices. Soon I was trussed up like Hannibal Lector in a diaper and fitted with a urine collection tube that did not work properly. While one nurse held my mouth open with little wooden blocks between my back teeth, another snaked a plastic tube down my throat. Then a white fluid, like a protein milkshake, was funneled into the tube. I was being raped again, this time at the other end. They did it twice a day.

A week into the tube-feeding routine I was losing my will to live. My ass and my throat ached and burned. My torso pain from the beating bridged those pains so that my entire being was nothing but searing, throbbing pain. Finally I begged a nurse to remove the restraints. I won't kick the door, I promised. I won't yell. I won't fast. I had been broken. I groveled to avoid more torture. I would have kissed their feet and more.

"Okay, then, I'll see what I can do", she replied.

Later the nurse, all smiles and good cheer, came into the cell with two guards and said, "Jason, since your attitude has improved we're going to remove the restraints. Then we're going to let you shower and shave and put on a clean uniform. After lunch you will be taken back to general population. OK?"

I nodded like the good boy I had become.

"And if you behave, we'll let you see your lawyer this afternoon."

A small voice whispered, my right to an attorney is contingent on my behavior? It was drowned out by relief that the torture was ending, and I would be allowed to shower, shave, brush and floss my teeth and trim my nails.

I finally met Lehua in the visitors' room and told her everything except that I'd been raped. That was too humiliating. But I did tell her I wanted to see a doctor and a psychologist. I was fighting tears.

She said, "You have a right to both, but it may be moot." She paused and added, "I have good news. You could be released soon. It seems the piranha has left the island and dropped from sight. Without her testimony they have no case on the charges involving her. If you plead guilty to resisting arrest the other charges will be dropped and you'll get time served. You could be released in a few days."

"What about my complaint and my evidence? Are they going after her and the two cops?"

"Not a chance. Don't press your luck. Their story will be that she left because she's terrified that you could have had her killed from prison, so she wants to disappear and change her identity."

It would mean I would have a criminal record for something I didn't do, but I would have confessed to anything if it meant getting out of that hell. So I agreed. Back in the general population I was so depressed and withdrawn I hardly noticed my new cellmates and rarely spoke to them. I learned that Ryan had been released three weeks earlier.

One day during one rec period I overheard two guards happily chatting about how much over-time they were getting. One could now afford the sports car he had always wanted. The other was going to add a room to his house. I wanted to kill them.

# 7 – Rescued

Jason was released on May 30 in the morning, which gave him most of the day to get resettled, at least for the night. At the gate he was given a copy of his release papers, 10 dollars and a bus schedule. When he went into the parking area he was sore all over and barely able to walk. His muscles, his bones, even his brain were no longer all there. His mind was fuzzy and his thinking slow, but one faculty was very much intact: his capacity to hate. A burning anger gripped him. It would give him the will to live. And the strength to kill.

He sat on a bench reading the bus schedule and wondering where to go. He had to find a place where he could clear his mind and heal his body. But first he had to take the swim he had been dreaming about, so he decided to catch a bus to Pa'ia, the north shore beach- boutique- and bistro town. He pictured the miles of clean sand and inviting green water capped with rolling foam. As he was waiting for the bus an old four-door pickup approached him, honking an enthusiastic greeting, and pulled over.

The driver hopped out and jogged toward Jason with a wide smile. Ryan! What a break! They shook hands, hugged, slapped each other on the back and happily exclaimed their greetings.

"Lehua told me you were being released. She had to be in court. I wanted to meet you at the gate, but the traffic was bad."

"Wow, it's great to see you. Thanks for coming."

Ryan led Jason to the right side of the truck, and introduced him to Mele, who smiled and shook his hand through the open window. She was tall and slender like Ryan and had the same confident bearing. Ryan opened the back door and Jason climbed in. They were headed home to Ha'iku and would stop in Pa'ia on the way.

Ryan smiled at Jason in the mirror. "How does it feel to be out?"

How does one describe the joy of freedom after being locked up and tortured for weeks? Jason didn't try. He just smiled and nodded at Ryan in the mirror. He still hurt all over, but the relief of being free cut the pain substantially.

They pulled into the Pa'ia Bay parking lot. The men crossed the street toward the beach for a swim. Mele headed a few blocks up the street to Ga'ia Natural Foods. The store's name is a play on the name of the town and Gaia, the name of the Goddess of The Living Earth and all things New Age. Mele would get to know the new manager and discuss the store's likely produce needs in coming weeks. She would also shop for items that they did not produce for themselves such as brown rice, dairy products and seafood.

Meanwhile the two men walked in silence toward the beach. Ryan looked at Jason in a curious way, as if he saw something that bothered him. They sat under an ironwood tree and stared at the small waves rolling in.

"Something bad happen." Ryan said. It was a question.

Jason didn't reply.

"When you were in the hole."

"They beat the crap out of me a couple times, treated me like an enemy combatant."

"And?"

Jason's eyes teared up and he sobbed, softly at fi rst, then like without restraint, almost wailing. Ryan, tears welling in his eyes, put his hand on Jason's shoulder and patted and rubbed his back. "Tell me," he said. "You should talk about it. It happens to lots of guys in that hellhole."

"Did it ever happen to you?"

"No, but to friends."

Jason, staring straight ahead, told him everything. Then he stood up, stripped to his boxers, walked to the water and slipped in. He was too weak to dive in and swim with his old vigor, but it felt good to let the waves wash his abused body and soul. Ryan dove in and swam out about 50 yards. Twenty minutes later they got out, dried off and walked back toward the truck.

Ryan said, "Do you remember the date of the assault?"

Jason said, "Not off hand. I can try to figure back. Why? Is it important?"

"Yes. If you want justice, it is essential. I'll explain later. Try to come up with the date."

"Okay. I'll try."

Mele was waiting for them. Pa'ia is a good place to check bulletin boards and the grapevine for a place to live, and not bad if you have to spend a night or two on the beach, so Jason assumed they would part ways there. Ryan and Mele thought otherwise and insisted he join them for dinner.

Five miles east of Pa'ia, their little farm was in the Kui'aha district of Ha'iku, a rainy zone, green and lush, with gently rolling hills and deep gulches. Dozens of small trees, scented shrubs and ornamentals dotted the yard.

The orchards and vegetable beds were behind the house. With wide eyes and a big smile, Jason marveled at the mature trees of some of the world's fi nest varieties of mango, papaya, persimmon, and cherimoya. Later they dined on grilled mahi, sweet potatoes and stir-fried vegetables from the garden.

After dinner they insisted he spend the night and showed him to a nice, clean, furnished room. It was like a luxury hotel room compared to his cell. The next day they invited him to settle in with them for a while. "We could use some help with the orchard, the garden and this old house," Ryan said. "How about room and board for 25 hours a week? No contract. You can leave whenever you want." Of course Jason accepted; it was a godsend. Mele said goodnight and left the room.

Ryan lingered long enough to hear Jason say, "May 9."

"What's that?"

"They assaulted me on May 9."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Goodnight."

The next day, while Ryan tended the farm Mele drove Jason to Lahaina to take care of some of his business. The three hour roundtrip gave them a chance to get to know each other. Like Ryan she was in her early forties, fit and strong from years of surfing and working on the farm. She had medium-dark skin, shoulder-length wavy light-brown hair and striking hazel eyes, lively and warm.

Jason struggled not to stare at Mele while still maintaining polite eye contact. He could see why Ryan was still strongly attracted to her. During their morning together he would come to understand why Ryan was still in love with her. She was smart, kind and charming.

Yet something seemed amiss. Jason sensed a subtle sadness, a hint of bitterness in her little sarcasms, much like what he had noticed in Ryan.

They discussed the weather and the surf. She and Ryan had recently given up on surfing because of the crowds in the water. "We're too old for the mosh pits," she said. "Sometimes twenty or thirty surfers take off on one wave. Some of them get hurt in chain-reaction wipe-outs with bodies and boards flying everywhere. They fight for position in the line-up, and they fight over waves. There are no enforce-able rules, no laws, so might makes right. Plus skill, speed and smarts about waves. Some guys are good enough and brazen enough to cut people off, snatch a wave and cause multiple wipe-outs, and then too fast to be caught by those who want to punch them out."

Jason knew about the crowds from the magazines and the internet, and he had not been deterred. But his mind was no longer on surfing. On the way to Lahaina he gazed at some nice waves at a couple spots, but he felt nothing. No awe at their beauty, no quickening heartbeat, no visualizing how he would have carved them up. Surfing, the reason he moved to Maui, no longer had meaning to him.

They got to the storage locker in Lahaina and fetched his stuff, which the landlord had packed up nicely. Then he got cash from an ATM and bought a cell phone. He called in his car insurance claim on the ride home. After a long wait the representative told him that, because he filed very late for a theft claim and never filed a complaint with the police about the alleged theft, an investigation would be required and it could take several months.

"I don't mean to be nieli," Mele said, "but I heard you yelling out and crying in your sleep last night. Sounds like post traumatic stress disorder. Maybe you should talk about it with a professional."

"Do you know one you would recommend?"

"How about me? I didn't keep up with my license, so I can't charge you." She smiled and patted him on the knee and said, "But I was a good therapist, and I think I still am. What do you say? Want to open up a little? Keep me in practice?"

"I don't want to burden you with my problems. You've done enough for me already."

"What do you mean? We're lucky to have you. We need the help, especially with the new papaya grove's first harvest coming up. It's going to be spectacular. Believe me, you'll earn your keep."

"Did Ryan tell you what happened to me?"

"He said you were beaten and worse, and that the details were not for him to share. But I know what goes on in there and I don't doubt they gave you their best shots. I'm sorry for your suffering and ashamed that Maui revealed its true aloha spirit to you. Nothing you tell me would be new to my ears. Anyway, the details aren't important. You understanding your emotions and starting to heal is important. So is venting, expressing your fears, your grief and your anger. If you ignore these things you'll either go postal or end up with catatonic depression. So, tell me about your nightmares."

Jason said, "I appreciate your offer, but speaking of depression I sense a hint of it in you and Ryan, and...."

"Ah, ah, ah. I'm the therapist. You're resorting to a common evasive tactic, trying to change the subject. This is about you, not me. Tell me about your dreams. Do you remember yelling and crying last night?"

"Yes. I've always had vivid, colorful, action-packed, realistic dreams, mostly good ones about snowboarding, river rafting, and frantically preparing for huge banquets. I would usually dream about the last activity that I had pleasantly exhausted myself in. I could control these dreams in some ways and prolong them or end them. I learned that such dreams are called lucid dreams. On one level I knew they were dreams, yet they were real enough to enjoy as adventures. They were fun. But now...."

He fell silent. He was ashamed to tell her that his fantasies, dreams and nightmares were now a riot of violence and bloodshed.

"Not so fun anymore?" she prodded.

"Not at all. Very bloody. Uniforms chasing me, beating me, and...you know what else. I dread the approaching night because I know I will have to face the horrors over and over all night. And I have to face my own violent instincts. In these dreams I fight to the death. Punching, kicking, strangling, stabbing, shooting. And I enjoy hurting them and killing them. But in the end I always lose.

Sometimes I see a bullet, grenade or missile coming at my head in slow motion, and I let out a yell, a real yell, loud enough to wake me up. Then I remember it all and I dissolve in tears. That's what you heard. I'm sorry I disturbed you."

"No, no. Please, it's no bother at all. The important thing is that you understand your emotions and don't let them destroy you. Use the energy they provide. Don't waste it. Channel it into something positive. But first, heal your body and mind with lots of rest, good food, sunshine and exercise. This will help you figure out what you want to do about the crimes that were committed against you."

"That makes sense."

"So you agree to sit and talk with me a couple times a week? Sometimes with Ryan too?"

"Sure. If you have time for it and really want to do it." He was grateful. He had been very lonely, and he knew it would help for him to confide in someone, to talk about his fear and his rage. He had no reason to suspect that Mele and Ryan, though they had genuine affection for him, also had an ulterior motive for their aloha.

As they hit the Kahului bypass, now half-way home, Jason made a slightly sneaky move, going behind Ryan's back. He couldn't help it. He was curious and Ryan wouldn't answer him. He told Mele about how Ryan was suspicious and hostile when they first met, and suddenly turned friendly.

"What's this about a lie detector system?" he asked.

She chuckled and said, "Well, he was right, wasn't he? He knew you were telling the truth almost right away."

"Yeah, he did. And he seemed so certain. Not like the other inmates, who were mostly betting against me, and all just guessing based on media reports. How did Ryan know for sure?"

"Being a teacher he learned a lot about human behavior. Plus, being married to me, he picked up an interest in psychology and read my old textbooks and journals. I was always interested in criminology, and that rubbed off on him. We talked a lot about what makes criminals tick, especially violent criminals. He's a quick study. Tell me, did he by any chance yawn during your conversation?" Jason thought for a moment, nodded and said, "Yes, I think he did. How did you know? What does that have to do with the question?"

"I'm getting there. Ryan became fascinated with the scientific study of pathological liars and career criminals-the psychopaths, the anti-socials. He learned that such people, whether they're burglars, stock manipulators, sweetheart swindlers, crime bosses, bad cops, corrupt politicians, serial rapists, or murderers and cannibals, all have in common that they lack a sense of empathy and remorse. Their lack of a conscience is a brain defect, perhaps congenital. The holy grail for criminology is early detection of psychopathy. Or at least it should be. But not much progress has been made. Professionals still have only questionnaires and checklists. They need something better. Brain scans and blood tests are being developed, but they're still in the future.

"Ryan reasoned that there must be differences in the way psychopaths react physiologically to social stimuli. He hit on the contagion of yawning, an instinct that promotes sleepiness in the yawner and those who witness and catch the yawn, then pass it on. It promotes synchronized sleep among a group of animals, making them better fi t for a coordinated trek or hunt when they wake up. It confers survival advantage to the group, so it persists in the genes."

Jason said, "But why yawning? Why not laughing, crying or showing disgust or alarm? Aren't those also social signals that normal people react to?"

"You're right; they are. Yawning contagion is just one element of the human empathy complex, but it's the easiest to use in this context. The signals you mention could be used, but outside of the laboratory, in daily life, yawning is the easiest for the tester to fake. But a good actor could use laughing or crying or the others. And they would be harder for the subject to fake if he knew about the test."

"So Ryan yawns to see if a person of interest also yawns?"

"Exactly. If a person lacks yawn contagion he's more likely to lack other features of the empathy complex and more likely to be a psychopath. It's Ryan's quick and dirty test for psychopathy. He knows it's not perfect, so he probably liked other things about you. He uses the test as one factor in his judgment, and since he started doing this he has an almost perfect record in predicting who would later prove, by their behavior, to be psychopathic. But he keeps the test a secret. If everyone knows about it, the psychopaths would learn to fake it."

"Fascinating. I wish I had known about it a few months ago. It might have kept me out of trouble with the piranha who started all my problems."

"Maybe it would have. She certainly sounds like a classic psychopath."

As they approached the farm driveway Jason said, "Mahalo for helping me get my stuff. And for being a friend when I've needed one. I can't tell you how much I appreciate you and Ryan. I don't know what I would have....."

She cut him off. "Oh, stop it. You're making too much of it. Like I said, you'll earn your keep. We'll work your fingers to the bone. And don't forget: you committed to regular sessions with me."

In the following weeks Jason put in ten hour days tending and harvesting fruits and vegetables. Ryan repeatedly reminded him that he had agreed to work 25 hours a week, not 50 or 60, but Jason insisted on working like a demon, as if trying to sweat out his psychic pain. And it worked. His mood, health and strength improved steadily. True, he was still having vivid nightmares, waking up dripping wet with sweat and briefly thinking he was covered with his own gore. But the tide seemed to be turning. Instead of fighting to his death, he would sometimes fight to their deaths, smashing faces, slashing throats, blowing heads off. And he would wake up seemingly covered with their gore.

When he told Mele about this she said it was a good sign, a sign of a psyche healing. He took this as permission to be the predator rather than the prey and to slaughter away at will without hesitation or qualm. His dread of nightfall faded, and he started looking forward to bedtime and his world of bloody revenge.

One evening Ryan came into Jason's room as he was about to go to bed. "I got this for you," he said as he handed him a plastic box about the size of a deck of cards. "You should use it right away."

Jason took it and read the label: "Biostem HIV Test Kit. FDA approved for home use."

"I don't need this," he said. but I appreciate your concern."

"But if you're positive, you should start treatment," he said, "the sooner, the better. Without proof that you're infected they won't treat you. With this preliminary test they'll start treatment right away while they run more tests and gradually refi ne your prescription."

Jason knew he was right. "Okay, I'll do it soon."

"I'll hang out here until you do it."

Jason couldn't procrastinate any longer. He opened the box, took out the items and followed the instructions. Though the result was no surprise, he nevertheless swooned, rushed to the toilet to vomit, and cried.

The next day Ryan took Jason to a community clinic in Kahului where he filled out a half dozen forms, had his blood drawn and was thoroughly examined by a doctor. He was prescribed a daily cocktail of anti-retrovirus drugs. These old treatments had been steadily refined and improved so that most patients lived almost normal lives after getting infected, somewhat like diabetics. But, as with diabetes, the disease still eventually killed most of them. From that day on, Jason silently resolved, he would faithfully take his meds as part of his long-term battle plan. He had only one purpose in life now: to kill his killers. The longer he lived, the more of them he could kill. He also resolved to start looking into weapons. Sniper rifles and such.

# 8 – Invitation to Vengeance

The following evening Ryan sat in on Jason's session with Mele. Jason was visibly tense, frowning and clenching his jaw.

"I have to find them," he said, on the verge of tears. "I have to make them pay."

Mele and Ryan stood on either side of his chair and gently rubbed his back and shoulders. They said nothing.

"I don't understand you guys," he said. "You know what happened to me and to other people. You go on about the Maui Juggernaut and the government terrorists, and the Prison Industrial Complex. But it's all just theory with you. You study it, dissect it and talk about it. but you're too chicken shit to do anything about it."

He paused, slowly shook his head and added quietly, "Not that I know what you could do about it short of blowing a few heads off, which would be suicidal."

Mele said to Ryan, "Should I get the clipping?" He nodded and returned to his chair. She left the room.

Ryan looked at Jason and said, "We have to talk to you about something important."

Jason flushed with fear. He had offended them and they were going to ask him to leave. Where would he go? He was still broke, waiting for the car insurance award.

Mele returned, handed Ryan a folded page of newsprint and sat down.

Ryan unfolded the paper, handed it to Jason and said, "Notice the girl's name."

Jason perused the article. He looked at his friends, then the photo of Tulsi in the paper. "Oh, my God," he said in a slow whisper.

Ryan said, "After what happened to you, you won't be surprised to hear that a cop killed her, probably the same one who set you up. Then other cops covered it up."

Mele said, "She was our only child, just 16 years old. She was a smart, sensible girl, the joy of our lives. But like all young people she sometimes did foolish things. This time she paid with her life."

Jason said, "I'm so sorry. I didn't know. I've been so selfish. I..."

"No, no. It's okay," Mele assured him. "We just want you to know that we're angry too, and we will get justice one way or another. We want to channel our anger into effective actions instead of wasting it on tantrums and rages that don't accomplish anything."

Jason said, "How do you know who killed her?"

Ryan said, "He was the only guy she was with. He was undercover, in vice. Not a big guy, but very strong. And good looking. Tulsi had a crush on him. They had him infiltrate parties to collect information on drug use and such. Her friends told her he's a pervert, but she ignored their warnings."

Mele said, "We talked to seven witnesses and they all told pretty much the same story. Tulsi had drifted away from her friends and was seen in the dance crowd with Souza, then going over to the trees by the cliff with him. Later they saw him leave the area and go to his car without her. Her friends looked all over, but couldn't find her. We called her cell phone several times, but she didn't reply. We waited up most of the night, worried sick."

Ryan said, "Around noon we heard on the radio that the body of a girl was found in the surf at the bottom of the cliff. In the afternoon we were called and asked to view it. It was a terrible thing to see our beautiful daughter's broken body lying on a cold steel table." Fighting tears, he closed his eyes and slowly shook his head.

Mele took over. "The police issued a statement that she had probably fallen while stumbling around intoxicated in a poorly lit area. A little alcohol and a double dose of a sedative were found in her blood. She might have sipped some beer, but I'm sure she wouldn't have taken a pill. An accident, they said. They refused to really investigate. We tried to find a lawyer to help us pressure them, but we couldn't afford a large retainer. They all either refused without comment or said that investigation is entirely the prerogative of the police and no one can force them to investigate anything. We went on a long protest fast, but it didn't do any good."

Jason said to Ryan, "Did your arrest have something to do with Tulsi's murder?"

"Yes, it did. After a few weeks with no arrest and a cover-up in full swing, we held a press conference and blasted the police and prosecutors, naming names. I finished up, saying that we know who murdered Tulsi and he's a dead man. Bang, I was arrested for terroristic threatening because it was allegedly obvious who I was referring to since I had earlier accused him by name. The press conference and the arrest galvanized community support for us and opposition to the police. Lehua represented me and quickly got the case dismissed. But I still went to jail for ten days for contempt of court in one of the hearings. I didn't even testify, but the judge didn't like my alleged sarcastic expressions."

Mele interjected, "Come on, now. It wasn't exactly like that." She said to Jason, "When the judge held him in contempt for his mocking body language and facial expressions, he stood up and said that anyone who doesn't hold the entire justice system in contempt is an ignorant fool. The judge doubled his sentence."

Ryan said, "True enough. Anyway, Souza's on his guard now and there's no way I can get close to him."

Mele said, "We think maybe you could help us. You're young and strong and smart. And you know the evil we're dealing with. You've felt its blows, and you're hungry for justice. Like us. Help us get him, and we'll help you get your guys."

Jason said, "But how? You don't even know who they are." Mele said, "You want to bet?" She smiled a little.

Jason was puzzled. "What do you mean?"

Ryan said, "She means we have a pretty good idea. Let's just say we have connections, and we know our way around cyberspace."

Jason said, "You're hackers! Cyber-cloud masters! You got into the state system and you know the names of the guards who were on duty that night and the inmates in that section."

They just smiled.

Jason said, "Wow, fantastic! You guys are beautiful. Yes, definitely, count me in."

Mele said, "Good. Two other people work with us. One is a woman about our age. The other is a man in his late 80s. We've all been friends for more than twenty years. The old man, Steven O'Brian, was a professor of environmental science, a marine biologist and toxicologist. We call him OB or Obie. He was also an influential activist and an all-round great guy, a mentor to us and many others who love these islands, the reefs and the ocean. Of course he's retired now. He lives just a mile from here."

Ryan said, "You know the woman. Lehua Wong, your lawyer. We've been meeting and discussing our options for months, and we all agree that we need a fifth person, a younger person, before we can actually take action. We told them what happened to you."

Mele said, "We're meeting here tomorrow and we want you to sit in. If you like what you hear, and if Lehua and Obie agree, which

I'm sure they will, you can join our group and help us."

Jason said, "Does the group have a name?"

Ryan said, "We call it Aka. It means Shadow. We intend to turn the tables on the Juggernaut and cast our shadow on it."

Jason said, "How will you do that?"

Mele said, "Lehua and Obie should approve your joining before we share any secrets. But don't worry. We've already given them a heads up. They'll approve. I can tell you that we'll be using some very special methods."

Ryan said, "Before the meeting two anarchist-types are coming over. We call them the wild guys. They've been bugging us to join them in their protest actions and they want to make a pitch in person. We've known them a long time and it will be fun to see them, but we doubt if their actions will really help matters. We'll politely hear them out and discuss their ideas openly and frankly. After they leave, and Obie and Lehua get here, we'll get down to our real business."

Jason said, "Maybe you should fill me in about all these people so tomorrow I can understand where everyone's coming from."

Mele said, "Good idea. Who should we start with?"

Jason said, "How about Lehua? What's her story? Why is she like us, angry and hungry for justice?"

Mele said, "We were in high-school together and she would tell us things. Her older brother Randal, a schizophrenic, would get arrested for minor stuff, mostly disorderly conduct. He would be abused by bored, sadistic cops and jail guards. During one of his short stays in jail the nurses somehow neglected to provide his medication, which usually kept him fairly stable. In the days that followed he hallucinated and acted out, mostly yelling insults at the guards, the roaches and his imaginary companions. So they put him in solitary. They kept the cell light on and wouldn't let him sleep. He went downhill fast.

"On the third day he tossed his breakfast tea at a jail guard. It was only lukewarm and the guard wasn't hurt, but his pants were soaked around the crotch, and Randal teased him about having wet himself. They told him he would be charged with assault of a prison guard and get a mandatory five years in federal prison. It was absurd but he believed them. Late that night the guard came into his cell and worked him over with punches to the stomach, then a hard blow to the side of his head that burst his ear drum.

"The next day the pain in his ear was unbearable and he begged to be taken to the hospital, but the nurse in charge of the shift refused. When a junior nurse brought him aspirin he told her about the beating and the pain in his ear and said he was going kill himself. She told the head nurse, who did nothing. The guard who brought his lunch found him dead. He had stood on his bed and dived head-fi rst onto the rim of the toilet. Broke his neck and fractured his skull."

Ryan said, "Lehua was inconsolable. She cried for days, then she watched her parents struggle for years to get justice. Tens of thousands of dollars and six years later they gave up. They got nothing. No compensation and no reforms in the system. Lehua decided to become a lawyer so she could help people like Randal and her parents. But after ten years on the job she was just a gnat to the elephant of stupidity, cruelty and corruption. She started looking for other options."

Mele said, "After Tulsi's murder Lehua came to dinner one night. Obie was here too. He had his own beef with the system from years before, a tragedy equal to our own. And he had ideas, intriguing plans he had been working on. He presented them as fantasies, but they were actually trial balloons. They bordered on science fiction, but he was a brilliant scientist, so we didn't dismiss them offhand. He saw that we were open, and told us he was serious. Aka was born that night. We started meeting regularly. Obie works on a weapon. Lehua develops power-flow diagrams and abstracts of relevant cases. Ryan and I use them, along with inmate accounts, to develop intel on potential targets. We have a couple stringers who help with the photos and videos. Before long our target intel fi les were way ahead of Obie's weapon development. We realized we wouldn't get much further until he caught up."

Jason said, "And what was Obie's tragedy?"

Ryan said, "He had been an academic star at UH Maui, a tenured professor of marine ecology, respected and popular with his colleagues and students. In retirement he and his wife Jaz, who had been a high school teacher, became very active in opposing irresponsible developments, over-fishing, aquarium fishing and other commercial enterprises that harmed the reefs. They fell in love all over again as they worked and fought side by side for their vision of a better Maui by investigating, documenting, lecturing, organizing demonstrations, blogging, and exposing corrupt officials, politicians and businesses. Their protests grew too large for the media to ignore, and some politicians started to feel the heat. So did some of their powerful benefactors, developers, investors, mobsters and money launderers.

"Their environmental crusade was ruffling the wrong feathers and its activities were getting dangerous. Things heated up when Obie, Jaz and their friends protested a particularly destructive development at Honolua Bay and appeared to be on the verge of turning the County Council against it. Most of the public already opposed it. One morning they woke up to find a dog they'd never seen before hanging by the neck from a tree in their yard. They called the police, who told them to call the humane society or the dead animal removal patrol. They said it was probably a random prank and refused to investigate."

Mele said, "Obie and Jaz knew better, but didn't let the danger stop them. They kept the pressure on Pacific Oceanside Inc and convinced the County Council to require a new environmental impact statement. This would delay the project for at least a year and give them time to gather evidence of criminal corruption. It was a huge blow to the company. One morning Obie went on a dive to help remove illegal gill nets from a reef. When he returned he found Jaz dead. She had been beaten, raped, strangled and pinned to the floor with metal fishing spears shot through her palms.

"The police investigation was even sloppier than usual. They concluded that it was a random attack, just like the dog hanging. The terrorist tactic worked. The swing-vote Council Member, a young mother and wife, changed her vote and the project sailed through without a new EIS requirement.

"The police ended their farcical investigation even though they had a lot to go on. The killer and his bosses could not have guessed that little, gentle Jaz would fight like a demon to her death. Vitreous humor covered half of her right thumb and blood was found under the nail. Apparently she gouged his eye clean through, probably his left eye. She got her nail all the way to the retinal blood vessels. This should have made finding the killer a cinch, but they didn't really try. Obie was heart-broken and outraged."

Ryan said, "When Obie and his group demonstrated to protest Jaz's murder and police indifference he was arrested for disorderly conduct and sentenced to 60 days. While inside he escaped brutality, but he witnessed it and he heard stories about slave labor, drugs used to keep the slaves complacent, and corrupt judges who take bribes to steer the cheap labor to the companies willing to pay them. He met a lot of broken men and he vowed to fight the tyranny by any and all means necessary, including assassination."

Mele said, "You mean, especially assassination. His character radically changed. He used to be strictly nonviolent. His heroes were Gandhi and King. But after Jaz was murdered he wanted blood. He would say, the bastards will never change, so you have to kill them. That became his philosophy."

Ryan said, "And Tulsi's murder made him even more determined. So he works in his lab all day, every day. Meanwhile Mele and I have amassed an enormous collection of incriminating and practical information on scores of potential targets in Hawai'i, mostly on Maui and Oahu. So when he's ready we'll take off and never look back."

Jason said, "Great. Now what about the wild guys?"

Ryan said, "One of them is Keoki Luna, the guy you met in jail. You may recall that he said he would be raising hell. The other is his long-time buddy and big-wave surfing partner Talon. Keoki convinced him to sober up and get serious. They're decent guys, but they're loose canons and they may do more harm than good to the cause of reform."

Jason said, "How so?"

Mele said, "Their tactics could harm a lot of innocent people economically and turn the public against the reformers. Most people don't realize it, but a low-grade siege of the County has already begun. There's a lot of protest graffiti, vandalism and disruption. The media occasionally mention it, but they haven't connected the dots yet and don't realize the whole truth." "Which is?" Jason asked.

Ryan said, "That it's organized. Organized chaos, or at least inspired chaos. There's no tight organization, just a couple charismatic jokers and a growing network of pissed-off fans, people spoiling for a fight and anxious for leadership, willing to follow the wild guys. They're young shadow people, a mix of the local lumpen and haole hoi palloi. They have nothing to lose, no hope for the future. I have a feeling they're just warming up."

Mele said, "They got the idea of recording some of their actions on video and posting them online with voice-overs and music tracks. Others see the action and try to imitate and out-do them. Others see theirs and so on. I think their idea is that the vandalism will snowball and escalate into general chaos that will paralyze the County and bankrupt it. But I'll let them speak for themselves."Jason went to bed that night looking forward to his nightly battles. A couple hours later he was in Lahaina, on the run from uniforms. They were no match for him as he used stealth and speed to pick them off, one by one, in definitive fashion: a length of heavy pipe to the head; a razor-sharp hunting knife to the throat; a shotgun blast point-blank in the face...

# 9 – The Wild Guys

The next morning Ryan and Mele were apprehensive about The wild guys visiting. They couldn't tell them about their own top-secret plans, so Talon and Keoki would see them as apathetic, like Jason had, and might try to shame them into joining their cause. It would be awkward.

The two men were in a good mood when they arrived, upbeat and jovial. Jason recognized Talon as the burned-out beach bum, now clean and sober, but he said nothing about their earlier meeting on the beach. They settled in the living room, and Keoki opened his laptop and connected it to their flat screen.

"A new team has taken the field," he announced. "The Video Vandals! Let the games begin. What you're about to see is a series of clips that will soon be posted online."

They watched the Vandals spray messages in red paint on police cars, government buildings, warehouses, retaining walls, fences and boulders all over the island. They said Fight Government Terrorists, Fight the Juggernaut, Stop the Machine, and Stop the Torture. Jason recognized the last tag as the one he had seen on the retaining wall at the beach.

Then they witnessed the creation of massive traffic jams. One Vandal would steal a car just before morning or afternoon peak traffic, drive it to the middle of a busy intersection, stop, disable the car, set off smoke bombs in it, lock it up with the windows open a few inches, and run like hell.

As the screening continued the actions escalated in severity. Police cars, the most visible symbol of the Juggernaut, were a major target. Tires were slashed, headlights bashed, locks and wipers super-glued. The personal cars of prosecutors were also hit hard. Some had target patterns painted on their windshields and driver-side windows.

County and State buildings were hit with more than graffiti. Locks were super-glued and windows smashed. In one of the more creative actions a clear, slow-drying caulking glue was dribbled onto corridor floors and in elevators of the County building. It was tracked all over the building and made a sticky mess that disrupted County business for days. Smoke bombs and stink bombs were set off in bathrooms, and fi re alarms were set off, forcing evacuations.

Next came the bomb threat phoned in to the courthouse in Wailuku with proceedings underway. The caller said that explosive devices had been placed on every floor and would go off in 30 minutes. People poured out of the buildings and dogs were rushed in. The railroad was halted for two hours. A symbolic victory. Later, after this video was posted online, Vandals started calling the courthouse daily with bomb and arson threats, then the police station, the prosecutor's office, the County Council chambers, the Mayor's offi ce and even the prison.

Then Keoki showed the brush fi res in the hills above the highway to Lahaina. The how-to shots illustrated a half dozen simple IADs, improvised arson devices, mostly cigarettes used in various ways as slow-burning fuses that allowed the Vandals to get far away before the fi re got going. When the wind was right the smoke dropped visibility to a few feet and the road was shut down for hours. They also snarled traffi c by starting rock slides above the highway.

Several videos showed the results of bomb and arson threats made to hotels, car rental companies and airlines. Crowds milled around outside a building while bomb squads with dogs rushed in. Months later signature annual events like a writers' conference, a fi lm festival and a food and wine festival were disrupted so badly that they quit the island for good.

Keoki paused the show and said, "Everyone's heard about this next one, the dog riot at the Kahului airport last month. Except they haven't heard or seen the whole truth. As you probably know, after the bombing in 2014 of Hawaiian Airlines Flight 104, security procedures were beefed up. The most important change was that inspection dogs started mixing with passengers in the lobby, sniffing pockets, crotches and bags. Legal challenges to the practice failed. Since 2015 they've been used without serious problems. That changed a few months ago. Here's the CNN report on that wild event."

The view was from surveillance cameras high on the walls of the ticketing area. It was an unusually busy day because a popular college basketball tourney was starting the next day. The announcer said, "It was crowded but peaceful in the lobby of Maui's main airport until dozens of baggage inspection dogs, little beagles trained to sniff out drugs, explosives and agricultural contraband, all went crazy at the same time. We advise viewer discretion, as the coming scenes may be offensive to some. We will show this without comment because, frankly, it leaves us speechless."

All at once the dogs, ignoring their handlers, started running around, barking, growling, grabbing pants legs in their teeth, and amorously humping legs and luggage bags. Most of the handlers had to let go of the leashes because the dogs were wrapping them around people's legs and tripping them up. People were yelling in surprise and alarm. This went on for several minutes.

The announcer resumed, "At fi rst people laughed, but the dogs became more aggressively amorous, though not vicious and no one was bitten. Perhaps persistent is the right word. Some people kicked or punched the little dogs rather hard and others took exception to that. Arguments and fist fights ensued. Dog handlers, airport security and county police rushed in to restore order but they only made matters worse as the dogs panicked and attempted to flee. As you can see, the scene was one of utter chaos."

By now everyone in the room was laughing so hard they could barely hear the announcer finish his report with: "Eleven people and 17 dogs were arrest... uh,...apprehended. Two people were taken away in ambulances, but they are now said to have only minor injuries. The airport was shut down for more than eight hours and almost 200 flights were cancelled or delayed. No one knows what prompted the dogs to behave as they did, but the authorities feared that drug smugglers-or worse, terrorists in attack mode-might have somehow disturbed the dogs in order to create a diversion that would distract attention from them. Maybe they over-did it so much that it created not just diversion but total chaos that forced authorities to suspend the flights and re-search all the people and baggage that may have gotten through after the disturbance began. But so far no contraband or suspicious persons have been found. All available local police officers, customs officials, airport cops, and TSA agents have been called in to help with the re-processing. The FBI is investigating and will not comment."

Keoki paused the video. Talon turned to face the others, who were still chuckling, and said with a self-satisfied smile, "Anyone think they know what happened here? Wanna take a guess?"

Jason suggested that it was a chemical, maybe drugs. Mele suggested that it must be dog sex hormones or pheromones.

Keoki clicked the mouse to resume the video and Talon said, "Video Vandals made it happen and they recorded their actions. Here's what they shot. You have to watch carefully. The surveillance cameras didn't pick this up."

The video showed a series of ordinary-looking young people moving smoothly and quickly among the passengers and the baggage in the lobby. They appeared to be reading the posted fl ight information and looking around for someone. Then brief close-ups showed a hand palming something, which turned out to be a small plastic syringe of the type dentists sometimes give to patients. Then a subtle move and a tiny stream, just a few drops, lands on a pants cuff, a skirt, a suitcase.

Talon continued: "Within three minutes six people sprayed about 300 items. Then they recorded the action that followed. We've selected their best shots for a fi fteen-minute video. It will have closeups and details that CNN's doesn't show because theirs is from the surveillance cameras. Our shots are from people on the fl oor in the middle of the action and prepared for the chaos. We'll post it online tomorrow. I predict a million hits in the fi rst week."

Mele said, "So, what was the liquid? Or is it a trade secret?"

Talon said, "Well, you guys got it on your fi rst try. It's too obvious to keep a secret. We used alcohol extracts of cannabis and poppy seeds, and added a little Puppy Love, the dog sex pheromone that dog breeders use."

They all chuckled again, nodding and smiling. There was no denying that this was an all-time classic act of anarchist political theater. But while they laughed the Kalamas maintained their reservations. They were impressed, but worried about the likely negative consequences.

Ryan said, "This is great stuff, guys, but where are you going with it? What does it accomplish?"

Talon replied, "Our aim is to inflict punishment on the Juggernaut by costing it money. This is the strategy and the mission of the Video

Vandals. Hit 'em where it hurts the most, in their coffers."

Keoki added, "By gumming up the works we're going to make government terrorism too expensive to continue. Hey, maybe that could be our theme song. Gumming Up The Works, to the tune of that old song, Burning Down The House."

Ryan said, "But isn't it expensive for you guys too? Vandalizing police and prosecutor's cars is considered terroristic threatening. Calling in bomb and arson threats is a felony. Satellite eves-dropping, phone records, finger prints – these things could nail some people, and some will be framed and railroaded. They could get fivers and tenners. In fact, some Vandals have already been arrested, haven't they? And now this. This could get someone 20 years."

Talon said, "Yes, some Vandals have been arrested, but not for the airport incident. Everyone understands the risk. This isn't a cult where we brainwash and manipulate people into doing things they wouldn't otherwise do. People come to us, desperate people who tell us stories of abuse by the Beast and beg us to tell them what they can do, how they can fight back. They're hungry for justice, for revenge, and they're aching for action. Some of them are close to suicide, murder or both. They talk about taking over radio stations, the mayor's office, the County Council. One guy wanted to climb to the top of a 200foot Norfolk pine and stay there without food and only a little water, strapped to the top like a sailor of old getting punished by masting, until a lawyer agreed to help him. Another wanted to climb high up a church steeple and snipe at cops. They can't bear the humiliation and degradation. We give them something to do, something that gives them a sense of power and hope, and maybe even makes them laugh. We keep them alive."

Mele said, "But even if you're not manipulating them, why encourage them to risk falling back into the abyss of prison?"

Keoki said, "Very few people get arrested. It's a chance we have to take. We have to show that a couple dozen people can devastate the island's economy if they're determined. A half dozen people shut down the airport for eight hours. One or two people snarl traffi c to, from and in Lahaina for hours. A few others shut down hotels and government buildings for hours."

Mele said, "But you're feeding the Machine when your people get arrested. And if you shut down the visitor industry people will lose their jobs and maybe lose their homes."

Keoki said, "Boo-Hoo! My heart bleeds for them. Did anyone ever help me? Besides my poor family, who were helpless themselves? Everyone who pays taxes is supporting the Juggernaut and helping to keep innocent people in prison, unless they're actively fi ghting it. Maybe we all have to go through a rough period so people will reset their priorities. Escape the consumer culture. Learn to live with less and to care about our neighbors and our brothers more. Like a spiritual cleansing fi re sweeping the island so we can start fresh."

Ryan said, "You're pissing people off, ordinary people, by inconveniencing them to the max. Life is hard enough. Besides, it sounds like you're aiming for total anarchy. That could end in gangsterism and warlordism, then martial law."

Mele said, "I wouldn't put it so harshly. Look, guys, we understand your anger. But honestly, your protests are too amorphous and your purpose is unclear. Exactly what are you protesting and what are your demands? You know and we know, but the press and the public have no idea. To be successful a protest movement has to couple specific actions with specific demands. The media are making you look like rebels without a cause, just a bunch of anarchists and hooligans."

Talon said, "We're costing the Juggernaut a fortune. What's your alternative? You guys used to be leaders. Now you aren't doing anything."

Ryan said, "The Prison Industrial Complex would be the last industry to feel the squeeze of any economic disruption you might cause. Its victims would be the first. We're going to fight it directly and precisely. We're still planning. We'll take action soon, but it will be in the nature of surgical operations rather than large-scale havoc and chaos. We're going to aim for zero casualties on our side and zero harm to the public. We can't tell you yet what those actions will be, but you'll know they're ours when you hear about them."

Mele said, "Anyway, you have plenty of people to carry on.

You don't need us. I'm sorry, guys. We're taking another path." There was a long silence.

Finally Ryan said, "But we wish you well. We'll have a friendly competition. See who gets the job done. And, whatever you do, don't get busted."

Talon smiled and said, "All right. You gave us a fair hearing." Handshakes and hugs all around. Keoki said, "We wish you the best too, and we'll be watching for your actions. You watch for ours too. You won't believe some of the things we have planned. Oh, and I can promise you this: we're gonna have a lot more fun than you guys."

They all laughed and Mele said, "That's one thing we can all agree on." They would all turn out to be wrong about that.

The two men left in reasonably good spirits. They had not been demoralized by the criticisms and were determined to carry on in their freewheeling way.

# 10 – Aka's Agenda

About two hours later Lehua arrived at the Kalama's with Obie, who she had picked up at his home. She introduced him to Jason. He was thin but sturdy, his face wrinkled and sun-mottled. His snow-white wavy hair, though receding, was thick and lustrous for a man nearing 90. He stood straight and moved easily without a cane. He wore thick tinted prescription glasses. Jason was surprised that Obie greeted him rather coldly.

They sat down at the large dining table. Lehua would chair the meeting. She was always well organized and prepared to move the agenda forward. Ryan briefed them on the meeting with the wild guys. They discussed the implications of their actions and had some laughs about the airport incident. Then they got down to business.

Lehua said, "First I want to say that I accept Jason as a member of Aka. But it has to be unanimous, so it's up to Obie. The floor is open to discussion on the matter. Obie, any comment? Or you want to just vote yes or no?"

Obie bore a hole through Jason with his stern glare. Old people can be very intimidating when they want to be. He said, slowly and gravely, "Well, I vote no on the grounds that he's a spy, trying to infiltrate Aka and destroy us. He'll have us all shot, so I move that we shoot him first."

Three astonished faces gaped at Obie. Jason was shocked, numb. His heart pounded and his face flushed. What kind of nightmare had he stumbled into now? He glanced at the other three, shook his head, and shrugged his shoulders.

Lehua glared at Obie and said, "What are you sa...?"

Obie grinned and cut her off, "Hold on, Madam Chair. It was just a test, and he passed. I wanted to see how he would react under pressure. Jason's a fi ne young man, and I'm glad he's on our side." He stood up and offered his hand to Jason across the table. "Welcome to Aka," he said. "You got here just in time. And, by the way, none of us owns a gun."

Jason stood up, smiled broadly and shook Obie's hand.

Mele said to Jason, "We should have warned you that he's a joker. Now you've been warned. He still catches us off guard even after all these years."

Lehua, rolling her eyes but smiling with relief and reluctant humor, continued the meeting. "We all have scars and a similar passion. We all want justice and reform. This is what bonds us. Our main job now is to start drafting a manifesto that will state our purpose and our mission. It will include a short preamble; a summary of our grievances; and an outline of our demands. We'll close it with a declaration of our right and our intent to force compliance with our demands by any means necessary. Today we'll discuss points we think should be included in each of these sections. Ryan has offered to take notes. I'll take his notes home and prepare a draft of the manifesto from them, then send you each a copy to critique. At our next meeting we'll discuss all the comments and hammer out a final version. I have to emphasize that speed is essential, especially with the Vandals starting to do things that are bound to make our work more difficult. I want to begin with a short essay that Mele wrote about why we have no choice but to resort to extreme tactics, why radical action is justified and required. I think it expresses our view nicely. Its concepts are fundamental to the manifesto and will be weaved into its fabric. Mele?" Mele read:

"We all know what a psychopathic individual is, and we understand that we cannot change his or her behavior by appealing to non-existent sympathy or compassion. It's no different with psychopathic institutions. Nonviolent protest and resistance does not work when the society itself has become deranged in this peculiar way; when the politicians and justice system professionals lose their moral compass and their conscience; when lawyers no longer revere our historically most cherished and fundamental laws, those of the Bill of Rights; when the media turn a blind eye and deaf ear from the cries of those under the jackboot of government terrorists.

"Like its individual counterpart, the psychopathic society makes all the right noises in its media, courtrooms, classrooms, and legislatures about freedom, democracy, due process and fairness while, hidden behind locked doors, its hired thugs enforce the real law, the law of the police state where might makes right – the law of master and slave. Our strategy against a society whose dominant institutions have become psychopathic, a society that wears a mask of sanity, should be based on insights that science has gained about psychopathic individuals, the habitual criminals and predators, the people who lack a conscience and a capacity for remorse. There is no alternative to forcefully showing such people that abusive, criminal and cruel behavior inevitably results in pain, discomfort and inconvenience to them. And so it is with psychopathic institutions and their agents. Police state terrorism must be met with equal or greater punishment."

Lehua said, "I agree completely. Do we all agree?"

The others nodded. Ryan said, "We've all experienced the Juggernaut's wrath first-hand, and no one here needs convincing that it's a psychopathic beast. Still, I want to put it in historical perspective to drive the point home. As you know, Mele and I attempted to get justice for Tulsi by staging a protest fast. We naively thought we could shame the County into forcing the police to conduct a proper investigation of the murder. We researched the subject so we would know what to expect. Complete fasting will lead to death in about 15 to 35 days, depending on a person's general health, age and other factors. We thought about Gandhi's three-week fast and the IRA protest fasters in the 1970s. Some of them went blind in two or three weeks and died after a month or so. The world followed their fasts day by day, so we fi gured the local media would surely follow our protest. We sent out press releases and letters to newspapers, broadcasters, legislators, the Mayor, and the Governor announcing the beginning of the fast and inviting reporters to call us for interviews. We were very determined and thought we were prepared to fast as long as necessary."

Mele said, "Of course, we allowed ourselves water. Otherwise we would have died in five or six days, which would not have been long enough to rally public support. But even with lots of water, fasting is very difficult. The gnawing pain in the stomach, constantly thinking about food, insomnia from the hunger – they make the days very long. If you can make it through about three days it gets a little easier. But only for a couple days. Then it usually gets worse as you become weak, depressed and discouraged. But on day six we felt okay, probably because we gave each other strength. We were confident we could keep going. There was only one problem: no one gave a damn except our friends. Reporters never called; our letters didn't get published; lawyers didn't rush to offer their services. Even the most liberal politicians didn't express support. It made us realize just how rotten the system and the society had become and how great our problems really are."

Obie said, "Gandhi said that passive resistance tactics, such as those the Indians used successfully against the British, would not work against a barbaric, uncivilized and thoroughly evil foe like the Nazis or the Stalinists. But even after Tulsi was killed you still didn't realize just how evil your foe was, and it could have cost you your lives."

Ryan said, "That's right. The Maui Machine and all its sycophants would have let us die. They wanted us to die. On the eleventh day you guys brought the poi, sweet potatoes, mangos and butterfi sh laulau. You knew we wouldn't be able to resist. Jason, you weren't here when all this happened, so this story is mostly for your benefi t. It should dispel any doubts you might harbor about the nature of the beast we're about to take on. What you endured wasn't just the evil of individuals, but of criminal institutions, of a criminal government."

Jason nodded and said, "Oh, yeah, I understand that we're up against a social monster and not just twisted individuals. The wild guys see it that way too, right?"

Mele said, "Yes, the Vandals agree with us on that point. Our difference with them is about the actions we propose. Their aim is to make the Juggernaut's behavior too expensive to continue by disrupting the economy and depriving it of tax revenues. But we don't believe this can be done in Hawai'i without inflicting unacceptable hardships on ordinary people who are already the main prey of the Machine. We don't want to hurt them or alienate them, so we'll aim all our fi re directly at the Machine itself."

Lehua said, "Exactly. If Jason agrees with this very general statement of strategy we have a unanimous vision of our broad mission." She looked at him and smiled.

Jason said, "I like what I've heard so far."

Lehua said, "Okay, then. Let's move on to specific grievances."

For the next four hours they took turns making suggestions for each section of the manifesto. Jason contributed several salient points, drawn from his experiences in prison. When the subject of the manifesto was exhausted Lehua summed up, and took the notes from Ryan.

Lehua said, "We all have our assignments for the next few weeks. I'll do my best to weave this material into a document that ordinary people can understand and support. Ryan and Mele will continue collecting intel on potential targets. Obie will continue to develop our enforcement capacity. And Jason? Well, you guys talk with him about that."

Jason knew they had something important in mind for him, and he was anxious to know what it was.

Lehua left for the long drive home, to have dinner with her hospital-administrator husband and their two adolescents, none of whom had any inkling of her radical activities. She lived two lives.

Obie stayed a bit longer so he could have a talk with Jason. Mele and Ryan sat with them and listened.

Obie said, "Jason, I'm not going to beat around the bush. I have a lot of work to do, and I'm a tired old man. I need your help. I know you've been helping Mele and Ryan here on the farm, but I need you more than they do. They can manage without you. I cannot. I want you to move in with me and work full-time and overtime on my project, on Aka's project. When we're done you'll be in a position to get your justice. What do you say?"

Jason looked at Ryan and Mele. They were smiling and nodding.

"Absolutely. Thank you for showing confidence in me. I'll work hard and I'll do my best."

"Good," Mele said. "Now we'll whip up an early dinner, then get you two home. Jason, you're done with farm work. From now on you'll be living at Obie's and working in a lab."

A lab. Developing a weapon. Jason wondered what it could be.

# 11 – The Vandals Escalate

Over the next several weeks the Video Vandals posted their work online, starting with the tamer actions and working their way up. Anonymous local bands provided songs of rage for the soundtracks. Each high-rated video was soon imitated and out-done in both action and music. It became very cool to be suspected of being involved in an online Video Vandal production.

It was also cool to be suspected of appearing, in disguise for security purposes, in a Vandal party video, way cooler than going to a rave. These events occurred in the boonies upcountry with the aid of generators in abandoned pineapple fields, macadamia nut orchards, vacant lots, and on the grounds of run-down vacant mac-mansions. The lights are dim and faces are hidden behind glasses, makeup, wigs and cross dressing.

In one of these videos the band sings, "I shot the sheriff." The lead singer holds the mike out to the crowd and they roar back, "and I shot the deputy too." The band sings, "I fought the law," and the crowd sings, "and I won." A loop of Vandal action videos plays on a large screen.

Lehua and the Kalamas were alarmed by the growing fad, fearing the Vandals would be easily infiltrated and busted. Sure enough, arrests soon followed and dozens of suspects were fed into the maw of the Beast on an assortment of charges.

Still the videos kept coming, and the actions they recorded got wilder. In one a notoriously corrupt and brutal cop was in the back of a minivan, hog-tied and gagged. It was Jason's old friend Royce Carter. He was driven to a forested area, stripped naked, and lashed with kiawe whips (a length of rope entwined with a thorny mesquite branch). He was released and left naked and bleeding, with his hands tied behind his back, to fi nd his way home. A sign hanging from his neck read, I Am A Criminal Sadist. Jason laughed, cheered and clapped his hands.

Another video showed a similar action against a prison guard. He was abducted, blindfolded and taken to a cane field where he admitted his leading role in a particularly savage assault that landed an inmate in the hospital. He was thrashed and made to announce his resignation on camera, effective immediately. He too was left to walk home naked with a sign attached to him. It read, I Am A Coward And A Bully.

Then came a series of imitation videos that were even more violent and grisly. These were brilliant fakes done by professionals hired by Juggernaut agents in order to whip up public sympathy and support for harsh reprisals. Classic agents provocateur. Known dissidents and suspected Video Vandals were arrested and framed for the alleged crimes depicted in the fake videos. The media's gullibility ensured broad public support for the crackdown.

The Vandals had crashed the big leagues and played like little leaguers. They had naively believed their actions would help deter the government terrorists, frighten them into being kind and gentle. But it backfired. They only made the Machine madder, yet more sympathetic in the eyes of the public. This was the worst possible result. More federal dollars flowed in to fight the crime wave, and more Vandals and their friends were swept up.

But the movement started by the wild guys could not be kept down. For every dissident arrested two more were born by conversion, took action and posted videos. Even as the Vandals went to jail in droves they put stress on the Beast and gained new recruits. In June a new Vandal posting was titled "Maui Roadside Bomb Kills Five Tourists In Van." It was a fake, crudely done using a rusted out old van, Molotov cocktails, smoke bombs, and bloody manikins scattered about. The narrator claimed that the incident was being hushed up so as not to scare off tourists. Most people doubted the video's authenticity, but, fake or not, it sent a message that such an attack was not unthinkable. One real IED attack with verified casualties would devastate the island's economy over-night. Half the island would end up on food stamps and in soup lines. Is that really what Keoki and Talon wanted?

Aka was also concerned when it got wind of two young local men, one of whom had distant relatives in Corsica, a Mediterranian island that has a lot in common with Maui. They travelled around Europe sightseeing, then stayed with the family for two months and told them about the situation on Maui. These were tough people, and deeply involved in the Corsican resistance against French domination and the over-development that was damaging the island's environment. The Maui men were radicalized on the island 8,000 miles from home and learned armed resistance skills. Every day they practiced for hours with sophisticated crossbows with napalm-loaded arrows and various cell-phone-triggered devices. They returned to Maui reportedly adept at blowing up and burning down buildings. The main targets of the Corsican dissidents were newly constructed hotels, mansions and government buildings, usually finished but not yet occupied. The young locals had not acted yet, but Aka feared it was just a matter of time and their targets would be analogous to those of the Corsicans. And their acts would be equally destructive and futile.

When the IED video was exposed as fake and the scare faded the Vandals tried a new tactic, one that proved to be simple and cost-effective. They went to dozens of online travel-related message boards and started frightening rumors. Monsanto was releasing experimental viruses in its GMO fields, and the pollen from these fields, blown all over the island, was making people very sick with mysterious symptoms that doctors didn't know how to treat. Smoke from sugarcane burning, an old and common practice on Maui, had been found to cause mesothelioma, a form of lung cancer, just like asbestos. Vog blown north from the volcanoes on the Big Island was thicker than smog in Los Angeles, and it was killing people who had asthma and other respiratory diseases. Shark attacks were frequent in Maui waters. The local government was covering up all these problems by bribing the victims and the media with hush money.

The claims were not true, but neither were they inherently unbelievable. And, like most conspiracy rumors they were almost impossible to disprove. As the mass media have always known, people love scary stories, so the tactic worked pretty well. But only for a while. To keep people interested the Vandals had to keep upping the ante, concocting ever more frightening horror stories. These efforts peaked with "Maui Mumbai."

Most people still remembered the great terrorist attack on Mumbai, India, in 2008. In July at a Video Vandal party a shocking song called Maui Mumbai was performed by a six-piece combo with all members in disguise. The song was later posted on the web as a music video in two video versions. One version was a straight live music and video of the band's performance at the party with the crowd dancing, hollering and having fun.

The other version was a tightly choreographed and colorful routine with a dozen dancers, men and women, dramatizing their massacre of guests at an upscale hotel on Maui's South shore. In it they wield machetes and Uzis like cheerleaders wielding batons, and they leave piles of bloody bodies in their wake.

The song has a chorus and a verse that are sung simultaneously, layered and woven together. The chorus, sparse and repeated almost like a chant, goes

Maui Mumbai...... will come bumbye.

Maui Mumbai...... will come bumbye. Bumbye is pidgin for bye and bye, meaning soon. Meanwhile the verse goes

To Maui come fly if you want to die.

The fuse has been lit; On your bodies we will spit.

The streets will run red; many tourists will be dead.

But even this production, which the police and prosecutors branded thinly-veiled terroristic threatening, had little long-term effect. Maui lovers who could afford the trip would not be deterred. Though the video went viral and caused some trip cancellations, this lasted only a few weeks. Hotel occupancy quickly rebounded to its recession-era levels around 60 percent, and the island's economy continued to muddle along.

The wild guys felt frustrated that their best efforts had so far failed to achieve sustained economic disruption. They concluded that their operations would have to be either much more frequent or much more radical. They chose the latter.

To Aka it all seemed foolish and counterproductive. It spurred them to redouble their efforts before it was too late to try their way. A less destructive but more deadly way.

# 12 – The Killer Lab

Obie's house, just up the hill from the Kalamas, was on a one-acre lot thick with fruit and coffee trees, all being gradually engulfed by vigorous weeds and vines. He and Jaz had bought it in 1990. While he had always taken care of the house, the trees had been her responsibility. When she was killed they were abandoned to the vigorous haole koa, cane grass, passion fruit, strawberry guava, miconia, ivy gourd and other invasive pests. Though the orchard was no longer pleasant to stroll in, Obie could still gather all the fruit he needed and would be able to for a few more years, the rest of his life, he figured, so he let it go. It was a rainy area, so he didn't have to water the trees.

Obie led Jason into the house and showed him around. It was a startling contrast to the untamed grounds. With the Kalama's help he had turned most of the house into a gleaming laboratory. Two labs actually. He led Jason into the one where he spent most of his waking hours. It was an impressive little lab for a converted kitchen-dining area, now walled off. It had a workbench, a high-powered microscope, a high-precision electronic scale, two sinks, a vacuum pump, a centrifuge, shelves of glassware, two computers with printers, a hooded transfer box, an oscilloscope, a bio-waste disposal bin, a rapid freeze-dryer, chromatography systems, two refrigerators, a freezer, two large window fans, shelves of reagents in bottles, a shelf of chemistry reference books, and dozens of tools and devices common to biochemistry research labs.

Obie said, "Look around. Any of this stuff look familiar to you, or are you in a strange land?"

Jason said, "I studied chemistry for a year in high school and a year in college. It helped me understand food, nutrition and cooking. You know, proteins, fats, sugars, vitamins and all that. I preferred my cooking classes. The smells were more pleasant. But I've seen most of these things before, and I think I'll like it here just fine." He smiled.

Obie said, "Good. Now let me show you the essence of what I'm doing. You don't need to know all the chemistry, just the general idea. First, come look in this cabinet." He opened one of six drawers in a wooden chest. He pulled out a one-liter jar and held it up for Jason. The label said scorpions, and the bottle held scores of them packed together but still identifiable as individuals.

"Freeze-dried," Obie said. He pulled out more jars and placed them on a shelf for Jason to see. One held centipedes. Others held brown recluse or black widow spiders, fi re ants, tiny colorful frogs, box jelly fish, death-cap mushrooms, marine harpoon snails, a venomous sea snake, black widows, a puffer fish, a blue-ringed octopus, cone snails, datura and aconite leaves and flowers, mandrake roots, hemlock leaves, castor beans, and turkey fi sh. In all, dozens of highly toxic and venomous species of flora and fauna.

As he put them away Obie said, "I start with the critters or herbs in one of these jars."

He closed the drawers and led Jason across the room while gesturing to the work bench. "I process them here to extract and purify their chemical weapons."

They crossed the room to the main book shelf, and he said, "And I store the purified toxins in here."

He pulled several fat reference books off the shelf and pressed a spot on the wall with his thumb. A section of the wall, about the size of a large medicine cabinet, popped open. Its shelves were lined with sturdy little glass bottles with wide-mouth screw tops. Some contained powders, mostly white but some slightly brownish or yellowish. Each bottle was labeled, and Jason saw conus venom, ricin, phallotoxin, scopolamine and a few others, but most of the names were new to him. There was something called tetro that would turn out to be important, but he didn't know for a long time exactly what it was, except that it could be lethal.

"Wow, this is an amazing collection."

"Yes, but they're worthless unless we can deliver them to our targets. That's where I need your help. Come with me." They left the lab and entered another room.

"This used to be two bedrooms side by side," he said. "We knocked the wall out and did a little remodeling. Now it's the delivery-systems development lab. I've set it up, ready to go, but I can't run both labs. From now on this is where you'll spend most of your waking hours. Come, have a seat."

He gestured toward the workbench against the opposite wall. They each took a chair at the bench, facing a stainless steel instrument about twice the size of a large microwave oven. A stylish logo at the top announced the name of the device: **JAZ** , with a little lightning bolt on either side of the name.

"For the first few weeks your partner will be Jaz, here. As I complete extraction and purification of a toxin I'll bring you a sample and you'll feed it to Jaz. I designed her as a substitute for testing on live animals. Jaz understands the stakes and wants to be involved. Her spirit lives in this machine and gives it life and purpose. You know, Jason, I've always been a hard-nosed scientist, strictly by the facts, with no mumbo-jumbo. But as I've gotten older I've come to understand that there's more to reality than scientific materialism."

He stood up, leaned over, kissed the logo and said, "Hello, sweetheart. I missed you. I want you to meet Jason. He's going to be working with you. You know how busy I am in the other lab. But I'll still come in for a visit every day. You'll like Jason. He's a good guy and very smart."

Then, whispering to Jason, "Stand up and give her a kiss."

What? Jason was speechless. Shit, he thought. Now I'm hooked up with a senile nut case. Why didn't Ryan warn me? How could they have taken him seriously?

"Well, come on now," Obie sternly urged. "She'll think you don't like her."

Obie studied him. Jason hesitated, then figured, why not play along? He slowly stood up, thinking he would leave tomorrow and tell the Kalamas that Obie's lost his marbles. That the project must be a delusion. Frowning, he reluctantly leaned toward the metal box and started to pucker up a little.

Obie burst out laughing and said, "Gotcha! I gotcha good! Hahaaaa! You looked so disgusted and disappointed. I bet you were saying to yourself, how am I going to deal with this old kook? Am I right?" Mele had warned him but, damn, the old man was good.

"Well, what was I supposed to think? Talking to a machine, kissing it, saying your wife's spirit lives in it. You put on a good act, Obie. It was funny." His irritation faded to a chuckle. "But still, Jaz is her name, right? And the instrument's name, right? I mean, it's a little strange, don't you think?"

"Not at all. Her name on the analyzer keeps me focused. She would be especially honored to be associated with an instrument that spares animals unnecessary suffering. Eventually thousands of instruments like this one will replace live animals in labs all over the world. Is my beloved wife's spirit in the machine? I don't know the meaning of that question. I don't get the concept. Never did. But I still like to have fun with it. You have to keep your sense of humor or you die. You should have seen the look on your face! I know for sure that you're NAV negative and I like that." He laughed.

"NAV negative?"

"New Age Virus negative. There's lots of NAV positives on Maui. People your age caught it from their parents and from the media that kept the fairy tales alive. Thousands of middle class kids flock to magical places like Maui, Sedona, Taos, and Shasta, and drowned themselves in woo-woo. They're shallow people, narcissistic, pea-brained, superstitious and perfectly suited to host the virus. It's a cult of intentional ignorance that rejects science and embraces a medieval peasant mind-set. In promoting their quack remedies and psychic powers they talk a lot about healing, peace, love and the unity of all living things. But when the chips are down they care more about their own comfort and the suffering of baby seals thousands of miles away than about the suffering of humans right here on Maui. They won't take a principled stand on anything if it cost them or inconvenienced them. They paid their taxes and kept their mouths and their minds shut. In essence they became complicit with the Juggernaut. But, back to the basics of your new job."

Jason was relieved that Obie wasn't demented after all. They faced the machine and Obie explained the dials, switches, buttons and gauges. Most unusual were three round light-skin-colored membranes about three inches in diameter. They were, in fact, made of human skin. Nowadays sheets of it are cultured on a commercial scale from stem cells, and they're widely used in medicine and in medical research. So is the machine, as Obie had predicted it would be. Back then they were experimental and a novelty. Obie was ahead of his time and he had connections and sources all over the world. He designed the machine and had it custom-made for his needs.

"Your job for the first phase is simple. You prepare samples for Jaz and feed them to her through her skin portals. She does the rest. I'll bring you a few milligrams of a toxin dissolved in a little water or alcohol. You'll make a series of dilutions and mixtures, dial some settings, feed Jaz in various ways-a spray mist, a syringe, an ointment through the different membranes and keep the printer running smoothly as it spits out the results. When you're finished each sample will have about fifty numbers associated with it, each a measurement of absorption, toxicity and lethality at different concentrations and delivered in different ways through different membranes, which represent different parts of a body. From all this data I'll calculate the dose and concentration needed."

"And my job for the second phase?"

"You will devise a method of delivery." He opened the door to a closet. "Here's an assortment of items to play with. Blowguns, darts, pea shooters, water pistols, paint guns, a spray mister, drinking straws, soap bubbles, rubber bands, glass tubing. Find a glass-blowing tutorial online and use the glass here to practice on. Explore all the methods you can think of. If you need more tools or materials just ask. You'll also study the impact sensation of each delivery method, using yourself as the subject. You can use rubber bands and curved glass tubing to rig up self-shooters and test the feeling on different parts of your body. We need it to be no worse than an insect bite, like a mosquito, a gnat or a flea."

"Then we're done? That's it?"

"Of course not. You know there will be a third phase: delivery and administration of the agent. You've been elected for the job."

"I don't recall a vote."

"It was by acclamation. Before you ever heard of Aka."

"So I'm the Chosen One. I'm flattered. I hope I can live up to your expectations. But, to be honest, I don't know the first thing about combat or assassination. I hunted a few times, but I didn't like it and I was a lousy shot. I've never even played hide and seek. Where would I learn to be a hit man?"

"Here. You'll learn by practicing with the device you design and make. And by watching magicians online, especially the sleight-of hand guys. A good Aka shooter will have more in common with a good magician than with James Bond. And develop some disguises for yourself. Remember, you want to blend in, not stand out."

Jason looked at him and saw confidence and urgency. He sensed the possibility of success, and it thrilled him.

# 13 – The Napili Bay Massacre

While Aka was developing a weapon and gathering intel on potential targets, the wild guys were getting frustrated and wilder. I dread writing this chapter because the events are so horrible that dwelling on them disturbs my sleep and my appetite for days. But this account would be incomplete without it, so here it is. I'll keep it brief.

The month of August, 2020, brought one of the strangest and most horrifying incidents in the history of Hawai'i, the Napili Bay Massacre. The 12-minute video of the event, the one taken from the paraglider circling over the scene, has been the most downloaded video since it happened ten years ago. It has been seen by almost 2 billion people, though few can watch the whole thing.

Chumming had once been used by shark-sighting tours and shark fishermen, but the practice had been outlawed by the state. In 2015 two brothers in their early twenties violated the no-chumming law and were arrested for attempted murder, reckless endangerment and assault. They admitted they had chummed the water, dumped several buckets of blood, offal and dead mackerel into the ocean just 50 yards from the beach in front of a new luxury hotel. Then they sped off on their jet ski. Too late. Their faces had been captured with a telephoto lens by a curious tourist. She made a print and gave it to police after the incident.

In mid-morning a half dozen tiger sharks cruised in, devoured the chum, then went looking for more. An alert lifeguard spotted them and warned everyone out of the water. They all made it out safely except for a frail woman in her sixties, a visitor from Nebraska. She lost a foot before she was pulled onto the beach, bleeding heavily. A lifeguard saved her life with a tourniquet.

The brothers were sentenced to three years in prison and ten years probation, and required to pay several thousand dollars in restitution. In their confessions they explained that they wanted a tourist to be killed by a shark, then they would start a rumor that the ocean around the hotel was haunted by a shark god that didn't like tourists. It wasn't a racial thing; the brothers were third-generation Aussie whites. They actually had nothing in principle against tourists, but were in a dispute with the hotel management about beach access and the lack of aloha for local residents.

As far as we know, no one else attempted to enlist sharks or pseudo Hawaiian mythology in their social or political cause until Sunday, August 16, 2020, when Keoki and Talon allegedly took a crack at it. I emphasize allegedly because there is still no proof that they are the ones who pulled it off. Yes, they disappeared shortly after the tragedy, and other circumstantial evidence tends to implicate them. But the same could be said of several other known dissidents as well as Juggernaut agents. Perhaps the dissidents fl ed because they feared they would be framed, that the Juggernaut would snatch the closest dissidents and devour them. Or maybe, as some rumors had it, they were secretly abducted and executed.

Now it's like the JFK assassination with dozens of rumors and theories about the terrible events that day and the people allegedly responsible. Here I outline the version that became the consensus view in the months after the incident. Sort of like the Lee Harvey Oswald version of the JFK killing. It may or may not be verified by history. I tend to think it's true, though not necessarily in all details. To complicate matters, there are variations on this version, differences not about the basic facts but about the intent of the perpetrators.

On the previous Thursday the elite of the Associated Penal Workers Unions of America, 400 members strong, about 80 percent of them men, arrived on Maui for their first ever convention in Hawai'i, to be held at the Ritz Carlton at Kapalua. The lavish convention at a luxury beach-front hotel symbolized the power and wealth that this sector of society had achieved. Local politicians gushed greetings of aloha and the media ran puff pieces and friendly interviews.

Keoki and Talon moaned with disgust as they watched one of these interviews on the 6 o'clock news. After presenting the convention schedule, Channel 10's anchor praised the prison guards' courage and dedication in the war on crime. He then asked a hulking 20-year veteran guard and shop steward from Texas whether the conventioneers would get a chance to enjoy the ocean while they were here.

The guard said yes, that they were all looking forward to an event that would be held at noon on Sunday, a 300-meter swim race across Napili Bay. He expected half of the delegates to participate. "There would be nine trophies in three age groups," he said. "Then a huge buffet banquet with live music right there at the beach park."

Keoki and Talon looked at each other and smiled. Several weeks earlier they had come into possession of a powder labeled SH-1000 that had been stolen from a laboratory of BioKai, Inc, a Honolulu biotechnology company. The pale yellow substance was a synthetic peptide developed as a shark repellant. However, the researchers found that it stimulated rather than blocked the receptors on the shark olfactory bulb. Far from being a shark repellant, it was a powerful shark attractant, more powerful than blood by about one thousandfold.

The BioKai project director suspended the studies and stored the SH-1000, apparently not very securely. Someone pinched a pound of it and sold it cheap to Talon and Keoki, who thought they might sell it to an acquaintance in the swim-with-the-sharks tour business. Their customers snorkeled in cages while the large carnivores swam around them. Such businesses were not allowed to chum, and most were doing poorly since it took too long to see sharks and satisfy the customers. They needed help. Who would notice a little dissolved powder slipped into the water?

At about the time they bought the SH-1000, their shark-tour friend went out of business. Until they made other contacts they would be stuck with it. Curious about it, they decided to test it. They went out in an old Zodiac Zoom with two large aku heads, one plain and one sprinkled with the powder. Keoki noted the time and lowered the first aku head into the water about ten feet from the boat. Talon held the underwater video camera just beneath the surface and aimed it at the bait. They would tape the scene for 15 minutes, then count the sharks in the video later. After 12 minutes Talon saw two sharks circling the bait from a distance. Finally, one of them darted in and grabbed it just as the 15 minutes expired.

They moved a hundred yards up current, and Keoki lowered the second aku head into the water. Within five minutes Talon saw several tigers approaching and circling. One darted in, grabbed the aku head and devoured it. More tigers swam into view, then hammerheads joined them. The sharks darted about madly, their jaws open and ready for a huge meal that never came. It was a virtual feeding frenzy, but without real feeding. The men were amazed at the strange scene created by the powder, and Keoki decided to keep it until he could show the video to a discrete customer and get a good price.

Now two hundred jail guards would be swimming across Napili Bay, all at once. Keoki phoned a friend in the Hawaiian music business and called in a favor. By late Saturday he had what they needed, a recording of a fi ery chant by a kupuna (wise elder). Or so it seemed. It was actually the voice of a talented producer using an authentic ipu drum and digital voice modifi cation. Because only one in a thousand island residents understands Hawaiian, a running translation was provided. Each line chanted in Hawaiian was followed by the line spoken in English. The chant was loud, fi erce and quavering with anger and menace.

Auhea 'oukou, e na malihini! Listen, stranger!

'O au ke akua mano, I am the shark god,

Haku o na kai o Maui.

Lord of Maui's oceans.

Ua kapu keia wahi.

This area is consecrated.

Mai komo i ha hono 'o Napili. Do not enter Napili Bay.

Ina 'a'ole ho 'ia keia kapu, If this taboo is not respected,

E lilo 'oukou i mohai!

You will be sacrificed.

Keoki coupled the chant with the video of the sharks in a phantom feeding frenzy in their test. He posted it online and emailed a link to the media. The coming Napili Bay race instantly became the Event Of The Year. The union president fanned the flames by commenting to a reporter, "This terroristic threatening won't stop us. We will not be deterred by Maui's criminal element."

This seemingly racist comment implied that the anonymous chanting kupuna was a criminal and it enraged thousands. Some of them hoped to see blood in the water, but the odds against that were high since shark sightings at Napili Bay were rare. Few believed in Hawaiian sorcery. Even the jail guards of Polynesian ancestry, when interviewed by reporters, said they were going to swim. They laughed at suggestions that sharks might attack them because of the chant.

By 11 a.m. Sunday all the parking lots anywhere near the bay were packed, and hundreds of cars lined both sides of Hanoapiilani Road for a half mile in each direction. Thousands of spectators crowded the beach from the rocks just below the Sea House Restaurant on the north end of Napili Bay to the Gazebo Restaurant at the south end. A few demonstrators held signs supporting the prison guards, but many more signs said things like Goons Are Shark Food; Go Sharks!; and Government Terrorists Go Home. Dozens of boom boxes and car stereos blasted loops of the chant, all out of synch. Others blasted ten-second loops of the famous "Prelude to a Shark Attack" theme from the classic movie Jaws. It all made for an eerie and ominous cacophony across the bay.

Just before the race no one noticed Talon in the water near the north end of the bay about a hundred yards from the beach, well outside the broad swimming lane. He held what would appear from a distance to be a boogie board. No one saw him push the board about three feet under water, point it toward the opposite end of the bay, open a stopcock, push a starter button, and let it go. The boogie board was actually a battery-powered toy submarine rigged with a load. As it motored along below the surface it released the SH-1000 to hang in the water like a thin curtain across the bay, sending tendrils to deep water as well as toward shallower water and the swimmers.

A few minutes before noon 194 swimmers entered the water and moved into position about 100 feet from the beach, near the south end of the bay. The younger swimmers were in the front of the pack, and the older ones in the rear. Buoys lined up across the bay would keep the swimmers in about ten feet of water. The starter gun sounded and they were off, the finish line about 8 minutes away for the fastest swimmers and 15 for the slowest.

Just then Keoki approached, high over the bay, seated on a motorized paraglider. It was a quiet model and few noticed it as all eyes were glued to the water and the swimmers. As he circled above the bay Keoki programmed the high-definition 3-D camera to stay focused on the middle of the group of swimmers until he dropped low and took manual control. To ensure a steady picture the camera was equipped with a Spider-Brace stabilizer. The polarized filter on the telephoto zoom lens cut the glare and allowed a clear view deep into the water. A 20-inch screen showed him what the camera was recording.

Keoki could see Talon climbing out of the water, his job done. The sharks should be visible soon. He continued to circle. Suddenly, fi ve minutes into the race, he saw at least a dozen tigers coming in fast. Then there were 20. Then 40. He dropped down to 250 feet, locked in a circle cruise, and took control of the camera. He would alternate wide-angle shots with close-ups.

The first victims never saw what hit them, but the agonized screams, the terrified shrieks, the mad thrashing and the crimson foam sent the rest of the swimmers racing for the shore, racing for their lives. More screams, more thrashing as crimson foam spread across half the bay. The astonished spectators knew what was happening and were transfixed by the drama and the horror. The lifeguards did not dare swim out into the bloody brine. The swimmers would have to make it to wading depth before anyone would help them out of the water. Many did, even some of the wounded. But many did not.

The stereos were turned off, the chant silenced. The spectators who held signs hostile to the swimmers lowered them and stared anxiously at the churning water as the panic-stricken swimmers tried to make it to the beach. No one had really wanted them to get hurt. Well, maybe a few did, but no one had thought they would. It was all just political theater. But now a hundred and fifty people were screaming in terror and agony. Bone-chilling screams that would never be forgotten by those who heard them.

Fourteen minutes after the sharks arrived Keoki flew away. Sharks were still in the bay, but people were not. At least not living people. A few torsos and limbs floated about for a while, and some washed to shore. The water grew calm and soon held no sign of the massacre except a slight reddish tinge.

The wounded lay on towels, and first aid was administered by those who knew how. Sirens filled the air as medics, firefighters and police arrived. The wounds they saw were horrific. Limbs were missing or hanging by tendons or skin. Large chunks were missing from legs, arms and torsos. Many victims went into shock. Some survivors went into shock though physically unscathed. Even some of the medics were overwhelmed by the carnage, fainted and almost went into shock themselves.

The spectators were starting to leave when the police used loudspeakers to order everyone to stay put in order to keep the road clear until all the emergency personnel had left the area. It took two hours to remove the last of the wounded from the beach. Not all of them would survive. That evening a final tally would be released: 43 were missing and presumed dead; 7 had died on the beach, 3 had died in or on their way to the hospital; 6 were still critical; 14 had lost a major limb but would survive; 11 had major lacerations that would leave large scars; and 10 who had escaped the jaws nonetheless suffered severe psychological trauma.

Within four hours of the massacre a 12-minute high-definition 3D video, shot from directly above, was posted online. Though the paraglider had circled, dipped and climbed, the picture was steady and clear, with stunning detail and vibrant colors. Within a month the carnage would be viewed more than a billion times. Most were sickened by it and could not watch the whole thing, but some enjoyed the video and watched it many times. Jason was one of these, though he was discrete about it. He thought he recognized the bull queer, the guard whose face he had glimpsed that horrible night in the hole. A tiger grabbed him by the shoulder and chomped his arm right off. That was just an appetizer. Jason enjoyed the look of terror on the man's face. And on many other faces. He imagined that all three of his tormentors, as well as their superiors, were among the victims. He relished their bleeding, suffering, dying and being devoured.

Not surprisingly, for weeks afterward all it took to quickly empty the water at any Maui beach was for someone to yell shark or any word that rhymes with shark. Ocean-loving vacationers avoided Maui like a war zone, and debate raged in the media and among government officials. Few believed the sharks had been summoned by the chant.

Even fewer had plausible alternative theories.

However, the BioKai researchers who had developed the SH1000 suspected it might have been involved. They checked their stash and discovered the theft, but kept it quiet, fearing lawsuits would destroy the company. Several weeks later a disgruntled ex-employee, a lab technician, blew the whistle to stockholders, who were still in the dark about the company's failed product that had been purloined. Other BioKai technicians became suspects in the theft, but no one was ever charged.

About then a recreational diver found the toy sub. Examination revealed that it had been modified to carry a payload and to slowly sink to the bottom. The how had been solved, but not the who, though the Video Vandals were presumed to be involved, and that meant Keoki and Talon.

The company executives were right about one thing. Lawsuits quickly destroyed BioKai. It was an unseemly affair with hundreds of plaintiffs and their attorneys chasing the minimal insurance and net negative assets typical of small biotech companies. There was only one possible explanation for this effort and expense. It was a lottery. No one said it out loud, but they were all making an ironic, almost ghoulish, bet that the patent on the amazing peptide, which had led to the horrible deaths of their relatives, would be bought by a larger biotech fi rm, and eventually useful products would generate royalties that they might share in.

It must be noted here that many of those who accept that Keoki and Talon were involved do not accept the version I've presented. They believe that it was a reckless prank gone horribly wrong, that the plan was for Keoki to sound the alarm in ample time for the swimmers to quit the race and swim like hell to the beach. The sharks would give chase but would not be able to close the gap before hitting the shallows. The video would be spectacular and hilarious. It would symbolize the Juggernaut fleeing in terror from the powerful and mysterious forces summoned by the Video Vandals. Unfortunately, the sharks came in faster than Keoki expected and his loudspeaker didn't work.

According to another theory, widely promoted by dissidents, two rogue members of the union's security department were responsible, not Keoki and Talon. These men supposedly engineered the massacre and sold the video, copy-protected, to an Asian collector/investor. He is said to have made millions by licensing the footage to online video sites that specialized in gory scenes from wars around the world, news of the weird, adventures-gone-bad, and snuff pornography. The copy-protection was eventually thwarted, but the investor had the first-mover advantage and he made a fortune before the pirates managed to move in.

Yet another theory is that the Juggernaut itself, at the highest levels, sacrificed its own agents and framed the Video Vandals for the atrocity. The slaughter was intended to outrage the public and generate still more support and money to fi ght the purported war on crime. With unemployment high the martyred guards could be easily replaced, and the feds would pay for all of it since it was a disaster and a homeland security emergency.

Bullshit! said they police, the prosecutors and the pundits. All those theories were nonsense. Keoki, Talon and the Video Vandals were responsible. Period. It was a heinous act of premeditated mass murder born of lust for revenge, revolution and chaos. And it was a logical step in their escalating attacks. Jason didn't say so, but he tended to believe this version. Except he spelled "heinous" 'h-e-r-o-i-c'.

We may never know the whole truth, but let's examine the facts. On the one hand it is clear that Talon and Keoki had always been impulsive, daring and extreme, and the wildness of their actions had escalated with their frustration. Surely they were emotionally and intellectually capable of dreaming up such a spectacular, diabolical scheme, and they were intellectually capable of carrying it out. But were they emotionally capable of carrying it out? Most of those who knew them said no.

But maybe they were. One rumor had it that Keoki's cousin, just 18 years old and in jail as a suspect in a marijuana growing operation, had been kicked to death by two guards. Inmates had been framed for the crime. If this is true maybe Keoki came unhinged, and maybe he didn't tell Talon the whole truth about what he really intended to do. Or maybe they planned it all together, pre-sold the video for millions of dollars, and fled to Brazil or the South Pacific when it was over.

Some people on the fringe believe this, and rumors of sightings, and even fuzzy photos of the two men, steadily trickle into cyberspace.

On the other hand, it was also clear that the two men would have been the perfect fall guys. Everything pointed to them. If they were patsies it's partly because they had foolishly set themselves up to be patsies. Their exuberance, which had served them well for years, finally overwhelmed their judgment.

As with the JFK assassination, speculation about the massacre became a lucrative cottage industry and continues even now, many years later. Imaginative people spin fantasies, then go on talk shows and sell books, pod casts and videos that amaze, amuse, titillate and satisfy a craving for understanding.

Whatever the truth of the matter, the Video Vandals' run was over. Their inspirational leaders had disappeared. They were discredited by their association with the massacre. They had flamed out. Though nothing proved they were responsible, they had practically pre-confessed with the Hawaiian chant hoax, which was easily traced back to the wild guys.

The demise of the Vandals did not mean the demise of dissent. It meant that it was time for the adults to take the wheel. But first Obie and Jason had to make some major progress with Aka's enforcement capacity.

# 14 – Eureka!

A few evenings after the Napili Bay Massacre the Aka Five had a dinner-meeting at the Kalamas'. They had heard that at least one photo taken from the beach seemed to show that Keoki may have been the flyer, but it was not clear enough to be definitive. Even so, all of Aka's worst fears about the Vandals and their tactics were coming true in spectacular fashion. Many more dissidents were being swept into the guts of the Juggernaut, giving it more nourishment and strength. Support was growing for draconian reprisals against all dissidents. People were horrified, terrified to the depths of their souls, by the Napili Bay Massacre, and this emotion overwhelmed any concern about due process.

With the crackdown Aka's work was now even more urgent. Obie and Jason committed themselves to still longer hours. They had little time to shop or cook. For breakfast and lunch they gathered tangerines, papayas, avocados and tomatoes from the yard. The one luxury they allowed themselves was picking and pan-roasting coffee beans from the old trees, then grinding them and making fresh brew. The Kalamas brought them hot dinners each evening, with the portions large enough for leftovers to supplement their lunch the next day.

Obie continued to extract and purify the toxins, and Jason labored on the long series of tests with the help of Jaz. At first the novelty made it interesting, but eventually it became routine and almost boring. Along with the fatigue this occasionally made him careless, and at the end of one long day he forgot to rinse the pipette he had used for the last series. The next day his test on the first toxin gave results that were off the chart, far above the range of toxicity given in the reference books. Yeah, sure. Come on, man, wake up. Have more coffee and pay attention. He re-checked the concentration, ran the test again and waited. The result was the same. He warily stepped toward the door, as if one floating molecule of the stuff might knock him dead.

He rushed to tell Obie, who immediately suspected contamination and asked Jason which pipette he had used for the last series yesterday and whether he had remembered to rinse it thoroughly. Sure enough, serendipity in the form of a contaminated pipette had given them something Obie hadn't even hoped for because it seemed too unlikely.

It is well known that some combinations of drugs and toxins achieve a potency that is far greater than would be expected by simple addition. The whole can be many times the sum of its parts. This is synergy or, in pharmacology and toxicology, potentiation. It does not occur with most combinations; in fact, strong potentiation is rare. But here it was, discovered by accident. A killer combination, slightly more potent than anthrax. The primary toxin was labeled Tetro. It's potentiator was labeled DH. Obie dubbed it Tetro-DH. It was a remarkable discovery that he could have patented and made a fortune on if its purpose was something other than assassination.

The final test had to be on a live animal, and they decided to use a pesky rat that had been annoying them for weeks. They trapped it, healthy and unhurt, in a wire cage. Obie used an eyedropper, held above the animal, to propel one drop of the solution onto its back. Within seconds it collapsed on its side, panted briefly, then died.

A bonus was that, while the product is more lethal than anthrax for the victim, it's safer for the assassin. Of course, it must be handled with great care, but it doesn't vaporize from solution, so there is little danger of inhaling it. Those who make, prepare and deliver the product do not take the same degree of risk, of either injury or detection, taken by those who handle anthrax, explosives or fi rearms. Another possible bonus, suggested by Jaz, was that the signs and symptoms of toxicity might mimic a heart attack.

Obie was elated and gave Jason a bear hug.

Being compulsively thorough and intellectually greedy, Obie thought for a moment that maybe he should start a systematic search for even stronger combinations and possibly a whole range of unique effects. A new line of fascinating study presented itself. The possibilities were endless. But that was the problem. He quickly did the math in his head. With hundreds of thousands of possible combinations of just twenty toxins, thoroughly mining it would take years, and Aka needed it right away.

Oh well, the concept of punishment by tailored toxins was still good for a joke on the Kalamas. He called them and said he and Jason wanted to come over to discuss new research and development concepts. Mele picked them up just before sunset. They all sat down in the living room, eyes on Obie.

Jason assumed he was going to tell them about the discovery. Instead, Obie said, "It occurs to me that we could use the latest protein chemistry software to develop algorithms to systematically screen a few thousand combinations of toxins. It shouldn't take more than 7 or 8 months to find some winners and determine their various effects. Then we'll develop several formulas for different types and degrees of reprisal. It would only take a few more months, so maybe they'd be ready to go in a year."

Ryan frowned and shifted in his chair. Mele glanced his way.

Obie went on. "For example, one formula would make the heart race and pound unbearably for hours. It could end in a heart attack or just feel like one. Another would produce frightening asthma-like symptoms and mimic water-boarding. Others would cause crawling sensations under the skin, extreme heat or cold, temporary blindness, intense migraines or terrifying nightmares and hallucinations. One might produce an illness that lasts a week or two, like a bad fl u or hepatitis, while another would produce a long, severe illness with either recovery or death in six months. You see? Each punishment would be custom-made for the crime." He managed to sound quite demented.

Ryan and Mele looked at each other, not sure what to say.

Mele said, gently, "Obie, that's a fascinating concept. But we're kind of in a hurry. I thought we were going to have only one weapon and one punishment to keep it simple and get our operations going ASAP."

Obie said, "Well, we didn't know then what we know now. Think of the possibilities."

Ryan, trying to temper his exasperation, said, "Come on, Obie, this isn't a university research program. We don't have time for..."

Obie cut him off. "Please, I've given this a lot of thought. At least hear me out. I'm not trying to dictate, just explain the options. Then we can vote on it. I suggest we call the collection, the entire line of tailored punishments, Toxivenge, Chemovenge, or Venomvenge. These are my nominees. What do you think? I move that we take a vote to choose one of them. What could be more democratic than that?"

Jason finally realized what he was doing and suppressed a laugh as he marveled at Obie's ability to say it all with a straight face. Obie watched them intently as their expressions went from concerned to distressed. Jason knew what they were thinking. At Obie's age, with the workload he carries and the stress he subjects himself to, signs of dementia could start creeping in at any time. It was a natural concern. Obie played it for laughs.

Finally, something in Obie's expression gave him away. A hint in his eyes or lips that he was hiding the glee of a trickster in mid-stride. Mele broke out in a smile and said, "Ohhhh, nooo you don't. You can't fool me, Obie. I know you too well, you old joker. You found something good."

"Ha! Haaa!" Obie cracked up, slapped his knees, and said, "But I had you guys going for a while. Okay, you're right, I found something important. We found something important. Jason was just careless enough to allow it to happen and just alert enough to notice it and quickly tell me about it. It was classic serendipity. The gods are on our side. I can say with confi dence that our search for the ultimate treasure is over, and it's far more valuable than any of us imagined possible. Now we can focus on the carrier and the delivery system, the bullet and the gun, so to speak."

He summarized the basics. "We have a combination of neurotoxins that show more than a 100-fold reduction in the lethal dose without potentiation, which is very small to begin with. Therefore, ultra purification is no longer necessary and the final steps, the most laborious and expensive steps, can be omitted. A quicker extract will do the job, and the lethal dose will still be almost invisibly small, equivalent to a few grains of salt dissolved in a tiny drop of fluid or gel. A major bonus is that the effects may mimic those of a heart attack. This is yet to be proved, but if it turns out to be true it would give us an enormous advantage."

Ryan said, "Do you have any vision of the final product, ready to use? How would the poison be administered? Can you give us a clue?"

Obie said, "We have several options, and we'll be testing them. For now think little blowguns, tiny darts, pea shooters, spray mists, miniature water pistols, paintball guns, BB guns, trans-dermal solvents. When we have the bullet we want and the gun to deliver it, Jason can start practicing. He'll need a few days to get good. I'd say we'll be ready for the first game in two weeks, three max. You guys will choose the first target. Gee, I wonder who that would be. Have your videos and all the critical info ready for Jason to study."

In the following days Obie worked on the bullet while Jason worked on the gun. They didn't have another eureka moment, but they made steady progress and quickly closed in on the solutions. The gun is a tiny glass blowgun. Jason designed two models with the same working structure but different exteriors. One looks like a pencil, the other like a cigarette. Inside it has a tiny fl ap valve to prevent the user from accidentally inhaling the bullet, which sits in the fi ring chamber at the tip, held in place by a plug of graphite for the pencil, and cork for the cigarette. The user appears to be absently nibbling the eraser or about to light up. When he's ready to fi re he pulls the tiny plug by a piece of thread and lets loose.

The bullet is a soft bead, a globule about half the size of a BB. It contains the lethal combo plus DMSO, capsaicin, agar and microfibers. The latter two hold the bead together as a spheroid gel. The bead is coated with a thin layer of nano-silk, so it practically floats against the glass firing chamber and resistance is near-zero.

When the tiny bead hits the target the gel splatters and the DMSO, a trans-dermal solvent, immediately begins to carry the toxins through the skin and into the bloodstream. It feels like a minor insect bite and the subject reflexively swats it and rubs it, thereby increasing dermal penetration and absorption into the blood. The capsaicin promotes this process. Jaz indicated that if all went well a human target would collapse unconscious within two minutes of impact and die within fi ve minutes.

Jason practiced by fi ring blanks, beads without the toxins, at a manikin. He got so good he could hit any two-square-inch spot from twenty feet while appearing to innocently mouth a pencil as he pondered a crossword puzzle, or held a cigarette in his mouth as he fiddled with a lighter.

Obie told the Kalamas they were ready for action.

# 15 – Aka's First Strike

Jason, Obie, Mele and Ryan sat in the Kalama's living room, excited and talkative. They left Lehua out of it for practical reasons. She was an hour and a half drive away, and she was busy with the manifesto as well as her day job and her family. Plus, they had already agreed on their first target. There was no point in her having knowledge of specifics before the fact unless she needed to know.

Ryan said, "How do you feel, Jason? Think you'll be able to do it?"

"Absolutely. I feel great. Some butterflies, but I'm confident."

Mele said, "We're confident too. We know you can do it. We'll be celebrating soon. It gives me a warm, tingling sensation. It's strange. I've never felt anything like it before."

Obie said, "You're anticipating the joy of vengeance. Let's admit it: that's what we all crave. Now it's so close we can smell it. We believe we'll soon taste it, and it will be ambrosia. If reform is a result of our tasting vengeance, fi ne. But the prospect of reform hasn't driven me like the prospect of revenge. Not at my age. I'm too old to hope to see a brighter future. My pleasures are now more personal and immediate. I want to savor the sheer joy of revenge before I die. It will give me a reason to wake up each morning: to bask in its glow through the day. And to keep me warm and cozy at night. Getting revenge is like eating a great meal, having great sex, or taking a drug that directly zaps your pleasure centers with a flood of dopamine. But revenge is much better, much more powerful than those pleasures and their memories, which quickly fade. Get righteous revenge and you have something to warm the cockles of your heart for life. It gives a deep, long-lasting satisfaction, one that can be savored every day for years through all kinds of hardships and disappointments." They just stared at him.

He continued, "Maybe you think I'm pulling your leg, but I'm not. I know you like to think you're after something much bigger and more lofty than mere personal revenge. But lust for vengeance is a powerful human instinct, and it's the origin of laws and justice systems. If a justice system fails its mandate, and especially if it morphs into an active instrument of injustice, this lust grows in those who've been betrayed. You know what I'm talking about. I can see the hunger in your eyes, in your intensity about our work. We shouldn't feel guilty about it. It doesn't make us savages. It's a natural reaction to the suffering we've endured. The greater the injustice and the longer it lasts, the greater the thirst for revenge. I should know. It's been more than 15 years since they murdered Jaz, then twisted the knife in me by denying me justice. My anger and hate have never faltered or faded. They've grown. Now, at last, we're going to make them pay, and we'll have a chance for happiness."

He paused when he thought he was getting some disapproving looks. "What?! I'm serious. Don't look at me like that. I'm just saying out loud what you're all thinking. Now let's get to work!"

Mele gave a mock salute and said, "Yes, Sir! Follow me, gang."

They went to the intel room for Mele and Ryan's presentation on Souza. There they had a database of intel on scores of potential targets, a large collection of names, addresses, job titles, biographies, accusations against them, quality of evidence, seriousness of their abuses and crimes, their friends and associates, their haunts & habits, and so on. They showed Jason photos, then slides, then a video to illustrate Souza's posture, gait, clothing, facial expressions and mannerisms. They discussed where Jason might have a chance to get close to him. Going to his high-security apartment wouldn't work. He was suspicious by nature and habit, and he would never open the door for a stranger.

Souza didn't have a regular job, but most nights he would spend two or three hours at his favorite restaurant-bar, the Peacock on Front Street in Lahaina. He never missed Friday nights. He would arrive alone around 9 and be taken to a secluded table in the back. He lingered over food and drinks until about midnight while a series of visitors stopped at his table for a drink and a chat. These were mostly prostitutes, drug dealers and assorted scammers he was in league with. A heavy smoker, he would frequently step outside for a quick fi x while his guest of the moment held the table. Sometimes he would cross the street to sit on the rock wall along the sidewalk, his back to the ocean. That would be the ideal time to hit him.

Three nights later, on a Friday, Jason headed for ground zero. During the hour and a half drive to Lahaina he reflected on the enormous importance of the mission. It would be a real-life test of the weapon and of his ability to deliver. It could determine the future of Aka. But Obie was right. Above all, this was his chance to get revenge for the Kalamas and partial revenge for himself.

Jason's face had been plastered all over the media for weeks and he might easily be recognized, so he had darkened his hair and grown . And Souza might even have seen him that last night with Vicky. For this reason he had darkened his light brown hair and brows, grown a trim beard. He wore glasses made of plain glass, nice slacks and a dinner jacket that was a little dressy for Maui. He aimed to appear non-threatening.

Jason parked two blocks from the Peacock, walked to the seawall across the street, and sat facing the main entrance. With luck Souza would soon cross the street, take a seat on the wall a few feet away, and lose himself in his cigarette-lighting ritual. The glare of the flame would blind him to Jason's subtle moves. He sat there for more than forty minutes, running the scenario through his mind. Each time the door opened from the inside his heart raced until he saw that it wasn't his target.

But suddenly it was. Jason's heart was pounding. Souza took a few steps toward the crosswalk that would take him toward the wall and Jason. Then he stopped and looked back, as if he was waiting for someone. Crap, he was waiting for someone. A young woman came out and caught up with Souza. They crossed the street, sat ten feet from Jason and lit up. Jason couldn't do it without the woman noticing him, so he sat still. They went back in.

Jason sat watching the door for another half hour before Souza came out again, this time alone. But he didn't cross the street. Instead he slowly paced up and down the sidewalk near several other smokers. At first Jason was frustrated and considered leaving for the night. This was going to be much harder than hitting a stationary mannequin. But he couldn't disappoint the others. As he watched Souza pace with a regular pattern, toward and away from the entrance, he had a sudden inspiration. It was time to act.

He crossed the street and approached the restaurant with his head down while he felt for the cigarette in his jacket pocket. When he looked up Souza was turning away from him to go his several paces the other way. Jason kept him in sight while casually maneuvering around others and moving toward him. He raised his cigarette, hoping he could hit Souza in the back of the neck before he turned around.

No such luck. Souza had turned and would stroll past, facing him, in about three seconds. Jason stopped, looked straight ahead, cigarette in mouth, and fished in his pocket for a lighter. When Souza came abreast he stopped, squinted and stared at Jason, as if trying to place him. He hissed, "Blue. Jason Blue. The rapist who got off. By the way, thanks for the dinner. It was delicious." He flashed a big smile.

Jason felt a surge of hatred. He looked Souza in the eye as he raised the lighter, held the cigarette steady and fired with a sharp blow. Souza winced a little and slapped at his throat as if swatting a mosquito.

Jason turned and walked away, looking nonchalant. He glanced back and saw Souza collapse to the sidewalk, clutching his chest.

One of the bouncers came out, approached Souza and said, "Hey, man, I'll call you a cab. You've had too much to drink. You can't pass out here. Hey, man." He shook Souza and slapped his face a couple times. He felt his wrist for a pulse. Then he stood up and raised his phone to his ear.

No one noticed Jason as he strolled away. He had done it! He had succeeded. He had nailed the bastard. This was ecstasy. This was a bigger rush than riding any wave or skiing any mountain slope could ever be. He reached his car, got in and started sobbing. Tears of relief, tears of joy streamed down his face. As they ebbed he looked around to see if anyone had followed him. No one.

Then, realizing he hadn't actually seen Souza die, he wondered, could he survive and finger Jason? Did he even know what had happened to him? If he survived would he remember or would he be brain-damaged and have no memory of seeing Jason? He found that thought pleasant. Living out his life demented, drooling and diapered would be a greater punishment than a quick, painless death. Maybe Obie's joke about customized reprisals should be taken seriously after all. But that would be for another time. Now he absolutely had to know Souza's fate. He couldn't go back and tell the others he carried out the mission but wasn't sure he had succeeded.

He heard sirens approaching the restaurant, then stopping. It sounded like an ambulance and two police cars. Euphoria turned to panic. He got out of the car and warily headed back toward the scene. From a half block away he could see the medics pushing a gurney, with a person on it, toward the ambulance. They seemed to be in no hurry. Why? Was Souza dead? Or was he stable and out of danger? Jason moved closer and strained to see what was going on. Then he saw that a white sheet covered the entire body including the head.

Whew! What a relief. He really had done it. Mission accomplished after all. The euphoria returned. He couldn't wait to break the good news. But he would have to. He had an hour and a half drive ahead of him and they had agreed, no phone calls. He whooped and sang along with the radio all the way back.

When he got to the Kalama's the other four were there. Lehua refused to be left out of whatever was coming, be it celebrating success or morning failure. They thought they heard something about the incident on their police scanner, but the mountains prevented clear reception and they couldn't make out the details. They all met him at the door, hustled him in and looked at him anxiously.

Obie prompted him, "Well?....."

Giving the joker a little payback, he looked at Obie grimly and shook his head. He said, "I'm sorry. I tried....."

They were still with the gloom of disappointment that they tried not to show for Jason's sake.

Then he said with mock sorrow, "I tried, but he didn't make it. I'm sorry." He smiled.

They all whooped with joy and rushed him with hugs, kisses, handshakes, backslaps, and hair tousling. All that love gave him a rush even greater than the hit itself.

Ryan produced a bottle of cold Champaign and Mele put glasses on the table. He popped the cork and poured. They drank toasts to Jason and Obie. Jason told them all about it, every detail, while they held their breath, then cheered at the end. Another bottle of Champagne. It had never tasted so good. Ryan and Mele embraced, sobbed softly, then thanked Obie and Jason.

Mele said, "There's even more good news. Lehua finished the manifesto and faxed it over this morning. Ryan and I studied it and we think it's perfect. We'll wait for you two to review it, but as far as we're concerned we don't need to discuss it. We have only to release it. I'll go get your copies."

Obie said, "I want a copy to read later, but I don't need to review it. I have complete confidence in Lehua, especially since you two approve."

Jason said he agreed. They all cheered and toasted Lehua. She smiled and nodded a thank-you to each of them.

Now, with the weapon field tested, they had the clout to issue the manifesto, knowing they could back up their demands.

In the following days Jason and Obie laboriously prepared twenty shooters and a thousand bullets: twenty glass vials with fifty beads in each. Half of the shooters were cigarette models and half were pencils.

Next they dismantled the lab, wiped everything down with methanol to clean off finger prints and, wearing gloves, packed all the glassware, the instruments (including Jaz), reference books and textbooks in properly padded boxes taped up tight and clearly labeled. They would have the stuff shipped as an anonymous donation to a medical school in Peru. Many chemical reagents were left, but not much of each. Obie sprayed them and the remaining freeze-dried critters and leftover toxins with oil-eating bacteria. Then Jason buried it all in the yard where it would soon become a harmless sludge. They deleted fi les from the computers, which they packed for shipping to a high school in Samoa. Finally, they burned all the notebooks crammed with test data and all the fi les containing information about bio toxins. The house was returned to normal except for the odd configuration.

At their next meeting they discussed the press coverage of Souza's death. There had been surprisingly little, which was a good sign. Even better, a short article in The Maui Tribune said that authorities believed he had died of a cocaine-induced heart attack. Having detected cocaine, the medical examiner didn't probe much further. Souza's habit turned out to be Aka's ally.

* * *

With the Souza matter closed, Aka turned its attention to the release of the manifesto, then to target priorities. On Monday, September 28, 2020, Aka posted the manifesto online to a zombie site and sent printed copies to influential media executives, editors and commentators; to key government officials including the Mayor, the Governor, the Police Chief, the County Prosecutor, the prison Warden, the head of the Department of Public Safety, the President of the State Senate, the Speaker of the State House, the Chair of the County Council, assorted commissioners, the President of the state bar association, and certain judges; and to assorted Prison Industrial Complex lobbyists.

All these people and their cohorts were potential targets, and now they were on notice.

The manifesto is printed in the Appendix, unedited and unabridged.

# 16 – Aka Goes To War

The initial reaction to Aka's Manifesto was mixed and largely skeptical and dismissive. The media and government officials seemed bemused and puzzled. They were at a loss for words, as though they could not believe that there were still noisy dissidents out there who had not yet been locked up. Hadn't most of them been rounded up after Napili Bay? Some thought the manifesto was a hoax, a form of psychological harassment by remnants of the Video Vandals. Few bothered to read the whole document.

But Police Chief Foster read it and it infuriated him. A few days after publication he said to a television reporter, "We will find the authors of this tripe and charge them with fifty counts of terroristic threatening and inciting to violence against government officials. When we're done with them the feds will charge them with sedition under the Patriot Act."

Prosecutor Bertoli said, "Aka is just a few wise-ass punks playing a very dangerous game. When they're caught we'll see that they get several life terms without parole."

The FBI and the federal prosecutor had no comment, but were believed to be investigating or consulting on the document.

Meanwhile the Aka Five met and discussed their next target. Getting Souza had given the Kalamas their retribution and Jason part of his. The next target should be Obie's choice. There were no official suspects in Jaz's murder, but Obie had always believed that the Mayor at the time, Leon Pringle, had arranged it. Since his retirement he had continued to serve the Juggernaut by acting as a propagandist and lobbyist for the PIC. He was paid very well to keep the public stirred up with fiery tough-on-crime speeches and private arm-twisting and bribing to keep legislators in line. He had once said, "I'd rather see ten innocent people go to prison than one guilty person go free." He had spent a lifetime at war with the Bill of Rights.

They all agreed on Pringle. Mele and Ryan had photos and videos, and they knew where he lived, worked and played. His wife had left him two years earlier, and he lived alone. But they ruled out hitting him at home. He had two nasty pit bulls, and an elaborate security system with plenty cameras and alarm triggers. He ate out a lot, but almost always with friends and cronies. He didn't smoke, so a Souza-style hit wasn't in the cards. His office was in his home, and he didn't have a regular work schedule. He had a personal assistant do his shopping.

Mele said, "But there is one time when he might be briefly vulnerable. He's pretty rigid about his workout routine. We got these shots of him jogging at Baldwin Beach just before sunset when few people are still there. He always wears swim shorts and a tank top, leaving plenty of skin exposed.

Sometimes he takes a short swim, but mostly he jogs. And he leaves his phone in the car."

Jason said, "Sounds like fish in a barrel. Almost too easy. What's the downside?"

Ryan said, "There are two things to be aware of. One, he usually has one of the dogs with him. And two, if it's completely deserted except for him it would be easy, but with a few people around you're more likely to be noticed and remembered, especially if anyone sees you near him. So your disguise has to be good, which might be a challenge when you're dressed for the beach."

Jason said, "How about a touristy look, with a camera?"

Mele said, "That could work."

Jason said, "What about transportation?"

Ryan said, "I'll give you a ride to Pa'ia, and you'll walk the quarter mile to Baldwin Beach. Afterwards I'll meet you back in Pa'ia."

Jason said, "Sounds good to me."

The following day, just before dusk, Jason walked from Pa'ia along the highway and arrived at Baldwin Beach Park wearing plaid Bermuda shorts, a gaudy aloha shirt, a Yankees baseball cap, sunglasses, and a trim moustache. With a camera dangling from his neck and a map in hand, he crossed the lawn and approached the beach. He could see two figures about 200 yards up the beach. He raised his camera, and the telephoto lens brought a man and a dog into clear view. It was Pringle and his pit bull.

There was only one car parked in the area and it matched the one in the intel fi le. Jason sat at a picnic table about 30 feet from the car with his map spread out, the camera holding a corner in place, and a pencil in his hand. Pringle came up from the beach and headed for his car. He would walk within about 15 feet of the table. As he approached, Jason's lips played lightly on the eraser. It would be an easy shot, but the dog was scary, pure muscle and fangs.

Jason looked up, smiled and said, "Hi, beautiful day, huh?"

Out of a politician's habit Pringle smiled and waved. "Sure is. Sure is." He was solid, like his dog. The dog ignored Jason.

Pringle opened the back door of the sedan and the dog climbed onto the seat. He opened his door, got in and opened his window. He started the car and put it into reverse. Jason couldn't let him get away. He snatched up the map, walked quickly toward Pringle, smiling, holding his index finger up like Colombo did in ancient reruns, and said, "Excuse me, sir. Can you show me the best way....."

Pringle braked as Jason hustled over, with the map in one hand and the pencil in the other. "I'm confused," He said. "Where is the old sugar mill?" He held the map out and Pringle looked at it, taking his eyes off Jason. That was Jason's chance, but before he could get the shot off the dog went off -- barking, snarling and trying to get at Jason. Pringle was startled and his head jerked down and away from the commotion. He turned to face Jason. Jason fi red.

"Ouch!" Pringle caught a micro-second glimpse of a tiny dark dot flying at his left eye. He thought it was a common fruit fly that coincidentally appeared at that moment. It wasn't uncommon for the bugs to fl y into people's eyes. Even though he was looking right at Jason and his weapon, Pringle never knew what hit him. He blinked hard and rubbed his eye. Both eyes teared profusely. The dog barked and growled frantically, squeezed into the front seat and tried to get over or around Pringle and at Jason's throat.

Jason was frozen, not sure if the shot to the eye would work. He thought about taking a second shot as Pringle thrashed in pain and suddenly slumped in his seat. As the dog was about to come through the window the engine screamed and the car shot across the parking lot in reverse. A moment later it crashed into a utility pole. Jason grabbed his camera off the picnic table and hurried away, toward the beach rather than the highway. He would walk to Pa'ia on the beach where he was less likely to be seen, and less likely to be questioned about the accident.

Ten minutes later, as he hurried along, he heard the sirens. Just like the fi rst time, he wasn't sure he had done the job. He and Obie hadn't tested or discussed absorption through the eye. Jaz didn't have an eye portal. But the way Pringle suddenly slumped suggested the toxin had worked. And if it didn't kill him, maybe the crash did. Too bad he couldn't go back and act like a bystander to check it out. The dog had probably survived and would tear him apart. He took off his shirt and shorts to reveal swim trunks and a tee shirt. He wrapped the shorts, cap, camera and moustache in the aloha shirt, and continued toward Pa'ia.

Ryan picked him up on the Ha'iku edge of town. An hour later KPOI Radio reported a fatal accident in the Baldwin Beach parking lot. Later reports identified the victim and said the cause of death was apparently trauma, but may have been a heart attack. An autopsy would be performed. The dog had survived with a broken leg.

The other four were ecstatic and energized, especially Obie. After a round of wine he said, "I want to celebrate by selecting targets and planning the next operations. I'm having more fun than I've had in years. I think we should step it up. We should always have at least five operations front and center, fully planned and ready to go at an hour's notice. That way, if the targets highest on the list are unavailable for a day or two, we can go right to the next ones and not waste time. What do you think, Jason? Are you with me?"

Jason smiled and said, "Absolutely, Obie. I'm loving it."

Obie said, "And how about you, Mele and Ryan? Can you keep up the intel and operations planning?"

"No problem," they replied almost in unison, smiling. "We're loving it too," Ryan added.

Lehua smiled too and said, "Good, good. It's important that we maintain our momentum. Our secret gives us a profound advantage that won't necessarily last forever. If the toxins are detected, or even strongly suspected, potential targets will be more wary and harder to get to. So we have to hit as many as possible while it's this easy."

They all applauded, then raised their glasses and toasted Aka. They glanced around at each other until eight eyes settled back on Lehua.

Mele said to her, "It seems to be your choice this time. How about Bertoli?"

Lehua quietly gazed at the floor for a moment, then looked up and said, "My anger has always been more at the system than individuals. I was just a kid when Randal died and I blamed the system rather than specific people. But now that I've worked inside the system I see that real people push the buttons that flush victims into the prison sewer. Of all these people, the one I've come to despise the most is Ken Bertoli. I may not have the thirst for personal revenge that you've all had for your targets, but I do have a powerful hatred for this man. He wasn't around when Randal died, but his dishonesty and his ruthlessness epitomize Maui's injustice system, and he has been responsible for the plight of many of my clients, including Jason. Even more than the police chief, he's the public face of the Injustice Juggernaut. So Bertoli should be next. He's earned it. However, he could be the most difficult to get because he's the most paranoid, the most intelligent and the quickest on his feet. Jason's first two missions were successful, but they could have been smoother. I think Jason needs more experience before going after Bertoli."

Jason disagreed, but kept it to himself. He wanted Bertoli bad, but he wasn't going to argue about it. "Then who?" he asked.

"I'll tell you who, but first I'll tell you why." Here is the case she made.

I was a rookie public defender in 2008 when the Curtis Bowker vs. Police Chief Willis Yancy, et al. ruling came down in US District Court in Honolulu. It seemed a small case, and everyone ignored it, but I had watched it from the start because Bowker's blog had caught my attention. If what he was saying about perjury decriminalization was true-and from my experience it seemed to be true-all our trials and hearings were for show, and the whole system was a farce, no better than the old Soviet system.

"Bowker was acting pro se and he lost the case on procedural errors. He was right about the issues, but he didn't know what he was doing in court. I thought he must be a fool for not hiring a lawyer. Later I learned that he had tried to hire one but no one would represent him. No one would even advise him informally. After he lost, Bowker insisted that the issue was not settled, and that the perjury decriminalization policy rendered the County government illegitimate and criminal. He said the criminal nature of the County was exposed for the world to witness when Police Chief Yancy fi led a declaration swearing under penalty of perjury that his department does not maintain a perjury decriminalization policy. It was a bald-faced lie, a crime upon a crime, suborned by Deputy Corporation Counsel Ronald Rosen, that should have gotten both of them ten years in a federal pen. Instead the judge accepted the declaration as evidence and ruled that Yancy did not maintain a decriminalization policy and even if he did he had not violated Bowker's rights.

"Bowker begged for legal and financial help in preparing an appeal. When he didn't get it he excoriated the legal community, especially the ACLU and self-styled civil rights attorneys, for their silent complicity in the outrage. Lacking the funds and the energy to launch an appeal, Bowker threw in the towel. In his blog he said the County had secretly convinced the judge that if Bowker prevailed, dozens of prisoners would challenge their convictions on the basis that they didn't get fair trials because of the illegal perjury decriminalization policy. Convictions going back years could be in jeopardy, and dangerous criminals could go free. The judge bought it. Bowker could not afford to appeal. One day a few years later I saw Bowker demonstrating outside Ho'opili Hale, the main Courthouse in Wailuku, holding a placard and handing out flyers. The placard said, Boycott Jury Duty. I approached him and struck up a conversation.

"He told me he had been butting heads with the justice system for more than two decades and that the biggest problem was still perjury decriminalization. He was trying to bring the issue to a head. His fl yer told people they could get out of jury duty by saying they did not want to participate in a farce, and the perjury decriminalization policy made all trials a farce. A shortage of jurors would create a crisis and force the courts and the community to fi nally face the issue of perjury decriminalization head on. In case this didn't work he was looking for another case like his, one that would bring the issue to federal court again. He would help the plaintiff avoid the mistakes he had made.

"About a month later I had just the case for him. Perjury and false reporting, which I thoroughly documented, had fraudulently landed my client Terry Reyes in jail for two weeks. I got him released on the evidence. Reyes then tried to fi le a complaint against his ex-business partner, who had lied to get him arrested and had absconded with joint assets while he was in jail. The police ignored his evidence and refused to investigate. I personally intervened and spoke with Chief Foster. I told him that the case perfectly illustrates the harm the policy does, and mentioned others whose lives had been devastated by criminal lies told with impunity.

"I said that it's time for the Police Department to comply with the intent of the legislature, and start enforcing the law that makes perjury a felony. Investigate complaints of perjury and false reporting, the same as any other criminal complaint. I asked him to order offi cers to investigate my client's complaint. He said he would look into it, but he did nothing. So Reyes decided to sue. I was with the Public Defenders' Offi ce, so I couldn't represent or advise him and, naturally, he couldn't fi nd another attorney to help him in any way. So I put him in touch with Bowker and, although it was illegal for him to do so, Bowker secretly guided Reyes through the maze that led to a trial a year later. There Foster did the same thing Yancy had done years earlier. He fl at-out lied under oath. Committed perjury in federal court. Like Yancy had done, he swore to the court that there was no perjury decriminalization policy.

"Terry calmly presented his evidence that there was such a policy, including a recording of an offi cer saying, 'It's our policy not to investigate complaints of perjury.' It looked like Terry might actually have a chance. The media started reporting on the trial. Talk shows and blogs were all over the story and the issue of perjury decriminalization. But one morning Terry didn't show up in court. A few days later Bowker disappeared. Their bodies were never found, but no one doubted they had been murdered. The trial ended. Press coverage ended. Foster continued business as usual. He's been Chief for most of my years as a lawyer, and he's helped destroy more lives than I can count. He knows exactly what he's doing, and he's remorseless. He has to go."

Ryan said, "Foster's a great target selection. But why would he be easier than Bertoli?"

"Bertoli's paranoid, obsessively observant, and always alert. He knows I hate him and he wouldn't give me the time of day. Foster's a closet alcoholic, which has made him sluggish. He's stupid enough to think I respect him. Also, it makes me nauseous to say this, but he's hot for me. I can set him up."

Mele objected. "I thought we were going to keep you a safe distance from the action."

Lehua smiled and said, "You think I'm going to let you guys hog all the fun? Don't worry, I won't blow it. Any other objections? Okay, listen up, Jason. How's your night vision?"

A few days later in the late afternoon Lehua sat alone in a booth in a dark lounge in Kahului about three miles from the police station, talking on her phone. "Ah, come on, Chief. Pleeeese. It's on your way home. Just give me ten minutes. By the way, it's my fi rst time in here and, I tell you, the aku poke (raw skipjack) here is ono! So fresh you think you're at the beach eating it right out of the ocean. Tell me I can order the extra large plate cuz you're on your way."

That convinced him. "Okay. I'll be there." He would indulge her grumbling that the Nelson charge should be simple assault, not attempted murder. Or was it the Aluli case she wanted to bitch about? No matter. She's pleasant to look at, so why not indulge her and watch her grovel? And fresh aku poke! Maybe a beer too.

When he entered the cool lounge the bartender said, "Lady's in the back, Chief," and pointed to Lehua's booth. His eyes weren't used to the dark, but as he approached her booth he could see that the woman was a blonde. Couldn't be Lehua.

But she said, "Hiram. It's me. Come, have a seat."

As he slid into the booth the bartender set a bottle of larger in front of him, and she pushed the plate of bite-size slices of fi sh toward him.

"Well, thank you very much, Lehua. Umm, you're right; this is delicious." He gazed at her for a moment and said, "You're as beautiful as ever, but you know, that wig looks kind of odd with your skin color."

"I know," she said. "I'm on my way home and I put it on for Brandon's sake. He's been ogling blondes lately. Last night I put it on and he got a big kick out of it. Pretended it was funny, but I knew it turned him on. I guess it's sort of a fetish. I tell you, we had quite a night. But that's not what I called you about. Chief, you have to reconsider the Aluli case. First of all,....."

At that moment a man came out of the bathroom. He had a scruffy beard, long scraggly dark hair, a tattered straw hat, a rumpled aloha shirt and tan shorts. As he came abreast with their booth he took a cigarette from behind his ear, held it near his lips, and slurred to Lehua, "Pardon me, ma'am, do you have a light?"

Foster, visibly irritated, said, "Hey, Pal, you know you can't smoke in he..."

He winced and slapped his cheek, then checked his hand for the squashed bug. He saw a little residue of something and brushed the hand with the other one. "Damn mosquitoes!... As I was saying, you know you can't smoke...." His voice trailed off. He was suddenly dizzy and very tired. He slid over to the corner of the booth against the wall, settled back and closed his eyes for a few seconds. When he opened one of them a slit, the man was gone. A few seconds later Lehua was gone too. His chest was burning up, but he didn't have the strength to clutch at it. He slumped into the swirling darkness and went with it, into the abyss of death.

As she left the blonde woman told the bartender that the Chief was thinking about an important case, and he didn't want to be disturbed for a while. Twenty minutes later the bartender discovered that the Chief was dead. They thought it was probably a heart attack, but the police wanted to talk to two possible witnesses, the blonde woman and the rumpled man. The composite sketches made from the bartender's descriptions were a joke. Lehua's call to foster was from an untraceable prepaid phone. No prints were recovered. Autopsy and toxicology found nothing to contradict the initial impression of sudden death due to heart failure.

It was Aka's cleanest hit yet, and the police chief, no less. Jason hardly worked up a sweat over it, before or after. He had become a cool, efficient killer. The Aka Five were giddy with confidence, certain they could hit practically anyone they wanted to. But how many hits would it take to convince the Juggernaut to meet Aka's demands?

Lehua addressed the question at their meeting that evening. "We agreed that we should keep up our momentum while we have the advantage. But there's another reason to keep the hits coming. The nature of our weapon has created a dilemma. We're killing the enemy's agents but the enemy doesn't know yet that they're being killed, much less how. If we're going to persuade them to comply with our demands, we have to convince them that they're being killed, yet keep the how of the killing a secret. We have to be able to say, Look here, your people are dying like flies. Their rate of death from so-called natural causes is suddenly five times the expected rate. We're making it happen with our Electro-Magnetic Phase Penetrator (EMPP) that disrupts nerve activity in their hearts and brains, causing heart attacks and strokes. We don't even have to get close to them. The Penetrator can lock in on a person's unique EM signature from 200 yards. For this claim to be convincing we must have a high body count. Not just statistically significant, but crushingly obvious."

The others nodded in agreement. Jason asked, "Any estimate how many that might be?"

Lehua said, "We can check actuarial tables and shoot for a death rate about five times the expected."

Mele said, "I think that would mean ten to fifteen hits per month, almost one every other day. Sounds like a lot. I don't know. Wouldn't three times the normal death rate impress them? I think we could manage two per week."

Obie said, "Three times could be a one-time fluke over just a month. The less spectacular the increase in the death rate, the longer it would have to be sustained to convince them. I think three hits per week is do-able once we develop an efficient routine and some momentum. We can aim for it and work up to it."

Ryan said, "Okay, that makes sense. Let's all think about it. We don't have to decide now, but let's keep it in mind and mull it over. Next, I want to share with Jason what we've learned about the three bulls. It's important."

Conflicted, Jason held his breath. Though he hoped he might finally get a crack at direct, personal revenge, he didn't want to think about the reason he wanted to kill them. He braced himself for the stress of facing it again.

Ryan continued. "None of them was an inmate; they were all guards. One of them is in custody awaiting trial on federal cocaine charges. One was killed at Napili Bay. And one died from herpes in the brain, secondary to infection with a virulent strain of HIV. I'm sorry about the last item, but I had to tell you. You should talk to your doctor about it. He might want to run some tests and change your prescription."

Jason nodded but said nothing. He was stung, but only for a moment. Three more government terrorists bite the dust. And it had not been Jason's imagination. He had seen the bull queer get eaten alive in the video. Thank you, Keoki and Talon, wherever you are. Even though he didn't get the bastards personally, he was glad to see them go down so fast, to know they died while he lived on. Of course he would soon die too. But he still had plenty of time to carry out many more missions, and that was all he cared about. He craved the intense pleasure and deep satisfaction he got from a successful hit on a government terrorist. It was intoxicating like nothing he'd ever imagined possible. Aka had only to give him a good reason and aim him at the target.

Ryan knew where he wanted to aim Jason next. "Jason, how would you like to go to Honolulu?"

"Hmm. Big cities make me nervous. But I suppose I could handle it for a day or two. Why? Who's there?"

"The lawyers. And their guild. Their president. She was in the first batch of ten targets we voted on, remember?"

"Oh, yeah. I know the one. Luddy."

"Right. She and her type are genuine, bona fi de scum, the lowest kind of Juggernaut enforcement slime there is, because they pretend not to be. At least the cops, prosecutors and jail guards are straight up, in your face, enemies of your liberty and your humanity. But the slime-ball lawyers pretend to watchdog the Juggernaut and keep it in its place, while in reality they make a comfortable place for themselves at the Juggernaut's feet where they can steal a few scraps and pretend to a little dignity. In return for this glorious place under the table, and for being allowed to exist, they provide the proper trappings of legality while they deliver a steady stream of warm bodies to the Juggernaut to keep it well-fed and content.

They do this in several ways. They act as prosecutors, judges, parole board members, County and State attorneys, legislators, and business attorneys and as lobbyists for the incarceration industries. They act as defense attorneys, and even in that role many of them thrive on backstabbing their clients in deals with Juggernaut agents. They refuse to represent or assist victims of civil rights violations, no matter how egregious and injurious the abuses. Perhaps worst of all, they destroy non-bar members who attempt to help pro se defendants and plaintiffs in civil rights cases. It's institutionalized obstruction of justice on a grand scale."

Lehua interjected, "The last two practices amount to an undisguised frontal assault on due process and the very concepts of freedom of association, freedom of speech and equal justice. Allowed to continue, they will gut the Bill of Rights. They prove that the lawyer profession and most lawyers are dangerous, treacherous enemies of liberty. By refusing to help victims of government terrorism get their day in court, while also preventing others from helping, they aid and abet the tyranny's criminal violence, and they ensure its impunity. They are more than complicit; their hands are dripping blood. This is why they are legitimate targets and high on our list. We have to force a change of heart; a change in the lawyer culture. We'll make them dream about more than a new yacht or private jet. We'll give them nightmares if they don't start taking and winning civil rights cases. Either that or stand aside and allow someone else to give it a try. End the bar monopoly."

Jason said, "Damn Straight. And Luddy's the target?"

Ryan said, "Right. HBA President Mona Luddy."

* * *

A few days later Jason took an early-morning flight to Honolulu with a map of the city, a page of notes on Luddy's likely and possible locations at various times throughout the day and another such page for the next day. He hoped he could do the job by afternoon and fly back that night, but he was prepared to stay overnight and do it the next day if necessary. With a couple pencils and a pack of cigarettes, including two of the special type, in plain view in his shirt pocket, he marveled at how easily he had carried loaded deadly weapons onto the plane.

Mona Luddy was a classic over-achiever, and she had it all: a loving husband who headed a real estate investment fi rm; three sensible kids, all doing well in a top private school; a lovely home in the hills of Waialae Iki with a glorious ocean view; and a job that had come naturally to her, first as a deputy prosecutor and later as a personal injury and civil rights attorney. For 15 years she raked in huge fees, mostly in cases involving catastrophic injury on the job or in vehicular accidents, and in cases of illegal discrimination or sexual harassment involving employment, housing, health care and education. She had turned down many cases involving abuses during arrest and incarceration. Taking a turn at HBA cost her some income, but lowered the stress level and bought her crony capital for future favors. While there she rejected and ignored several appeals that HBA give up its monopoly on the practice of law or at least end its opposition to paralegals helping pro se litigants who have been turned away by lawyers.

Inching along in the morning jam in her Infiniti coupe, she turned up the radio. Morning talk-show host Darlene Gomes was getting into it with a caller about Aka's Manifesto. Luddy had heard about it and read a few excerpts in the paper, but she didn't give it much thought. The talk show made her think about it.

The caller, a young man, said, "Before you condemn it you should go to the web site and read the whole thing. I know you think they're radical revolutionaries, but their grievances sound legitimate and their demands sound reasonable."

Gomes replied, "I don't care what their grievances and demands are. Threatening to kill people-and that's what they mean by their right to use lethal force-is wrong. But I don't think we have much to worry about. This group, Aka. They're obviously a bunch of nuts seeking attention and publicity. I don't want to give it to them. Plus, they're on Maui and their beef is with Maui County, so it's not really relevant to us here on Oahu."

"No, Darlene, you should read it again. Some of their main targets are here. State legislators, Department of Public Safety officers, even top attorneys."

"Lawyers? Why lawyers?"

"Because they're supposed to use the Bill of Rights to protect and defend people from government abuses, but instead they acquiesce in the abuses and use their power in the legislature to prevent nonlawyers from helping the victims."

"And for that they should be killed? With some kind of gizmo that fries them from a distance like a remote electric chair? Come on! That's too ridiculous. It's obviously a hoax."

"I don't know about their weapon, but if what they say about the HBA is true, maybe lethal force is justified."

Luddy shook her head in disgust and turned the radio off. She made a mental note to read the entire manifesto carefully. If it continues to get publicity the HBA might have to issue a statement refuting the lies about lawyers. She turned into the office building parking lot, pulled into a spot and, as usual, headed for the coffee shop on the first floor. It was so convenient and she loved the fresh pastries. A cafe latte and a coconut-mango Danish would hit the spot.

As she stood at the counter placing her order she was only vaguely aware of the young man standing behind her working on a crossword puzzle. Another barista stepped to the counter and said to Jason, "I can help you here."

Jason wanted to stay behind Luddy. He dropped a quarter, then dropped to one knee to retrieve it. Luddy was wearing a skirt that just covered her knees, leaving her calves exposed. She was not wearing nylons. Jason fi red the bead and saw it splat on her white fl esh, little more than a small freckle. He stood up, put the pencil behind his ear, stepped to the counter and ordered an espresso. As he waited he glanced at Luddy and saw her lift her leg a little and reach down to rub her calf where the bead had hit.

"I hope you don't have fleas in here," she joked to the barista. "I feel like something just bit my leg."

The barista smiled and said, "I'm sure we don't."

Luddy took her Danish and latte to a table and sat down. Jason took a table near the door and watched her as he pretended to read a magazine. She already looked wobbly. A minute or so after she sat down she collapsed to the floor. She hit her head so hard that Jason figured the blow would kill her in the unlikely event the bead did not. One barista rushed to her while the other rushed to call 911. Jason casually walked out and headed for the airport, his mission accomplished before 9:00 a.m.

Over the next few weeks Jason did an average of almost three hit's a week, all about as easy as the Luddy hit. They included an assistant corporation counsel, an assistant prosecutor, Garrett Souza's father Police Captain Giles Souza, a State House Representative, a Maui Tribune reporter/editor, a Police Commissioner, a Judicial Commissioner, an ex-prison warden, and an ex-governor. He told the others he was ready for Bertoli. Ryan and Mele had continued to develop information on the prosecutor, but had trouble coming up with a time and place of vulnerability. They briefed Jason on a typical day for him. It seems he was always on the move and rarely alone.

Jason said, "You say he always parks in the ground-level lot of the county office building. Why couldn't I just park there some afternoon and wait for him to go to his car?"

Ryan said, "That level is reserved, so you can't park there. Besides, he's erratic. You never know when he'll go to his car. Security patrols are frequent, and they don't let people loiter around down there. If they saw you there without a car they would challenge you."

"How frequent are the patrols?"

"There are five levels in the structure. The guard covers them every 15 minutes in one of those little electric carts. If he was all you had to worry about you'd have 12 minutes clear. But other people are in and out randomly and many of them are cops, there on assorted business.

"I have an idea, something I've been wanting to try. When the time comes you drive me to the area, drop me off and I'll do the rest. But first I'll have to practice the move I have in mind. Let's go out to the garage and I'll show you. I'll practice on your car with blank beads until I can do it quickly and smoothly."

* * *

A few days later Mele dropped Jason off near ground-zero in the mid-afternoon. He wore a nice coat and tie so he would be thought a lawyer or business executive and not attract attention. Once he entered the parking structure he would have to quickly find the car. He would have only a few seconds near the car, and even that would be risky since he might be seen at any time. But at least he could avoid the security patrol by proper timing. He sat across the street at a bus stop and watched the structure, looking for a sign of the patrol so he could time his entry.

When the patrol next entered and then left the basement level, Jason sauntered across the street. Once in the parking area he strolled around looking for a dark blue Mercedes with a personalized license plate, DO-TIME. When he found it he glanced around, saw no one and walked quickly toward the driver side of the car, palming a small tube of the type that usually contains a 3-day sample of hand lotion or shampoo. His little tube contained enough Tetro-DH to kill twenty people.

As he got to the car he glanced around once more, then focused on the door handle. He took a knee, then took a small roll of two-sided tape from his jacket pocket, tore off a 3-inch piece, and stuck it to the handle on the inside surface where it couldn't be seen. This made the next step difficult, which is why he had practiced with bead blanks. With one hand he positioned a dental mirror so that he could see the tape. With the other he brought the tip of the tube to the tape and carefully squeezed out a line of beads. At least one would come into full contact with Bartoli's skin. He lightly pressed the beads to the tape with the tube tip. When he finished he saw the coast was clear and sauntered out. He regretted that he couldn't hang around and watch it go down.

About three hours later Bertoli exited the elevator, briefcase in one hand and cell phone in the other. "Hello, Dear. Yes, I'm fi ne. I'm walking to my car now, so I'll see you in about 40 minutes. Okay, I'll do that. Bye."

He slipped the phone into his briefcase, took his keychain from his pants pocket and beeped his door unlocked. He took hold of the handle with his left hand and started to open the door just as he had done a thousand times before. He knew instantly that something was wrong. The handle was always clean and smooth. Now it's... Damn! Gecko shit. He looked at the small gooey smudges on his fingers and tried to fl ick the material off with his thumb, but he only rubbed it in more.

One of his deputy attorneys passed nearby. Bertoli called to him,

"Hey, Ralph, got a minute?"

Ralph came to him. "Sure. What's up?"

"Watch my car and my briefcase for a minute. I'm going to run to the bathroom and wash this crap off my hand."

"No problem." Ralph said. Bertoli rushed away, muttering about exterminating all the little gecko vermin in Hawai'i. "What a priss," Ralph said to himself. "Little smudge like that has him running to the boys' room. Hell, that's what socks and the inside of your cuffs are for." He noticed the briefcase on the ground and the car door ajar. He decided to put the briefcase into the car. He picked it up with his right hand and reached for the door handle with his left. When he took hold of it he felt a damp stickiness, but he didn't care. He placed the briefcase on the seat, closed the door, and waited. He unconsciously rubbed his left fingers with his thumb. He waited.

Bertoli was in the men's room washing his hands when it hit him. Sudden vertigo, weakness and faintness. Down he went.

Ralph was feeling woozy as he waited. And waited. What could be keeping Bertoli? He wanted to go check on him, but didn't want to leave the car unlocked with the briefcase in it. The security guard was coming in his cart. Ralph prepared to stop him and ask him to check on Bertoli. As the cart approached Ralph stepped towards it, then collapsed in front of it. The driver called 911. Bertoli was found on the floor of the men's room with his hands soapy and the water running. Both men were pronounced dead at the scene, both apparently victims of heart attacks. It was a bizarre coincidence that the media couldn't get over. People who subsequently touched the car door handle were not affected, so either the fi rst two had wiped it clean, or the toxins had dissipated by exposure to the air. Or perhaps the next person used a handkerchief to preserve prints and wiped off the remaining residue.

To Aka it was a near-disaster. For the first time their surgical strike had collateral damage. They didn't grieve for Ralph, the assistant prosecutor who had been accidentally killed. He was a bastard like most of them. But he could have easily been an innocent bystander, maybe even a friend. Also, the media attention and ongoing investigation of the bizarre coincidence of the two healthy men suddenly dying of apparent heart attacks in close proximity to each other, made them very nervous. They had a long meeting about ways to ensure there would be no more collateral damage.

* * *

By late November the body count was in the twenties including Ralph, who had been accidentally killed but would be counted as a hit after they studied his record and voted him retroactively onto their target list. After hit number 25 they felt they had enough to claim responsibility and see what the response would be. They issued a statement to the media claiming responsibility for the deaths of the 25, named them and specified their connections to law enforcement and the incarceration industries. They pointed to the very high incidence of supposedly natural deaths among people associated with these fields including legislators and policy makers. Using their own ephemeral web site as well as a dozen online rumor mills, Aka spread the news, named the dead and their crimes, and promised more of the same if its demands were not met. The mainstream media reported the claims and hosted experts to debate the reality of Aka's purported weapon, as well as actuarial experts to discuss death rates, ages and occupations. Juggernaut agents continued to be defiant, dismissive of Aka's claims of responsibility, yet threatening its anonymous members with severe punishment.

Then Aka hit five more targets in three days, claimed responsibility and provided details of the circumstances of their deaths that had not been publicized. Again they warned of more to come if their demands were not met. But many still doubted. Although the epidemiological argument was strong, all the real experts dismissed the possibility of Aka's so-called EMPP or Penetrator weapon. But in the name of balance the media interviewed as many cranks as real scientists. The self-appointed Einsteins explained in incomprehensible jargon how the Penetrator works, and convinced many scientifically-naïve people that Aka's diabolical weapon was real. This created near-panic and rapt attention to Aka's Manifesto, especially the section on targets.

Some Juggernaut agents who feared that they might be targets quit their jobs. Some moved off the island, even out of the state. At least two -- a Deputy Corporation Counsel and a Deputy Prosecutor, perhaps wracked with guilt or terrified of Aka's pending reprisals -- killed themselves. One Saturday morning the Counsel kissed his wife good-bye as she went out the front door for a jog. As soon as she was out of sight he taped a note to the door, and closed and locked it. The note said, "Dear Lisa, Do not come in. Call 911. I love you." He closed the curtains, lied down on the couch, and shot a bullet into his temple.

The prosecutor, a divorced man in his forties and a well-known gourmand with the waistline that often comes with that hobby, treated himself to a lavish feast of thirty-odd gourmet dishes, along with a dozen bottles of fi ne wines and champagnes, delivered to his rented house in the Wailuku hills from the best restaurants on the island. It cost him almost six thousand dollars. After enjoying himself for several hours, he draped a large tarp over an easy chair and spread it out to cover the carpet for six feet around the chair. He liked his landlady and didn't want to leave her a mess.

He sat on the chair with a bottle of his favorite red zin in one hand and five tablets of methadone in the other. He had bought them from a junkie in that lovely part of Wailuku known as Happy Valley. Not a narcotics user, one tablet might have killed him in his drunken state. Five was a sure thing. He adjusted the chair to a slight recline, just enough to keep him from falling to the floor and, he hoped, keeping him upright enough to avoid inhaling vomit. Two days later he was found sitting in the chair, with the empty wine bottle in his hand, and most of the wine in the gallons of vomit that coated his chest.

The government terrorists had become the terrorized, and they were suddenly very careful how they treated suspects and prisoners. The whole tenor of the justice system started changing and some of Aka's demands were quietly met.

The rest is history. People became more aware of government abuses and the erosion of basic rights. Although no one liked the idea of an unelected death squad striking at will, neither could they deny that Aka's demands were reasonable rather than radical. Few could argue that they should not be met. Voters started looking for new faces and clean hands. The new politicos secretly signaled to Aka that all its demands would be met when they got into office, though they were careful not to appear to let Aka dictate to them. They never mentioned Aka or its Manifesto, but they promoted a similar agenda. Two years later the Young Turks would take over the Maui County and Hawai'i State governments.

However, the people most responsible for the fall of the Juggernaut did not survive to savor the reformists' victory at the polls. Our final chapter, Jason's Last Letter, tells why.

# 17 – Jason's Last Letter

June 18, 2021

Dearest Alicia,

Things didn't turn out quite as we expected, did they? I was especially looking forward to you bringing the kids to visit their Uncle Jason, who was living happily ever after in Paradise. And maybe I'd have a family of my own by then. Ah, such dreams I had.

This will be my last letter. We seem to have won, but I am dying. The virus opened the door to a virulent TB and I get weaker every day. I am in hiding, and it would be dangerous for you to visit. My greatest sorrow is that I will never see you again. But I will hold the image of your face in my mind during my last days and my last moments.

I could die next week, next month or the month after, but always remember that I was murdered in an isolation cell at the Maui jail on May 9, 2020, by government terrorists, agents of the Maui Machine. Keep this in mind when judging my actions since then. Some will label me a serial killer, and I'm sorry for the embarrassment this may cause you and your family. Your best defense will be to tell our story honestly and courageously.

In my short time here I learned more about Maui and Hawai'i than I ever wanted to. But I needed to learn it. And now the world needs to learn. The world needs to understand what has really happened here. Not just the stuff reported in the media, but the inside story. Telling this story has fallen to you. No one else can do it. Who would have guessed that I'd be the last of the original Aka Five?

Now I'll tell you how I lost my friends. For days Obie had been so happy about our success that he was in a state of perpetual glee, a manic euphoria. But one evening he was pensive and a little somber. We had a long talk after dinner that night. He said, "Jason, there's something about me you should know. When I was young I thought of myself as a moral person, a decent human being. I took for granted that, as a civilized and educated person, I would learn to be an even better person as I progressed in life. But after Jaz was murdered I changed. Now I have to admit to myself that I'm capable of great evil, much greater evil than I thought possible when I was young. Maybe we all get meaner as we get older because our brains decline as we age. But in my case there is no maybe and it's not just aging."

I replied, "Well, you've been very kind to me, so I reject your premise. But for the sake of discussion, what has made you a mean old man in addition to age?"

He said, "I was full of rage and frustration because I couldn't get justice. That caused me anxiety, insomnia, exhaustion and depression. You can't function right, and ultimately you can't survive, without rest and sleep. It's as essential as food and water. I had to adapt or die, and I discovered a way to relax and rest when I most needed to. I learned to lull myself into a pleasant reverie by closing my eyes and spinning elaborate fantasies about abducting them all, one by one: every person I suspected of being even remotely responsible for her murder. It was comforting to imagine subjecting them to the most horrible torture possible. As my victim's pain and fear grow, my anxiety fades and my pleasure and relaxation increase. When his agony peaks I fall asleep and I sleep for hours. It became a conditioned reflex. It allowed me to sleep and so it gave me the strength to survive."

I said, "What is the torture you fiendishly subject your captives to?"

"I dose them with a special poison. I have various ways of doing it. I play out scenarios in my mind using blow darts and aerosols. It was these fantasies that eventually inspired me to get serious about developing a weapon for Aka."

I said, "Do you still use the fantasies to relax and get to sleep?"

"No, not anymore. There's no need to fantasize because we've achieved the real thing: a substantial measure of justice. Our victory removed the source of the anxiety and rage that I carried for so long. Now I'm at peace and happy again, so I can relax and sleep according to my natural rhythms."

I said, "That's great. I'm happy for you, and glad I've been able to be a part of it. But I'm still curious about your fantasy. What would the fantasy poison do that would cause them such agony? What was the nature of their pain? I mean, you say it's like being burned alive at the stake. But what was it really? Or did your fantasy leave that blank?"

He said, "Okay, I'll tell you. After the person starts feeling sick and anxious I say, relax, you're as good as dead. There's nothing you can do about it. You just got a lethal dose of Hell. Soon you will stop breathing, your heart will stop beating and your body will cool way down. You'll lie here through the night and in the morning your body will be discovered. You'll be taken to the morgue and put into one of those cold body drawers. Only you won't really be dead. The entire time you will be fully conscious, very awake and very sensitive to the stinging, shocking, shooting pains coursing through your poisoned nervous system. And you'll be stone paralyzed, unable to reach out, unable to cry out. Every minute will be like an hour, every hour like a day. Until it's autopsy time and they take the saw to your chest. When you bleed they will be paralyzed by surprise long enough to ensure that you finally do, mercifully, die from loss of blood."

I said, "And imagining this torture-murder helped you relax?"

"I know it sounds horrible, but are you sure you wouldn't enjoy such a fantasy?"

I hesitated a while. He was being open and honest, and I owed him no less in return. I said, "Maybe I would. I enjoy the Napili Bay video. Yeah, I'd probably enjoy your fantasy."

"What if I told you it's not just a fantasy?"

"What do you mean? Have you ever actually used such a toxin?"

"No. But you have. Many times."

I looked at him quizzically. "You mean the Tetro-DH? Why do you say it's your fantasy toxin?"

"The Tetro is tetrodotoxin, the venom from puffer fish and the blue-ringed octopus. The DH is an extract of ayahuasca, the Amazonian shamans' hallucinogenic mixture of botanical dimethyltryptamine, or DMT, and harmine. Because of their high cost, and the suspicion generated by large orders, I didn't seriously think I could use them, but I included them in our series of tests out of idle curiosity. I thought the tetro might be kind of similar to my fantsy drug, but I had no idea just how similar or that the DH could potentiate it.

"After our discovery I often worked with Jaz late at night, while you slept and I could not. Certain results puzzled me, and I sacrificed another rat to study more carefully, to clear up the questions. Hours after I dosed it and it hadn't moved a millimeter my amplified steth picked up a slow heartbeat. Strong brain waves indicated severe pain.

"There are also some first-hand accounts of near-death experiences from survivors of puffer fish poisoning and ayahuasca consumption. There's no doubt about it. Tetro is a torture venom and DH multiplies the Tetro's potency while working its own unique horror. Ayahuasca shatters the ego and dismantles the mind, piece by holographic piece. It's sort of the mental equivalent of being dismembered while alive.

The Tetro plus DMT plus harmine combination produces an existence of pure pain. I hurt, therefore I exist. It uniquely produces the sensations of every kind of injury, sickness and torture that there is. Each is sampled for several minutes, one after another, and sometimes simultaneously. Nausea, vomiting, giving birth, passing a kidney stone, having your balls crushed or shocked, being raped or sodomized by a stallion followed by a hot poker, having an arm forced into a vat of boiling oil, having acid splashed in your eyes, having the tips of your fingers slowly crushed, being covered with hundreds of angry stinging red ants, having your tongue slowly sliced up like salami, and being burned at the stake. All the while demonic faces and voices mock you and screech at you so painfully loud that you think your ear drums will burst. A few hours later, when every type of pain from every possible method of injury, sickness and torture has been experienced, it starts over and runs the gamut again. It continues until you pray for your death and your prayer is granted."

I looked at him intently and quietly for a long time, then I said,

"So the people I hit suffered a great deal?" "There could be no worse way to go." There was another long silence.

"Do the others know?"

"No. It's our secret."

"This could be another one of your jokes."

"I promise it's not, Jason."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner? Shouldn't I have been told I would be torturing people?" I was being disingenuous. In truth, I'm ashamed to admit, his revelation didn't bother me in the slightest. On the contrary, it added to my satisfaction.

He said, "It was too important. I saw you as my last hope. When we made the discovery I couldn't risk losing you. I had invested too much in training you and I figured I didn't have much time left. Do you hate me? Will you tell the others and risk a schism, and risk the future of Aka?"

"Of course I don't hate you. You and the others are my best friends. But I should think I'm morally obligated to provide full disclosure so they can make their own ethical decisions. On the other hand, I'd hate to risk a split that could destroy all our gains. How have you felt about it, knowing all this time that we were inflicting enormous suffering on fellow human beings?"

"Have you seen me crying lately? Revenge is everything I expected it would be. A few months of enjoying it has almost made up for my years of anguish. When you joined us I knew the pendulum of luck was finally swinging our way, and success was getting close. Now we've succeeded, and every day I bask in the joy of it. Every night too. I have wonderful dreams of my best moments with Jaz, when we were young and full of love and hope. The bastards can never take that away from me. I won. We won. We kicked their robotic asses, and I can't thank you enough for helping to make it happen. Now, whenever my time comes, I can die a happy man. So how about you? You're kind of hard to read. Have you enjoyed the ride?"

I said, "Oh, yes. Very much. But I'm saving up the euphoria, the dopamine rush. One successful and righteous hit is good for a lifetime of euphoria, so I'm banking many lifetimes of euphoria. Just before death I'll let it start to fl ow, then it will continue for centuries. I think I've found the secret to achieving Nirvana." I smiled with a hint of mischief.

Obie chuckled and said, "Good night, my friend." Off to bed he went, not at all worried that I might have regrets after his revelation.

He knew that my instinctive compassion had been destroyed by pain and humiliation, as had happened to him. I went to my room.

Six hours later, at about 4 a.m. Obie's voice from his room across the hall woke me up. I got up and went to him. He was in bed propped up by pillows. He was laughing hysterically, tearfully, joyfully. I sat on the chair at his bedside and asked if he was all right. I couldn't help but smile and almost join him in laughter. It was contagious.

After a while he complained that his ribs were sore from laughing, and his throat was sore, but he couldn't stop laughing. Or was he crying? With the hall light on I could see his face clearly, but couldn't tell what was going on in his mind. One moment I was certain he was laughing, but an instant later I was just as certain he had switched to crying. Or had he been crying all along? Tears of joy, then tears of gloom, then both at the same time. Identical but different. Two sides of a one-sided coin.

Finally he paused. Silence. He looked at me, reached out weakly toward me, and said in a beseeching whisper, harsh and fragile, "Some water?"

The old joker had taught me too well, and I couldn't resist. I said, "No thanks, old pal; I'm not thirsty." I stayed seated, straight-faced, looking at him. He glanced away, then turned back and looked at me for a long moment. Then he exploded in laughter. Great heaving gales and spasms of laughter. He pointed at me and kept trying to say, interrupted by his own hysterics but finally spitting it out, "You deny an old man... with a parched throat... a drink of water. On his death bed. For a laugh. That's hilarious. Oh, my god. You kill me, Jason. I love you. You kill me. I love you...."

The hysterics subsided into steady, joyful chuckling and giggling frequently interrupted by a mumbled, "You kill me. I love you." Then only a smile was left as his body relaxed and he closed his eyes. I watched him for a long time. The smile faded. Finally he was very still, and I knew he was dead. I smiled and hoped I would die like that. Then I cried like a baby.

The doctor said Obie died from a hemorrhagic stroke. I guess his poor old brain arterioles couldn't take all the excitement and the surge of dopamine that came with his immense joy. A weaker person might have died of a broken heart 30 years earlier, but he worked and fought through his grief long enough to die from the intense pleasure of sweet revenge. He was my hero.

We had him cremated and held a memorial service at his house, just the four of us. Then we buried his ashes under his favorite mango tree. Someday a person living on that property will consume a juicy mango and swallow some of the atoms that were once part of Obie's body. He would love that.

Like elemental atoms, some elemental ideas are immutable and they survive the death of their hosts. It's not critical that we personally keep fighting or even that we personally survive. What's important is the love of liberty and the willingness of freedom-loving people to kill and die whenever necessary to defeat government tyranny and terrorism. This powerful meme will survive in the United States for generations to come.

Ryan and Mele were satisfied with their accomplishments and anxious to return to a simple life of farming. Lehua and I were also ready to pass the torch. So together we carefully selected and trained five dedicated liberty lovers to take our places and keep Aka viable. We chose them from a list of people who had suffered such egregious crimes and injuries at the hands of the Injustice Juggernaut that they had become tyranny's dedicated enemies for life. People like us in that respect. This time three were women and two were men, all in their thirties and forties.

We brought them together for several weekends at the Kalama's to share their stories, their grief, their rage and their determination to get justice one way or another; for intensive training emphasizing team work; and for discussions on AKA's charter.

They were not long-time friends like the Aka Four had been, but their common goals quickly united them. Two of them focused on bead shooting, two on target intel, and one on security and communications. However, they were all required to have a working knowledge of each other's skills in order to sustain a flexible and nimble group, one that could quickly regenerate in case of the unexpected loss of up to four members. They would never do anything dangerous involving more than two members at a time.

We emphasized that the Juggernaut was already severely wounded and backing down, so there was no need to continue the furious offensive Aka had maintained. For now they should stand down except for one chosen hit for each of them to at least partially satisfy their thirst for revenge and get real experience. They should continue to monitor the pace of compliance with Aka's demands, and continue to accumulate intel on the top few dozen potential targets. Eventually they might have to convey reminders to those who hesitate to comply with the demands.

My car insurance award check was finally issued. I used it to help the new Aka Five set up. They would live as friends, workers and students, sharing a house they leased together. We transferred the Kalama's computers, printers, photos, videos, monitors, big screens, and all the digital intel files to them. With reforms proceeding nicely, they continued to stand down, so they had plenty of time to live normal lives. However, they still had to spend a lot of time monitoring the activities of the wounded Juggernaut and the reformist politicians, tracking cases of government terrorism, tracking the victims, updating the intel on potential targets, and practicing disguises, acting, magic and bead shooting.

When they were comfortably settled in and all felt good with each other and with the work, we had a little ceremony. Each solemnly swore that he or she would use Aka intel and weapons only when necessary to defend basic rights, and would never use the weapons against anyone except government terrorists and their agents and allies, so designated by unanimous agreement. They also swore to always keep Aka's membership at five, to maintain full compliance with recruitment guidelines, and to avoid making action decisions unless they had five members present. Then I transferred the weapons to Victor Farley, who the others had designated as the first shooter, should one be needed. I gave him all the bead shooters and more than 900 live beads plus hundreds of blanks to practice with.

I got to know each of the new Aka Five well, and I like them all very much. I am confident that they appreciate the historical significance of their work, and they will keep the Juggernaut weak and off balance for a long time. If they pick their replacements carefully, Aka could keep tyranny in check for generations. The essential qualifications for recruitment of Aka members is love of liberty, as codified in the Bill of Rights, and hatred of tyranny. These must not be just intellectual convictions, but powerful emotions born of personal tragedy that equals or exceeds that of current Aka members.

Assuming that only occasional actions will be necessary in the future, Aka has enough ammunition to last decades. Consequently, they can afford to help a little across state lines and, with my approval, they added an article to their charter that allows them to offer small-scale, temporary assistance to dissidents in selected repressive counties and states. Aka has identified fifteen counties with tyrannies as bad as Maui County's was before The Great Conflict, and has made contact with dissidents in several of them. At some point Aka may render appropriate assistance if these tyrannies are not toppled and do not self-destruct in a timely manner. It would be complicated, with many security considerations, but it could be done.

Of course, everything will change if our secret is discovered, and that could happen next week, next year or decades from now. When it does happen Aka will lose much of its advantage.

In spite of our success I have reservations about our little invention. I fear we've made it too easy to kill people. It's like inventing the A-bomb of assassination methods. There's no doubt it has been a great boon for our movement. So far. But God help us if it falls into the wrong hands.

We reinvigorated Aka and moved its headquarters just in time. A few weeks later the Kalamas' house burned down with Mele and Ryan in it. The medical examiner said they died from smoke inhalation in their bed, so they probably did not suffer from the horrible burns their bodies sustained. Arson was declared the cause, but – surprise, surprise \-- no suspects were arrested.

Then Lehua was assassinated the old fashion way, shot in the temple while stuck in traffic. The gunman was on a fast little motorcycle and he got away. It seems the Juggernaut's sluggish intel and its remaining hard-liners had finally caught up with Aka, but there were no indications they knew about the next generation Aka.

We'd had a great run, and I'd grown happy, but the death of my friends and my own physical decline has brought me down a notch. Still, I will die a happy man because we succeeded beyond our wildest dreams. Our demise won't change the overall trend, the steady move toward compliance with Aka's demands and the rule of law, especially the supreme law, the Bill of Rights. The murders were counter-trend, the last desperate strike of the severed head of a venomous snake. Our fight has reawakened the liberty-loving conscience of the larger community, which won't easily be lulled back to sleep. Our gains will be extended and solidified in the next election.

Some will say that I don't deserve to die happy and pain free; that I should suffer the same death by torture I subjected many others to with the Tetro-DH. My reply is, one, I was innocent and never even tried, yet I was subjected to several weeks of hell, then brutally murdered. I was victimized by psychopathic persons, then again by psychopathic institutions. This unleashed forces in me that I had little control over. And, two, the people I sent to hell with Tetro-DH deserved it because they were responsible for the suffering of hundreds like me.

However, I do not deny that, in the bigger picture, my death at this time is probably for the best, because I have become a truly savage person. I revel in the suffering of the enemies of liberty, like Obie did toward the end of his life. Rationally I know that it's time for a lull in my line of work, at least on Maui. But emotionally there is nothing I would enjoy more right now than going on a mission and getting one of the bastards who was high on our target list when I called a cease fire. I hate to see them get away with their crimes and I'd love to hit one more government terrorist for old time's sake.

I've come to crave the rush I get from killing them. Now it seems my blood lust has no limit and can never be fully satisfied. Perhaps the virus, the HIV, along with the trauma of torture, has ravaged the peace-love-and-understanding circuits of my brain. And maybe, along with the trauma of Jaz's murder, a prion did the same thing to Obie so that the greatest enjoyment in life for that once gentle man became vengeful torture and execution. Perhaps ancient stories about vampires and zombies, in which decent people bitten by evil become evil too, have their roots in cases like ours. It is no tragedy that the likes of us die while we are, I hope, still slightly ahead on the lifetime morality accounting scale.

Don't worry about me suffering in my last days. After all, I'm an expert killer. I have a perfect record, 30 and 0 I believe, and I won't botch my last job. When the end is near I'll savor the two bottles of red zin I have for the occasion, pop 30 downers, and climb into an airtight body bag. I won't feel a thing, I promise. Don't cry for me.

I love you.

Jason

# Epilog

Jason died on July 2, 2022, surrounded by the new Aka Five, and sedated with pills and wine. He had been on Maui just 18 months. But what an 18 months it had been! For him and for the island.

The new Aka was very active and effective. For five years it ensured that reforms stayed on track in Maui County, while at the same time it aided dissidents with operations, one at a time, in at least a dozen Western counties. But in 2026 two members of Aka were arrested in Arizona after visiting with a well-known radical dissident. One was executed in front of the other. It was staged as an escape attempt, and he was shot in the back by an Arizona Highway Patrolman.

The other, a brave young woman named Roxanne Mezey, was raped and tortured, and she spilled the beans about the five tiny beads they found on her in a little bottle, and she named two other members. But she was heroically silent about the fifth member, Victor Farley, the one who had custody of the Tetro-DH stash. This gave him time to leave Hawai'i with several identities and disguises, and he has never been found by the authorities. Farley is presumed to still possess the deadly beads, and he almost certainly shares them with close allies throughout the western states, and no-doubt trains trusted dissidents in their use.

There have been rumors that an unnamed person from Maui was behind the death of Washington Governor Richard Gleason, the hardest of hard-liners, an ex-warden of a notorious prison. He died of an apparent heart attack while working a crowd in Spokane. He was in his early forties and had no known risk for heart disease. A trace of a substance tentatively identified only as a suspected marine neurotoxin was allegedly found in and on the skin of his neck where the medical examiner noticed a strange little smudge and analyzed it.

Now the media have the nation in a tizzy about the "mysterious poison pea shooter" believed to be from Maui. Whenever anyone remotely associated with law enforcement or the incarceration-related industries dies, a test is done for toxins. Almost all of these turn out negative, but at least two others were apparently positive for a neurotoxin.

Where all this will end is anyone's guess. What is certain is that action generates reaction, and brutality generates hatred and brutal vengeance. Throughout history people have rebelled against tyrannies, which usually sow the seeds of their own destruction. Creating anger, frustration and enmity is more dangerous than ever in these days of do-it-yourself biochemistry.

Diamonds are not created from thin air. Aka had crystallized because the Maui Machine had applied enormous pressure and heat. The few who were not crushed emerged as the Machine's most hardened, determined and deadly foes. And so the wheels of history turn

END

# Appendix

**Liberty Lovers Manifesto: The Law is for All**

**Preamble**

**Grievances**

**Demands**

**Declaration of Our Right and Our Intention, to Enforce Our Demands**

**Warning to Tyrants and Their Thugs: Cease and Desist or Die**

**Aka's Weapon**

## Preamble

When, in the course of human events, tyranny makes it necessary to choose between submitting and fighting, those who choose to fight are obliged to tell the world why. Aka is among those who choose to fi ght, and this document fulfils the obligation.

In Hawai'i, behind the facade of the aloha spirit and flower leis, there flows a sewer of ignorance, arrogance, corruption, brutality and contempt for constitutional rights and the rule of law. Maui County in particular sees itself as a system apart, as if exempt from the constitutional principles that constrain government and protect basic rights. The County is reminiscent of small Southern towns, pre1970s, in its arbitrary and capricious behavior, tyrannical tactics and cynical contempt for the rule of law.

The so-called justice system, intertwined with the Prison Industrial Complex (PIC) in a symbiotic embrace, has become an Injustice Juggernaut that tramples on the Bill of Rights and wages war only partly on criminals, and mostly on political and cultural opponents as well as on randomly-chosen innocents. The Juggernaut is fundamentally psychopathic: dishonest, rapacious, ruthless, relentless and remorseless. Now "aloha spirit" means good-bye constitutional rights.

The American Declaration of Independence states that when government becomes an obstacle to liberty and justice it is not only the right but the duty of freedom-loving people to overthrow it by force. We agree with this principle. Although overthrowing the government by force is not a practical option at this time, forcing an end to government terrorism is both necessary and achievable.

It is not only the right but the duty of the abused and oppressed, those bullied and beaten down, to fight back. Their obligation is to their children, to future generations and to civilization itself. Aka will not neglect this duty. We have no illusions about easy solutions using rational persuasion and other nonviolent means. As with the criminal behavior of a psychopathic individual, the criminal ways of a psychopathic institution, bureaucracy or government can be deterred only by force.

Our demands are not negotiable. Failure to comply in full will be met with continuous lethal reprisals against individual government terrorists and those who aid and abet them. We will destroy the key organs of the Machine, in essence knee-capping and crippling the Juggernaut.

Aka's actions will be surgical in nature, and innocent people will not be harmed. Nor will property be targeted.

Liberty must be defended, first and foremost, at the local level. The focus of this Manifesto is on Maui County and its State allies because this is our home, it's what we know firsthand, and because Maui County is the worst of the worst, a Flower Fascist Police State. It is the perfect model of what people in other counties throughout the country, all three thousand of them, should always be on guard against.

## Grievances

The Maui-Hawai'i Injustice Juggernaut is hostile to the Bill of Rights, especially the First, Fourth, Fifth, Eighth, and Fourteenth Amendments, and it consistently denies due process and dispenses arbitrary, capricious and brutal injustice. This injustice system is constantly engaged in low-grade warfare against common people, those who lack the power conferred by money and connections. All its parts and players routinely subvert the law and run roughshod over the constitutional and human rights of those who help pay their salaries and of those who have no salaries.

The government terrorists who form the engine of the Injustice Juggernaut mercilessly harass, abuse, persecute, defame, frame, and brutalize the powerless, especially the destitute and the working poor, but increasingly the middle class too. They kick individuals who are already down, and they tear apart and destroy families struggling to survive.

The Mayor and the County Council, integral parts of Maui's Injustice Juggernaut, are unresponsive to complaints about the criminal abuses and unmoved by documented accounts of the devastated lives of innocent people. They look away from demonstrations and hunger strikes, beat down lawsuits with teams of sharp attorneys who exhaust and drown plaintiffs in oceans of motions and frivolous discovery demands, and they conduct vendettas against all who seek justice.

Victims of government terrorism have no access to legal redress. For all the propaganda about the wonderful freedoms we Americans supposedly enjoy, here is the awful truth about the people's relationship to their government in Maui County:

Any non-wealthy person can be unlawfully arrested -- by honest mistake, incompetence, negligence or malice -- then beaten by the arresting officers, denied access to a phone and to an attorney, held incommunicado for weeks or months, denied medical care for painful and dangerous conditions, and horribly abused in prison by sadistic guards and nurses. It is common for pretrial detainees charged with minor crimes to be held far longer and punished far more severely before trial than they could be sentenced to when and if eventually found guilty.

When the innocent or over-punished person is finally released, if he does not immediately commit suicide or drown the traumatic memories in alcohol and other drugs, he will naturally seek compensation for the injustice, humiliation, pain and suffering he endured. But unless he is wealthy enough to hire a skilled attorney he has no chance of ever being awarded a dime or receiving an apology. If he goes pro se he will have only a 10 percent chance of getting through the maze of rules and procedures leading to a trial. If he makes it to trial he will have only a 10 percent chance of prevailing because the defendants and their witnesses are all free to lie with abandon, and they are experienced at doing so.

Of the 1 percent who finally win their cases years after the crimes, none is ever paid, as the government attorneys appeal and stall until the plaintiffs die. The 90 percent whose cases are tossed out before trial on summary judgment are rewarded for their efforts with enormous bills, fees and fines for bringing a frivolous action. The alleged debt is then used to deny normal municipal and state services.

The stress and the waste of time greatly compound the injury, humiliation and sense of hopelessness. Some victims waste their best years in law libraries researching cases, writing motions and briefs, and going to court, all for nothing in the end. Realizing their lives have been hopelessly wrecked, some finally do commit suicide or turn to alcohol and other drugs in efforts to cope.

Many pro se plaintiffs could make it to trial if they had a little help with research, basic formatting of motions and such, but, thanks to the bar's monopoly, it is a crime for a non-bar member, such as a paralegal or experienced self-litigant to help them in any way. This law is strictly enforced, while laws against abuse of prisoners, including pretrial detainees charged with misdemeanors on flimsy evidence, are never enforced. It is self-evident that this situation is tyrannical, unconstitutional and intolerable.

A triad of unconstitutional policies underlies the systematic and rampant violation of rights by government terrorists:

The decriminalization of perjury; the denial of an obligation to investigate; and the snitch system.

The third is justified in some cases, but the fi rst two are never justified. Any combination of two of the three locks in absolute power, so the Juggernaut can rule as it pleases, destroying due process and destroying lives. The policies corrupt all judicial proceeding. They allow and encourage unlawful arrests; police brutality and corruption; unjustified indictments; unjust convictions; unjust and unduly long incarceration; and prison-guard brutality and corruption.

These policies have created a quasi-fascist police state. It should not be necessary to spell out the harm to individuals and to society wrought by them. It is self-evident that they are a cancer on the justice system. For the intellectually challenged who deny this we outline the evils of the cancer in the following paragraphs.

Perjury decriminalization violates due process. Criminals in prison, or under indictment and facing prison, have nothing to lose by making up stories about hearing or over-hearing confessions of alleged crimes because the County refuses to treat perjury as a crime. The convicted rapist or robber can only gain by falsely swearing that someone confessed to a crime. He will not be punished if he is proved a liar, so why not give it a shot?

State law says that perjury is a felony, which it certainly should be since it can wreak havoc on people's lives. But Maui County has decriminalized the act of bearing false witness, understood in all cultures since ancient times to be a criminal sin. Maui police and prosecutors think they know better than the time-tested wisdom and, by strict policy, they refuse to investigate any complaints alleging perjury, no matter how devastating the crime is to the victim, and no matter how well documented.

Con artists of all kinds take full advantage of the policy and often find the County on their side and against their victims in subsequent legal wrangles. Estranged spouses who understand the policy use it to great advantage over those who assume the law will prevail. Sweetheart swindlers and labor thieves (quasi-slavers) get an infinite number of free shots at their victims with perjured, slanderous TRO petitions that they fraudulently fi le in Family Court as domestic abuse cases. They pay no price whatsoever when their allegations are proved to be lies, so they do it again and again with different sets of lies and against different victims.

Bad cops also benefit from perjury decriminalization. They can swear to lies with impunity, and they do so for many reasons including: to extort crime perpetrators and crime victims; to exact revenge; and to justify an arrest or an assault. It is self-evident that the perjury decriminalization policy encourages perjury and that perjury harms its victims and harms the integrity of the justice system.

Despite many complaints over several decades, Maui County has firmly maintained the policy while also cynically and firmly denying it maintains the policy, proving beyond dispute that it is a lawless and criminal entity. For its own perverted reasons the legal profession will not challenge the policy.

Victims of perjured TRO petitions who are exonerated and can prove perjury, nevertheless cannot sue the culprit for legal costs, libel, and other injuries, even in Small Claims Court, because the state courts have ruled that there must first be a conviction on a perjury charge before a court can hear such a complaint. They have so ruled even knowing that such a conviction is impossible to obtain because of the County's perjury decriminalization policy. It is self-evident that this is an intolerable violation of the rights of victims of felony perjury under the Hawai'i State Constitution.

A corollary of the decriminalization of perjury is the decriminalization of subornation of perjury. This benefits prosecutors more than anyone else. With this tool they can select and mould the testimony they need to railroad their victims without fear of legal risk to themselves. They, rather than the law and the courts, decide who is a criminal and who is a victim, and they often get it backwards. They build their careers on the shattered lives of perjury victims, and they corrupt the system to such an extent that anarchy would be preferable.

Refusal to investigate violates due process. Police refusal to investigate often goes beyond perjury complaints. It can include any type of complaint by anyone, and it can be for any reason or no reason. They not only cannot be compelled to investigate; they cannot be compelled to explain why they refuse to investigate. This is a handy weapon for cops conducting personal vendettas and rigging cases.

The State Constitution guarantees certain crime victim's rights, but the law is useless because there is no guarantee of a crime victim's most important and most basic right, the right to have his or her complaint heard, logged, fi led, investigated, and prosecuted if the evidence is sufficient. It is self-evident that without this right, all the other purported crime-victim rights are meaningless.

The County firmly maintains that decisions about investigating criminal complaints rest entirely with the police, who are accountable to no one. Whether to investigate, how to investigate and what answers to seek are nobody else's business, no matter how serious the crimes or the allegations. It is self-evident that this policy allows cops to play prosecutor, judge and jury, and it fosters incompetent investigations, corruption, gross abuses and tragic miscarriages of justice.

Perjury decriminalization, refusal to investigate and the snitch system form the bedrock of a one-way railroad to prison. They violate constitutional rights and state laws, and they constitute a devastating assault on the rule of law itself. Yet the three policies are supported by all branches of local and state government and all the self-righteous, pseudo-liberal lawyers and pseudo-patriotic politicians who put their hands over their hearts and chant their devotion to the principle of "liberty and justice for all."

## The Juggernaut's Enforcers

Abusive policies are enforced by police officers, prosecutors, and prison staff; and supported by mayors, judges, legislators, lawyers, PIC lobbyists, and the mass media. These all contribute to the Juggernaut's dirty work. Let us sample the ways.

Police officers. Cops are mostly poorly educated; poorly trained; ignorant of the law; contemptuous of the Bill of Rights; contemptuous of common people; incompetent; arrogant; vindictive; brutal; corrupt; and lazy. In many ways they behave like an occupying army, rudely ordering people around, dispensing with even a pretense of aloha spirit, and judging the merits of complaints and the cause of disturbances without investigating.

Common civilians who do not kowtow, especially those who attempt to assert constitutional rights or demand reciprocal courtesy and respect, risk being verbally abused, pushed around, beaten, zapped and arrested. The police enforce an unwritten law against a sin they know as contempt of cop. Though there is no such crime in the books, and no law against criticizing, insulting or being rude to an officer, their operational definition is the following.

A person commits contempt of cop if he gets uppity, acts as if he is an equal, asserts his rights, asks impertinent questions or in any way insults police or questions police authority. Cops punish the offender on the spot. They accuse him of belligerence, disorderly conduct, harassment of a police officer, assaulting or attempting to assault an officer, or resisting arrest. In the latter case, even if they never pronounced the person under arrest, they will falsely claim in their reports and swear in court that they did and that he refused to submit to arrest.

Maui cops are utterly incompetent as investigators. When they arrive at a scene of a crime or disturbance, instead of properly investigating they form snap judgments, play prosecutor, judge and jury, and mete out punishment on the spot with beatings, zappings and arrests. Then they write false reports and if the case gets to court they lie under oath to either deny or justify their actions.

Maui cops are contemptuous of the First Amendment rights of common people. They habitually harass sign wavers whose messages they disagree with, especially those critical of the police and other County officials or members of the business community. They are quick to arrest protesters on flimsy charges such as jaywalking, disorderly conduct and blocking a sidewalk. But campaigners for Machine candidates can block sidewalks, impede driver visibility, litter, jaywalk and harass with impunity.

Maui cops habitually conceal evidence, plant evidence (such as weapons and drugs) and tamper with evidence in order to affect the outcome of criminal and civil cases. They also tamper with witnesses by both intimidation and bribery.

In short, Maui cops are mostly criminals, thugs in fast cars with badges, zappers and guns. The most powerful and dangerous gang on the island. But for quirks of fate, they would be civilian mobsters. In fact, the vice squad has ties to the local mob, which does big business with Mexican and Asian mobsters. It has its hands in drugs, gambling, prostitution, and other rackets. But it's not just vice. The whole department is corrupt in one way or another, and it goes right to the top, including the Chief and the Commissioners. The Mayor, the County attorneys and the County Council members are all complicit in the crimes and abuses; they know all about them but do nothing to stop them. Some are afraid. Most are corrupt and well paid.

Busy as they are with their lucrative moonlighting, the cops still have to arrest and charge people, and feed them into the Machine. That's their main job. But instead of going after real criminals, the wealthy career criminals, Maui cops prey on vulnerable people for quick and easy collars to run up their numbers. They go after hapless homeless people, petty drug dealers, small-time whores, mentally ill disorderlies, parolees and probationers, political protestors of certain persuasions, and miscellaneous other undesirables.

Cops are not held to the same liability standards as everyone else. If a general contractor, roofer, plumber, doctors, cab driver, manufacturer, or food processor messes up your property, your health or your life, they are held accountable. But if a cop arrests you without cause, brutalizes you, and causes you years of inconvenience, pain and suffering, your chance of recovering damages is close to nil.

If a victim of police crimes and abuses fi les a complaint with Internal Affairs or the Maui Police Commission, the police will conduct a personal vendetta against him, deprive him of all protection of the law, and harass him with charges of violating laws usually not enforced. For example, if he is assaulted, burglarized or robbed they will not seek or arrest the culprits. Conversely, if he jaywalks, drives 5 mph over the limit, or rides a bicycle on a sidewalk, they will throw the book at him.

If a victim of police crimes and abuses files a lawsuit against an officer he is likely to get his car and his face smashed in. Or his house burned down. And if he crosses the police too many times they will put him six feet under in a macadamia nut orchard, or feed him to the sharks off Mokolea Point, cut and bleeding but still alive. For a few hellish minutes.

Police Commissioners. The Maui Police Commission is nothing more than the Maui Police Department's white-washing department. With so much filth to cover up, it's a tough job, but the Commissioners are up to it, and they are (secretly) well paid. Along with the police officers' union, they work hard to ensure that cops are never prosecuted for abuses or crimes on the job; that lawsuits against cops never succeed; and that the media never criticize, or report criticism of, the department or individual cops. Most Commissioners take substantial bribes of one sort or another for their favors. Some engage in shady dealings with mob contacts made through dirty cops. Some have been involved in murder conspiracies.

Prosecutors. The Maui Office of the Prosecutor is a den of ambitious vipers who build their careers on the broken backs of the accused, guilty and innocent alike. They knowingly use bogus police reports and perjured testimony from dirty cops, lying jailhouse snitches, and criminal con artists in order to railroad hapless defendants, many of them actually innocent crime victims. They routinely shoot for draconian minimum sentences. If evidence produced after a conviction strongly exonerates a prisoner, they will fight tooth and nail against release or retrial out of vindictiveness and without any consideration to the unjust suffering of the person. They often take bribes to aid and abet personal vendettas conducted by cops and mobsters against individuals and businesses. They suborn perjury, lie to courts, and conspire with cops to fraudulently secure indictments and convictions of innocent but vulnerable people.

Mayor's Office. The Mayor and his or her stooges on staff and in the Office of Corporation Counsel serve as the Juggernaut's steering committee, its public face and its courtroom bulldogs. They help to coordinate and conceal corruption while presenting a façade of democracy and legality. The Mayor is necessarily one of the kingpins (or queenpins) of government repression, terrorism and racketeering.

Judges. Most Maui judges routinely legislate and dictate from the bench without regard to the law or the evidence. They take bribes from individuals and businesses, including private prisons on the mainland where hundreds of Hawai'i prisoners are sent to work for slave wages. Pseudo-voluntary work furloughs provide the wealthy with landscaping, wall building, farm labor and home renovating for a fraction of the going rate. They also do telemarketing, data entry, assembly line work, and construction clean up for connected corporations. The inmates get a few dimes per hour, which they use to buy snacks and cigarettes. The monotony and boredom of prison life is relieved and their bellies and lungs are filled, so they do not complain much. They aren't forced to work, but they know that refusing can count against them with judges and parole boards. So they figure they may as well get out of their cages and make a little money. Judges are profitably complicit in these illegal arrangement.

Family Court judges are perhaps the worst. They routinely take bribes, award child custody to the abusive parent, launder the sale of child custody to the highest bidder, and refuse to recommend perjury charges be brought against witnesses proved to have lied under oath.

Judicial Commissioners. The Judicial Commission is to judges what the Police Commission is to cops, a white-washing agency that sees no evil and hears no evil on the part of judges. Commissioners often take bribes for their inaction on serious allegations. They occasionally slap a wrist or two to maintain appearances.

Prison Staff. Jail guards and nurses are taught that inmates have no civil or human rights and can therefore be subjected to brutality and mental cruelty with impunity. They punish inmates by beating, humiliating, inciting violence by other inmates, and denying medical care, psychological counseling, hygiene and access to attorneys. They torture by prolonged isolation, forced drug injection, and sleep deprivation, which causes brain damage with disintegration of personalities and dramatic reduction of IQ. In the event of lawsuits the offenders are transferred and hidden so they cannot be served papers.

Parole Board Members are gatekeepers who wield great power over the fate of inmates and are therefore in a position to extract a price from those who care about a case. They take full advantage of this. Parole and Probation Officers are low in the hierarchy and are easily persuaded to go along with the program for any given subject. The price for their favors is generally quite low.

Prison Industrial Complex Lobbyists are a motley bunch who represent the industries and the labor groups integral to the PIC such as police officers, jail guards and nurses, and bail bondsmen who lobby against pretrial release programs and less-than-draconian sentences because their economic interests are hurt by them. These groups pressure and easily corrupt legislators and commissioners. Their livelihood is a form of slaving.

Lawyers. The lawyers' guild, the Hawai'i Bar Association, HBA, is a major focus of evil in the state. Its members act strictly in their own interests and often against those of their clients or potential clients, and against liberty in general. They refuse civil rights cases as too complex and difficult to be worth their effort. Of course, such cases are even more difficult for non-lawyers to file and pursue pro se. This is made worse by the guild, which aids in the suppression of constitutional and human rights by forbidding (via the legislature, which they dominate) non-bar members from helping victims. They are lifeguards going on strike when most needed, then arresting non-lifeguards who attempt to help the drowning victims. Non-wealthy people are hurt most by these practices and policies that effectively deny them access to the courts and a chance for redress of grievances and restitution for damages done by government criminals.

## Demands

Our demands follow the general principle, the **law is for all**. We all have a right to equal protection under the law and due process in both criminal and civil cases. We demand an end to the long-prevalent regime whereby government agents and agencies, especially the police and prosecutors, can routinely commit crimes and cause injury with impunity, while they trample the rights of legally-challenged, non-wealthy people and railroad them with fraudulent reports, perjury, physical and psychological brutality, and other criminal misconduct and abuses of power.

We demand that all Juggernaut Enforcers, both County and State, cease and desist their abuses and crimes, including but not limited to those specified in previous sections. The required reforms are mostly self-evident and require only an adherence to the law and respect for the Bill of Rights. Here it will suffice to say that we demand an immediate return of all the constitutional rights that have been stripped and stolen from us. The following are some important examples of specific steps in that direction, but, while these steps are necessary, they are not sufficient to comply with the demands. All our grievances must be addressed; see above section on grievances.

Perjury decriminalization must be ended. Perjury is not on a par with jaywalking; it's on a par with rape. The police and prosecutors are sworn to uphold the law, and their brazen refusal to do so in this important respect aids, abets, allows and encourages thinly-disguised fraud, extortion, slavery and other serious crimes. The Police Chief and the County Prosecutor shall prominently publicize a joint announcement in all major media affirming a policy of thoroughly investigating complaints of perjury and prosecuting those who commit the crime to the full extent of the law whenever evidence is sufficient.

TRO petitions and signed statements to the police shall prominently include a warning, near the petitioner's or complainant's signature, that respondents have a right to a thorough investigation of any allegations of perjury provided they have documented evidence, and prosecution to the full extent of the law as warranted.

State law must allow perjury victims to sue the culprits for harm done by perjury, including legal expenses incurred, regardless of whether a criminal perjury charge has been brought or a conviction has been obtained.

The definitions of domestic partner and domestic abuse must be changed to reflect reality and end the framing of innocent people who happened to spend a few nights under a con artist's roof or naively allow criminals to stay in their homes for short periods. The concept of domestic abuse, as a special category of crimes, should be phased out. Crimes of harassment, threatening, assault and the like should be treated the same, by police, prosecutors and courts, whether or not they occur within families or in a so-called domestic context. Men and women alike are now victimized by the policies in this area. Men are easily framed by scammers, and abused women are hurt by the diversion of resources to the phony cases. The only reason to create the separate category is to weaken due process and allow the government to impose arbitrary injustice.

Police discretion regarding investigation of criminal complaints must be ended for all allegations of felony crimes including perjury, and severely curtailed for allegations of misdemeanors. To prevent meaningless cursory investigations conducted merely to comply, a complainant who is dissatisfied with a police investigation that does not lead to indictment will have a right to request further investigation. If the request is refused he will have the right to hire professionals to conduct further investigation. If an independent prosecutor or grand jury deems the evidence so gathered sufficient to take to trial, the County shall reimburse the cost of the investigation.

Prosecutorial discretion must be curtailed. There shall be zero tolerance for cronyism and corrupt decision-making. Pro se prosecutions by non-attorneys must be allowed in cases where the prosecutor refuses to act despite having ample credible evidence. The pro se prosecutor, with or without the aid of an attorney or non-attorney, will present evidence to a grand jury in the same manner that a prosecutor would, and argue the case at trial just as a prosecutor would.

Police officers must be fitted with mini-cams and microphones, and they will record all interactions with suspects, potential suspects, material witnesses and other persons of interest. The pseudo-crime of contempt of cop must be deleted from the minds of officers. Police cannot demand respect simply by virtue of their badges; they must earn it like everyone else. No charges arising from the interaction of a police officer with a suspect shall be brought unless video or audio recordings support them. This includes, but is not limited to, resisting arrest, disorderly conduct, assault or attempted assault on an officer, and threatening an officer.

In civil complaints against government employees, the employing agency will be responsible for locating and serving the defendants. Police officers must accept service of subpoenas and legal processes at their home station, and they must accept certified delivery to the receiving desk. Prison guards must accept service by certified mail from the state, which shall be responsible for ensuring they are served wherever they might relocate. The days of guards criminally abusing inmates, then disappearing like pedophile priests so they can't be held accountable, are over.

There must be zero tolerance for police harassment of people engaged in legal sign waving. Such demonstrating is the most cost-effective method of reaching masses of people, and it is the only method available to non-wealthy individuals. Therefore, the right to sign-wave must be vigorously protected by the County Council, the State Legislature and the courts. Just as it is a crime to impersonate a cop, so it must be a crime for a cop to claim, pretend or imply that an activity is illegal, and threaten arrest for it, when in fact the activity is protected by the Constitution. Police will not approach and question roadside demonstrators without strong probable cause to believe they have committed a crime.

Police and jail guard training must include effective education about the meaning of The Bill of Rights, especially as it applies to their work.

There must be zero tolerance for unnecessary use of force, brutality and cruelty by police officers, prison guards and prison nurses. Rape by any of these, whether heterosexual or homosexual, must be punished by life in prison without the possibility of parole.

There must be zero tolerance of inmate-on-inmate violence.

Prison rape must be punished by life in prison without the possibility of parole.

Punishment by prolonged incarceration in an isolation cell at the whim of prison staff must be made a crime. Isolation for more than 72 hours will require a court order following a hearing at which the inmate must be present and will have the right to testify.

The denial of access to an attorney for inmates in isolation must be made a crime.

The lawyer guild's monopoly must end. If a defendant or litigant, in either a criminal or civil case, cannot find an attorney to represent him at a cost he can afford, he will have the freedom to hire anyone he chooses, including a paralegal, to assist his pro se efforts. Such assistants will help with research, pleadings, replies, motions and briefs; and serve as advisors during proceedings.

In the alternative, there must be a requirement that all bar members take on a minimum quota of civil rights cases pro bono or on a contingency basis so that all litigants with legitimate claims have a shot at justice. All law students, whatever area of law they hope to enter, must learn civil rights law just as all medical students learn to administer first aid and perform basic life-saving measures in emergencies. Civil rights law is the foundation of all law in America, and law schools are heavily subsidized by taxpayers. Therefore, it is right and just that lawyers should be obliged to use their privileged skills and knowledge to help protect the system of freedoms that make their lucrative profession possible.

All media, whether print, broadcast or online, must end their alliance with the Prison Industrial Complex, and present fair coverage of issues relating to the operations of the justice system. Those who engage in yellow journalism about alleged crime waves, and demand ever harsher sentences and more prisons while they treat police, prosecutors and jail personnel as sacred cows and heroes, and never investigate or report on their abuses and crimes, will run the risk of being targeted by Aka.

## [Declaration Of Our Right  
And Our Intention To Enforce Our Demands](barbarians-smashwords-v01_split_024.html#ref_SrcDeclaration)

This Manifesto is not a threat. It is a promise.

In the 18th Century Thomas Jefferson said that the tree of liberty must be watered from time to time with the blood of tyrants and patriots. This appears to be such a time.

And Patrick Henry said, "Give me liberty, or give me death."

Now, in the 21st Century, Aka says, Give us liberty and justice for all, or we will give you death.

Aka's right to use lethal force is based on the universal human right to self-defense against assault, kidnapping, unlawful detention, torture, dehumanization, degradation and enslavement. Government uniforms and badges are not licenses to commit crimes, but on Maui they are treated as such by those who wear them. They leave liberty lovers no choice. Just as psychopathic individuals yield only to punishment, so the psychopathic Maui-Hawai'i Juggernaut and its agents will yield only to lethal force.

This Manifesto does not announce a revolution, a rebellion or a new war. Rather, it is an acknowledgement of the Juggernaut's brutal, decades-long war on common people, its continuous violation of basic rights. And it is an announcement of our determination to fi ght back and regain our rights from the treasonous tyranny that grips the island.

The Bill of Rights has been stolen from us. Blood was shed to secure it, and blood will be shed to recapture it. Nonviolent methods of attempting to force reform have proved fruitless and, because of the vicious reprisals they provoke, very dangerous. Therefore, Aka must and will use force against the Injustice Juggernaut in acting as a shadow justice system: policing the police, prosecuting the prosecutors, judging the judges and disciplining the commissioners. In short, we will hold government terrorists and their agents and allies accountable.

Henceforth, and as long as it is necessary, Aka will be the vengeful conscience of the community and the implacable enemy of the PIC, the Injustice Juggernaut, which must be dismantled because its existence is incompatible with the Bill of Rights.

## [Warning to Tyrants and their Thugs,  
Agents and Allies: Cease and Desist or Die](barbarians-smashwords-v01_split_024.html#ref_SrcWarning)

See the previous section on the Juggernaut Enforcers and their allies. Members of all those groups are potential targets of Aka justice actions. This includes the criminal thugs with badges, stun guns and pistols; the criminal thugs who run the prisons; and the criminal thugs with neckties, briefcases and gavels, as well as their powerful agents and allies.

Being a brutal cop, a lying prosecutor, a corrupt judge, a sadistic prison guard, a County attorney who gives cover to these criminals, a bail-bond industry lobbyist, or a legislator who demagogues crime, are about to become very dangerous occupations. Anyone who plays a role in repressive, unconstitutional activities-directly or by aiding, abetting, conspiracy and complicity-will be a legitimate target of Aka action.

There will be no warnings or advance notice to cease and desist other than this Manifesto. The culprits know who they are. Aka also knows who they are. And where they are.

Some retired government terrorists live in luxury on the bones of their victims and continue to profit from consulting, speaking and promoting the interests of the PIC any way they can. Aka will not recognize a statute of limitation for these people. As unrepentant ex-kingpin government terrorists and war criminals, they will never be safe. Aka will reach back and snatch them from oblivion. However, ex-Juggernaut agents who support our reform program might be pardoned.

Aka would like to see all guilty parties eventually brought to justice, even the lowest level thugs and slavers. However, in order to leverage our resources to our maximum advantage, we must set priorities and target mostly those in higher positions. Punishing a key legislator, an HBA official or a notorious ex-governor would do more to restore and protect liberty than punishing ten cops or jail guards.

All mass media reporters and opinion makers should take note: Some influential pseudo-journalists are actually disguised PIC lobbyists and therefore legitimate targets of Aka's justice actions. Their camouflage does not fool us. Several are already on our working target list. Aka urges those who work in this industry to break all ties with the PIC. Failure to do so will have severe consequences.

## Aka's Weapon

Aka will not use firearms, explosives or similar old-tech weapons. Obviously we cannot say much about the enforcement tools we will use. However, because our weapon is powerful as well as mysterious, in order to prevent the spread of superstitious notions about mystical and magical powers, we assure all concerned that it is based on principles of electromagnetism and human electrophysiology, not on paranormal powers. The device is driven by software and circuits, not by prayers or magical incantations. It is our invention, and we call it the Electro-Magnetic Phase Penetrator (EMPP), or simply the Penetrator.

Note: This section of Aka's Manifesto, suggested by Obie moments before official release and posting, was hotly debated by the Aka Five for several hours. In its favor was that it was a bold attempt at misdirection that might extend the useful life of their weapon, the effective use of which itself relied on misdirection, deception and disguises. The negative view was that this should be asserted in a separate document rather than contaminate the Manifesto with a lie, which might tarnish their credibility in the long run. In the end fear out-weighed moral certitude. They most feared losing their advantage early on, which would mean losing everything. Obie convinced them that they were justified in planting an integral part of their weapon, deception about it, into their Manifesto, almost like a letter bomb or anthrax powder.

Alicia Clemens

# [Bonus  
Short Story](barbarians-smashwords-v01_split_003.html#ref_SrcBonus)

The following short story, like the foregoing novel, is fictional, though inspired by actual events
WHY I KILLED THE MAYOR –  
A FULL CONFESSION

By

Kurt Butler

Preface

As part of my plea agreement I have agreed to tell the prosecutor and the court exactly what happened when I met with the mayor on that fateful day and explain why I did it. I had to make a full confession. Here I present that confession along with some relevant context and commentary.

The dialog is not paraphrased from memory. It is exact. I captured the entire incident on a little digital recorder in my shirt pocket.

Before the mayor came after me with his police, his lawyers and his prosecutors, I'd never been in trouble with the law. I'm a law-abiding senior citizen who has been persecuted by a lawless mayor and his criminal government.

As you read this please ask yourself: if you were subjected to the mayor's relentless criminal vendetta for years as I have been, would you not do what I have done? If you had no other way to fight back and to avenge the wrecking of your life would you not finally consider murder?

Here I break with tradition and write my confession in the present rather than the past tense. I believe this gives the reader a better view from my perspective.

My Confession

I am on the tenth floor of the county building, waiting to see the mayor. I am his last appointment of the day. The usual meeting with a concerned citizen lasts about 15 minutes and must be set about two weeks in advance. But I have been kept waiting for more than a decade. He does not know I intend this to be his last meeting with anybody ever.

What will happen to me? In planning this day I've always understood that I would have a choice between suicide right away, and spending the last decade of my life in courtrooms and prisons. In the worst-case scenario I would be paralyzed by police bullets hitting my spine. There are obvious reasons to favor suicide, but I'm intensely curious to see whether my desperate act helps to expose the corruption, lawlessness and brutality of the mayor and his government. For this I must live.

I am ushered into the mayor's office by a young aide who leaves the door half-way open. That seems odd. Is she wary of me because of my long history of sending angry emails and letters to the mayor? Or is it a subtle message that the mayor is ready to go home for the day, that he has one foot out the door and I have only a few minutes with him? They're running a little late and a wall clock tells me it will be closing time in ten minutes.

This guy has been making my life hell for 15 years and only now does he grant me a piddling 15 minutes, already trimmed to 10. I'm really pissed and determined that today he will finally pay for his crimes against me and against the Constitution. I'm surprised how easy it has been so far. Their complacency, borne of arrogance, will be their downfall. They routinely use violence to impose their will, and they assume that their victims are completely cowed and would never strike back violently. Big mistake.

Perhaps, considering that I'm a skinny 75-year-old while the mayor is robust and athletic at 50, it doesn't occur to them that I could be a physical threat.

As I approach, the mayor stands up and reaches across his desk to shake my hand. He looks me in the eye with a slight smile and gives me a firm shake.

"Hello, Mr. Butler, have a seat." He gestures towards the chair I'm standing next to.

"Thank you, Mr. Mayor."

"Now, then. Tell me what I can do for you."

"Okay," I say as I sit down. "I've sent you a few dozen emails and letters over the last decade. You've never replied to any of them....."

He interjects, "But Corporation Counsel has replied to you. Any communication that involves, or might involve, legal matters or have legal consequences, goes straight to the county lawyers. I usually don't even see them."

I say, "How convenient. Great way to avoid people who raise issues you don't want to deal with. Those county lawyers just brush me off with form letters. They treat me like dirt. You can't tell me you don't know what they're doing."

The mayor says, "It's true. I usually don't know. I'm very busy and I let them do their work. I read brief updates on the major cases, but I can't follow every case. That's not my job. I'm busy with issues like affordable housing, crime, water quality...."

"And raising money for your re-election campaign," I interject.

The mayor ignores the crack and continues, "But you have been very persistent, so...."

I finish his sentence: "...so you'll talk to the pest for a few minutes and maybe he'll go away. But I'm here to tell you that I am a major case and I'll never go away. My issues are about basic rights and the rule of law. Aren't these important? You swore to uphold the law and the Constitution, but you have violated that oath every day for years. You ignore people like me who have been harmed by the county's unethical, illegal policies and actions..."

The mayor says, "Wait a minute. Now you're insulting me and all the good people who work with me. But look, I tell you what. I'll go back and take a good look at your letters and emails, then I'll get back to you and try to address all your concerns. We'll have a longer sit-down in a few weeks. How's that?"

Nothing, I thought. Once again he's offering me nothing. He puts his hands on the armrests and pushes his chair back a few inches as if preparing to stand up. I am being dismissed. Time to play hardball.

I reach under my shirt and pull the 9 mm Glock from my belt. I point it at him, then I say in a soft voice, "Stay seated. Keep your voice down and keep your hands where they are. Slowly push yourself back another foot, away from the desk." I don't want him pushing any buttons.

The mayor, staring at me wide-eyed, complies.

I say, "How's that? you ask. It's not good enough. You're still not taking me seriously, even after all these years. Always avoiding me, ignoring me, putting me off and jerking me around. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of you."

The mayor says, "Well, what do you want? And what are you going to do? Why did you bring a gun in here? Now you're in serious trouble."

I say, "I could splatter your brain all over this room any second now and you say I'm in trouble? Your arrogance tempts me to pull the trigger."

I'm talking tough, but I've never been so nervous. Butterflies in my acid stomach, dripping wet armpits, feeling faint. I see that the mayor is also not feeling so well. He, too, is sweating and has developed a fine tremor in his hands. This gives me courage.

In a trembling voice he says, "Okay, we're both in trouble. But if you shoot me what will it accomplish besides getting yourself put in prison for life?"

I say, "I want my grievances addressed by my government and by the media. I've tried everything else – marathon protests, mock self-immolation, fasting longer than Gandhi, feeding myself to sharks – but I'm still ignored. It's all in my blogs, but the media and politicians won't read those. Now they will."

He says, "You mean you'd kill me to drive up your blog view count?"

I say, "Do you have a better idea? You know how it is. People will ask, why did he do it? What could make a nice old man like that snap? They'll go to my blogs for answers. That's the kind of society we have now.

"If you don't have lots of money for lobbyists, lawyers and publicists you have to do something sensational to get the attention of the media and the politicians. Then you get the spotlight on your issues and your grievances. Otherwise you're ignored and you have no chance of attaining justice or reform."

The mayor says, "And you think kidnapping me, maybe killing me and going to prison for life, is sensational enough to get you the attention you want?"

I say, "I don't want attention paid to me, but to the issues. That plus I want you to see your crimes and the county's crimes from a victim's perspective. I'm giving you one last chance to show that you're human, something you've refused to do for years. And I have some questions for you. Your life may depend on your answers.... How's that?" This is a lie. I want him to think I haven't made up my mind to kill him.

The clock on the wall sounds four low chimes. I raise the pistol, sight down the barrel at him and say, "Act normal, but don't invite her in, or I'll put a hole right between your eyes."

Two soft knocks on the partly-open door, then a female voice just outside says, "Mr. Mayor, we're all leaving now. Any last-minute needs?"

He replies, "No, go ahead. I'll lock up. We're going to talk for a few more minutes. See you tomorrow."

"Okay. Bye." I hear cheerful banter and people walking. The outer door closes. The mayor and I will be alone until the security guard hits this floor on evening rounds, maybe in an hour or so.

"Well done," I say.

He doesn't know that my pistol is a realistic but harmless plastic replica. However, I'm not unarmed. I brought something just as deadly as a real Glock, but small, clean and quiet. I'll take it out of my pocket when the time comes. My using it will make headlines and it will make history. We can all be Putin now.

He says, "Don't do something you'll regret. We can talk this over."

I reply, "Now you say we can talk. I've been trying to talk to you for years. You've never replied to my letters and emails requesting an appointment. You've never ventured a solution to my grievances. You've never apologized for, or even acknowledged, any of the crimes you and your goons have committed against me. You're conducting a vendetta and using county resources to do it. That's illegal and a violation of my constitutional rights."

"Vendetta?" he scowls. "Why would I have a vendetta against you? You're nobody."

I reply, "Because my dirty tricks cost you the 2008 election and you can't let it go," I say. "I interrupted your mayor-for-life ambition for one term. Even though you retook the office, you still seethe with rage. You're a sore loser. You can't forgive and forget. You have no sense of humor. Most people thought my prank was hilarious. But now I'm broke, permanently injured and always in pain. All because of you."

The mayor clenched his jaw and his fists, closed his eyes and shook his head. "Calling me your secret gay lover days before the election was not funny. It was way over the top. How do you think it made my wife and teenage daughter feel, even though they knew it wasn't true? My girl was so embarrassed she wanted to quit school."

I reply, "My motto is, dirty tricks for clean government. Explain that to her. And discuss the question whether the end justifies the means. It's a good civics lesson. Anyway, I wouldn't do that kind of stuff if you guys weren't so filthy. How do you think your family will feel when the corruption is exposed? Will that embarrass them?"

He resumes his rant: "Waving signs all over town that say I'm your queer lover is as filthy as it gets. It's outrageous that it worked. It swung a couple thousand votes, enough to cost me that very close election.

"But you know all this, and I'm sure you're very proud of yourself. It's disgusting to me, but that doesn't mean I would conduct a vendetta against you. I'm a Christian. I'm not quite ready to forgive and forget, but I'm not after revenge and I'll listen to you. Let's talk about whatever is bugging you now."

I say, "I've emailed you links to all my blogs that expose in detail the crimes you and the county have committed against me. Two hundred pages of hard facts. You already know what's bugging me because you orchestrated most of it, you bastard."

He retorts, "That's not true. I've been meaning to read some of your blogs to get a sense of what you're upset about, but we get so backed up in that office. One weekend when I had a few minutes I couldn't find the old email with the links. Back at the office on Monday I was going to ask for help with it, but we were swamped."

I say, "You're lying. All you have to do to find anyone's blogs is a simple search: John Doe blogs. Without making any effort to understand and compromise, without giving an inch, you have directed and are complicit in the county's long, vicious vendetta against me. You essentially issued a license to kill me. Even after you got your revenge and regained the office, you keep piling it on, doing everything you can to make my life miserable and drive me out of the county.

"Well, congratulations, you succeeded in making me miserable to the point of contemplating suicide. But the closer I get to actually doing it, the louder I hear the voice asking why I should die while the criminal mayor who is responsible for my misery lives on. And why give you the satisfaction? So now for once I have the upper hand. It's time for you to listen to me and to answer my questions. Let's get started."

He says, "Whatever you say. You're holding the gun."

I ask, "How do you feel about the First Amendment? Are you a strong believer in free speech or do you think we've gone too far?"

He snaps back, "Of course, I support freedom of speech. It's what makes this country special....and great. What kind of ridiculous question is that?"

I say, "And yet most of the scraps I've had with the county were started by one county goon or another disapproving of something I said, even though I had a right to say it. Like the five cops who beat the crap out of me, kicked me in the head, put me in the hospital with a concussion, and injured my back so bad it hurt for years. All because I insulted them. I gave them words and they retaliated with fists and jackboots.

"Then they charged me with disorderly conduct and resisting arrest, even though they never said I was under arrest. What 70-year-old would resist or pick a fight with five muscular young cops armed to the teeth?

"Here's what really happened: they thought I was a homeless drunk who they could pick on and have a little fun with. It was a sergeant showing rookies how to roust and harass homeless drunks. In reality I was disheveled and dirty after a long day of hard construction work and the little paper bag in my hand held a bottle of water, not booze.

"They went into a rage because I said they were acting like a bunch of fascist thugs, which they were. I had a right to express my opinion. And their violence proved my point, that they behave more like stormtroopers than protectors of the people. I sent you a full account in an email and I begged you to make sure the thugs were held accountable."

He replies, "The mayor is not responsible for actions taken by police officers. The police department is semi-autonomous. You can file a complaint with the Chief and with the Police Commission. You can file a civil lawsuit against the officers."

I say, "I can't sue without 20 thousand dollars upfront for a lawyer. And the Police Commission is a joke. I filed a detailed complaint with them, talked to the investigator for two hours, walked him through the actual crime scene where I acted out the assault, showed him the bruises and gave him copies of the medical records. But he was more interested in my words before the assault than in the assault itself. He asked if I was sure I hadn't said they were acting like a bunch of _fucking_ fascists?

"I did not say that, but I would have had a right to, so even if I had said it, it wouldn't justify them beating me to a pulp. It's an irrelevant question. Reminds me of an attorney badgering a rape victim on the witness stand with, you were wearing a very skimpy skirt, were you not? She asked for it. I asked for it. She and I practically begged to have violence done to us.

"Four months later a letter informed me of the Commission's determination: I had been combative and disorderly, so the officers had a right to restrain me. Restrain is their euphemism for beating the crap out of someone. There was no misconduct by the officers. Case closed. I took my complaint to the Chief of Police, to Internal Affairs, and to the Prosecutor, but, of course, all that went nowhere...."

The mayor says, "Are you asking me to second-guess a decision in a case I know nothing about?"

I reply, "No, I'm telling you that you're going to pay for the cops' crimes that day. It's typical of the cynical, ruthless, violent culture that pervades this county government. Five fit young cops can't make a false arrest of an unarmed 70-year-old man without beating him half to death first? That's bullshit and you know it.

"And the prosecutors are bullies just like the police except they do their bullying with trumped-up charges, selective prosecutions and perjured testimony from lying witnesses – every kind of abuse of legal process and obstruction of justice they can get away with.

"They don't give a shit about truth and justice, only about their own batting averages and careers, and about settling scores, and conducting illegal vendettas that have corrupt motives. This kind of violence is even worse than police brutality, and you know that can be savage."

He says, "Every county government in the country has some bad apples. If it happened like you said the cops should have been fired and prosecuted."

I say, "Well, they weren't and I blame you. You should have read my email and my blog about it. You are the head of the county government. You set the policies and the tone. Their beating me was an injustice and their not being held accountable was an injustice. Can we agree on that?"

He says, "Hypothetically, if your account is accurate, I think I would agree with that."

I say, "Okay, so wouldn't I have a right to continue seeking justice on my own? Why shouldn't I track those thugs down one by one and hold them accountable myself?"

He says, "It's never a good idea to take justice into your own hands."

I say, "But that's exactly what your psycho cops do every day. They punished me brutally for the made-up crime of contempt of cop. No trial, just the verdict and punishment on the spot. They're the worst criminal gang in the county and they belong in prison. Since they've been spared that punishment why shouldn't I punish them myself?"

He says, "You want to spend the rest of your life in jail?"

I say, "Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. The county persecuting me with bogus arrests and petty misdemeanor convictions – a whole rap sheet of bullshit – has made it impossible for me to make a living. I hope you're proud of your work. I've been destitute, sometimes homeless. That's tough when you're old. In prison I'd be warm and dry. I'd have food and medical care. The bad guys would leave me alone cuz I'm old. Just thinking about it makes me want to do a serious crime."

He says, "You're doing a serious crime now. You kidnapped me and used a firearm in the commission of a felony. I promise you, I will cooperate fully with the prosecutor and you will get life without parole. You'll die in prison. There's no need to do something more."

I say, "Bullshit. You practically have to commit mass murder at a kindergarten to spend the rest of your life in prison. They release the geezers as soon as they're too frail to harm others – but also too frail to fend for themselves outside. I'd have to do something much worse than kidnapping and brandishing to really get life inside. Maybe I have to actually use the firearm."

The mayor's heart races, his pupils dilate.

I say, "Don't look at me like that. I'm not doing this for my benefit. I'm doing it to expose and explode the rot you've made of this county. I have to do something sensational to make a strong statement."

The mayor says, "I... I assure you, Mr. Butler, that's not necessary at all. I can...."

I say, "No, you can't. It's too late. You can't erase years of humiliation. You were the only one who could stop the vendetta, but you kept it going. You ruined my life, and now my anger and hate are powerful demons that have to be fed.

"I've had a lot of scraps with you and the county, but there is one case that has all the criminal elements of the others and it best exposes your rot."

He says, "And what case is that?"

I say, "Come on! As if you don't know. The Alive and Healthy case, of course. The health fraud store where they claim their supplements and herbal remedies can cure cancer, AIDS, Alzheimer's, whatever ails you. Even though the store is a criminal enterprise whose income derives mostly from dozens of frauds, the county and the state let them operate freely because they pay taxes, as do their employees. They help pay your salary. They also contribute generously to your election campaigns, and pay you even more under the table. It's an old-fashion protection racket."

He says, "That's an absurd allegation."

I say, "I have reliable sources that say otherwise. So when the store's security guards assaulted me on the nearby public sidewalk and injured me severely as I lawfully handed out flyers exposing the store's dangerous frauds, you made certain that no one was arrested or prosecuted even though two cops witnessed the assault. Later when I sued the quacks for hiring the thug to assault me, your county lawyers made certain the cop witnesses would not testify for me by helping them evade service of the subpoena to appear. That's criminal obstruction of justice. It's complicity in the assault. It's all in my blogs.

"Now, even after several surgeries, I still have pain in my neck, my shoulder and back, bad enough to keep me awake at night. I never get more than five hours of sleep. What finally gets me to sleep most nights is a delicious fantasy about getting justice before I die."

He says, "You mean getting revenge."

I say, "Revenge is one element of justice. But that's an ugly word. I prefer accountability. I'm going to hold you accountable for the crimes you and the county have committed against me." I pause and stare at him.

He stammers, "Wh-...what are you going to do?" He can't take his eyes off the Glock, which I hold pointed at the floor.

I say, "Don't worry, I'm going to give you a sporting chance. But first I have another question for you. I'm going to name some of the most serious crimes you and your stooges have committed against me and ask what you think the penalty for them should be.

"We have multiple counts of each of the following: unlawful arrest; assault and battery leading to serious injury and years of pain and disability; complicity in assault and battery; perjury in sworn affidavits and court testimony; complicity in and subornation of perjury; obstruction of justice; conspiracy to obstruct justice; abuse of legal process with corrupt intent; violation of my First, Fifth, and Fourteenth Amendment rights; falsifying police reports; malicious and frivolous prosecution; aiding and abetting criminal evasion of a valid subpoena; lying to a jury; running a protection racket for a criminal enterprise; and violation of your oath to uphold the law and the Constitution, which is a form of perjury and fraud.

"All this amounts to a violent assault by government criminals on our basic rights and on the rule of law. I say it's a violent assault because forcing people into jails and courts with lies is a form of violence. Plus the county freely uses its power to arrest, handcuff, taze, beat, drag, throw, choke, lock in a small crowded cage for weeks and months, torture by sleep and hygiene deprivation and other means, haul around in chains, berate, defame, insult, threaten, do full body-cavity searches, and otherwise injure, distress, terrorize and humiliate its victims.

"The county is also complicit in the state's criminal mistreatment of a prisoner after an unlawful arrest, specifically: denial of attorney consultation while unlawfully in custody; denial of medical care while unlawfully in custody; denial of all hygiene (shower, soap, toothbrush, toilet paper, etc.) for ten straight days while unlawfully in custody; torture by sleep deprivation for ten straight days while unlawfully in custody; attempted forceful injection of powerful anti-psychotic knock-out drug in order to silence my crying and moaning in pain and begging to be taken to the hospital for a kidney stone. The details are all in my blogs. You should have read them.

"The crimes caused me years of traumatic stress and vivid, violent nightmares. I could make a strong case that you are guilty of at least 30 felony counts. Surely that adds up to a capital crime and this calls for the death penalty."

He says, "We don't have the death penalty in this state."

I say, "I'm going by common law and common-sense law. Giving you life in prison isn't feasible in this situation."

He says, "What's the sporting chance you're going to give me?"

I say, "You stand about ten feet from your desk. I'm going to put the gun down in the middle of the desk and step back ten feet. When I say 'one, two, three, go' we go for it on 'go'. Okay, let's do it."

"Now?" he says, with a frown and a whiney tone.

"Yes, now," I say as I place the gun down. He stands up and moves four paces back, never taking his eyes off the gun.

I turn my back on him, the desk and the gun, and I take a step. Then another and another. Suddenly I hear him making his move, racing toward the gun. I turn around and take a step toward him. He is pointing the gun at my chest.

"There you go again," I say. "Cheating to the very end. You're a man without honor. Or courage."

He says, "I'm going to shut you up forever." He attempts to pull the trigger. He looks at me in horror as I step toward him and aim a miniature blow gun at his face. A tiny blob of gel hits his lip.

"What are you doing?" he yells.

"I'm deleting you," I say.

He collapses to the floor, convulses a little and goes still.

Yes, we have entered a new era: now we can all be Putin.

END

(This short story was inspired by _Barbarians in Paradise; Terror Comes to Maui_ , a free e-book novel available at smashwords.com.)

