tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26401665929054308002024-03-12T18:36:50.870-07:00THE DUMB ASS SPEAKINGChristopher Blakehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03319577741068780845noreply@blogger.comBlogger89125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640166592905430800.post-25333093166863036652013-03-20T20:30:00.000-07:002013-03-20T20:43:03.348-07:00When The Wolfbayne BloomsA very dear, longtime friend of mine passed away recently. He made me promise, in the last week of his life, to tell his story. My oldest daughter,Crystal, has been battling cancer for the last seven months, and our time has been full. She's in remission now; things have slowed a little, so it's time for me to honor my promise. <br />
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We first met over a quarter of a century ago, under less than ideal circumstances. If anyone had suggested at that time that we would become as close as we did over the years, no one would have believed it. The fact that we did is a testament to him and his willingness to have a forgiving heart. Every relationship has its ups and downs; we certainly had ours. Still, the only reason we had one at all was because of him. Please remember that as I tell his story. <br />
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I've struggled with how best to tell his story. He didn't want his name used; not to protect himself, but his family. Most of what will follow are things that he wanted to be able to tell them, but couldn't. However, he knew that his experience was far from unique. In fact, he knew that thousands of men from our generation shared a very similar story. His hope was that, in telling his story, warts and all, other families might find some of the peace and closure that he wanted his own family to have. What follows will not be pretty, or told in a manner that paints him as a saint. That was his call. "."Tell it straight." <br />
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I'll do my best. <br />
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<strong><em>Even a man who is pure in heart</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>and says his prayers by night</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>May become a wolf</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>When the Wolf Bane blooms</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>and the Autumn moon is bright</em></strong></div>
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He wasn't the world's best husband or father. The truth is, he was abusive to his wife and children: not just emotionally, but physically as well. 99% of the men I have known that were like that were bullies, and every bully that I've ever known was a coward. My time as a Los Angeles County Deputy Sheriff had only strengthened that point of view. There was, however, that other 1%. That small minority shared one common element: they were all deeply scarred men, full of self loathing for their past, and for their actions against the very ones they loved most. They all had been wounded so badly, so deeply, that the wound simply would not heal. I would discover that he fell into that 1%.</div>
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It was two years into our relationship before we became friends. The friendship started on an overture by him that was so astounding, so out of character for him, that his wife didn't believe me at first when I told her about it. It took his family a while to really believe that it was true. Again, as I told you earlier, it was a testament to his character, not mine, that we became friends. What he did was something that no bully would ever do. It was my first glimpse into the real man. The wounded man. </div>
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He started to change after that, as if that act had been the initial chip at a glacier that had surrounded his heart. The real change happened a couple of years later. The crucible was the birth of his first grandchild, followed in a matter of just a couple of years by two more. One grandchild from each of his children. He began to mellow. He allowed those grandchildren to do things with him that no one ever thought he would allow. It was like watching a scarred older bear allowing the cubs to chew on him and swat him with their paws. Things he had never had the patience with his own children to allow, he now seemed to welcome...even enjoy. Now, don't get me wrong. He could still be an asshole, especially with his wife. But even their relationship seemed to improve. Her love for him had always been apparent: his far less so. During this period, however, it showed through at times, even in public, in ways that surprised those closest to him. He could still be verbally snippy with her, but even those outbursts seemed to lack their past cruelty. Those were some good years for my friend. Then tragedy hit. </div>
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A senseless act of violence and betrayal perpetrated against he and his wife. The old him would have gone after the violators. Hunted them down and killed them. I even offered to go with him. He no longer would, or could. He took his family and moved to a new town. He started to withdraw, not just from life and those around him, but from himself. At first he confined himself to their small town. Then, he would only go to certain places within that town, the circle drawing ever tighter. Eventually he wouldn't even leave his own home. He became a recluse. And, with each step inward he took, the more of the old him came back to the surface. His poor wife bore the brunt of it. I rarely saw much of it when I came to visit; but the tension and anger hung in the house like a poisonous fog. I didn't know what to do for my friend, or his family. He wasn't the type to just open up, let alone talk about his problems. Yet I knew that part of what I saw when I looked at him was a reflection of myself: the same kind of wounds and scars, the same kind of anger and self loathing. Could there be any hope for me down the road if there was no hope for him?</div>
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If God has given me any gifts, which I know is questionable, one of them might be the ability to see deep pain in others, and find a way to reach out to them. It is not a gift I ever asked for or wanted, but we don' get to choose our gifts. A car would have been nice. Maybe a gift card. Cash is always good too. Just kidding, Lord.</div>
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A few years ago, while I was out visiting my friend, the door appeared for me to knock on. We were sitting in his room, as we usually did, watching TV and talking. His lovely wife brought in his dinner, and he immediately began to chastise her for the portion size, or something else equally stupid. The look on her face, the abruptness with which he stopped, told a story in itself. The pain in her eyes...anyway, she turned and left the room. He didn't touch the food. Just stared straight ahead, his eyes eventually dropping. His shoulders slumped, and I could feel the self hatred coming off of him like heat from a blast furnace. I said a quick prayer, then assumed my role as God's ventriloquist dummy. </div>
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I started talking about my time on the job. General things. He was a Vietnam Vet, and I knew he could relate to at least some of my experiences. The farther I went in the talk, the more personal things I began to tell. I eventually started telling him things that I've told no living person. I only have a couple of stories from my time on the job that I do tell. Most people find them dark; quite a few visibly squirm and shrink away during the telling. They're not pretty. Those stories, however, are the good ones. The others I never tell. But, I was telling him. And, he was listening. No judgements. No comments. He didn't shy away. Just sat there and listened. </div>
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His wife came back in an hour or so later. He hadn't touched his food. She took the plate away in silence. It was time for me to go. He didn't say anything. We shook hands, like always, and I left. I felt like a fool driving home. Not an unusual feeling for me, especially when I let God do the talking. I had seen no results. No evidence of change. Nothing. I went home in despair. </div>
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Nothing was different the next time I went out. Or, the time after that. I didn't bring it up again. Neither did he. I don't remember how much time passed. How many visits. Five...maybe six. Then, on one of those visits, after we were alone in his room, he asked me a series of questions:</div>
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How had I dealt with those experiences? Why wasn't I more violent? Why wasn't I more of a mean asshole to my family? It was like the ensuing months had never passed and I had just finished telling him my story. </div>
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I reminded him of how badly I had treated my family for a few years. He dismissed that with a wave of his hand. "You had nerve damage and chronic pain then," he said. "Besides, you snapped out of it. How do you deal with what you saw? How do you deal with what you did? With who you were?" I didn't answer him right away. I knew he was asking for more than just an answer to my problems...he was looking for hope. </div>
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<strong><em>Anyone who is bitten by a Werewolf,</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>and survives</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>Is doomed to become a Werewolf himself</em></strong></div>
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That's actually the first thing I said to him. I reminded him that the anti-hero of the old Wolf Man movie didn't start out as a bad guy. He was just a normal guy. A good guy. Minding his own business. He wasn't looking for trouble that night. He heard somebody in danger and ran to their aid. Tried to save their life. Got torn up for his trouble. There was no way for him to know that he was dealing with a monster. No way to know that fighting that monster would turn him into one. Bad kind of monster to become too. The kind of monster that goes after the very people he loves the most. That's some messed up shit. I told him that I had come to view my circumstances that way. Bad thing was, my monster didn't wait for a full moon to come out. He could leap out of his cage at any time. Anywhere. Against anybody. The more that I fought to contain him when I was outside my home, the more tired I would become by the time I got back. Fatigue makes cowards of us all. As soon as I would relax, let my guard down just a bit, out he would come. Right at my wife and kids. <br />
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Fuck me.<br />
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I knew I had to find a way to try and control it. That's why I still worked out. Hit the bag. When those didn't work, I'd go for a walk, crippled legs, bad back, nerve damage and all. Just get out and get away. If I was going to hurt someone, I decided, it wasn't going to be my family. <br />
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Sometimes, to my shame, I did. <br />
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He asked me then how I'd finally gotten rid of it. I laughed. I told him you never get rid of it. You pray and ask God for help. Every day. Because, it never goes away. It never goes to sleep. Hell, it never even lies down. It paces back and forth in the cage I've made for it. Growling. Howling. Watching with blood filled eyes and dripping mouth for just the slightest opening. The hint of my guard going down. One moment of loss of control. Then all hell breaks loose, and everything I've worked for, every day of good is wiped away. And, getting him back in his cage gets harder every time. <br />
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We sat there for a few minutes, neither one of us speaking. I could see his wheels turning, digesting what I'd said. Then he told me a story. A very long, very dark story. I'm going to give you the condensed version here...<br />
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<em>It was back in the mid sixties. The Vietnam War was escalating and I'd had a few buddies come back from there on leave. The stories they told were bad. It didn't sound like the place anybody in their right mind wanted to go. The draft was ramping up, and everyone knew if you got drafted, odds were a hundred to one you were going in the Army as a grunt and getting shipped straight over there. So, a few of my buddies and I decided to enlist. You had to serve longer if you did, but you got to pick which branch of the service you joined. We picked the Navy. Seemed like the smart pick back then. I mean, what kind of Navy did the Vietnamese have? Even if you got stationed over there, you'd probably be on a ship a hundred miles off of the coast. Not in country. Not in the jungles. Not humping on the front lines. </em><br />
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<em>Bad call. </em><br />
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<em>We had to take a bunch of tests. I found out later I scored pretty high on some of them. I started getting pulled out for meetings during basic. Officers asking me all kinds of questions. I had to sign a lot of papers. Highly classified stuff. Sworn to secrecy. Never allowed to talk about any of it to anyone. Prison or worse if I did. I got shipped to ONI after basic. Naval Intelligence. Got briefed for my job. I was going to be on a PBR. Patrol Boat, River. They called it the brown river Navy. I was going in country. Deep. I was to report on everything I saw and heard. And, my boat would occasionally pick up and drop off people. I was to report on everything they said and did. Sometimes follow them for a while after we dropped them off. I would be debriefed at the end of each mission. So much for being out of the fire zones. </em><br />
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<em>Every mission was hairy. Firefights. Always looking over my shoulder. I figured if they had me watching others, they probably had somebody watching me. I got really paranoid. Some of our crew would get wounded and be replaced. I was suspicious of everyone. The people we picked up weren't always Americans. Accents from everywhere. None of them looked like military personnel. Following some of them into a random village up river was nasty. Sometimes we were in Cambodia. We weren't supposed to be there. All I wanted to do was survive. </em><br />
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<em>One of our crew was short timing. Almost done with his tour. They pulled him off at our next time back and replaced him with a guy I'll call "Bob". He was just one of those kind of guys you just like right off the get go. Good guy. Funny. Always telling stories. He was the first person I let my guard down with. We got pretty tight over the next few weeks. Shared a lot about our backgrounds. Our families. He was just a great guy. It was good to have a buddy. To not be alone anymore</em><br />
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<em>We were on a Mark I PBR. It runs by sucking water in and shooting it out the back. The pump was actually made by Jacuzzi. No shit. Jacuzzi. Let us run in real shallow water. We could turn on a dime too. It took the VC a while to figure out how to really fuck with them. But they did. We started getting reports of other PBRs getting ambushed. The VC would dump loads of straw in the river. That straw would get sucked into the Jacuzzi pump and foul it. Freeze it up. Then you were screwed. Dead in the water. The boat would float a little down river where the VC had set up. Then they'd tear the boat to pieces. Sitting ducks man. It was a bad deal. </em><br />
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<em>All of the boats had grenade launchers. We had a Honeywell MK 18 mounted on the stern. It fired 40 mil grenades. You had to hand crank it. We unbolted ours and moved it up to the bow. The idea was, you kept your eyes peeled for any sign of straw. First even hint of it, you reversed the engines. Backed up. Then you'd start cranking those honeys out up ahead on both sides of the river. Just blow the shit out of both sides as far up as you could. Then we'd get out some poles we started carrying. Push the straw to the sides and go up real slow. We'd get up to the ambush site and find dozens, sometimes more, of dead VC. Blown 'em to hell. Any of them that survived booked it the hell out of there. Worked pretty good. For a while. But those fuckin' VCs. They...they fought dirty man. </em><br />
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<em>We were rollin' up river. Saw the straw. Started cranking out the grenades. Both sides. Got up to the ambush spot. No VCs. But, they'd tied a bunch of villagers to the trees by the banks of the river. We'd blown them all to hell. Innocent people. Happened right before we were due to go back to base. Quietest trip back I'd ever been on. Nobody said a word. The images of those dead villagers...We got back. I went to my Intelligence briefing. Nobody knew what to make of my report. See, we knew which villages were friendly to us, and which weren't. It had been one of their own villages. Who the fuck does shit like that? Other reports were coming in. Some of the villagers at other hot spots had been screaming before the boats got there. The order was: listen for screams. No screams, you fired. Screams you didn't. We went back out. It worked...for a while. </em><br />
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<em>We come up on the straw again. Stop and listen. Nothing. Grenades away. Cruise up river. Dead villagers everywhere. We recon the dead. They'd cut their tongues out. Tied 'em to trees and cut their tongues out. Couple of days later, we get a screamer. We don't fire. Cruise up. Villagers tied to the trees. VC open fire on us from behind them in the jungle. We've got to shoot through them. I pick up the Honeywell and run to the stern as the boat turns. We're firing like...I start cranking 'em out and we book it out. We got shot up pretty bad. Two of our crew got hit. We limped back to base. </em><br />
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<em>Intel briefing again. Not just Navy either. Everybody has got someone there. No one knows what to do. How do you fight an enemy like this? Someone who'll sacrifice their own civilians? There's a bird colonel there. Pacing back and forth. Goes off on a rant. "Fuck'em. Fuck'em all to hell. We've got the ordinance. Let's bomb those little fuckers back to the stone age. Fuck that. Let's bomb them off the face of the planet. No more selective bombing. No more going after the same god damn sights over and over. Bomb it all. I know the Chinese are sending men. Fuck them too. Our boys are getting fucked over. Let's just fucking do it!" The room got quiet. Pin drop quiet. One of the faceless civilians finally broke the silence. "We can't do that, and you know it. We all have our orders. Our jobs to do. We aren't here to win." That bird colonel looked around the room. Waiting for someone of a higher rank to say something. No one did. They wouldn't even look him in the eye. He pointed a finger at the bureaucrat. "Fuck you. And god damn the rest of you." Then he stormed out. </em><br />
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<em>That did it for me. I went and found "Bob". Talked to him first. Then we waited at our boat for the rest of our crew. We came to a group decision: from now on, we were shooting, screamers or not. We were going to do our best to make sure we all went home, and fuck everybody else. Then we headed out. </em><br />
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My friend had been glancing back and forth at me while he'd been talking up to that point. Now he had stopped. He took of his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Set the glasses down. Stared straight ahead. He seemed to be struggling with whether to go on. I didn't say a word. Just waited. He put his hands together on his knees. Interlocked his fingers. The knuckles were sticking out like white walnuts. His body shuddered, and he took a deep breath. Then he went on, still staring at something I couldn't see...<br />
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<em>We'd been out about a week. It had been quiet. No action at all. Then...the straw again. No sound. I cranked out the grenades. We waited. Slow cruise up river. The silence was broken by a single cry. Sounded like a child. A young child. Took everything we had to not hump it faster, but we didn't. We came to a clearing. Dead villagers everywhere. Or, parts of them anyway. A few were still hanging from the ropes that tied them to the trees. Then we saw him. There was a baby in a sling that hung off of the neck of a dead woman tied to a tree. She was a bloody mess. Somehow, the shrapnel had missed her baby. He was crying.His plaintive wail echoed along the banks. "Bob" hopped off of the boat in spite of my telling him not too, and headed for the baby. The hackles were up on the back of my neck, and I didn't know why. Something was wrong...I could feel it. The rest of us waited on the boat. "Bob" got to the baby. Gently pulled the sling over the dead woman's head, and turned back towards us. His face was beaming. It was like redemption for him, for all of us. He started back at a trot. That's when I saw it...</em><br />
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<em>At first I thought it was a vine that had gotten stuck to the cloth of the sling. There were leaves on it. But it didn't fall off. And, the leaves disappeared. Just a long wire trailing back toward the tree. I started screaming. He just kept trotting back, looking at the baby. I jumped off of the boat and ran at him, waving my arms and hollering at the top of my lungs. Then something caught my vision back behind him. It was the woman. The one the baby had been slung on. Her head had popped up and she was watching "Bob" and I. Measuring the distance. Their was something in her hands. The wire was hooked to it. Her eyes locked on mine and she twisted the detonator in her hands. </em><br />
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<em>I was still about twenty feet from "Bob" when he and the baby exploded. Felt like a giant, hot hand picked me up and threw me backwards toward the boat. Took me a minute to get my senses back. I was sitting half in and half out of the river. Couldn't hear anything but a loud ringing in my ears. I looked back up the beach toward the trees. The woman was gone. Part of one of "Bob's" legs was still there, sticking up from his boot. The rest of him was gone. I tried to get up. Couldn't. My guys tried to get me back on the boat I shook them off. I started crawling, looking for his dog tags. Something was dripping off of my face and arms. Blood and tissue. Figured I was wounded. Crawled down to the river's edge to clean up. None of it was from me. I was covered in pieces of "Bob" and the baby.Never did find the dog tags. They loaded me up and we took off. </em><br />
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<em>That was the only time I was glad I was in Intel. I could keep track of the people from that village. A few months later, a few of them were captured. They thought the woman might be one of them. I volunteered to go check it out. Deep in country. The scouts lead me into this village. The prisoners are tied to polls next to some pig pens. I check 'em out. See the woman. Pull her head up. It's her. I get to ask some questions. She never takes her eyes off of me. Black, cold and empty as a tomb. One of the questions is how she could do that to a baby. She tells them it was hers. "Bullshit", I say. Three of the others confirm it was. The South Vietnamese Officer in charge tells me it's my call on what to do with them. </em><br />
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<em>I leave the village a week later. </em><br />
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<em>I still, to this day, feel like they're all over me. I wash and wash and wash...never feel clean.</em><br />
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<em>My tour was finally up a while later. Came home. People spitting on me and my buddies. Calling us all of these vile, filthy things. Movie stars and others posing for pictures with the VC. Me, I've got "Bob" and that baby on me...and every time I look in the mirror, I see that woman's eyes. Dead, lifeless, empty eyes...and I wonder: are they her eyes, or mine?</em><br />
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He told me more that day. Over the years, he told me a lot more. Never planned, at least on my part. He'd just start talking about one of them out of the blue when we were alone. I've never told anyone those other stories. Never will. They're worse.<br />
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He was an avowed atheist when we met. Used to be confrontational with me about my views. We'd go back and forth on things like string theory, membranes, many worlds. You get the idea. His views started to change after that first talk, at least when it was just he and I. More of an agnostic. I had a heart attack a little over three years ago. Made me realize that I had still been doing a piss poor job with my own monster. I tried to work even harder at controlling it. We talked about that too, on some of the visits. He loved watching shows like "Ancient Aliens", and "Through the Wormhole". I always made sure I was caught up on them before going for a visit, because I knew that he'd want to discuss them. He started talking about God. How he believed that only a fool would think that all of this just happened. A full one hundred eighty degrees from where he'd been before. <br />
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He got really sick about the time I had my heart attack. He didn't think he was going to make it then. He made me promise then to tell his story after he died. When he thankfully didn't, I put it way on the back burner. I thought that maybe he forgot about it. <br />
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One of the biggest breakthroughs came about a year ago. He had shut himself off from his sisters and their families. One of his nephews made a huge overture, and came up to see him. That opened the door for others to come. The young man who did that did more than he'll ever know. It allowed my friend to reconnect with people that he loved dearly. The fault was never theirs, anymore than it was his wonderful wife's fault when he was abusive to her, or his children's fault when he was cruel to them. He knew it too. That guilt: his meanness and cruelty to those he loved the most, was what ate at him even more than the memories that followed him home from the war. You can blame him. You can say he was weak, or cowardly in not asking all of them for forgiveness while he was alive...but you can never call him anything as bad as what he called himself. He hated himself for what he had done. For what he allowed himself to become. He simply didn't have the strength to do it. Judge him at your own peril.<br />
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I didn't get to see him very much the last six months or so of his life. Like I said earlier, my daughter Crystal was battling cancer. We almost lost her a number of times. Her still being here, and doing well is a miracle from God. In fact, that was one of the things my friend called her. His miracle. He also called her his hero.His inability to come to see her in the hospital, or on the few occasions she was home, tore him apart. He knew he couldn't handle seeing her that way. His wife told me later that when she gave him updates on Crystal he would cry. He loved her very much. <br />
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His wife called me early one morning. He wasn't doing well at all. He was refusing, as always, to go to the hospital. She asked me to come out. She had somehow managed to get him to go in the ambulance. It was pulling away when I arrived at the house. She and I went, along with some of his children. He and I were alone for a short while in the ER. He was amazingly calm about everything. I think, in some ways, he was almost relieved. He made me promise then to help look out for his wife. He had left a collection of items that he wanted her to sell, in the hopes it would help take care of her. He told me he wanted her to travel. Have some fun. He knew he had been a chain around her ankle for a very long time. He hoped that she would finally be able to have some freedom. I told him I'd do my best, but we were a long way from that. "Bullshit, Chris", he told me. "I'm short timing." I think it was the next day we found out for sure how bad the cancer was. A few months, they said. Maybe more with treatment. <br />
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I came out the day after that. He was being released to go home. I was alone in the hospital room with my friend and his wife. She told him she had moved his room to the one closer to the bathroom, and he went off. All of the vile, hateful words...I asked his wife, rather forcefully, to leave us alone for a few. She did. He went on for a minute more, ranting. Then the fire went out of his eyes. "I know she means well. She wants everything to be easier for me through the end, but I'm not going to be here long enough for it to matter. I told them I'd do the treatments, but I lied. I'm not. Please don't tell anyone. I'll stall as long as I can, but I don't think I'll have to do it for very long." Then he asked me if I remembered my promise from two years ago. "Start getting it ready. You'll be writing it soon." Then I talked to him for a while. The content of that conversation I will probably take with me to my grave. <br />
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We had a nice ride home, the three of us. Stopped for a little while and looked around at things he hadn't seen for some time. He didn't go into the new room when we first got back. Just sat out in the kitchen. He'd promised me he was going to try his best to not be his usual asshole self when he did go in, and he was trying his best. He and his wonderful wife finally went in and sat down on matching recliners. We all talked for a short time, then he asked if I'd make a roast, mashed potatoes and gravy to bring out during the weekend. It was one of his favorite meals. So I said sure, told him I loved him, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. They were holding hands when I left. <br />
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My whole family went with me that weekend. He asked about each one, and was grateful that they all came. He spoke to each one alone. Told Crystal she was his hero. His wife brought him a plate of the dinner we'd brought. I thought it was too much. I cringed inside, waiting for him to go off on her as he had so many times in the past. Not one word. He finished the whole plate. I went in alone later. He told me again not to forget. He told all of us he loved us when we left. His wife called the next day to say they made sliders out of the left over roast, and that he'd eaten every bite. When she called the very next day, it was to tell me that he was gone. Almost one week to the day that he first went to the hospital.<br />
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I've struggled for weeks over writing this. He was adamant that it wasn't to be a pity party for him, or an excuse. He didn't feel that there was any excuse for how he'd treated his family. But, he had wanted them to know some of what was behind it. He wanted them to know he was sorry. That any problems they'd had were totally his fault, not theirs. He also wanted others to hear his story. He knew that it wasn't unique. Over two million men and women served during that war. Many of them came home to lead productive lives. Many of them didn't. Many of them ended up out in the woods, alone. In mental hospitals. On the streets. Homeless. Forgotten. He wanted their families to know that they all had their own stories. Some of them worse than his. Not everyone can deal with the bite of the monster. You can't possibly know how well you would do, until you've been bit. The monster isn't the Vietnamese. It isn't the armed forces. The monster is the powers that be, who think nothing of sacrificing the lives of others for their own personal gain; whether that sacrifice is planned and played out in a foreign country, or in the streets of the inner cities of our own country.<br />
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Our talks about God, and the security of God's Grace I won't discuss here except for this: he didn't believe he deserved to go to heaven. I told him that if deserve determined it, I would be going to hell. I'm not going there, and I made sure he knew that he wasn't either. I know, at the end, he finally believed me. <br />
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I'll close now with the same thing I closed his and my initial talk about our inner monsters with. Perhaps you know, or have known, someone like my friend. If so, say this last thing for them. Forgive them. Give them, and yourself, peace.<br />
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<strong><em>The way you walked was thorny</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>Through no fault of your own</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>But, as the rain enters the soil</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>The river enters the sea:</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>So tears too run to their predestined end</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>Your suffering is over. May God grant you peace now, my friend</em></strong></div>
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At the end of those old werewolf movies, the hero, in death, returns to his original self. I can see my friend now: his hair and beard long, a smile creasing his tan, handsome face. He is sitting with loved ones and friends, his only hopes that others can learn from his failures...and that his wife and family can forgive him and find their own peace. </div>
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I'll see you soon buddy. I love you.</div>
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Christopher Blakehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03319577741068780845noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640166592905430800.post-47584692327485757172011-12-18T18:22:00.000-08:002011-12-18T18:22:23.259-08:00My Daughters BusinessMy daughter Lacy started a small business a few months ago to bring in a little extra post graduation cash. She makes custom hats, scarves, and soon to be purses. You pick the price, the color(s), and the style. All you have to do is contact her and make an order. She ships anywhere. Inside the United States and outside as well. Please, go take a look and Like her facebook page. Place an order today and have a one of a kind hat or scarf sent to you before the New Year.<br />
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<a href="https://sites.google.com/site/apieceofportland/">https://sites.google.com/site/apieceofportland/</a>Christopher Blakehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03319577741068780845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640166592905430800.post-43970326610991486092011-11-18T20:41:00.000-08:002011-11-18T20:48:57.796-08:00<div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: x-large;">The First Chance You Get<span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></strong><w:sdtpr></w:sdtpr></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div class="ChapterName" style="margin: 48pt 0in 12pt; text-align: center;"><w:sdt docpart="184D64FC89B94C8AB4BF67FE1077D5FE" id="498842615"><strong><span style="font-size: large;">Prologue</span></strong></w:sdt></div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Present day<o:p></o:p></strong></span></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I had been dreaming. It was the summer of sixty-eight. That was the summer I worked for Mr. Olveras mowing yards. It had been my first real job. I was twelve. We started before sun-up, and went until dark, six days a week. He had a beat up old truck with a trailer hooked on the back. Me and the rest of the yard crew rode in the back of the pickup. He kept the mowers, edgers, and trash cans in the trailer. Each trash can had a rake, broom, and shovel in it. Mr. Olveras would pull up to a house, hop out of the cab of the truck, and unload the equipment. Whichever one of us that was “up” would jump out of the back of the truck and pull our equipment out of the street and up onto the curb as the truck pulled away in a wheeze of smoke. One hour later he’d be back. Load you and your stuff up, then on to the next one. We averaged fourteen houses a day.. Each. Two dollars a house. Hard fucking work; but it made you appreciate the value of a dollar. You wanted to buy something, that little equation went into your head: How many yards does this cost? Taught me not to waste my money. Not to take things for granted. Bought my first pair of Levis that summer. No more Zody’s jeans with iron on patches for me after that. </span><span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I was still waking up. My face was bouncing lightly on a cool piece of sheet metal. At first I thought I thought I was still in the back of Mr. Olveras’ truck. I could smell fresh cut grass, dirt, gasoline, and the pungent aroma of fresh fertilizer. Plus, I was rocking and bouncing to the movement of a big truck on the road. But, as I continued to come out of it, I knew I wasn’t back in sixty-eight. Or, in a dream. The first clue was the black nylon bag that was tied around my head. Not good. The second was the bite of the plastic flex cuffs into the skin of my wrists and ankles. Really not good. I tried to sit up, and went right back down. Too soon. Too groggy still. OK. Time to figure out what the fuck’s going on. </span><span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The last thing I remember is pulling into the driveway of the RV Park, and pulling up next to our motor home. It was late, there were no other people around, and no sound but the nearby Pacific Ocean. The sound of the waves breaking across the road at the beach usually soothed me, but not tonight. I had failed. We all had. I got out of the car and stood next to it. I was debating what to tell my wife Annie, and then…lights out. Somebody got me right there. Right next to my own fucking motor home. Talk about being H-U-A. Fuck. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">What about Annie? Was she OK? Think you idiot, think. You got nabbed outside. Would’ve been safer to take you inside, but that would have required dealing with Annie, so…she’s probably all right. For whatever reason, whoever grabbed me up probably left her alone. Thank God for that. Although that means she’ll die alone. She doesn’t have much time left. Two, three months max. Would have liked to been there for her. Hold her. Wipe the tears away. Not going to happen now. I’m pretty sure I’m dead tonight. Maybe tomorrow, if they want to fuck with me for a while first. That’s a pleasant thought. Oh well. </span><span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>OK. Where am I now? Back of a truck. Medium sized commercial, from the feel of it. Fifteen, twenty foot bob tail. Split axle; I can hear it when the driver shifts. Should be two by fours running up the sides as braces for the walls and roof. I scoot over until I hit a wall with my face. Inch along until I feel the wood. Yeah. Almost like a mid-sized rental truck for moving your shit around town. But, not a rental. The smells…this was somebody’s landscape truck until not that long ago. Bad guys probably stole it out of…wait, wait…</span><span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Well, fuck me in the ass with no please or thank you. I saw the fuckin’ truck on my way into the park. It was sitting next to the mobile taqueria in the parking lot across the street. Juan’s Lawns, I think it said. Juan’s Lawns. Shit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess I was totally Head Up Ass tonight. Sure, it was a Mexican yard truck next to a Mexican food truck. Still, it was out of place. That taqueria has been there for years. Hardly ever moves. Never been anything next to it. Should have been on guard. Too distracted. Too much cryin’ in my beer. Boo hoo motherfucker. Look where that shit got you. Now, Annie’ll die alone. Just ‘cause I forgot one of my most important rules. </span><span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I went on the LA County Sheriff’s Department thirty years ago. Went through a bunch of fucked up shit, right from the get go. Made a lot of rules for myself. Right towards the top of the list was this: No one was going to get me because I’d gotten fat and happy. No one was going to get me because I was walking around with a cup of coffee in one hand and my dick in the other one. I mean, look, if some smart fucker wants to set you up; I mean really set you up good, there’s nothing you can do about it. You get a 459 silent call at some warehouse at O dark thirty; a killer’s waiting in there somewhere, well hidden, with an infrared scope and Teflon coated bullets, you can just kiss your ass goodbye. But, too many guys, good guys, get popped because they turn into slaps. They start playing the odds game. Not me. Never. Not in my few years on the job. Not in the many years since as a high level bodyguard and PI. Oh, they’d gotten to me when I was on the job, way back when. Twice. Almost died. But, not because I was spankin’ frank.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shit. Picked a hell of a time to fuck up. </span><span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Maybe there was still hope. Maybe whoever had snatched me hadn’t gotten to the others. Not all of them. Certainly not the Count. Nobody could get to him. Maybe I was the first. Maybe the others were looking for me right now. No reason to give up yet. Hang in there. Keep thinking. The others, in their own ways, were almost as capable as the Count. Except the writer. Well, OK, he could write. That wasn’t going to help much right now. Had to give him his props though. He’d shown a lot more balls lately than I’d given him credit for having. Circumstances had a lot to do with that, but hey…most people under pressure just fold up and quit. He hadn’t. Yeah, no reason to hang my head yet. They might still be out there. Might be coming.</span><span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I was jostled out of my little pity party when the truck turned off of the paved road we’d been on, onto gravel. The chunks of rock kicked up by the tires clanged against the metal under carriage of the truck. We swerved a bit at first; the driver hadn’t anticipated the weight shifting in the back would rock the vehicle the way it did. I slammed against the sheet metal wall hard, then bounced back onto the floor. That’s when I realized I wasn’t alone. </strong></span></span></div><h2 align="left" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Ki gogot sa?"<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></h2><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I’d know that deep baritone Creole voice anywhere. Any other time, I’d be happy to hear it. Not now. Second worst voice I could hear. The first would have been Annie’s. This was almost as bad.</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“What the fuck is right.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Jay? That you?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yeah, Bela, it’s me. You alright?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">There was a short pause before he answered. Taking the same kind of inventory I had not long ago. I knew he wasn’t going to like what he found, any more than I had. Just had to hope he wasn’t badly injured on top of everything else. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Fuck no, I’m not alright. I got a bag over my head, and I’m trussed up like a Christmas goose.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Me too. You hurt?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Another short pause. Counting body parts, probably. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Just my pride. Where the fuck are we?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Back of a truck. Out in the desert, I think. Just turned off onto a gravel road. Probably heading out to the boonies.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Ki le li ye?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’ve got no fucking idea what time it is. Gotta be night time though. Maybe early morning. No light leaking through the truck. Even with this bag over my head, I’d be able to see sunlight, if it was comin’ in. Plus, still pretty cool. Too cool for daytime in the desert, this time of year.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“How you know we in the desert?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><strong>“Grew up in the desert. You know that. I can smell it. Feel it.”</strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><strong>Both of us silent for a bit. Trying to figure shit out. Right now they had two out of five of us, if you count the writer. Probably should count him, he was in it now passed his eyeballs. OK. Two out of five. That still left the writer and…</strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You hear that Jay?” </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Cocked my head to one side. Listened hard. Somebody was groaning. Low, deep in their throat. More deep breaths from somewhere else in the back with us. Couldn’t tell how many. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“How many you hear, Bela?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“At least two…maybe more. To?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><strong>“The same. More of us?”</strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Probably. Merde.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><strong>The truck swung again, the turn much tighter. I slid from one wall of the truck to the other, my face banging into a knee. The truck started bouncing more now. No more gravel clanging underneath. Dust started to seep in through the seams. A dirt road now. Fuck. Every bounce of the truck in the ruts made my face slam back into the knee. Hurt like hell. </strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Bela…get your fuckin’ knee outta my face.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Not mine.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Shit.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I tried to time my movements with the rhythm of the road. Bad jazz. Got it on the third try. Rolled over twice, then made my way to the far wall. Scooted like an inch worm until I was back up in a sitting position. Pushed down with my heels to keep my back pressed against the wall of the truck. Someone was moving my way. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Over here, Bela.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He found me with his head. Worked his way up, using my body for leverage. We pushed against each other to stay up. The road was rough. It felt like a really bad Carney ride. Then the music started. Coming from the cab of the truck. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Piano. Low, slowly building in intensity and volume. Now it’s joined by a guitar. Electric guitar. I know this song. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“What the fuck?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Locomotive Breath. Jethro Tull. This is not good, Bela. “</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Why?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Somebody’s getting themselves psyched up.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“For what?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Killing….”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The song built to its crescendo, then slowly faded, the final lyrics repeating over and over. There was a short pause; three or four seconds, and then it started over again. A little louder this time.</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Fuck.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“What? What is so terrible about this song? Why are those soaks playing it again?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“You don’t know the song, Bela?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“No.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“It’s a song about judgment. Death. Killing the unrighteous.” </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">We sat in silence, the song building again. A sort pause at the end again. Then it started over. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Why is it repeating, Jay?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“They’re getting pumped up to kill us…and they want to make sure we know it.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="color: white;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Bagami-as pula in mortii matii.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<span style="color: white;"> <strong></strong></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="color: white;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I hadn’t heard that one in a long time. Bela could swear in more languages than there are loony fanatics at a Pentecostal snake handler’s convention. His swearing just got worse, and more diverse, as the song repeated five more times. Finally, there was blessed silence.</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<span style="color: white;"> <strong></strong></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="color: white;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Now what?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<span style="color: white;"> <strong></strong></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><strong>“No idea, Bela. Maybe we’re getting close to wherever their taking us. Maybe they’re already pumped enough to get the job done, and don’t need the music anymore. Maybe…”</strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<span style="color: white;"> <strong></strong></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="color: white;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I was cut off by the start of another song. Two hard guitar riffs, followed by some drums. Fuck me if I didn’t know this song too. The lyrics hit quick and hard. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<span style="color: white;"> <strong></strong></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="color: white;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Now I know we’re fucked, Bela.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<span style="color: white;"> <strong></strong></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="color: white;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Why? What are those sei ham ga chan, sei puk gai trying to do?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<span style="color: white;"> <strong></strong></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><strong>“Those fucking sons of bitches, as you so elegantly put it, are trying to send us a message…and they’ve got a sick sense of humor.”</strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<span style="color: white;"> <strong></strong></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="color: white;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Why?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<span style="color: white;"> <strong></strong></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="color: white;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“This is a song about a child molester…they’re making sure we know why we’re getting whacked…as if there was any doubt.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<span style="color: white;"> <strong></strong></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="color: white;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Hijos de mil putas.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<span style="color: white;"> <strong></strong></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="color: white;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Pretty much, yeah.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<span style="color: white;"> <strong></strong></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="color: white;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“So, what’s the song?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<span style="color: white;"> <strong></strong></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="color: white;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Aqualung. Jethro Tull. Same band as the last song.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<span style="color: white;"> <strong></strong></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="color: white;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Sa me fut.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yeah…fuck me too.”</span></strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We huddled together, the bouncy ride rocking us all over the wall of the truck. I was saying a silent prayer that this song wouldn’t be repeated. The implications of that didn’t sit well with me. We’d been going after a pedophile. An extremely powerful, high ranking, well protected piece of shit. Vicious and insatiable. He was part of a network of other child molesters. We knew if we could bring him down, we’d be able to put a dent in their organization. Maybe get some names out of him. We’d lain in wait for him, after months of chasing…and we’d failed. I’d seen what he, and those other miserable cowards, were capable of doing to children. Torture beyond your ability to believe. God only knew how many of them were in on this. How long they might keep us alive while they fucked with us. And then, I knew. My prayers hadn’t been answered. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The song started over again.</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Aqualung is a long song. Six, seven minutes. I lost count of how many times it played. Ten, eleven, I don’t know. Louder every time. That meant we were on that rutted dirt road for well over an hour. Must be going to the middle of butt fuck nowhere. The music was so loud, we couldn’t even talk anymore. No time to try and plan anything. Of course, when your hands and feet are flex-cuffed, there’s not much you can do. The road seemed to smooth out a little bit finally, then we came to a stop. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><strong>The truck settled in on its springs. Dust hung in the air, making it hard to breath. I could hear the hiss and clatter of the engine as it died. Then, nothing. Silence. Silence as absolute as a tomb. I kept waiting to hear other cars pull up. There had to be more than just a couple of guys in the cab, right? Taking down any of us, let alone all of us, should have required some heavy manpower. Still, there was nothing. My mind was racing, trying to put the pieces together. Maybe the others were already here. They could have come earlier. Just be out there waiting. Finally, there was movement inside the cab of the truck. Another song started. Jesus H. Christ, wasn’t this shit ever going to end? What was it this time? </strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Bela obviously was thinking the same thing.</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“What the fuck now, Jay?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Kansas.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“You think we’re all the way in Kansas?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><strong>“No, Bela. Kansas. The band. ‘Dust in the Wind’ is what’s playing now. Whoever it is thinks they’re funny.”</strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">There was movement in the cab. A door opened and closed. I waited for the other one. It didn’t. OK, we only had a driver. The rest must already be here. I could hear the footsteps come around the back of the truck as the song played out its mournful lyrics. There was a click, then the door slammed up. Another rattle, then a sliding sound: metal on metal. The driver was pulling out and lowering a ramp fixed onto the back of the truck. Footsteps padded up the ramp, the truck swaying slightly from the movement. There were shuffling and sliding sounds as things, and bodies, were moved around. Something else; rope, being untied. Rolling wheels. Must have had a dolly tied to the wall. I could hear something being lifted and dropped, the floor reverberating with each thud. The wheels moving now, out of the truck and down the ramp. I didn’t know then what else had been in the back with all of us, but it took whoever was moving it eight trips. A short pause now. I could hear a lighter, then smell the smoke from a cigarette. Break time, I guess.</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">There was more movement and sound coming from the others back there with me and Bela. Sounds of stirring, maybe coming to. I heard a heel grinding on the floor of the truck. Smoke being put out. I guess break time was over. More movement. Sounded like somebody being moved; lifted. What was that? Tape? Yeah…from the sound it made when he tore it, probably duct tape…maybe packing. The wheels of the dolly rolling again down the ramp. One, maybe two minutes of nothing, then the dolly was coming back up and in. Same procedure two more times. I was wondering if he was going to try and do Bela and me like that. We could try and kick at him, I suppose, but kicking blind is about as useless as an open bar at a Mormon wedding reception. Now, the dragging sound again. Obviously a body being pulled to the back. A split second of silence, then a loud thud and groan. Fuck. Whichever one of us that was, just got dumped rather unceremoniously on the ground. Gotta hurt. Probably what’s in store for me and Bela because we’re awake. Gone longer this time. I decide to try and whisper to Bela.</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Got any ideas?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yeah.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Well? You gonna let me in on’m, or just kepp’m to yourself?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“You won’t like it.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Try me.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Prayer.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“What the fuck do you think I’ve been doing this whole time?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Pray harder.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Thanks. That’s just fuckin’ great. You’re a big help. Some ramrod you are.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Somebody coming back now. I heard Bela grunt, and the sound of him being lifted in the air. Another grunt, and the footsteps went away down the ramp. I listened, but no thud. Well, at least Bela hadn’t got dumped on the ground. A minute, then the person was back. I felt hands grab my shoulders and pull me to my feet. I tried to head butt whoever it was, and missed badly. I was lifted, thrown over a shoulder, and marched down the ramp. I’m just average size; five eleven and a buck sixty-five. But, Bela’s a decent size man. Six-two, six-three, and almost two hundred. Somebody’s pretty strong, or at least used to working with body weight. Funny though; it didn’t feel like I’d been lifted very high, and the shoulder didn’t feel all that wide. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Who the fuck was this guy?</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I bounced up and down on the guy’s shoulder. Went about forty, fifty feet. He squatted and set me down on the ground. I didn’t even try and head butt him this time. No use. Then things got weird. Felt him move around behind me. Pulled me to my feet. Cut my hands loose. I was wobbly, trying to get my balance. Hard to do when you can’t see and your feet are tied close together. Then, the bag came off of my head. His voice behind me:</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Be smart. Get your bearings first. Then do what I tell you to.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">There was a round, wooden railing in front of me. I grabbed it to hold myself up. It was cold and rough. Weather beaten. I looked around. I had been right about the desert. And about the butt fuck nowhere part. But everything else had a surreal quality to it. Like a dream. A really fucked up dream. Maybe I was still high on whatever he’d knocked me out with. I gripped the railing harder. Felt the rough, splintered, dry wood. Nope, no dream. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><strong>I was holding onto a hitching rail. I was standing in the middle of what had once been a small, old west town. Five, maybe six buildings total. They were all in various stages of decay, crumbling to the ground. Mounds of sand had blown into piles along the walls of each one. Tumbleweeds dotted the street, or at least what had once been the main drag of the town. Now it was just dust and sand, with old ruts worn into the earth where wagons once rolled. Most of the buildings, or what remained of them, lined the street up and to my right. There was one directly across from me. It was down a slight incline, maybe fifty or so feet away. There was a faint light coming from it, and shadows danced in and out of the gaps between the decaying wooden slats that had once been its walls. It looked like someone was inside of it. Couldn’t be sure. </strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><strong>What I could be sure of was this: I'd been here before. Many times. My Dad brought me here as a boy. Taught me to shoot. I came here as a young man. When I was on the job. And after. To continue that practice...and other things. Coincidence?</strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Bullshit.</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I looked up and to my right again, following the line of the hitching rail. It was over twenty feet long. The wood was gnarled and grey in the pale light. There were old, rusted iron rings embedded onto the top of the rail. Each one was spaced about eighteen inches apart. There were three people tied by flex-cuffs to the rings, starting at the end farthest away from me. Their heads hung down, covered by black bags, just like I’d been wearing. Must still be out. A couple of feet closer to me, Bela was sitting, his hands still fixed behind his back. A black bag was still on his head too, but he was turning, leaning towards us, trying to hear what was going on. The voice from behind me again. Soft. Slow, but steady. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’m going to cut your friend’s hands loose. There are three flex-cuffs by his feet. I want you to hook his hands up through the ring, just like I’ve done the others. Understood?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I just nodded. Felt him move from behind me over toward Bela. Then I saw him for the first time. About my size. That shocked me. Figured him to be bigger. Dressed all in black. Pants, shoes, and a hooded sweatshirt. The hood shielded his face from me. He pulled something from his pocket. A flick of the rest, and a blade glinted in the night. A butterfly knife. And he was good with it. Real good. He cut through Bela’s bonds and stepped back behind both of us. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Go ahead.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I hopped over to Bela, trying not to fall right on top of him. Hard to do, even with the railing for support. Harder still to squat down by his feet and pick up the three strands of plastic. My body is beat to shit. I was crippled on the job, long, long ago. The years haven’t been kind either. Artificial knee. Degenerating discs. Busted shoulders. Nerve damage. The long, cramped ride hadn’t exactly left me refreshed either. I was stiff and sore. Bela looked at me questioningly, and I tried to nod “No” as imperceptibly as I could. Nothing we could try right now had an ice cube’s chance in hell of working. Better to be patient. I looked down the line at the other three to see how they were hooked up. Each one had a flex-cuff around each wrist, with the third one looping through the iron ring above them holding the wrists to the rail. I did the same thing to Bela’s, trying to leave just a hint of slack. No luck.</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Tighter, please.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I pulled the cuffs tighter around each of his wrists, and started to turn back to our captor. He stopped me with the blade at my shoulder. Handed me two cuffs. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Put them on, please…good. Now, sit down, and put your hands up next to the hitching ring.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I did as I was told. I wanted to try and put up a fight right then. Figured I might not get many more shots at him. But, there was really nothing to try. Besides, he could get to Bela, or any of the others, before I could do much. Patience may be a virtue, but it sure as shit ain’t mine. Eating me alive to wait. He was still behind me. Threaded the remaining flex-cuff through the ring and the ones on my wrists. Pulled them tight…but not as tight as I would have. I would have done it so the circulation started to shut off. Make my opponent’s hands go numb. Less of a threat. It wasn’t like they were loose enough for me to do anything, mind you, it just seemed…fuck, I don’t know. Just seemed wrong. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He walked down the line behind the five of us. Stopped by the one closest to Bela. Took off the hood. It was Big Mar. Shit. Our soon to be executioner put his fingers at Big Mar’s neck. Took his pulse. Lifted the massive head. Pulled up the eye lids. Looked carefully. Lowered the head gently. Repeated the operation on the last two: the writer, and Chance. Smart placement. Put the biggest, strongest guy in the middle. Less likely to pull an end up out of the ground. Put somebody weak between Big Mar and Chance. What I would have done. Guy was prudent. Planned ahead. Good for him. Not for us.</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He was standing in front of me now. The blade flashed in his hand as he squatted down in front of me. Looking me straight in the eyes. His face was mostly in shadow created by the hood. But, I could see his eyes. Intense would be an understatement. Seemed to be looking right through me. The hint of a smile in his eyes as he spoke. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Your other friends should come around soon. You’ve all come this far. Wouldn’t want them to miss out on the rest of the evening’s activities, would we? Wouldn’t be right. Anyway, time to do work.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He got up. Started to turn away. My mind was racing. His last comment about ‘doing work’. Old Crip slang from back in the day. Meant it was time to kill. He wasn’t black. Couldn’t have been a banger. Ex-cop, maybe? But, how did he know about me? My past? Only a couple of living people knew about what I’d done, undercover, back in the early eighties. Was he sending me a message? </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">All of those thoughts went through my mind in a nano second. They stopped when he did. He turned back to me. Squatted down again. His eyes like coals of fire burning out of the shadows.</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tetelestai</i>.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Just that one word. He held my gaze for what seemed an eternity. The blade flashed between my feet. He’d cut the flex-cuff holding my feet together. My legs were free. Then he was back up again, heading down toward the decrepit shack across the road. I watched him, more confused and apprehensive than ever. Bela was watching him as well. When he got down to the shack, he bent over something lying next to the door. Seemed to fiddle with it. Then he was up, opening the decayed door. I could see, just before he pulled it shut behind him, a figure inside the shack. There appeared to be a rope holding whoever it was up. The figure’s head was hanging, as if in sleep. The door shut quickly, hiding him from view. Music started to drift up from the outside of the shack. Same hard guitar riffs as when we were riding in the truck. ‘Aqualung’ again. Not too loud. Just enough to keep us from hearing any conversation that might go on inside. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Bela turned to look at our three companions, then back at me. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“What the fuck, Jay.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yeah. What the fuck.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">You could make out the killer moving in the flickering shadows from within. Couldn’t tell what he was doing. Then it looked like he sat down on something close to the victim hanging inside. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“What did he say to you, that last time?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Tetelestai.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“What the fuck does that mean?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Last thing Jesus said on the Cross.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“’It is finished’? That shit ain’t good, Jay.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“That’s how it’s translated. Not exactly what it really means.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Well? You gonna tell me?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“It was the Greek word that they used to write on bills of sale…it means the debt is paid in full.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“What the fuck? Why say that? Whose debt?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Ours, I guess. Maybe a debt he owes to the dirt bags that want us dead. I don’t know.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Gamo.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Oipho.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“What?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Oipho, not gamo.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“What the fuck are you talking about, Jay?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Never mind.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">We were both watching the figures in the shack as we spoke. The killer got up. Moved to the hanging victim. Grabbed something off of the ground. Started swing it. We could hear the pounding. Metal on metal. Into wood. Hammer and nails. From the killer’s body position, it was pretty obvious where he was hammering into the vic. The sound echoed in the stillness. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“You think he’s?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yeah.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">We waited. No screams. The vic must still be out. Thank God. Having nails hammered into your dick or balls couldn’t be too pleasant. We seemed to have a lot to look forward to. Silence for a bit between us. The song ended. Started over again. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Who you figure it is?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“I don’t know. One of Big Mar’s bois? Maybe the clerk for the other Supreme court Justice? The one that tried to help?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Jay…”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“It’s not her, Bela.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“You sure?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yeah…he’d want me to know. Squirm.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yeah. OK.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“What the fuck?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">That was Big Mar. He’d just come to. Not very happy either. Chance was stirring next to the writer, who still looked to be out cold. Chance started shaking his head, like a dog with a chew toy. He spoke next.</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Where the fuck are we Jay?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Middle of the desert.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Who?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“I was hoping you’d tell me. See anything before you went down?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Nothin’. Me and Big Mar were just getting out of the car. Felt something, like a sting, in my neck. That’s it. Then here. Mar?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Same.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It looked like we all had the same experience. This guy was good. The best I’d ever seen. Or, never seen, I guess. Something was nagging at the back of my mind. Bits and pieces from the past, trying to make a picture for me. The word ‘Jukebox’ was bouncing around in my head like a stray bullet. Other things that I’d heard or seen over the years. They were close, but still in the background. Couldn’t quite pull them up. I looked down the row at everybody.</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“You might want to start trying to wake that scribe up, Chance.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Chance pulled his weight up on his wrists and turned his body. Used his legs to start bumping our resident Boswell. It took a few, but he finally started to wake up. Looked around. Panic way deep in his eyes. I don’t think this was anything he had ever anticipated. Lot different than one of his books, where the hero always has some hidden tool, or people coming to rescue him. No tools for us…and no cavalry charging in either. Just us. And, an executioner.</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The music was on its third go round when we heard the screams coming from the shack. They went on for a minute or so, then nothing we could hear. A few more minutes, and the door opened. A snapshot of the inside before it swung close: Looked like a man inside; no more rope holding him up, his hands tied behind his back, his pants at his ankles. Looked like blood on his legs. Couldn’t see his face. There was a wooden pole that he was standing next to. It went from the ground up to the ceiling. My bet was that his package was nailed into that pole. Fuck me, that didn’t sound good. At all.</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The killer walked over to what I now knew was some kind of music player. Bent over and fiddled with it. Straightened up. Walked over to the side of the shack. Came back around with a five gallon can. Started pouring the contents over the outside of the shack. Then the music started. Bela was first.</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I know that one. Used to play it in ‘Nam. Right before we were going out on a bad one. Into the jungle rivers in our PBR. Fuck. That’s bad mojo, Jay. Really bad Mojo.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Chance and Big Mar just looked at us. It was the writer who spoke then.</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“What’s the song? And, what’s a PBR?”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Don’t worry about PBRs right now. The song is ‘Fire’. ‘Bout burning down some fool’s wasted life.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The killer opened the door. Splashed the remaining liquid around. On the vic inside as well. More screams. He pulled the door shut again. Walked around to the side of the shack again. Came back with an axe in one hand, and a short stick with rags tied to one end in the other hand. Set the axe down. Took a lighter out of his pocket. Lit the torch. Walked over and touched it repeatedly to the dry walls of the shack. It went up in flames in less time than it takes me to go from zero to asshole. Burning hard and fast. The screams from inside were louder now. The killer picked up his boom box, or whatever the fuck it was, and moved it away from the flames. Squatted down on his haunches. Waiting. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">A new version of the song started. Ozzy’s cover. Louder. Slower. The flames engulfed the small building, tongues of it hungrily licking at the roof. The sky was filling with smoke. Hot ash rained from above, the wind pushing it our way. We all started to pull on the railing, trying to break free. Nothing doing. One of the buildings behind us caught too. Tendrils of fire crept up and out of one window. Everything looked and smelled like hell.</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>The door to the shack burst open. The man was smoking, his clothes and head burning. He stumbled a few feet, his pants bunched at his ankles making him fall. He rolled over and over trying to put out the flames on his head, back and arms. The fire behind him was so bright, it backlit his face. Between that and the burns, couldn’t make out who he was. His voice sounded strangled; rasping and hoarse from the smoke, the heat, and his own screams of pain. He was trying to crawl away from the fire toward us.<o:p></o:p></strong></span></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The killer rose out of his squat. Carried the axe with him. We could all here what was said next, the voices carried over by the blast furnace wind:</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“You, you swore you’d let me go…if I tore my balls off, you swore you’d let me go…you swore it…you promised…”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The killer stood over him now, the axe rising slowly over his head.</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“I lied.”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He brought the axe down in a vicious arc, severing a foot. Blood watered the desert beneath him. The killer reached over for the torch. Pushed it hard against the stump. The flesh sizzled. The blood flow stopped. The man’s screams rose into the heavens. The killer turned from him and headed up the slight rise toward us. He stopped in front of me. The axe rested on his shoulder. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Well Jay…it’s your turn now…”</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></strong></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>And, with that, he swung the axe down at me… <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></strong></span></span></div><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
<strong></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>Christopher Blakehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03319577741068780845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640166592905430800.post-42704180034355223312011-04-23T22:26:00.000-07:002011-04-23T22:26:19.904-07:00Easter or Passover?That God Guy is quite a writer. Best I've ever read. His ability to use foreshadowing, plot twists, dangling clues, and extremely foibled characters is unmatched. The fact that He does it with non-fiction is, honestly, amazing. Keep that in mind for the following:<br />
<br />
There was no Palm Sunday.<br />
<br />
There was no Maundy Thursday.<br />
<br />
There was no Good Friday.<br />
<br />
Jesus didn't rise from the dead at sunrise on Sunday morning.<br />
<br />
The only time the word Easter is in the Bible, in Acts 12: 4, it is a mistranslation. The Greek word is <em>PASXA, </em>which means Passover. <br />
<br />
However:<br />
<br />
There was a Palm Saturday. <br />
<br />
There was a Maundy Tuesday(kind of)<br />
<br />
There was a Good Wednesday.<br />
<br />
Jesus rose from the dead just after sunset on Saturday night(which, to a Jew, is Sunday)<br />
<br />
The early Church <em>never </em>celebrated Easter...only Passover. (yes, even the Gentile believers)<br />
<br />
I would encourage anyone reading this to read the following passages of Scripture when they have the time. <br />
<br />
Exodus chapter 12<br />
<br />
Leviticus chapter 23<br />
<br />
Numbers chapter 9<br />
<br />
Deuteronomy chapter 16 <br />
<br />
All of the Gospel accounts of the Savior's final week.<br />
<br />
The answers are all there. He left them for us. They're important to know. Now, before we get to some explanations of the dates, let me explain something else.<br />
<br />
<br />
I grew up in a Christian home. We went to Church more often than my fifteen year old son plays his XBox. (Well, OK, not that much, but it seemed like it) We spent every summer vacation at the Navajo Mission, and my parents eventually became missionaries there. <br />
<br />
We celebrated Easter at Church, with all of those dates I listed above. It was what we were taught. We also hunted for eggs from the Easter Bunny. It was a lot of fun. I have had Easter egg hunts for all of my children as they grew up. Easter baskets, Easter presents, candy, you name it. So, I hope you don't think I'm a stick in the mud. Easter is fun...it just has nothing to do with what happened to our Savior. <br />
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The term <em>Easter </em>comes from the Babylonian goddess Ishtar. The Easter celebration: eggs, chicks, bunnies, fertility rites of all kinds, were part of a pagan festival honoring the rebirth of the year. That's why our celebration rarely coincides with Passover, although it does this year. It's centered around the vernal equinox( the first Sunday after the first full moon following the vernal equinox) . Most of our Christian festivals, and their dates, have nothing to do with what actually happened in the Bible, or when. Jesus wasn't born on December 25th(it was late September, early October), and the things we associate with that celebration are also mostly borrowed from other Babylonian and Roman festivals that were held in December.(Winter solstice festivals)<br />
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It's OK to celebrate when we do. The Scriptures teach us in Colossians 3:16 not to judge anyone on when they celebrate; new moons, feast days or Sabbaths. Kind of like Communion: it doesn't matter if you have unleavened bread and wine, or a Snickers bar and a Monster energy drink...it's what's in your heart that counts.<br />
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We should, however, know when things actually happened, and why the Church changed them. Part of the reasoning is shameful, and it not only haunts the Church to this day, it weakens us as believers.<br />
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Minor things can mean a lot. To the Jews the day officially started at sunset. Goes back to Genesis chapter one;"...and it was dark, and it was light, day one..." They figured, if God started with dark then light, must be the way to go. Pretty smart choice, I'd say. So...if you're reading this after sunset on Saturday, but before midnight, it's Sunday according to the Jews. And, please remember, Jesus, our Savior, was, <em>and is</em> a Jew...and damn proud of it. <br />
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How did they come up with the days for good Friday, Maundy Tuesday, and Palm Sunday? Counting backwards. Unfortunately, they chose to count backward from the wrong day. They assumed, when the Scriptures said that it was, "...the preparation day for the Sabbath...", that it was Friday; Saturday being the Sabbath. EHHHHHHH, I'm sorry, that's the wrong answer...what do we have for our departing contestant today, Johnny? You see, if you read the Scriptures I gave you, you'll find that the first and seventh days of the feast of unleavened bread, were both Sabbath days, irregardless of what day of the week they fell on. So, you would always have at least 2 Sabbaths during the week, and usually 3...but not three Saturdays, three Sabbaths.<br />
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So, how do we know when the days actually were? Again, count backward...but from Saturday night, after sunset! The Scriptures prophesied, and Jesus Himself clearly stated, that He would be in the Tomb; THREE DAYS AND THREE NIGHTS. Count backward, and see where it takes you.<br />
Saturday=1 day<br />
Friday night =1 night<br />
Friday =2 days<br />
Thursday night=2 nights<br />
Thursday= 3 days<br />
Wednesday night=3 nights<br />
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Jesus was crucified on Wednesday, and died around 3:00pm that afternoon. Count back again, according to the Scriptures, and you'll see when he entered Jerusalem. Saturday. The Sabbath. That's why they threw their clothes on the young donkey's back: according to the Sabbath laws, you couldn't saddle an animal on the Sabbath; that was prohibited work.<br />
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The reason Jesus had a Passover Seder meal with His disciples on Tuesday night(Wednesday to a Jew) is explained in Numbers chapter 9. If you were unclean from being around a dead body, you couldn't wait until the actual Passover meal...you had to eat it a day early. Jesus knew that his disciples were going to be unclean, because of His dead body later that day. He planned ahead...for them.<br />
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Why did He enter Jerusalem on Saturday? The Passover Lamb was supposed to be taken into the house, and kept there for five days; then killed on the fifth day. Jerusalem, the temple, God's home. Everything that Jesus did was a fulfillment of the Scriptures.<br />
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Why did the Church turn away from what the Scriptures teach? Because of their hatred for the Jews. Our history over the last 1700 years or so with the Jews is a disgrace. It is the Church, more than anyone, that has persecuted our Savior's people. That, however, is a topic for another blog. Suffice it to say, we will be held accountable for our dealings with them.<br />
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You're probably thinking right now...OK, so what? What difference does it make when He did those things? Wednesday, Friday...who really cares?<br />
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First and foremost, God does. All of those things that happened in the Old Testament were foreshadows of what was to come with Jesus. People missed Him at the time because they didn't know. They are also foreshadows of things yet to come: His return for His Bride, and His return for His people. I don't want to be one of the people who misses out because I wasn't paying attention to the signs...do you?<br />
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Secondly: we, the Church, both Protestant and Catholic, are held at ridicule for what we believe. That's OK, when we're stating our beliefs correctly. It's not OK when we say Jesus was in the tomb three days and three nights...and then say He was crucified on Friday afternoon and rose on Sunday morning. I've heard it a million times: What's the matter...your God can't count? I have an answer. I'm supposed to. We all are.<br />
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Two final things. First, we live in a world where it is becoming increasingly more difficult to maintain a Christian testimony. Now, I'm about to step on some toes, so be forewarned. The number one reason for our troubles, as Christians, is the Church itself. We live in a day where the average person's idea of what a Christian is comes from: the clowns on TBN, pimping Jesus for money; the supposed 'Christian Right and their hatred for Gays, abortion, and just about everything else ...Creationists who don't even know what the Scriptures actually teach, and the rest of us: hiding in the shadows, not wanting to be noticed...or rock the boat. It's our job to stand for the things of Christ, and against those who use Him for the wrong reasons. It is up to us to,"...rightly divide the Word of Truth...", and be, "...workman worthy of the hire..."<br />
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If that means stepping on the toes of those who treat my Savior like a whore, so be it. If it means rocking the boat...I'd rather tip it over and sink it, than ride in it with those who use the Lord for only their own gain.<br />
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Secondly, and on a lighter note: Have a good Easter. Buy candy and gifts for your kids. Hide eggs. I personally have hidden more Easter eggs than there are ticks on a passel of good hunting dogs. Dress up in your Easter best. Go to Church. Have a big family gathering. Of course, try and remember our Savior's sacrifice for us. But look to the Scriptures: do it in your heart, and know why.<br />
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God had the children of Israel sell themselves into slavery. He hardened Pharaoh's heart to not let them go. He performed miracles. Finally, He shed blood to set them free. All of that was done as a lesson for us. We sold ourselves into slavery. It took the shedding of blood to set us free. That blood was the blood of our Savior. Just before He died, He said one, last word: <strong><em>tetelestai.</em></strong> It's translated as: It is finished. Close, but not quite. <strong><em>Tetelestai</em></strong> is the Greek word that was written on the bottom of a bill of sale when the transaction was complete. It meant: The Debt is Paid in Full. <br />
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Pascha ShalomChristopher Blakehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03319577741068780845noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640166592905430800.post-58776979308306803012010-12-22T12:39:00.000-08:002010-12-22T22:10:32.966-08:00THE LITTLE ANGEL<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>What is it that makes the Holidays special? When you're a child, it's all about the presents. Santa Claus, reindeer, elves and magic...unable to fall asleep on Christmas Eve, the anticipation more energizing than the sugar rush from all of the goodies. Then, we grow up...and the world, with all of its ugliness, pushes its way in. Work. Money. Worry. Strife. The magic tends to get pushed to the side.<br />
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But, if you're lucky, little things happen over the course of your life that bring the magic back. And, like the ornaments that you save from year to year, you take them out every once in a while...you lift them gently, carrying them with as much care as you can. Those memories, you see, are far more delicate and fragile than the finest porcelain. They are made with gossamer wings and fairy dust, and ingredients even finer...hopes and dreams...and love.<br />
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Twenty-one years ago today I was at a big box hardware store, my two oldest daughters in tow. It had been a rough year. I was going through my second disability retirement. Money was beyond tight. Cherish had been pregnant with Lacy, our first child together. I had not been much help to her during a good portion of the pregnancy due to health reasons that would take too long to explain here. Needless to say, when she had needed me most, I had been unable to come through for her. She had, however, carried our beautiful baby girl to full term, and delivered her on the tenth of December. Now, as had become our way in life, we were scrambling to try and get things done at the last minute with no money.<br />
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Cherish's parents were getting the girls a really nice swing set. My second daughter was really into gymnastics at that time, and had made it clear that she wanted her own balance beam. My oldest daughters and I were at that store so that I could price out the remaining items that I would need to build the balance beam in the backyard. The four by four, cement and brackets had already been purchased, but I knew that I needed screws and nails, as well as a couple of tools that I didn't own. I had just finished pricing those tools, and discovered that there was no way that I could afford to buy even one of them, let alone all that I needed. Frustration, anger and self-loathing were just kicking into high gear when Crystal, my oldest, started to tug on my sleeve. <br />
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Crystal is an amazing human being. If you have never had the pleasure of meeting her, your life truly is not complete. Her praises are far too many for me to sing, but the two that come most into play in this story are these: she possesses no guile at all...she always says exactly what she means. And, like a dog with a bone, once she believes in something, and the rightness of it, she never lets go. Truly remarkable, when you consider what she has been through in her life. Anyway...<br />
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Crystal was tugging at my sleeve. I turned to find her holding onto a very pretty, very frilly, and obviously not cheap Christmas ornament. It was an Angel...a tree topper Angel. Cherubic face, delicate gown, and a little light held in between her hands. One look told me there was no way we could afford it right now...no way. Not even a remote possibility. <br />
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No one had told Crystal that, however. Money means nothing to her. No concept at all. I mean that in a good way. She's not impressed by what others have, or what things cost. With Crystal, it's all about what's right. Keep that in mind.<br />
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<em>Daddy?</em><br />
<em>Yes honey?</em><br />
<em>We have to get this angel. </em><br />
<em>Not today honey.</em><br />
<em>We have to. </em><br />
<em>Maybe some other time honey.</em><br />
<em>No. Today.</em><br />
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Her jaw was set in that certain way. I let her lead me to where she had found it. The shelf was bare, except for the box that the angel came in. It was, of course, the only one left. I picked up the box and looked for the price sticker. It was on the bottom: $25. Might as well have said $2500. Way too much money. No way we could afford it. I tried to explain that to Crystal. Useless. Finally, I just took it from her and put it next to the box...took both girls by the hand and started to lead them away. That's when Crystal got me. <br />
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<em>Daddy...</em><br />
<em>Look Sis, I said no...now, let's go.</em><br />
<em>We have to buy it. </em><br />
<em>Not today...maybe we'll come back for it.</em><br />
I said that knowing it was a lie.<br />
<em>We have to buy it today...it's the only one. </em><br />
<em>Look, sweetie, we can't today, OK? We'll think about it, and maybe...</em><br />
<em>We have to but it for Lacy. She's our little Angel. God sent her to make up for the one he took.</em><br />
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I had to stop writing for a minute. Crying. That memory is still so strong...so fresh...<br />
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I can't tell you why Crystal said that. It's too personal. That is one of the memories that is so fragile that I fear it would crumble in my hands if I ever took it out. But when she said it, I instantly knew that Crystal was right. I lead them back, put the angel in the box, and took it with us to the checkout stand. I told Cherish the story when I got home. We both cried. It went on the top of the tree right then.<br />
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The next year started a new tradition. We had always decorated the tree as a family. Now, when we were done, Lacy was hoisted onto my shoulders. It was to be her job to place the Angel on top of the tree. I don't remember how she did that first year. I do remember each year after. We would always tell the story of how we came to have that Angel, and Lacy loved the story. What Lacy was too young to realize was that Crystal had been prescient beyond human ability. You see, Lacy, it turned out, actually was an Angel...<br />
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She has made a difference in more people's lives than I can count. Those people know who they are: they know what Lacy means to them, and the changes that she made in them that no one else could. Those stories are precious to each person, and are not mine to share. What I can tell you is this: The impact that Lacy has had on so many lives is not because of things that she has done. She has had that impact because of who she is. Inside. In her heart. I can tell you this...I believe she added years to my Dad's life. The joy that she brought to him...sorry...can't do it.<br />
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We still have that tradition. Every year, that Little Angel is the last thing to go on the tree. Every year, I put Lacy on my shoulders and lift her to the top. She places it, and plugs it in. Its little light shines down on all of the special ornaments, lots of them made by the kids over the years. It shines like a beacon, greeting each person who comes to our home with love, and hope, and dreams...and magic.<br />
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I have a feeling that I won't get to put Lacy on my shoulders this year. Not because of the degenerating discs or busted shoulders. The heart attack in January may have made last year my final one for lifting. I hope not. I'm going to lobby to carry her again...but I wont argue too hard and spoil the occasion. <br />
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No matter how it goes up there this year, I will relive each year from the past as it is placed and lit. Especially the first year...the year that God sent us our Little Angel, and that Crystal saw her for who she truly was. <br />
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Lacy's light shines on all who come into her circle. It touches them with warmth...and hope...and dreams...and love...<br />
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And Magic.<br />
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I love you, Little AngelChristopher Blakehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03319577741068780845noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640166592905430800.post-49327435621239725462010-11-11T21:10:00.000-08:002010-11-11T21:12:29.484-08:0024 YEARS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwhNNlYIjYUG03XwTgqrKBadlfr6YbRKgCWzQrx_aFi61NxPOcrzp0cZGL3d4J8xsQHvfSGJXJ9PUPuxtCje4JsZHcuWX8_5m7xg8_584cn4tgxrymVI69cS-T9aHTRFSPJg5AYcaFats/s1600/cherish+chris+limo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="226" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwhNNlYIjYUG03XwTgqrKBadlfr6YbRKgCWzQrx_aFi61NxPOcrzp0cZGL3d4J8xsQHvfSGJXJ9PUPuxtCje4JsZHcuWX8_5m7xg8_584cn4tgxrymVI69cS-T9aHTRFSPJg5AYcaFats/s320/cherish+chris+limo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I was never going to get married again. <br />
Never. <br />
I was going to raise my two little girls.<br />
Alone. <br />
I had no desire to share my life with anyone but them.<br />
If you knew the story of my first marriage, you'd know why.<br />
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I had dated models and actresses when I was a bodyguard.<br />
All of them beautiful.<br />
None of them memorable.<br />
Then, one day, everything changed.<br />
It was love at first sight.<br />
For me.<br />
She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.<br />
Ever.<br />
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That was twenty-five years ago.<br />
She is even more beautiful today than she was then.<br />
Far more beautiful.<br />
The most beautiful woman that God ever made. <br />
And, she loves me.<br />
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We've been through a lot over the years.<br />
Lots of highs.<br />
Some lows.<br />
It hasn't always been easy for her.<br />
I've had at least eight of my seventeen surgeries while we've been married. <br />
I had a heart attack earlier this year.<br />
Almost died.<br />
We've been short on money.<br />
Many times.<br />
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But, we've never been short on love. <br />
We have great children.<br />
Because of her.<br />
We have a great home.<br />
Because of her. <br />
We have a great life.<br />
Because of her.<br />
We have a wonderful marriage.<br />
Because of her.<br />
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Almost everyone said it wouldn't last.<br />
November 12th 2010 will be 24 years.<br />
24 years.<br />
Because of her.<br />
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The sun rises for me in the morning when she smiles.<br />
The stars come out at night in her eyes.<br />
She is my life...<br />
my breath...<br />
my everything.<br />
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I love you Cherish Ann.<br />
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Happy Anniversary.Christopher Blakehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03319577741068780845noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640166592905430800.post-15917638247138437092010-08-24T14:02:00.000-07:002010-08-24T14:03:21.304-07:00UNREAL STORIES PART I<div>I have a friend who is a well known, successful author. A lot younger than me, and yet he treats me with respect and kindness. I'm not going to tell you his name, or even hint at who he is. I don't trade on friendships. Never have, never will...probably to my detriment, according to some. Anyway, he is the motivation for this blog, and the others that will follow it in a similar vein. So, to my friend, I say thank you.</div><br />
<div>I didn't tell my birth Father about my heart attack until Fathers Day. He is eighty, and has had numerous heart attacks of his own, starting about 25 years ago when he was 55. I didn't want the potential stress of my own problems having a negative impact on him. I spoke with his wife when I called on Fathers Day, trying to get a feel for whether or not I should tell him about it. She is lovingly protective of him, as she should be, and I felt she would warn me if it wasn't a good time to tell him. She gave no indication that I shouldn't, so I told him about it when he got on the phone. </div><br />
<div>Come to find out, he had another heart attack...in January...almost at the same time that I had mine. I wrote about that to my author friend, and this was the first part of his reply:</div><div><strong><em>Unreal story. And clearly meant to be.</em></strong><br />
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He finished his response, as he always does, with kind remarks for me. He is, as I said, a very respectful young man. His remarks, however, got me to thinking. The first thing that popped into my head was the similar comment of a young woman who worked as a reader for one of my agents. This young woman had just finished reading one of my screenplays that happens to be based on a true story. She didn't know that; she also didn't know that her boss, the agent, had already read the screenplay a number of years before and declared it to be the best thing that she had ever read. The young woman's comment was as follows:</div><br />
<div><em>It strains credulity to think that this many bad things could happen to one man in the course of only one lifetime.</em> </div><div>The comment made me laugh at the time. I had intentionally left a lot out of the screenplay just to tone it down: not only that, but it covered only a three year window in my life. I thought about all of the unreal stories that I had lived through prior to that one, and the many I have lived through since. When she called to give me her "notes", I asked her how old she was:<em>Nineteen, </em>she replied with all of the misplaced authority of her youth. I told her she needed to get out more, and politely said my goodbyes. She didn't know that after her boss read the screenplay for the first time, she tried to steal me away from my first agent instead of being a co-agent with her. She didn't know that her boss had gotten the screenplay to the top executives at Columbia Pictures, and that it was about to be given the green light when...</div><br />
<div>The Rodney King verdict was announced, and riots ripped Los Angeles apart. Suddenly, no one wanted to have anything to do with a story where the not so clean, undercover, half-breed cop, used black gang bangers to kill dirty, racist white cops for revenge... </div><div>Go figure, huh?</div><br />
<div>That screenplay became toxic for the next few years, and the agent was told, by the executives at Columbia, to drop me like a hot potato...which she did.</div><br />
<div>But, that is not the unreal story that I want to tell you today. I could start at the beginning; my unreal stories, I have been told, start before my birth, but I have my reasons for saving those for a while. There are many that occurred before the one I'll tell you today, but this is the one that seems to resonate in me at the moment. So, without further foreplay, we begin...</div><br />
<div>My senior year of high school was eventful, to say the least. Many of the things that occurred would make unreal stories on their own. Some of them will be mentioned briefly in the course of this narrative. Perhaps I will come back to some of them in the future, perhaps not. The story I have chosen merits being told first, I believe, because it has legs. It continues on for many years, sporadically rearing its disturbing mane and howling at the moon to remind me that things aren't always over when you think that they are.</div><br />
<div>The first incident of note my senior year, was that my brother ran off with the niece of the Pastor of our Church. He was 21 and she was sixteen, but that was only part of the reason their actions had such impact. She and her brother, who was my age, were living with the Pastor and his wife, their Aunt and Uncle, due to the extremist of circumstances. They had witnessed their Father murder their Mother in ways too graphic to describe here. He was captured, tried and convicted. At his sentencing hearing, he pointed at his two children and swore that he would break out of prison, hunt them down, and kill them. A few years later, he succeeded in escaping, and the two were shipped off from their home in the Midwest to hopeful safety in Southern California.</div><div>I was the only one who knew where she and my brother had gone, and everyone knew that I knew. I was pulled out of school at least twice a week by the police and questioned. Never told them anything, but I understood that they were just doing their job. I was already a pariah at my Church; I had been labeled a "sexual predator" at the age of fourteen, over a year before I had my first girlfriend, or even my first kiss. That is another of the unreal stories. This new development earned me the title of "Anti Christ" to go along with the other...and no, I'm not joking. There is a reason why many people feel driven from Church. Gossip and salacious innuendo rank highly on that list.</div><br />
<div>The second incident that is relevant to this story is that my Granny was diagnosed with terminal leukemia. She agreed to move in with us so that we could take care of her. Now, my Granny was my counselor, my advisor, and my best friend. She was the one person that I had always been able to talk to about everything; especially the difficulties that my parents and I were going through about my being adopted. My Mother was, at that time, going to college to get her teaching credentials. She had been going for thirteen years: it was a long, slow, and painful process for her. She volunteered to drop out, but my Granny wouldn't let her. You see, my Granny and I had already worked out an agreement. I would go to school for my first class of the day, and then I would walk home and stay with her until about a half hour before my Mom got home from college. Then I would walk back up to the school, turn around, and walk home. That way, if my Mom happened to swing by the school on her way home, she'd see me where I was supposed to be. My first class was actually at another school close by. I taught foreign students English. It was easy to go from there back to my house, and I didn't have to actually attend any classes at my high school my senior year to graduate. On days when my Mom had limited classes, I would stay at school for part of the day.</div><br />
<div>The story of why I didn't <em>have</em> to go to high school my senior year; the reasons why the school was just as glad when I didn't show up, and why I could have graduated much earlier, are another of the unreal stories best left for down the road. It made it easy for me to take care of my Granny, at any rate, and we were able to keep the secret until almost the end of her life a few months later. She told me that she was trying to hang on for only two reasons: she wanted to see my brother be able to return and get married, and she wanted to see me graduate. No one from our family had ever graduated with honors, and she made no secret of the fact that she was very proud of me. Her love and support saw me through many dark and difficult days...I miss her still. She hung on just long enough to see my brother return and get married...but she passed a few months before my graduation.</div><br />
<div>It was during all of this that our story for today took place. I was walking out to the parking lot of our Church one Sunday morning when I saw a beautiful girl walking my way. She had long, auburn hair that hung almost to her waist and translucent eyes. She looked up at me as we passed each other, and I inexplicably said, </div><br />
<div><em>Hi, TeeDee.</em></div><br />
<div>She smiled, a curious little Mona Lisa smile, and said hi back. We both continued in opposite directions, and it took me a full minute to realize that, not only had I never met her before, I had never even seen a picture of her. Anywhere. At anytime. I looked back over my shoulder, and caught her looking back at me. She was clearly puzzled, but not half as much as I was. I shook my head to clear the webs, went out to the family car, and went home. </div><br />
<div>My Father had been sleeping in my room since my Granny moved in. My Mom wanted to be next to her at night to be able to care for her, and my Dad, who was the most selfless man I've ever known, moved his clothes and gear into my room. He was the Head Stillman at an oil refinery, and because of that he worked rotating shifts each week: days, followed by swing-shift, and then grave yards. He went to bed after dinner when he worked grave yards, and then got up at eleven to go to work. There was no point in my even trying to go to bed before he left, so on those nights I was always up until after midnight. That Sunday was one of those nights, so I didn't even go into my room until almost one in the morning.</div><br />
<div>I have always been nocturnal as well, and falling asleep on the best of nights was, and is, problematic. That particular night my mind was racing about a million things, not the least of which was my meeting with the <em>mysterious TeeDee</em>, if that was even her name. I tossed and turned for a while, trying to put things to rest in my mind. The last time I remember looking at the clock, it was 1:53. I fell asleep at some point after that, and had the most incredible dream of my life...</div><div>The dream started in a wind tossed night some time close to the end of the Dark Ages. A castle, somewhere in what would now be northern France. The Lady of the Castle in childbirth, her husband pacing downstairs before the fire. The Lady is attended by a wizened old crow of a woman; part midwife, part faithful servant...and part witch. She gives the Lady a potion to drink for pain as the birth nears, and the Lady swoons into unconsciousness. The baby is born: cold, still and silent as the grave he will soon lie in. This is a disaster for the old witch. The Lady has had a number of still born children already, and the old woman has promised the Lord a healthy child. Not only healthy, but a son as well. It well mean her death if she fails again. She is racked with fear when she remembers something that might save her: the village whore had given birth the day before to a healthy baby boy. No one could be certain who the father was, but it was probably one of the Lord's soldiers. The babies were similar enough in appearance, and the witch was desperate. She barred the door and gathered the dead heir in her arms. </div><div></div><br />
<div>The Lord and Lady were relative new-comers to the castle, receiving it as part of an inheritance fifteen years before. The old woman, however, had been a servant to the owners of the castle since childhood many, many years before, as had her mother, and generations of her family before. She knew things about the castle that the current royals didn't, and that knowledge was about to come into play. She hurried to the fireplace, carrying the limp, small form next to her. Her gnarled fingers felt along the rough stones next to the dying fire, and turns and pushes of stones, practiced countless times over the years, caused a section of the wall to move. She reached inside the slowly widening space into the darkness and pulled a long wooden stick from within. Rushing back to the fire she lit it, and, torch in hand, began her descent down the winding stairs that the moving wall had revealed. A turn of an ancient wall sconce brought the wall closed silently behind her, hiding her retreat.</div><div></div><br />
<div>She had made this journey so many times over the long course of her life that she barely looked at the treacherous steps as she bounded down them. The paving stones were as worn and weathered as the old woman's feet, and the winding twists and turns of the secret passage were as familiar to her as the pulsing veins on the backs of her hands that throbbed now from her efforts. She came to the bottom at last, where three tunnels opened up before her. One led to other parts of the castle, one much farther out into the nearby woods, and the last to a small cave just outside of the village. She didn't hesitate for a moment as she darted into the last one, and minutes later found herself past the walls of the castle and hurrying through the musty dankness of the cavern. A waterfall covered the opening to the cave, but she knew a hidden path around it and soon she was flitting through the village, an old crow floating unseen through the moonless night with a package of death swaddled under her wings. </div><br />
<div>She hesitated before the whore's cottage, not daring to breath. She had already seen the whore in the village tavern plying her trade.There were things she could do to earn, even this soon after giving birth, and besides, she wasn't about to let a baby keep her locked away from the world. No, the old woman's only concern was that the whore might have left someone to watch over the baby. She needn't have worried. The cottage was empty save for the lone, small figure laying in the straw before the fire. Quickly the witch darted into the cottage, a plan formulating in her desperate mind. She picked up the healthy boy and lay the dead heir in his place in the straw. The whore had left her baby directly in front of the fire, and sparks popped out from the logs. She drew some of the fire into the straw and watched as it burst into flame. The baby was dead...he would feel nothing, and the fire would disguise any doubts the whore might have. It was unlikely that she would even mourn the child; her freedom was far more valuable to her. The old woman drew the bar down across the door and slid silently out the window, the now breathing bundle tucked in the crook of her weathered arm. She paused at the edge of the village and watched the cottage burn. People streamed from the tavern and the surrounding cottages, but the whore's hovel was built far enough away from the rest that none were endangered. Satisfied that her secret was safe, the old woman scurried back towards the falls and the entrance to the cave.<br />
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Her mind raced faster than her feet as she glided up the hidden stone stairs toward the Lady's room. She needed to disguise the fact that this child was already a full day old. She turned the sconce and hesitated as the secret wall pivoted. If the Lord had broken down the door in a panic while she was gone...but no, the room was as still as when she left it. She lay the boy on the bed and smeared the after birth all over him, then wrapped him in a small blanket. She pinched the child, hard, until he cried out. Then, unbarring the massive door, she rushed out and down the stairs to the waiting Lord. <br />
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She had been right; his eyes went immediately to the baby's genitals. He cared about nothing else than that he had a son. A living, breathing son. The excess blood was enough to dis way him from looking any closer, and she quickly swept the boy back into her arms and up to the Lady's room. Here was where her deception might not carry. The Lady had been present at many births: she might recognise that something was amiss. So, when the Lady began to awaken, the old woman gave her more of the potion to drink. It was enough to keep her asleep for at least another twelve hours. By that time, the ruse would be complete. She rocked the baby gently as she watched the Lady drift away into the land of Morpheus. <br />
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Days unfolded into years as I watched the boy grow, until one day, I finally realized that the boy was...<em>me</em>. The perspective of the dream changed from that moment on, and I watched events transpire as though I was living them. I grew into my teens, being taught by my adoptive father all of the skills necessary to one day become Lord of the Provence. I could ride, hunt, and fight as well as anyone, and my skill with a sword was unmatched. I was also trained by the monks in literature and the arts, as well as religion. My favorite tutor, however was the old woman. She taught me about nature, about life, but most of all, she taught me about people. <br />
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I had discovered the secret passages as a small boy when I was hiding in my mother's room and saw the old woman go out through the hidden doorway in the wall. She swore me to secrecy, and from that time on, I was able to come and go from the castle as I pleased. It was during one of these outings into the woods that I met a lovely young girl from the village. I felt an immediate attraction to her, even though I knew that our romance would be forbidden because she was a commoner. She felt the same for me, and our love grew over the ensuing years. By the time I was in my early twenties I had decided that I wanted to marry her, irregardless of our different stations in life. We met near our favorite little stream where I professed my love and intentions. She was overjoyed, and I left her with the promise that when I returned, it would be to make her my wife.<br />
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It was the last time I saw her alive.<br />
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The old woman was waiting for me at the entrance to the cavern by the waterfall. She had been watching from the bushes just upstream, and demanded to know what I was doing with the village girl. She flew into a rage when I told her of my plans. Her face contorted and she paced back and forth by the water's edge, her angry mutterings occasionally broken by a high pitched , nervous squeal. She begged me not to go through with it. I refused, and told her my parents would understand. We argued about it for a long time, until she finally asked me if I knew who the girl's mother was. I knew of her mother's reputation, but since she had been dead now for over three years, I told her I didn't see why it mattered. That's when the old woman sent my world into the abyss.<br />
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She told me the girl that I loved...that I wanted to marry...was my half sister. I, of course, didn't believe her. I raged against her lies and threatened to have her put to death for her treachery. Then she told me the story of my birth; of the desperate decision she had made, and the consequences to her if it were ever discovered. I thought, at first, that she might be lying to protect my parents from my marriage to a commoner, especially one who was the daughter of the late town whore. But the truth was there in her eyes...and in my heart. As much as I had loved the girl, I had always wondered why the desire to have sex with her had never really overwhelmed me. We had been alone all of the times we met, and she had offered herself to me on many occasions, but I have never gone ahead with her offer. I had told myself that it was my love for her that kept things pure, but I was certainly no virgin, and had sex frequently with the choicest of young ladies in the neighboring villages. I didn't know what to do. The old witch and I returned through the cave to the passages within the castle. I told her to go on ahead and waited alone in the darkness pondering my own fate. I couldn't go back now and pretend to be something I wasn't. I couldn't stay. So, I took the passage that led to the stables, saddled my favorite horse, and left.</div><br />
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I rode listlessly for a few days with no direction, either for the road or my life, in mind. One day I could smell the salt air of the sea nearby, and suddenly decided to take a boat across to the Isles of Britannia. I waited for a boat that could ferry me and my horse, and then made the trip across the straights of Dover. I wandered purposefully for weeks, taking in the new lands and people at my leisure. They weren't as advanced as my countrymen, but seemed to enjoy their lot in life much more so. This changed, however, as I traveled farther north. There , the people seemed more distrustful, more afraid. I was told by an inn keeper that the Earl of that area was a foul, evil man, who kept his subjects in line through intimidation and torture. No one ever felt safe, and even the King's men hesitated to come through without having great numbers. The Earl's men took pretty much what they wanted, whether in money, goods, or women's virtue. Oppression hung in the air like an ocean fog; thick, heavy, and chilling. I should have turned back to the south, but something inside drove me onward. <br />
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Two days journey farther, and I knew why...<br />
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It was late afternoon when I heard the sounds of a disturbance off of the path I was on to my left. A brisk trot brought my horse and I to the edge of a small glen. There, not one hundred feet in front of me, four soldiers were attacking a young woman. They had cornered her against a large rock and were tearing her clothes from her despite her valiant attempts to fight them off. I reined my horse to the left, and then took off straight at them at the gallop. They looked up just in time to move off of her, and I slammed two of them backward with my steed's shoulder. I dismounted quickly, unsheathed my sword, and began a fight to the death.<br />
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The two soldiers who had evaded my horse's charge were on me as soon as I dismounted. Though they had the advantage of numbers, their skill with the blade was lacking. It was a matter of only moments before I had killed them both. I turned my attention to the other two just as one of them came at my back. The other was still on the ground, entangled in the brush by his chain mail. This new opponent was more of a challenge, but it it wasn't long before I had him on the defensive, his blows becoming weaker with each swing. I had just run him through with my sword when I felt a deep burning pain in my back. The fourth and final soldier had crept up behind me and plunged his dagger into my flesh. I wasn't wearing chain mail, or armor of any kind, and the blade did its evil work well. I went to one knee as he pulled his steel from me, my head bowed in pain. He came in to finish me, but he had waited a split second too long. I brought my sword up to parry his thrust, and drove my own weapon into him all the way to the hilt. He fell at my feet, and his flat, glassy eyes were the last thing I saw before I too crumpled to the ground, the darkness enveloping me. <br />
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I awoke to the feathery touch of cool fingers stroking my face. The young woman whom I had saved in the small clearing had brought me back to her small cottage and nursed me back to health. I saw, as soon as my eyes regained their focus, that she was...TeeDee. It was one of those moments, even in a dream, when you just stop...I knew I was dreaming. I knew that everything was also real. How, I would never venture to guess...<br />
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We lived together for a few years, and fell in love. There is too much of that time to tell; including her being taken by the evil Earl, and my fight to reclaim her which ended with his death. We were eventually to be married by a nearby priest when someone from my past found me.<br />
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The old woman knocked at the door to our cottage one day and, as soon as I saw her, my emotions were torn between confusion, anger, and regret. She told me that my parents had been taken captive by a neighboring Duke, and were being held for execution. I was the only hope that they had. TeeDee begged me not to go. I was torn, but the obligation I felt for the parents who raised me overwhelmed all else. I removed the cross I wore around my neck, and with the edge of my dagger inscribed the words, <em>" pas même la mort" </em>on the back...not even death. I swore to her that not even death would keep me from finding her again...and with that, I put the cross around her neck, mounted my horse, and rode off with the old woman.<br />
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I won't bore you with the story of how I stole back into the castle through the hidden passageways and killed the evil Duke, nor the joyful reunion with the people who raised, and still loved me. I told them of TeeDee, and they begged me to bring her back with me to resume my rightful place. We shared one last drink together, and I left to retrieve my bride to be. Everything should have turned out fine, except...<br />
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No one had told my half sister anything. Not that we were related, and that that was the reason why I left. All she heard was that I was going to bring back my new bride, and she went into a rage. She slipped a slow acting poison into the goblet which had held my drink...and then killed herself. No one knew what she had done...but its effects would soon appear.<br />
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I began to feel sick upon my return to Britannia. The illness progressed as I rode northward toward TeeDee. I became weak...dizzy. I clung to my horse's mane just to stay on. I passed in and out of consciousness. I don't know how long I rode that way. I finally regained consciousness. It was late afternoon, and I realized that I was back in the same glen where I had met and saved TeeDee many years before. My strength was ebbing. I fell from my horse. I gazed up through the canopy of trees at the slowly dimming light. I struggled vainly to hold onto life. My last breaths whispered the words, no, no, no...as the darkness of death enveloped me...<br />
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I awoke in my bed, screaming. My mother was standing at the doorway, fear etched into her face. I was drenched in sweat, and every muscle in my body was taut. I reassured her that I was OK, and she turned slowly back down the hall to my Granny. I looked over at the clock radio by my bed. It read 2:08. I had just dreamed an entire lifetime in less than fifteen minutes.<br />
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Part 2 to follow soon...<br />
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<div></div>Christopher Blakehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03319577741068780845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640166592905430800.post-86159386951775496992010-08-21T12:57:00.000-07:002010-08-21T12:57:00.167-07:00PROPOSITION 8: RUSH LIMBAUGH, THE FABULOUS BEEKMAN BOYS, THE CONSTITUTION, AND THE MISSING LOVE OF CHRIST<span style="font-size: x-large;"><strong><em>We hold these truths to be self-evident...</em></strong></span><br />
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Sometimes, I really don't know where to begin. As a Christian, especially as a minister, it seems to get more difficult everyday to try and handle things the right way...especially for a dirt bag like me. Those of you who are regular followers of this blog know of the struggles I face in attempting to represent the Love of Christ towards others. Frankly, I fall short every day...actually, it's more like every second, but, hey...who's counting, right? Anyway, it's something that I would rather not have to make public, especially on a regular basis. But, fortunately or unfortunately, I am a firm believer in the old adage: <em>Silence, when the truth should be spoken, is a lie...</em>so, here we go...<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><strong><em>... that all men are created equal...</em></strong></span><br />
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For those of you not familiar with the issue, you can find it here: <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Same-sex_marriage_in_California">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Same-sex_marriage_in_California</a><br />
Basically: In May of 2008, the California Supreme Court ruled that marriage was a fundamental <em>right</em> granted by the Constitution of California, not a<em> privilege</em>; next, Proposition 8 was voted on in that same year to amend the State Constitution to eliminate that <em>right</em>, and finally, in August of this year, a Federal Judge ruled that Proposition 8 was unconstitutional based on <em>equal protection</em> under the law. <br />
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Still with me?<br />
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Basically, the issue is whether or not the Constitution gives equal protection of the <em>right</em> to marriage to <strong>ALL </strong>consenting adults. The issue, as it stands as of today, has been ruled in favor of ensuring that <em>right</em>. <br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><strong><em> ...That they are endowed by their Creator...</em></strong></span><br />
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The issue, therefore, is first and foremost, an issue having to do with equal protection under the law, IE, the Constitution. I have been amazed, while perusing the web, at the number of people in favor of Prop 8, and against the Judge's ruling, who have made the basic argument that, <em>"...the judge has usurped the will of the people. The people voted, so it should be law..."</em> I said surprised, not amazed. The fact that a great many people are not aware of what type of government we live under doesn't amaze me. The fact that someone like Rush Limbaugh made the same mistake did amaze me. You can hear his comments here: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bw-PU5Y1LMo">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bw-PU5Y1LMo</a><br />
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Whether you like or dislike someone, you should always give them their due. Mr. Limbaugh is an intelligent, articulate advocate for what he espouses. To hear him make the same mistake about our form of government was amazing to me. So, it seems to me that a basic refresher course is in order. <br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><strong><em> ...With certain unalienable Rights...</em></strong></span><br />
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We do NOT live in a democracy, thank God. We live in a Constitution based, Federal Republic, with strong democratic traditions. This is not my opinion; rather, it is how the United States Government refers to itself, which you can find here:<a href="https://www.cia.gov/library/publications/the-world-factbook/geos/us.html">https://www.cia.gov/library/publications/the-world-factbook/geos/us.html</a><br />
Now, what does that mean? It means that we live in a country where there are rights for the citizens which are not up for a popular vote. That's why they're called <em>rights. </em><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><strong><em> ...That among these are Life...</em></strong></span><br />
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You have to give our Founding Fathers some credit. "<em>Endowed by their Creator..." </em>Brilliant writing. If a creator gives the rights, only that creator can take them away...and please, don't get me started on our Founding Fathers being Christians...most of them weren't, at least not the way we define Christian today. If you doubt that, take a look at the Jefferson Bible: <a href="http://www.angelfire.com/co/JeffersonBible/">http://www.angelfire.com/co/JeffersonBible/</a><br />
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Thomas Jefferson was more responsible for our initial documents than anyone else. He certainly wasn't a Christian like I am. His two main mentors, Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Paine, weren't either. They could all be called Deists, at best. But, their brilliance still shines through. Whether it is Nature as the Creator, or your own personal God, the rights are given...and man has no power to take them away. Period. Quite a built in safeguard. You have to remember that all of these men had lived under the <em>divine right of kings, </em>where the king was not truly answerable to any earthly power. Yes, there was a Parliament in England, but its influence had historically fluctuated. The other monarchies in Europe didn't even have that check on them. Jefferson ET AL settled the issue once and for all.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><strong><em>...Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness...</em></strong></span><br />
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If then, it is a constitutional issue, it should be sacrosanct. And please, no straw man arguments about: bestiality, necrophilia, polygamy, or pedophilia. I've read them all in due course of this topic. They don't apply. <br />
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Now, however, we come to a much thornier discussion. But before we do, I'd like to introduce you to a couple I've gotten to know a little through their TV show: Brent Ridge and Josh Kilmer-Purcell...The Fabulous Beekman Boys. You can find their websites here: <a href="http://www.beekman1802.com/">http://www.beekman1802.com/</a> and here: <a href="http://planetgreen.discovery.com/tv/the-fabulous-beekman-boys/the-fabulous-beekman-boys.html">http://planetgreen.discovery.com/tv/the-fabulous-beekman-boys/the-fabulous-beekman-boys.html</a><br />
You should take a moment, if you're not familiar with who they are, to read about them. Once you have, we'll continue.<br />
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Done? OK, here we go then. Our family stumbled on The Fabulous Beekman Boys a few months ago on TV. The first time I saw the opening, I was reminded of "Green Acres" from when I was a kid. We started watching, as a family, and got hooked. I'm not one who is usually too interested in reality TV, but I liked this show. The main reason? I came to care about the two main characters. Real people. Real hopes. Real dreams. Real struggles. Real disappointments. The operative word here is <em>real. </em>I have married a number of couples in my time as a minister and Josh and Brent remind me of most of them. They bicker, sacrifice, make up, love...all of the things that couples do.<br />
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I don't know what their views are on marriage. None of my business. But, if they want to get married, after living together for over ten years , I believe that they have the God given, Constitutionally protected <em>right</em> to do so. Period. Now for those thornier issues...<br />
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If you want my basic take on the Christian position on Gay marriage, you can find it here:<a href="http://thedumbassspeaking.blogspot.com/2010/04/just-couple-of-old-queens.html">http://thedumbassspeaking.blogspot.com/2010/04/just-couple-of-old-queens.html</a><br />
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I was going to write about the Good Samaritan again, but instead, I'll let you read the articles what I've written before: Here: <a href="http://thedumbassspeaking.blogspot.com/2009/07/kathy-griffin-matthew-shepard.html">http://thedumbassspeaking.blogspot.com/2009/07/kathy-griffin-matthew-shepard.html</a><br />
and here: <a href="http://thedumbassspeaking.blogspot.com/2009/08/for-chesliekathy-griffin-matthew.html">http://thedumbassspeaking.blogspot.com/2009/08/for-chesliekathy-griffin-matthew.html</a><br />
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My stand on these issues has already cost me some friends. I'm sure that this new blog will cost me some more. So be it. To all of you who proclaim yourselves to be Christians, like me, let me ask you just a couple of questions. <br />
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Do you really think that if Jesus was walking the earth in His ministry today, He would show up at rallies with a sign that reads, "<em>MY DAD HATES FAGS, QUEERS, AND DYKES" </em>? Do you think that He would stop in the middle of His healing to ask if the person was Gay, Lesbian, or straight? Do you think when He made enough food to feed five thousand men and their families, He would instruct the disciples to make sure they didn't give any to the homosexuals? <br />
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I was going to write a lot more, but I'm tired...and the pain is killing me. That heart attack I had seven months ago took a lot of my energy with it...but not my passion. So, one last thing, to those of you who are Christians: If you really want to protest something in Christ's name...start with those abominations on TBN. The ones that prostitute your Savior like He was a cheap whore...just for their own personal aggrandisement and gain. The ones that teach that He was rich...and that you should be too...the ones that teach God is dependent on your actions...the ones that teach that they could have made the same sacrifice on the cross that He made...I could go on, but like I said, I'm tired...if you want to write to me, I'll give you a list...along with the Scriptures that teach that we should stand against them...and why...<br />
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For now , try practicing what Jesus actually taught...<br />
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Love God the best you can...<br />
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And, Love your neighbor as yourself...Christopher Blakehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03319577741068780845noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640166592905430800.post-37103778527131575932010-08-11T17:53:00.000-07:002010-08-11T17:53:30.900-07:00THE SAGE<object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/sSWXemqhvgc?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/sSWXemqhvgc?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br />
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I have lived an interesting life. One of the many things I did when I was younger was to be a "roadie" for a small, local band when I was in high school. They played at Knott's berry Farm, Disneyland, and other local venues. Eventually, they got noticed and were offered a contract by a major label. They were going to go out on tour as one of the opening acts for a hugely successful band. Circumstances prevented me from going with them, but I had many a fine adventure in the time I worked set-up for them.<br />
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That world, at least back in the early seventies, was a wild, yet wonderfully terrify place. Being a roadie meant that you were backstage around all of the acts before and after the shows. You saw everything: the drugs, the sex, you name it. Pretty heady stuff for a sixteen to seventeen year old. One of the concerts changed my life, however, in a way that I thought could never be repaired. <br />
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It was at that concert that I heard Greg Lake, of Emerson, Lake and Palmer, perform the song,"THE SAGE", for the first time. The music was haunting enough...but the lyrics crashed into my heart with the force of a tsunami:<br />
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<strong>I<em> carry the dust of a journey </em></strong><br />
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<strong><em>It lives deep within me </em></strong><br />
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<strong><em>For I breathe it every day </em></strong><br />
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<strong><em>The earth of the past come to flesh </em></strong><br />
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<strong><em>Eroded by times rivers </em></strong><br />
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<strong><em>To the shapes we now possess. </em></strong><br />
<strong><br />
<em></em></strong><br />
<strong><br />
<em></em></strong><br />
<strong><br />
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<strong><em>Come share of my breath and my substance </em></strong><br />
<strong><br />
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<strong><em>And mingle our streams and our times </em></strong><br />
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<strong><em>In bright infinite moments </em></strong><br />
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<strong><em>Our reasons are lost in our rhymes.</em></strong><br />
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I don't believe in reincarnation: I didn't then, and I never will...but the lyrics still spoke to me...they spoke of a love so timeless, so perfect, that only God Himself could have ordained it and arranged for it to occur. A love that God, as the Master weaver, had taken the countless threads of countless lives over thousands of years...and had woven them so that two people could meet at the exact moment in time for that perfect love to burst into flame. A love so perfectly planned that...all reason would be lost trying to explain it. All hope of escaping its power would vanish...and only by being totally and completely consumed by it...could you ever truly be who and what you were meant to be...<br />
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I thought that I had been in love before I heard those words. But, as the music coursed through my veins, I knew that I never had been...and felt the horrible, crushing certainty that I never would. A love like that...well, it couldn't be meant for someone like me...<br />
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The years passed. I was raising my two little girls by myself. I dated, but not with a purpose. I knew that I would never marry again. I had made up my mind that if I couldn't have a love like the one described in this song, I would rather have nothing...<br />
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And then I met her...<br />
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The very first time I saw her I knew that she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. When I looked in her eyes, it was as if I had looked in them before...a million times over a sea of infinity...the touch of her hand was as familiar as it was exciting...the taste of her lips as comforting as it was intoxicating...<br />
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We have been married for almost a quarter of a century now, my beautiful Cherish and I...in some ways that first glance seems like yesterday...in others, a billion lifetimes ago...<br />
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Our streams will always run together...now, and throughout eternity...and for that, I will be eternally grateful<br />
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I love you, Cherish...Christopher Blakehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03319577741068780845noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640166592905430800.post-27776369617754317832010-06-17T15:27:00.000-07:002010-06-17T17:56:28.546-07:00GOTTA BROOM?My Dad was the best storyteller I ever heard. Bar none. The best thing about his stories was that they were all true. He didn't have to make any up, because he had lived such a long, full, and interesting life. He was also never one to give advice: he would tell a story instead, and hope that you got the moral on your own, and how that moral applied to what you were going through. Brilliant, really. You probably don't remember most of the advice that people have given you, unless it was bad...but you always remember a great story.<br /><br />The best stories that my Dad told were the "No Name" stories. The hero was always, "...this guy..." or, "...some man..." or even, "...there was this bum...". I didn't find out until I was eighteen that all of the no-name stories were about my Dad. His last living friend from his youth, my "Uncle" Roy came to visit with his wife one day. My parents happened to be gone for a few hours, so I did my best to keep them entertained by retelling stories that my Dad had told me about Roy. According to my Dad, Roy was the toughest man in central California in the thirties. When I happened to mention that fact after three or four stories, Roy almost laughed himself to tears.<br /><br /><em>"Me? Tough? I was nothing compared to your old man, boy. He was the most feared man in five counties."</em><br /><em></em><br />The rest of that story; all of the things that I learned from Roy that day, and all of the things that I learned after, particularly after my father's death, are a tale for another time. Suffice it to say, I was in shock. Here is one of my Dad's stories, as re-told to me by Roy:<br /><br /><strong><em>When Black Friday hit in twenty-nine, your dad was going to the University of Nevada. He had a full scholarship, and they'd given him a part-time job as manager of the sports teams. Wasn't a ton of money, but more than enough to live on comfortably and go to school. But, your dad dropped out. You see, your Granddad lost his farm and couldn't get work. He had your Grandma and your Uncle Ralph to support, and they couldn't make ends meet. So, your Dad came home and found me. We started riding the rails all across the country, trying to find work. My money was just for myself, but your Dad sent almost every penny he made home to his family. Kept just enough for smokes and a little food. But, work was scarce. Lots of men fighting over the same jobs, so we were constantly on the move, hopping freights from one town to the next.</em></strong><br /><strong><em></em></strong><br /><strong><em>One day we stopped in this town somewhere in the south. Factory town. What I mean by that is: there was one factory in the town that supported the whole economy down there. Every day, this foreman for the factory would show up outside the factory on a buckboard. He'd call out how many jobs there were, and then pick the men that got to go in and work. There were always about fifty jobs...and about three hundred men waiting, hoping to get picked. Seemed like it was the same men got picked every day. </em></strong><br /><strong><em></em></strong><br /><strong><em>First day we're there, this foreman stands up on the back of that buckboard and asks if there's anybody there that thought they could whip him in a fight. Now, I know you can't really see your Dad, boy. Too blinded by familiarity. You think he's a small, old man who goes to church too much. Well, your old man didn't become a Christian until 1948. Before then, he was the meanest, scariest man I ever met. He might have only been five foot four, but there was something about him that just intimidated people. He had huge hands and forearms, and his eyes would flash from blue to green to grey in an instant. He walked like a wolverine, and he looked like he would just as soon kill you as he would look at you. In all the years I've known your Dad, I've NEVER seen him lose a fight...and every single one of them was against a man almost twice his size or better. </em></strong><br /><strong><em></em></strong><br /><strong><em>Anyway, this guy asks the question, and your Dad hops straight up onto that buckboard and says, "I'm your Man." Needless to say, we didn't get the job that day. Or the next...or the one after that. We found small jobs over the next week or so, chopping wood, cleaning out stables, stuff like that. Not enough to make any money to send home, but enough for a roof and three squares. About a week later, I talked your Dad into stealing a straw hat off of a scarecrow. I made him pull it low over his face so we wouldn't be recognised, and we went back out to the factory yard to wait. Sure enough, we got picked.</em></strong><br /><br /><strong><em>Your Dad was a quick learner, way quicker than me. They started him off in the factory on an assembly line. Your Dad had to pull a switch every time a part would come by. The guy to his left pushed a foot pedal for the part, and the guy to his right pushed a button. So, it went; foot pedal guy, your Dad pulling his switch, then the next guy pushing his button. Timing was everything. Your Dad got it down first time, and kept right at it. I was over at a polishing bin, hand buffing pieces as they came out. Pretty mindless work, so I could keep an eye an your Dad. They'd already told us that the guys on the line made twice as much as the ones doing what I was doing. I was hoping that maybe I'd get pulled to work over by your Dad.</em></strong><br /><br /><strong><em>About an hour and a half into the day, the foreman goes over to your Dad. Asks him if he thinks he can push the floor pedal AND pull his switch and still keep time. Your Dad tells him, "Goddamn right I can", and they pull the man off of the pedal. Your Dad starts doing both jobs, and it's just like music, he's so smooth. The foreman then takes the man that had been working the foot pedal and escorts him out of the factory. Then the foreman goes over to the big boss on a catwalk overlooking the factory. The big boss gives him some money. Your Dad is watching this as well, without missing a beat on the line. We both realize the same thing: Your Dad has just put some poor bastard back on the bread line, and made a bonus for the foreman to boot. I get this feeling in my gut when I'm looking at your Dad: this ain't going to end well.</em></strong><br /><br /><strong><em>Another hour or so goes by. The foreman comes back to your Dad. Asks him if he thinks he can push the button on his right too. Your Dad just nods. The foreman pulls the man off of the button, and your Dad starts doing all three jobs like a conductor of a symphony: Stomp on the foot pedal, pull the switch with his left hand, and then push the button with his right. The three stations are about five feet apart, so your Dad has to really scoot back and forth to keep up. But, your Dad was quick like a cat, so he had no problems. The foreman walks the guy out, and heads back up the catwalk for bonus number two. Your Dad watches him coming down, and now I know things are going to turn south: your Dad's neck is slowly getting redder by the minute, and the red is inching its way up. If it hits the top of his head...well, let's just say I'm scared about more things than just losing my new job. </em></strong><br /><strong><em></em></strong><br /><strong><em>Finally, the lunch horn blows. We all walk outside to eat box lunches that the factory provides. That foreman is walking up and down through all of the men like a barnyard rooster. I'm trying to get your old man to talk to me, but he won't. Doesn't eat the box lunch either. Just sits there. And that red on his neck I was telling you about? It's still inching its way up and it's almost to the top of his bald head. The horn sounds again, and back into the factory we go. Everyone is lining up at their spots, and the only sound is the shuffling of feet. Next thing I know, I here your Dad calling out to the foreman:</em></strong><br /><strong><em></em></strong><br /><strong><em>"Boss? Hey Boss?"</em></strong><br /><br /><strong><em>The foreman, a big, fat man, looks over.</em></strong><br /><strong><em></em></strong><br /><strong><em>"Yeah, what do ya want?"</em></strong><br /><strong><em></em></strong><br /><strong><em>"You gotta broom?"</em></strong><br /><strong><em></em></strong><br /><strong><em>The foreman looks puzzled.</em></strong><br /><strong><em></em></strong><br /><strong><em>"Yeah, sure. Why?"</em></strong><br /><strong><em></em></strong><br /><strong><em>"Well, you better get it over here...hurry."</em></strong><br /><strong><em></em></strong><br /><strong><em>The foreman can hear the urgency in your Dad's voice, so he starts running, if you want to call it that. The fat rolls on his body undulate like waves on the beach by the time he finds a broom and rushes it over to your Dad.</em></strong><br /><strong><em></em></strong><br /><strong><em>"Well, here it is...what do you want me to do with it?"</em></strong><br /><strong><em></em></strong><br /><strong><em>The factory is dead quiet. Not a sound. Everyone, including the big boss on the catwalk, is watching and listening as your Dad says...</em></strong><br /><strong><em></em></strong><br /><strong><em>"Why don't you shove it up my ass...and then, besides doing the work of three men, I can sweep the floor for you while I'm at it."</em></strong><br /><strong><em></em></strong><br /><strong><em>The factory erupted in laughter. Everyone was laughing, except for the foreman...and your Dad...and me. The foreman walked away, and came back with five men. Told your Dad, and me, to hit the road. Your Dad told him he wasn't leaving until he got paid. That's when they called the cops. They were the ones that escorted us out. I figured, once we got outside, that we would leave town. Not your old man. He just stood there and waited. A few hours later, the factory whistle blew, and the men came filing out. We followed that foreman to the bar up the street. I watched your Dad beat that man half senseless, then empty his pockets. The fat bastard had over two hundred dollars in cash. Bonus money for the month for eliminating jobs. I would have taken all of it. Back in the Depression, that was a King's Ransom, boy. Not your Dad. He took eight dollars. Gave me two. Then he made me spend the night in a barn with him. Next morning, we were back out in front of that factory. Your Dad found the two men he'd put out of work the day before, and gave each one of them two dollars. Then we went to the rail yards, hopped a train, and headed east.</em></strong><br /><strong><em></em></strong><br />The story was a lot shorter when my Dad told it to me growing up. No mention of him being the hero, no mention of cops, putting men out of work, let alone beating some guy half to death. The moral for me when I was young: If you're feeling overwhelmed by the circumstances in your life, just remember that things could always be worse. My lovely wife, Cherish, and I still look at each other, from time to time, and say...<strong><em>Gotta broom</em></strong>? Makes us laugh and remember that we aren't as overworked as we might think, and things aren't as bad as they seem.<br /><br />The second moral I got was one that my Dad made clear in other stories as well: if you know that you're going to go out anyway; it's better to go out with a bang instead of a whimper. "<strong><em>Gotta broom</em></strong>?" also means taking your lumps with pride, standing up for what you know is right, even when you are sure it's going to cost you.<br /><br />The third moral I learned from the story is very basic. It's Biblical in its concepts, and one of the truest things I know: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. My Dad couldn't live with the thought of having two men...and their families, go hungry just so he could eat...and line some fat bastard's pockets by being quiet. There was no Disney ending to that story for my Dad. No being carried off on every body's shoulders...no parades. In fact, he probably went hungry longer than he needed to for having done it. But, my Father's words come back to me today as I write this as if he were standing in front of me:<br /><em>You don't do what's right so people will notice. You do what's right...because it's the right thing to do."</em><br /><em></em><br />I've always wished that I could be even half the man that my Dad was. It'll never happen. But, something better has. My son, Chance. He's every bit the man that my Dad was...maybe more.<br /><br />So, if you're ever feeling over-run by life, just ask yourself a question:<br /><strong><em>Gotta Broom</em></strong>?<br /><br />I hope if you do...it brings a smile to your face...and peace to your heart.<br /><br />I love you, Dad. You taught Chance well on those fishing trips in Heaven...Christopher Blakehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03319577741068780845noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640166592905430800.post-70896163825666113222010-05-06T10:29:00.000-07:002010-05-06T11:19:04.365-07:00HEROES FOR MY SON...WHO ARE YOUR HEROES?<a href="http://www.headlinenewsmakers.com/?key=4ecebc8dc00d519bf98acf149cc490e6">http://www.headlinenewsmakers.com/?key=4ecebc8dc00d519bf98acf149cc490e6</a><br /><br /><br />I have always been a reader. My parents joked that they never saw me without something to read in my hands: A volume of the encyclopedia, the dictionary, a novel, a comic book...even the cereal box when I was eating was fodder to my appetite. I read the way a starving man eats when presented with a Las Vegas buffet. I was voracious...and I ate everything.<br /><br />I have gotten pickier as I have gotten older. The old classics long since consumed numerous times, I have searched over the years for contemporary writers who can hold my interest. Sadly, there have been few. That is why I have gone to predominately non-fiction reading over the3 course of my adult life. But...when I do find an author that I truly enjoy, I await their newest tome like a four year old anticipates Christmas morning.<br /><br />Some of my favorite writers are, in no particular order: Stephen King, Lee Child (the Reacher books are a guilty pleasure), Preston & Child's Pendergast series, and Michael Connolly's Bosch series. These are works that I devour insatiably as soon as they become available.<br /><br />There is another author who I discovered a few years ago whose work I truly enjoy: Brad Meltzer. His ability to weave thrilling, yet plausible stories, keeps me on the edge of my seat as I read...a not to easy task any more with my jaded palette. He has just written a new, non-fiction book:<br /><strong>HEROES FOR MY SON.</strong><br />You can find out more about it here:<br /><a href="http://www.bradmeltzer.com/">http://www.bradmeltzer.com/</a><br /><br />I've already pre-ordered my copy, and I await it with great anticipation.<br /><br />Brad Meltzer is a man of many talents...and passions. His charitable foundation, <strong>ORDINARY PEOPLE CHANGE THE WORLD </strong><a href="http://www.ordinarypeoplechangetheworld.com/">http://www.ordinarypeoplechangetheworld.com/</a> reaches out to help others in a unique way...by empowering anyone who wants to be a part of positive change to be able to do it with only $1. Most charities almost make you feel bad if you can't contribute large amounts. Not Brad's. $1 can change the world...which means that he is teaching, through his charity, that one person can change the world. This is a philosophy that I have always believed: that is <strong><em>always </em></strong>the actions of one person that begins great change. That belief has led me to view, as heroes, many people that the world would overlook.<br /><br />My greatest hero growing up was my Dad. I never thought that anyone could ever replace him atop the pinnacle of my hero worship...but I was wrong. First, my wife Cherish (who happens to be my number one hero), then my children, have all surpassed my Dad...which I know he would be happy about.<br /><br />It's not just about having heroes...it's about making sure that they <strong><em>know </em></strong>that they're your hero. I made sure that my dad knew. I've tried, especially since my heart attack, to make certain that my wife and children know what heroes they are to me. I'm also trying to make sure that other people in my life, ordinary people, know what heroes they are...and can be.<br /><br />If you follow this link:<br /><a href="http://www.headlinenewsmakers.com/?key=4ecebc8dc00d519bf98acf149cc490e6">http://www.headlinenewsmakers.com/?key=4ecebc8dc00d519bf98acf149cc490e6</a><br />you'll see a unique way to let people know that they are your hero. Go to the site. Watch the video about Cherish. Spend a few minutes thinking about who you want to tell that they are a hero to you...then make your own video and let them know.<br /><br />Many thanks to Brad Meltzer, for this unique tool and opportunity to reach out to those we love and admire. Take the time to let someone know what they have meant to you. It'll make their day...and yours. Change the world...one person at a time...starting with yourself.<br /><br />Make a difference.<br /><br />Make a change. <a href="http://www.headlinenewsmakers.com/?key=4ecebc8dc00d519bf98acf149cc490e6"><br /></a><br />And, if you want a great book for Fathers day, or just for someone you really love, make sure to buy<br /><strong>HEROES FOR MY SON. </strong><br /><br />You'll be glad you did.Christopher Blakehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03319577741068780845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640166592905430800.post-16294400784431527932010-04-21T11:39:00.000-07:002010-04-21T13:41:45.366-07:00LOST: THE BOOK OF JOB and the ULTIMATE GAMEI don't think that this is what the writers of LOST are doing with the story. This is just what the storyline on LOST reminds me of at the moment. With that in mind, let's move on...<br /><br />If you haven't read the Book of Job in the Bible, you should. Very powerful and informative stuff. Not very empowering to the Church in today's world...at least not the Churches that make God your personal genie and claim that you determine your own destiny. Not even very good for those who claim to have chosen Christ rather than the other way around. Too bad. It's always been a big help to me.<br /><br />So...what is the main theme running throughout Job? Let's look at the story.<br /><br />First we're told that Job is a really good guy. He's so good, in fact, that he prays for other people just in case they may have screwed up. He's rich, powerful, fears God, shuns evil, and probably helps little old ladies cross the street. Couldn't be any better of a guy.<br /><br />The Sons of God, whoever they are (and yes, I think I do, but that's for another time) show up to hang out with God up in Heaven. Satan is with them. This means it's after his fall as Lucifer. He still has access to God as our accuser. God asks him the equivalent of, "What's up?" Satan's response?<br /><em>"Oh, you know...hangin'...chillin'...checkin' stuff out d</em>own <em>on the Earth."</em><br /><br />God's reply is very informative in many ways. He asks Satan if he's checked out Job. Then, God brags on Job. Says there is, <em>"...none like him in all the earth."</em><br /><br />Wow. Can you imagine God saying that about you? I can't. Maybe the other way...like, hey, look at Chris...you ever seen such a screw-up in all your days? Job, unlike yours truly, was obviously high on God's list.<br /><br />Satan gets chippy back with God...says, sure...who wouldn't do good and be cool with all that stuff you've given him. Take his stuff away, and he'll curse you to your face. God tells Satan to knock himself out...take it all...just don't touch Job. And...off Satan goes. He takes all of Job's stuff. Kills all of his kids. Really screws him over. Know what Job says? "I didn't have nothing when I got here...sure ain't taken nothing with me when I go...God gave it to me, He can take it back...it's all His. Thanks for lettin' me have it for awhile."<br /><br />This is powerful stuff. Have you ever thought, or heard from somebody else, "Why do bad things happen to good people?" Job was a good guy. Why did that happen to him? Well, who brought his name up? It wasn't Satan...it was God. Let's look at what happened next.<br /><br />Some time goes by. We aren't told how much. The Sons of God and Satan are back up hangin' out with God. God asks Satan again, <em>"Where you been?"<br /></em>Satan tells him again<em>..."hangin', checkin', chillin'...<br /><br /></em>Now God brings Job up <strong>AGAIN</strong>. "<em>He's still my boi, and even though I let you screw with him for no reason, he still stands strong."<br /></em><br />Satan's reply? "<em>You let me take his stuff...but a man would sell his own soul for his life and health...let me screw with him that way and he'll curse you to your face</em>." God says OK, but you can't kill him.<br /><br />So...who brought Job into all of this both times? God did. This whole thing is a bet between God and Satan...and God is betting on Job!<br /><br />Satan screws with Job really bad now. Boils from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. His wife tells him to curse God so he can die. He tells her to shut up..."...<em>you want the good stuff from God? Then you gotta take the bad too." </em>Didn't do anything wrong. Better man than me. Can't say much for his wife, though. I'll take mine any day.<br /><br />This is where Satan does his best work. First he has the wife screw with him. Now his three best friends show up. And, how do they comfort Job? By telling him that he must have a secret sin in his life, or God wouldn't be doing this to him. Nice.<br /><br />A little story from me now. Some of you know I have a degenerative neuropathy. The pain is so bad, it feels like someone injected all of my veins with gasoline and then set them on fire. Most of the time I can block out the pain well enough, but sometimes...anyway, a few years ago, I was hanging with this other Pastor. Nice enough guy. I had told him all about my past. Pretty much everything. Not a pretty picture, but I have no delusions of grandeur. So...one day the nerve damage hits like it's never hit before. I call him and ask for prayer. The pain goes on non-stop for two days. I start going through a check list in my mind of anything in my life that's changed recently. Well, I had just started taking an "energy boosting" vitamin pack. One of the ingredients is the worst thing to take if you have my neuropathy. I stopped taking the supplements, and the pain went back down to its normal hell.<br /><br />Two days later, this Pastor calls me. Says he knows why my pain is soooo bad. You see, God spoke to him. That's right...God spoke to him. Directly. Personally. God told him that my pain was punishment for secret sins in my life. If I just confessed my secret sins to him (the pastor, not God), then my pain would go away. I asked when when God told him all of this; he said the night before. He asked if he could come over. Sure. Please do. Apparently, neither God nor this Pastor knew the pain had been caused by the vitamin pack and had been gone for three days.<br /><br />I let him go through his whole routine when he came over. It was filled with how much he loved me, how long he had fasted for me, how God spoke to him...you get the idea. I let him talk. God had told him just how urgent it was for me to confess these secret hidden sins to him. You can imagine his surprise when I told him about the vitamins and being back to normal for three days. I told him I didn't know which God he'd been talking to...but it wasn't my God. Mine didn't make mistakes like that. He left...very embarrassed and trying to act like he hadn't said what he said...oh, and by the way...please don't tell any of the congregation about this. Please?<br /><br />You see...this Pastor was getting ready to try and pull some financial shenanigans at his church. He suspected that I might know. He wanted to have dirt on me to use in case I tried to out him. I didn't care to out him. Not worth my time. And anybody who knows me, and thinks I have secret, worse sins than I cop to, isn't very bright. The ones I own are bad enough, thank you very much.<br /><br />Am I comparing myself to Job? God forbid. Job was a righteous man. God said so Himself. Me? Not so much. However, we all go through tests and trials. What we need to remember is this...<br /><br />God is betting on you. He loves you. He wants you to win. It isn't about how you look doing it. This life isn't a sprint. It's a combination marathon/obstacle course/gauntlet. Tough stuff. Doesn't matter what order you finish in. Just finish. And...God has already promised that you will finish. Keep your head up. You'll make it. Just don't quit.<br /><br />At the end of Job's story, God gives him ten times more than he had before (same nagging wife, though...I'm sure glad I've got you Cherish) and tells Job's friends that He won't even listen to their prayers anymore because of how bad they spoke about Him. They have to beg Job to pray for them. The real kicker: It never says that God ever told Job why he put him through all of that shit. Never tells Job it was all a bet.<br /><br />Now, back to LOST. Which character reminds me of Job?<br /><br />John Locke. The true believer. The only thing he does wrong is finally ask why? Just like Job. Only mistake Job made was asking God why. Once God started to answer, Job changed his mind. Too late. Once God starts talking, He doesn't like being interrupted. You ask...He just might answer.<br /><br />Last night's episode had the "Flocke Monster say that John Locke was a sucker for believing that the island brought him there for a reason. Maybe he was right. We all feel like suckers sometimes when we try and do things God's way. But...<br /><br />If the Flocke Monster represents Satan, or evil...then you know that he lies...all of the time. I think he was lying about John Locke. I think Satan can't stand it when we believe...especially when we cling desperately in the face of all reasons not to. That's what Locke did in the show. He was killed for it. But...<br /><br />I don't think that the island is done with the real John Locke yet. I think he is still the key to the ending of Lost. I believe that some how, some way, he's going to come back. It will be his return that ultimately defeats the Flocke Monster. His faith...<br /><br /><br />I know it's hard to remember when you're eyeball deep in shit that that is what it takes to make the flowers grow. But...it's much harder to remember, when you're standing in that beautiful field of flowers later...that you wouldn't be there...if you hadn't been eyeball deep in shit before.<br /><br />Just as God uses our faith in Him to defeat our enemy. So, hang in there. Finish the race. God's cheering for you...and so am I.Christopher Blakehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03319577741068780845noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640166592905430800.post-24504227287876819302010-04-19T15:57:00.000-07:002010-04-19T18:16:55.847-07:00JUST A COUPLE OF OLD QUEENS<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0my6Z07p8ykrtbqwLPkraNXxEDyrUy_6-Nw1nVk46h5JzYY-eyuat-qhhI-aFwE2UiPhADUoPp0zVx3__UN4Al6cgGlpRyzCT_wsWTSpAlfaoJbdCQIRDxlaymgJTa4YTJYDzcp27pTA/s1600/gay-older-couple-250a0328.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 192px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461991321447795010" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0my6Z07p8ykrtbqwLPkraNXxEDyrUy_6-Nw1nVk46h5JzYY-eyuat-qhhI-aFwE2UiPhADUoPp0zVx3__UN4Al6cgGlpRyzCT_wsWTSpAlfaoJbdCQIRDxlaymgJTa4YTJYDzcp27pTA/s320/gay-older-couple-250a0328.jpg" /></a> </div><br /><div><a href="http://www.bilerico.com/2010/04/sonoma_county_ca_separates_elderly_gay_couple_and.php">http://www.bilerico.com/2010/04/sonoma_county_ca_separates_elderly_gay_couple_and.php</a><br /><br /><div><strong><em></em></strong></div><br /><br /><div><strong><em></em></strong></div><br /><br /><div><strong><em></em></strong></div><br /><br /><div><strong><em></em></strong></div>You know, I always start out with the best of intentions when I sit down to write. I have a plan...something I want to do. Sometimes it's on one of my screenplays...sometimes it's on one of my other projects...sometimes it's a blog. I always have a plan. But...the best laid plans of mice and men...</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>My good friend Patti posted the above link the other day on Facebook. If you haven't read it yet, please do. It's about the tragic consequences to an older gay couple because of their inability to get married. If, after reading it, you're not heartbroken...don't read any more of this blog...because the heartbreak of their circumstance, and my outrage at it, is what this blog is about.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The old men in the above photo at least are together...something that was denied to the couple when they were forcibly separated and put into two separate nursing homes...one of the men against his will. If you're married, or if you've ever loved someone, I want you to imagine...</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Imagine not being allowed to see your spouse after they've suffered a life threatening injury...never seeing them again in the final three months of their life. </div><br /><div>Imagine not being allowed to have a say in their medical care.</div><br /><div>I imagine having the home that the two of you have shared for over twenty years taken away from you.</div><br /><div>Imagine having all of your possessions sold without your consent...all but one scrap book...the one your lover spent the last few months of their life putting together for you. </div><br /><div>Imagine no last look...</div><br /><div>Imagine no last words...</div><br /><div>Imagine no last touch...</div><br /><div>Imagine no last kiss...</div><br /><div>Imagine no last embrace...</div><br /><div>Imagine the pain...the heartache...</div><br /><div>Imagine.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>This is a tragedy that didn't need to happen. And yet, tragedies like this happen all the time to Gay and Lesbian couples. They've been happening to them for far too long...and there's no end in sight.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Now, you might think it's odd for me, a straight Christian minister, to be such a strong advocate for Gay/Lesbian rights. Let me explain to you why I am. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>First, you should read these two blogs I wrote a while back:</div><br /><div><a href="http://thedumbassspeaking.blogspot.com/2009/07/kathy-griffin-matthew-shepard.html">http://thedumbassspeaking.blogspot.com/2009/07/kathy-griffin-matthew-shepard.html</a></div><br /><div><a href="http://thedumbassspeaking.blogspot.com/2009/08/for-chesliekathy-griffin-matthew.html">http://thedumbassspeaking.blogspot.com/2009/08/for-chesliekathy-griffin-matthew.html</a></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Hopefully, they answered some of your questions on my position. The Scriptural one is beyond question to anyone who reads their Bible. "They'll know that you are my Disciples because you love one another." And, of course, "...Love God with all that you are, and love your neighbor as yourself." The parable of the Good Samaritan that I quote in those blogs doesn't leave Christians any wriggle room about how to treat others. There is, however, another Biblical aspect that is overlooked: </div><br /><div>Following the laws of your country. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Which brings me to this:</div><br /><div><strong><em></em></strong></div><br /><div><strong><em>We hold these truths to be self-evident, that ALL men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are, Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.</em></strong> </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>You know, most of the men who worked on the Declaration weren't even Christians, at least not in a strictly Scriptural sense. If you doubt that, I challenge you to read Thomas Jefferson's Bible and see how much he cut out. Most of them were Deists, at best. The people who helped formulate the thought of the day, like Thomas Paine, were atheists...and yet they had the sense to word that document very carefully.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>If your <strong><em>Creator</em></strong> endows you with the rights...only <strong><em>He</em></strong> can take them away. They're not up to a vote. No change in government, no king or queen, no whim of public opinion can alter them. Also, the original wording was "<em>inalienable", </em>not unalienable. So? Read the following definitions of the two words:<br /><strong><em></em></strong><br /><br /><strong><em>"Unalienable: incapable of being alienated, that is, sold and transferred." Black's Law Dictionary, Sixth Edition, page 1523:</em></strong><br /><br /><strong><em>You can not surrender, sell or transfer unalienable rights, they are a gift from the creator to the individual and can not under any circumstances be surrendered or taken. All individuals have unalienable rights.<br /></em></strong><br /><strong><em>Inalienable rights: Rights which are not capable of being surrendered or transferred without the consent of the one possessing such rights. Morrison v. State, Mo. App., 252 S.W.2d 97, 101.<br /><br />You can surrender, sell or transfer inalienable rights if you consent either actually or constructively. Inalienable rights are not inherent in man and can be alienated by government. Persons have inalienable rights. Most state constitutions recognize only inalienable rights. </em></strong></div><br /><div><strong><em></em></strong></div><br /><div>You see, you can give up inalienable rights, if you choose to. Not so with unalienable. They're permanent. All men...that means men and women. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The one thing I've always had against our founding Fathers was their cowardice. Yes, they stood up to the mightiest nation on earth at that time. But, you know who they wouldn't stand up to? Their own neighbors...friends...peers. That's why Washington, Jefferson and others didn't free their own slaves while they were alive. They put clauses in their wills, but...who could say anything to them then? We're still paying for that cowardice, in the civil rights issues of today. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Still, you might ask yourself why the whole marriage thing is so important to me. Do you know what miscegenation is? here's a link for you: <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Miscegenation">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Miscegenation</a></div><br /><div>Did you know that miscegenation laws weren't overturned by the US Supreme court until 1967? How about the fact that it took many of the remaining southern states years to comply? Alabama was the last hold out. They finally ratified it in 2000. That's right...2000. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I am mixed race. Part Native American. My wife's and my marriage would have been illegal in many states just <strong><em>43 years ago. </em></strong>Some of you know me. I try to be a good Christian. But, can you imagine what I would do if some bureaucracy tried to separate my wife and I? Tried to keep me from her when she was ill or injured? I just had a heart attack a couple of months ago. What if she hadn't been allowed to be there for me because of my mixed race? That could have been the case not that long ago. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I followed up on the story of the two tragic men on a number of other sites. One of them had comments. That's where the , "<em>just a couple of old queens</em>" comes from. That was some alleged christian's remark about why it was no big deal. After all, it only happened to a couple of old queens. Those fags get what they deserve. </div><div> </div><div>As a Christian, I'm tired of hearing that from those who say they represent my Savior. Sick and tired of it. I can't stop them...but, I can try and make sure that their voices aren't the only ones that are heard purporting to be voices of Christian thought. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>So, from today on, my wife and I would like to be thought of as just a couple of old queens. Not really fair to her, mind you. She is, after all, very young...and very beautiful. But she wears the title proudly...as do I.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I would rather be a couple of old queens...than what I see passing itself off as Christianity most of the time. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I hope the Gay/Lesbian community doesn't mind. I know they'll love my wife...I'm a little harder to accept. But I try...</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong><em></em></strong></div>Christopher Blakehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03319577741068780845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640166592905430800.post-51041242035080788082010-04-09T13:20:00.000-07:002010-04-09T14:23:15.008-07:00COURSE CORRECTIONI cut my finger yesterday. No big deal, except that the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">meds</span> that I have to take for my <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">stent</span> make me bleed like a stuck pig. I have to bandage the finger up with a few bandages each time to keep the blood from soaking through. That makes the finger rather cumbersome...and my typing, which is not the best in the world to begin with, has suffered tremendously. I keep hitting extra keys, and bleeding on the keyboard. Some of the spellings are quite unique to say the least. So, Patti, if you thought my misspelling of sunshine was bad, you should see this stuff. This won't be the blog I originally planned. Something shorter will have to do.<br /><br />I had planned on writing either about why Jesus wept, or about imaginary time/<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Schrodinger's</span> Cat/and the philosophy of quantum mechanics. Not today. Let's just do...<br /><br />What if?<br /><br />Two word combination, but very powerful. We all do it...all the time. Usually, we do it over missed opportunities...missed chances. It's quite often replaced with, "if only". We're quite certain that if God, or whatever it is that you personally believe in, had only done things better for us, we wouldn't be in the terrible place we find ourselves in.<br /><br />I prefer to look at it a different way.<br /><br />What if I hadn't gotten crippled on the job as a Deputy Sheriff ?<br /><br />It's a simple one, but it serves my point well. I can assure you, when I went through that whole experience, I didn't think that God was looking out for me. I didn't think He was looking out for me over the next few years, as the nerve damage grew worse. I didn't think that He was looking out for me when they found the tumor on the nerve, and thought they were going to take my leg.<br /><br />I asked a lot of what ifs back then.<br /><br />But...if all of that hadn't happened...<br /><br />I wouldn't have met my beautiful wife. I believe that meeting, and marrying her, was God's first, best destiny for me. It could have been reached in a far better, much easier journey. You see, I had driven my life so far off course that I <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">wasn't</span> going to meet her. I wasn't going to get to marry the woman of my dreams. I had really screwed up the direction that God had wanted my life to go. Thankfully, for whatever reason, He loves me. He loves me enough to cripple me to get me back on course...back to the only love that could ever have saved me. Cherish's love.<br /><br />It's what He wanted for me all along. I just made Him work a thousand times harder to get me there than was necessary.<br /><br />Now, am I saying that all of the bad things that happen in people's lives are their fault? God forbid. I do know, however, that some of our worst problems are of our own making. Mine in particular. That's why I had the heart attack. Course correction again. I wasn't appreciating Cherish...my children...and all of the other wonderful things in my life enough. So, God let me have another Chance.<br /><br />When I was laying on the bathroom floor, struggling to find the strength to crawl and get my phone to call 911...I wasn't thinking about being injured on the job. I wasn't thinking about all of the terrible things that I <strong><em>thought</em></strong> had happened in my life. I was thinking about Cherish...and about my children. I was thinking about how blessed I had been...and about how I had taken those blessings for granted. I <em>was </em>thinking, however...<em>if only</em>...<br /><br />If only God gives me another chance...<br /><br />I'll make sure I tell my wife everyday that she is God's most beautiful and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">wonderful</span> creation. I'll make sure my children know how special and precious they are to me...and how ferociously proud of each one of them I am. I'll make certain that every single day that I have left... I <strong>SHOW</strong> my wife what she means to me...not just spout empty words.<br /><br />It was their faces that gave me the strength to crawl to my phone. It was their love that kept me going.<br /><br />Now I don't say, What if? Or, If only...<br /><br />I say...don't let me forget...don't let me forget.<br /><br />And, I'm grateful for all of the things in my life that led me to where I am...even the bad ones.<br /><br />And, I thank God every day for course correcting my life so many times.Christopher Blakehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03319577741068780845noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640166592905430800.post-84306302093190121492010-04-07T10:35:00.000-07:002010-04-07T11:04:18.765-07:00The SUN and the MOON<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Zc3jL-89MyULkDwSlAmtZa2KMSATJsPM0j6Gl29G-xkpu6TFeZO9tspVUH1-TPckRufkBXq2zvqTiJll_w7uSiasNT_c73kK4uBO-xFLwk42CDJ_u6yqPj6zTAtZ_LJ7JtFfyO9BvLg/s1600/4628_1129890618263_1557172307_30308283_1537849_n.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 219px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457457170208036962" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Zc3jL-89MyULkDwSlAmtZa2KMSATJsPM0j6Gl29G-xkpu6TFeZO9tspVUH1-TPckRufkBXq2zvqTiJll_w7uSiasNT_c73kK4uBO-xFLwk42CDJ_u6yqPj6zTAtZ_LJ7JtFfyO9BvLg/s320/4628_1129890618263_1557172307_30308283_1537849_n.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div>My beautiful wife, Cherish, is leaving tomorrow. She's going down to Southern California to visit our daughter Lacy, her sister Carey, and some of her old friends. She's only going to be gone until Sunday, but...<br /><br /></div><div>I'm going to miss her. Terribly. I've always known that my old friend Dennis was a better man than me: how he can stay apart from his lovely wife for so long, even in defence of our country, is beyond me. If I were separated from Cherish for that long, I'm certain I'd go mad.<br /><br /></div><div>So, I'm going to spend all day with her today. This is all I'm going to write.<br /><br /></div><div>The sun is the most important light in our sky. Without it, we would die. We depend on it for warmth, for food, for energy, for even the wind. We need the sun...and the light it shines upon us.<br /><br /></div><div>The moon is a lie. People always talk about moon light, but there is no such thing. The moon gives no light...it only reflects the light of the sun. In fact, the sun is so powerful, it fools people into thinking that the moon gives us light.<br /></div><div>The moon, in reality, is a dead, obscure, scarred, lifeless body...floating in the eternal darkness of space. If not for the sun, the moon would drift away...into the blackness...forgotten forever.<br /></div><div>Cherish is the Sun.<br /></div><div>I am the moon.<br /><br /></div><div>Come back to me soon, my love...<br /><br /></div><div>I would die without you.</div>Christopher Blakehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03319577741068780845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640166592905430800.post-70447358436965754722010-04-06T10:21:00.000-07:002010-04-06T11:59:21.551-07:00WHY I'M GLAD I'M NOT BORN AGAINFor those of you new to my blogs, I like to use titles that get people's attention. That one probably did the trick. How could a Christian minister possibly be glad that he isn't born again? Well, it's really a question of semantics...but we'll get to that in a moment.<br /><br />There is a great deal of freedom in being a minister that refuses to get paid for his pitiful attempts at working for God. I never have to worry if the message that I've been given is going to offend people so badly that my family won't be able to eat. That is very empowering. I do not, however, take that freedom lightly. If God is your boss...you really don't want to screw up too badly, too often. So, I try and take my responsibilities seriously, and still get the message across.<br /><br />First, you'll notice I used the word, minister. It's a translation of the Greek word, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">doulos</span>, which means a bond servant. A bond servant was someone who had screwed up so badly that they had been sold into slavery to pay off their debt. The person who paid the debt for them owned them until the debt amount had been repaid. Since, in my case, the debt amount is the life of God's Son, I'll never repay it in this life. Can't be done. And, although He has forgiven the debt completely, and made me a joint heir with His Son, I prefer to still think of myself as a bond servant. Why? Because that's what the Apostle Paul did. Paul was obviously a much better Christian than I could ever be, so...if it was good enough for him to think of himself that way, it works for me.<br /><br />It also has the added benefit of reminding me of my place. G-O-D. All capital letters. Me=<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">dirtbag</span>. Not only pond scum, but lower case pond scum. That's a good start.<br /><br />Now, let's get back to why I'm glad I'm not born again, shall we?<br /><br />Jesus used simple analogies and stories almost all of the time. Planting, harvesting, fishing...simple stories for simple minds. There is really only one deeply religious conversation that He had that is recorded: the one with Nicodemus in John chapter 3. Famous passage...but not really understood well. One of these days, I'm going to write a blog about the whole chapter...it still blows my mind. Anyway...<br /><br />Old <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Nic</span> asks Jesus how to get to Heaven. Jesus basically says, "You're the hotshot teacher, and you don't understand the simplest things?"<br /><br /><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Owwwwww</span>...that had to hurt.<br /><br />Then Jesus tells him that he must be born...not again. The Greek word is "<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">hano</span>". It means, from above. It is denotative of place, not time. Old <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">Nic</span> is a ticker, as we all are. His clock only goes in one direction. Forward. Can't make it go back, can't even slow it down. Tick, tick, tick...it just keeps going. So, when Jesus says, "from above", <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">Nic</span> figures it hasn't happened yet because he doesn't remember it happening. Of course, he conveniently forgets that he doesn't remember his physical birth either. Asks how he gets back inside of his mom when he's an old man.<br /><br />Unfortunately, he misses the whole point...as most of us do, I'm afraid.<br /><br />Ever heard these before?<br /><br />Have you found Jesus? (Didn't know He was lost)<br /><br />Have you accepted Jesus? (Does He have at least two current forms of ID)<br /><br />These are some of the types of ways that we, as Christians, are taught to witness to people. I'm sure that God applauds the effort, at least most of the time. However, that type of process quite often does more harm than good. What should we do then?<br /><br />Let me ask you a question...what did you have to do with your physical birth?<br /><br />The correct answer is: nothing. You were just along for the ride. You had absolutely NOTHING to do with being born. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">Sooooo</span>...what do you think you had to do with your Spiritual birth? If you answered nothing, you're on the right track.<br /><br />God chose you...you didn't choose Him.<br /><br />Now, I know some of you are at least a little disturbed by all of this, and probably wondering where I'm going with it. Before we answer some of your questions, let me ask you another one.<br /><br />Does God use the analogies with us that He does because of the relationships and experiences we have?<br />Or, did He create us to have these kind of relationships and experiences so that we would have a better chance at understanding what he wanted us to know while we were in these limiting tents of human flesh?<br /><br />If you serve an Omnipotent and Omniscient God, like I do, the answer should be painfully obvious.<br /><br />So, Chris, what's the big deal? What's the difference between "again" and "above"?<br /><br />Again means it happened after your physical birth...which would make God a liar...and dependant on you. Above reconciles with His Word, where He says that He chose us before the foundations of the world were laid. In other words, God chose us, or gave birth to us Spiritually, before He even created the physical universe. It means that God's Grace, and Mercy, and Love are NOT dependant on us...or our ability to perform. From above means that there is NOTHING that can separate us from that love.<br /><br />Some of you are parents...so let me ask you...what could your child do to make you stop loving them? Is there anything?<br /><br />Of course not. They can get mad at you. Leave and not speak to you for years. Deny you and denounce you. But, no matter what they do, they are still your child. Period. And, they always will be.<br /><br />Why do I feel that this difference is so important? First of all, because God does...or He wouldn't have been so careful in the words he chose to describe our relationship with Him. Secondly, it takes the pressure off. I can't count the number of people who have come to me in tears over the years, feeling that they didn't do enough to "save" a loved one or a friend. They believed that if that person wasn't "saved", it was somehow their fault.<br /><br />Nothing could be farther from the Truth.<br /><br />I'll tell you what I've told all of them through the years: God is pretty damn good at His job. Great batting average. Not only always gets a hit...always hits a home run. Every <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">firckin</span>' time. You can depend on Him to get the job done. My God is Omnipotent...not impotent. Look again at John Chapter 3. He asks <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">Nic</span> if he can tell where the wind comes from, or goes. In other words, can you tell who the Holy Spirit has touched before you? Can you tell who He will touch after you?<br /><br />No. Not your job. Your job is acting on the knowledge that you've been given. To love God the best you can. To love your neighbor as yourself. Do those two things, everything else will fall into place.<br /><br />Does that mean that I'm saying we shouldn't, as Christians, witness to others?<br /><br />God forbid.<br /><br />Unless, of course, you think witnessing means going to the mall and grabbing strangers and asking them if they know that they're damned and going to hell. That's not what we're told to do...and somewhere, there's a guy who did that to me at a terrible time in my life, who's probably still looking over his shoulder wondering where the psycho ex-cop is. It wasn't pretty.<br /><br />What we're told to do is to have an "answer" for the hope that lies within us. That presupposes a few things: First, that we actually have hope inside of us. Second, that our lives are such that the hope that we have shows. Third, that we live among people, and that they notice the hope we have. Fourth, that they then feel close enough to us to ask why we have the hope that we have.<br /><br />I talk about my wife all of the time. People may get sick of hearing about her, but I don't care. I love her. More than anything. She comes up in my conversations all of the time because I love her.<br /><br />That's the way it's supposed to be with how we present God to others. Not what they're missing. Not what they need. Not where they're wrong. Not why we're right. Just who we love...and why we love Him.<br /><br />You'll find you needlessly offend a lot less people that way. Nobody likes to be told that they're fat, ugly and their mother dresses them funny. Especially by someone in checks and stripes with food stains and a mullet...and a belly hanging over their too tight jeans.<br /><br />Those of you who knew me in high school and before know what an insufferably arrogant jerk I could be. And, unfortunately, that was on my good days. By the time I got in my twenties, I realized I didn't really know very much. By my thirties, a lot less. Forties? Almost nothing. Now I wonder if I could find the back of my lap with a pack of bloodhounds, a posse and a flood light.<br /><br />But I do know this: God loves me. He chose me. He loves you. He chose you. How do I know if He chose you or not? If He lead you here to read this...pretty simple.<br /><br />The only real mystery to me...is why God would choose me. I know me. I wouldn't choose me. But He did.<br /><br />And for that, I will be grateful...eternally.Christopher Blakehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03319577741068780845noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640166592905430800.post-53326037317311607682010-04-05T09:40:00.000-07:002010-04-05T10:55:08.434-07:00SNAPSHOTS FROZEN IN TIME PART 2: MARLEY"S GHOST<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3QSDojM35Cqj92VMD9NZPRv60O-W27dp9iTJgAhafAgAnh7GoxQiZt2ghVU9vNzIZixf29EfmnyRRjYPCRJ5L7vu_y94GIrcVJAHcaJfW0C2IaMk750_E2em7TeUxEfz9TJDZM38iZ9U/s1600/marley's+ghost.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 214px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456695083360078050" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3QSDojM35Cqj92VMD9NZPRv60O-W27dp9iTJgAhafAgAnh7GoxQiZt2ghVU9vNzIZixf29EfmnyRRjYPCRJ5L7vu_y94GIrcVJAHcaJfW0C2IaMk750_E2em7TeUxEfz9TJDZM38iZ9U/s320/marley's+ghost.jpg" /></a> <div>I had a dream last night...Dennis <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Dollarhide</span> and I were playing kick ball at school. His arm was in a cast and a sling. He was wearing a short-sleeve, button down checkered shirt. We were on the field in between Horace Mann and Woodrow Wilson, on the Mann side, so I think we were in the third grade. After school we went to his house. I think it was on <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Blackthorne</span>, right off of South St. We were playing in his front yard, hoping the pretty little dark haired girl who lived a few doors down (you know who you are) would come out and see us. </div><div> </div><div>Memory is a strange thing. Did you ever catch yourself thinking about something from your past, and have absolutely no idea where the memory came from? Sometimes, if you're very lucky, you can trace back one tangent memory after another until you get to what triggered the chain. Most of the time, however, we can't. Memories seem to pop up randomly...but they are never really random. Something always triggers them. A sound. A smell. An image. Sometimes all it takes is the quality of light streaming through a window...or a particular shade of color. Amazing, really. </div><div> </div><div>If you read my last blog, you know I spoke of the snapshots we leave with others, and how we should be careful of what memories we leave with people. There is of course, and inverse to that: the memories that others leave with us...more importantly, how we handle those memories...what we do with them, and what impact we allow them to have on our lives. </div><div> </div><div> </div><div>Man will never create a computer that can come close to matching the human mind. The complexities of our thought processes, especially when it comes to memory, is beyond our comprehension. Our minds are like photo albums, storing every single image, sound, taste, smell, and emotion that we have ever experienced. Some of them are good. Some are not. Today, we're talking about the bad ones...and what we choose to do with them. </div><div> </div><div>Some bad memories are actually useful. It's good to remember that a hot stove burned you. That way, you are careful around stoves. It is not good, however, to hate all stoves because you got burned by one. It is not good to hunt down stoves and shoot them. It's not good to try and teach all people that stoves are inherently evil because you got burned by one. It is not good to refuse to live in a house that has a stove, and try and convince others to get rid of theirs. It is certainly not good to allow being burned by a stove once to dominate your thoughts, hopes and dreams for the rest of your life...to allow that memory to make not only you miserable, but also all of those around you...especially the ones you love the most.</div><div> </div><div>You've noticed, I'm sure, the picture of Marley's Ghost at the top of this post. In Dickens' classic tale, the chains Marley carried with him were his misdeeds that he performed in life. While I agree that we carry our misdeeds that way, I believe that we do something far more insidious; more harmful not only to ourselves, but to those we care the most about: </div><div> </div><div>Our memories...or, the ones we choose to focus on.</div><div> </div><div>I'm not meaning to harp about my heart attack from two months ago. It was, however, a seminal event for me...and one that I hope can be of help to others. I learned, while re-examining my life, that it wasn't just the snapshots I had left with others that had had a negative effect on people...it was the snapshots in my own memory that I had chosen to focus on. You see, the snapshots that I chose to focus on had a great influence on the ones that I left with others. It's a truly vicious circle.</div><div> </div><div>I was Marley's Ghost twice over...chains not just from my misdeeds, but from the focus of my memories. And, I allowed those chains to drag the ones I love into the depths of despair.</div><div> </div><div>One of the biggest differences between God and Man is that God can truly forget when he forgives. It says in His word that He can put things as far away from Himself as North is from South, High is from Low...you get the idea. We can't do that. Once a memory is stuck in our heads, it's pretty much there forever. But, if you liken our memories to a photo album, we still have options. We have the ability to choose what pages we go to, at least most of the time. However...even when something triggers a bad memory and drags us there against our will, we have the ability to choose how long we stay on that page...and how much impact we allow that image to have on us...and those around us. </div><div> </div><div>I'm not accusing any of you of being as bad as I was and am. God forbid. But...even if you have made the mistake of allowing the negative snapshots in your personal photo album to influence you even one one millionth as much as I have...it is far too much.</div><div> </div><div>I am in the process of shedding my chains. I realize that it will be a life-long struggle. You see, the worst part of it is this: I like to hold on to them. There is, for some perverse reason, a comfort I find in blaming others...even though I know that it is wrong. I have always been the captain of my own ship. Whatever storms I have sailed through have been of my own doing. That is not true for everyone. Many people are truly victims of circumstance...whether that means a tragic accident...or an encounter with a monster. I cannot imagine the difficulty for them in trying to let go...but that is an excuse that I do not have. </div><div> </div><div>Choose which pages of your album of memories you go to. Choose, when you are taken to a page against your will, how long you stay there. Choose what impact you allow it to have on your life, and the lives of those around you.</div><div> </div><div>Don't be like me. Don't be Marley's Ghost. What few chains you may still have, let go. </div><div> </div><div>The checks on Dennis' shirt were blue and green...at least in the dream. The grass was feshly mowed and wet. The scent of it hung in the still air. The sun was high in the cloudless sky...and we both could run like the wind...and one day, we will again. Be safe overseas, my friend. You are missed. And loved. </div><div> </div><div> </div>Christopher Blakehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03319577741068780845noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640166592905430800.post-30758324584840142062010-04-04T10:16:00.000-07:002010-04-04T11:32:28.212-07:00SNAPSHOTS FROZEN IN TIMEI saw a photo of Johnny Cline yesterday...and I cried.<br /><br />I have always been a passionate man. Too passionate, some of the time. My emotions, however, have been very raw since the heart attack...as if someone had flayed my skin and exposed all of the emotional nerves. Still...that picture of Johnny made me cry.<br /><br />The technological age we live in is amazing. I just wrote to a long lost friend who is literally half way around the world. Amazing. More amazing is how we reconnected.<br /><br />I went on my <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Facebook</span> page the other day, which is something that I rarely do. On the sidebar it had one of those "you might like to add" suggestions for a friend. I usually ignore those, but this time the name caught my eye. It was someone I hadn't seen in 28 years...not since my ten year high school reunion. I don't know how their software works...we had no friends in common...I never put down my old school affiliations...but I hit add. Before I had left the page, a new one popped up. A young lady I had gone to school with. So, I added her as well. Since then, a number of old high school friends have been added as friends...all in the space of a few days...which brings me to Johnny.<br /><br />I went on to each person's page and looked at photos. The picture of Johnny was on one. Johnny from over thirty years ago. Johnny and I had gone to school together all the way through high school. Played sports together. We kind of separated in high school...nothing ominous or bad...just the normal parting that friends do as they divide into groups with more likes and connections. A short time after we graduated, I heard about Johnny. I don't remember how long after, maybe a year or two. He had passed away. Tragically...and far, far too young. I was sad when I heard about it. That was long ago. But, when I saw his picture yesterday...<br /><br />Memories are a funny thing. Things get frozen in time in our minds, like snapshots...or, perhaps, more like stills from a motion picture. When I saw that picture of Johnny, I was flooded with snapshots of him. Snapshots of a very young Johnny, from long, long, ago. Grade school. Youth football. He was always so handsome. And that smile of his ? Well, just ask the ladies...he could charm the honey from bees with that smile. So many memories of a life cut tragically short. I wept for him...and for all of those I knew must have missed him terribly all of these years.<br /><br />But it also made me think...what kind of snapshots do we leave to others?<br /><br />Those of you who read my work know I like to tell stories to illustrate a point. True stories work the best...even if those stories are painful personally. So...<br /><br />It was over twenty years ago. My wife was expecting Lacy. We were living in a townhouse in Huntington Beach. We had taken our girls somewhere, and had just gotten home. Our doberman, Alex, had been left behind with the screen open to the balcony in case of bathroom emergency. Alex, as great a dog as she was, was also very temperamental. She got mad if we left her for too long. If she felt miffed at our leaving, she just might not go out on the balcony to take care of business. Which is what we came home to...dog poop and pee right at the front door.<br /><br />I was a much younger man. Didn't realize then how mean and bitter I could be. I picked her up and carried her out to the balcony, cussing and swearing the whole way. Every other word was stupid f%$#<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">ing</span> bitch. Alex was big for a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">dobie</span>, over ninety pounds. But, like I said, I was a much younger man. I picked her up by the loose skin <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">dobie's</span> have on their backs. Hung her over the balcony...cussing and threatening to drop her for her inability to go to the bathroom right. Now, I wouldn't really have dropped her. I was just mad. And that's where the incident would have stayed, probably forgotten, except...<br /><br />We moved about a month later. We were moving into a house in Orange for Lacy's birth. More room for everybody, and a yard for the kids and the dog. Our downstairs neighbors helped a little with the move, and that's when they told us this story:<br /><br />They had visitors a while back. A young married couple. It was the night I hung Alex over the balcony. The couple never saw our dog...but they did see my very, very pregnant wife go up the stairs before my outburst. The young husband was convinced I was a crazed psychotic, threatening my pregnant wife for her incontinence. He wanted to stay the night in a motel...his wife wouldn't go. Our neighbors had assured him I was yelling at the dog. He didn't believe them. He was so certain that I was going to come down in the middle of the night and kill them all in their sleep that he stayed up all night...in his car...facing our townhouse so he could see me coming...with the biggest butcher knife our neighbors had grasped tightly in his hands. They left the next morning. He wouldn't stay another night.<br /><br />Our neighbors laughed about it. So did my wife. I was embarrassed, but I laughed along with them. After all, you have to be able to laugh at yourself, right?<br /><br />I've retold that story numerous times as an example of the impact our actions can have on others. Everyone always laughs...it is a funny story. But...<br /><br />Today is Easter...or Paschal. Passover. The day we celebrate Resurrection. New life. New hope. And it occurred to me that the story has a far deeper meaning than I had thought before. You see, we all leave snapshots with people. Not just strangers, but also the ones we love. Those snapshots are all that people have once we are out of their lives, whether that is from distance...or time...or death.<br /><br />What kind of snapshots do you want to leave people with?<br /><br />The snapshot I left that man with is not a good one. However, neither is the one that I left those neighbors with. It breaks my heart, especially at this point in my life, to think of how many people I have left with bad images over the years. Not just strangers...but also people I care about. People I love. I've vowed to try and change that.<br /><br />I believe in the Resurrection. I believe in new life. In hope.<br /><br />I would encourage each of you that read this to re-examine your lives...your hearts. Please don't be like me. Make sure that you leave good snapshots with people. Especially those you love.<br /><br />You see, there is always hope.<br /><br />I saw a photo of Johnny Cline yesterday...and I wept. But...I also changed because of it. For the better, I hope. I changed because of the impact of a photo of a friend...long since gone...but a friend who still had the ability to help me change...even from beyond the grave.<br /><br />Thank you Johnny. I pray you are finally at peace. You deserve it.<br /><br />I will see you again...someday soon.<br /><br />And...I look forward to seeing that handsome smile. <br /><br />Tell my family in Paradise with you that I said Hi.Christopher Blakehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03319577741068780845noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640166592905430800.post-51391584563806393372010-04-02T15:50:00.000-07:002010-04-02T15:53:29.731-07:00Like A Fine Wine<strong><em>è stato un colpo di fulmine.<br /><br /></em></strong><br /><br /><br />Some of you know I had a heart attack two months ago. Ninety percent block on the "widow maker". Another hour, and I would have been dead. Made me really look at my life. Re asses everything about myself. One of the things that I realized was that one should never put off telling the people that you love how much they mean to you...or why. So...<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />It was over twenty years ago. I was raising my two daughters alone. I was a psycho, one-legged ex-cop. Not a very nice person. I was a bodyguard/driver. I'd been to the Playboy Mansion. Numerous times. Movie premiers. Laker games. Private parties. Not for myself, mind you. In the course of business. I'd seen what the world considered beautiful. Up close and in person. Actresses and models. Hell, I'd even dated a few. Wasn't impressed.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I was never going to get married again. Never.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />One day I met a young woman. Her back was to me. When she turned around...<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The Sicilians say: "è stato un colpo di fulmine." It means struck by the thunderbolt. I can still remember that moment...the first time I ever saw my wife. I thought, at that very moment, that she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. I knew, right then, that I did want to get married again...but only if it could be to her.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Like I said, that was over twenty years ago. She is far more beautiful today than she was then. Every time I look at her, I am reminded of just how lucky I am to have her.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Today is her birthday. I don't have much in the way of money. Not a rich man, at least in the way that the world looks at riches. But...because of her love, I am the wealthiest man alive. Rich in things that are so above and beyond money.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong><em>I do not see the sunrise in the morning...until I see it in your smile.<br /><br />The stars do not rise in the evening sky, until you release them from your eyes.<br /><br />Your breath is the cool breeze on my fevered brow...bringing me peace.<br /><br />Your gentle touch is the warmth of the sun...easing the pain from my soul.<br /><br />Before there was time...I loved you.<br /><br />When time is no more...I will love you still.<br /></em></strong><br /><br /><br /><br />Happy Birthday, my love.Christopher Blakehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03319577741068780845noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640166592905430800.post-1805339648764273622010-01-12T12:00:00.000-08:002010-01-12T18:42:41.921-08:00GENESIS Chapter 1:1 and 2Be-reshith bara Elohim eth ha-shamayim we-eth ha-arets: (2) we-ha-arets hayethah tohu<br />wa-bohu we-choshekh al-pnê tehôm we-rûach Elohim merachepheth al-pnê ha-mayim<br /><br />In beginning Gods (he) created the heavens and the Earth. But the Earth was laid waste and made desolate, and destruction turned on the abyss.<br /><br />There is so much to cover in these two verses that it may take me awhile...then again, my wife always says that if the refrigerator light comes on when I open the door, I do at least fifteen minutes.<br /><br />I marvel at the majesty of God's Word. The first verse in the first chapter declares the Trinity, and explains it better than anyone I've ever heard attempt to. The noun is in the third person plural(Gods), but the verb is conjugated in the third person singular. It isn't until much later...throughout the Scriptures...that the act of creation is attributed to each of the persons of the Godhead individually...how can God be three and yet one? This is about as good as you'll ever get for an explanation. Still think it's the "majestic plural"?<br /><br /><br />מַע 6:4 ְ<br />shmo<br />hear-you !<br />רָאֵל יִ ְ<br />ishral<br />Israel<br />יְהוָה<br />ieue<br />Yahweh<br /> הֵינ אֱ<br />alei·nu<br />Elohim-of·us<br />יְהוָה<br />ieue<br />Yahweh<br />אֶחָד<br />achd<br />one<br />:Deuteronomy 6:4<br />The Sh'ma states literally...<br />Hear, Oh Israel...I Am your Gods...I Am one.<br />The word translated "one" is not the number one, rather it has the meaning of a number of things tied into one bundle. So,<br />Hear Oh Israel...I Am your Gods...I Am collected into One.<br />And how often were/are the Jews supposed to say this? When they lie down...get up...go in/out a door...walk, etc...<br />In the very first verse God declares who He is...he doesn't even attempt to explain...take it or leave it.<br />That God guy is some writer...<br />I think that's enough for you to think about for one night...more to come soon...Christopher Blakehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03319577741068780845noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640166592905430800.post-27694605251688194392009-12-31T13:16:00.000-08:002009-12-31T13:57:40.785-08:00My Wife is a Bitch VS Clint Walker...and the Winner is?Writing tends to be a very solitary business. I know there are some people who write in teams, but for most of us, it's one on one...you versus the blank page. So, writing teaches you a lot...not only about the subjects that you write about, but also about yourself. I have continued to learn more about myself this last year or so since I started writing this blog. Some good things...some not so good. But I've learned. I have also learned even more about people out there in the world.<br /><br />I have written on a wide range of topics: religion, politics, fact, fiction, family stories, entertainment, etc. All of the experts say you should stick to one basic topic if you want to be successful and build a following, but I obviously haven't. Doing so may have cost me some readers, but I am a man of many diverse interests and I would like to think that most people are the same way. So I have, and will continue to write on a wide range of topics. <br /><br />I have had hits from all over the United States and all over the world. Every continent but Antarctica (come on you Antarticans, get on the job!)and almost every country. This has been one of the most surprising elements to me about my blog: the wide range of my readership. But, there has been something even more enlightening than that...the topics people have chosen to read.<br /><br />My number one blog in readership has been...My Wife is a Bitch, which most readers have come to after googling...are you ready? MY WIFE IS A BITCH! Not for my blog mind you, but probably to find some like minded man who is pissed off at his wife. That is why most of those hitting that article don't stay...once they find out it's a loving tribute to my wife, they leave. The second most popular really surprised me: Clint Walker...maze of memories. I've had a couple of thousand people come to read that one. Most have stayed and read it, then read other articles on my site. I hope Mr. Walker gets word of this and learns how not only great an impact his life has had on people, but how long lasting. I know he did on mine.<br /><br />Time to move forward in life, and into next year. So, with that in mind, I'm asking all of you to come and visit my radio blog http://www.blogtalkradio.com/the-dumbass-speaking/2010/01/05/the-dumb-ass-speaks<br />The inaugural show is Tuesday, January 5Th. Come and listen to the Dumb Ass...and I pray all of you have a great New Year...Christopher Blakehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03319577741068780845noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640166592905430800.post-67295173504730187842009-12-28T12:09:00.000-08:002009-12-28T14:16:37.549-08:00LOST: JACOB HAVE I LOVED PART 2We've been re-watching different seasons of Lost in preparation for the final season starting Feb 2nd. It's very interesting to go back and watch episodes from the past with the knowledge you have now...you see things that you didn't see before. Some of it may be come into play, some of it may not. It will be interesting to see. <br /><br />When I wrote the first part of this post, I asked a lot of questions, hoping to spark some debate. This time I'm going to give you what I think could be some answers...although I'm probably wrong about most of them. <br /><br />Here goes...<br /><br />I believe that the main thrust of Lost is : Predestination VS Free Will. It is a question that has tormented mankind from the start of recorded time. If you go back to my first post and read the passage from the Bible in Romans Chapter 9, you get one part of God's answer to the debate: God chooses who He chooses. That leads most people to believe that predestination rules all...that we have no true free will. I have never agreed with that...not completely anyway. Go and read the book of Esther in the Old Testament, in particular chapter 4 verses 11-17. According to that passage, the outcome, IE Israel's being saved, is predetermined. It's going to happen. However...who gets the credit for saving Israel is up in the air. It could go to Esther...it will definitely go to someone else if she doesn't act...but it's also possible that others have already passed on the opportunity to save Israel. Esther acts...she is given the credit. She chose to risk her life. She didn't choose to be Jewish. She was chosen, by God, to be part of His family. Keep that in mind.<br /><br />What am I saying, then? That Lost, like the Bible, teaches that we are predestined to be on one side or the other, but what we do on that side is up to us? That although the final outcome is already fixed, those who get credit is still up in the air? That we have total free will in our choices in how we serve?<br /><br />Yes...and no.<br /><br />Consider the case of Jonah. Told by God to be the first missionary. His message to the people of Nineveh? You suck, and God is going to kill you...all of you. Great job. No wonder he bails and tries to get away. But, does God let Jonah choose not to serve? Hell no! That God guy is pretty damn persuasive when He wants to be. Storms, big fish swallowing Jonah, puked on the beach...now, Jonah still had his free will. God, however, persuaded Jonah to go anyway. Why? Couldn't God get someone else to go? Of course He could. God chose to have Jonah go. Again the question is why?<br /><br />If we are chosen...if the final outcome is already set...then what is the purpose of this life? I liken it to boot camp. A lot of people try and get on the job. Very few make it to the Academy. A lot of those that do make it quit. The DIs stress you out, because they know what kinds of situations you are going to face. They want you to be as prepared as possible. It's rough, but if you make it through you are ready for the job. <br /><br />Now, on to LOST...<br /><br />Who is the Man In Black? I'm going to go with Esau...Jacob's brother. He was the one who should have gotten the birthright and the blessing. He sold his birthright to Jacob for a pot of stew (remember Jacob in LOST offers MIB some food, which MIB sarcastically declines). Jacob cheats Esau out of the blessing. (I don't know that we've seen that on the show yet...however, that could be what is going on between them on and off the island)<br /><br />MIB, Esau, decries the fact that he wasn't "chosen". Not his fault. If only he could do it over again, he'd do it differently. So, like a game of backgammon, they continue to play...using people like pieces. Moving them forward. Having them taken out of play. Putting them back in play farther back on the board. Jacob believes the outcome is determined, no matter what moves MIB makes. Even coming back as another player! His loophole. Jacob has foreseen this move. He has brought people to the island to counter MIB's move...not only in this time, but back in 1977. One group or the other can change the playing field. Perhaps both.<br /><br />What does that make of our players? Pawns in a giant chess game, being moved against their will? Or, willing participants without knowing a game is even being played?<br /><br />Are they Esthers? Or are they Jonahs? Or both?<br /><br />For some, coming back to the island is the only thing they want to do. Others must be persuaded. In the end, they all come back...only to be divided upon return. Why?<br /><br />What is the island? I believe, I hope, that it is the Gate to the afterlife, to Tartaros, and not Tartaros itself. Eden, Paradise on one side...and torment on the other. It was guarded on one side only...only one way in. No way out. Those who have crossed are the whispers. They can on occasion be seen, like Samuel the prophet by King Saul. But, for the most part, they are in the shadows...heard but not seen. <br /><br />There are many alternate theories, of course. One involves true time travel...by aliens...from a planet that orbits our Sun every 3600 years. This theory would have Jacob and MIB be two of those aliens who have been left behind. Playing a game that they started back during the time of the Sumerian kings. (Sumer should be pronounced SHumer, or...Shem-er) They were considered gods by the people of their time. All of them went back to their planet the last time it was close...3600 years ago. And now...the planet is coming back...<br /><br />They're coming...<br /><br />Just food for thought.Christopher Blakehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03319577741068780845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640166592905430800.post-84441133032250706012009-11-24T10:44:00.000-08:002009-11-24T10:45:43.594-08:00Guest Blogger: LACY BLAKEOf all the things I love in life, here is what I love the most: Mom's holiday or just for the hell of it chocolate chip cookies. Rocket's breathing slowly in and out putting me to sleep. Open conversation. Holding hands. Smiling. Going to the park very early or very late when no one else is there and swinging. Not thinking, just swinging. Feeling like if I closed my eyes and let go I would continue flying and never have to stop. I love the rain. It's home. The gentle pittering and pattering on the roofs or the windows puts me completely at ease. I love my family. My Mama. My Daddy. I miss him. I miss her too, but I talk to her everyday. I can't talk to him or I get sad and homesick. I hope he doesn't think it's because I don't miss him. I often worry that it does. Nobody holds you like Daddy holds you. Nobody smiles, laughs, smells, looks, plays, talks, dresses, dances, or makes you feel safe like Daddy does. God, I miss him. We can get so mad at eachother, and he's still one of the things in this world I love more than anything. Like a hand print on my heart. For good. I love homecooked food. Christmas icicle lights. Being bundeled up, and being able to see your breath when you talk. I love snuggling. Being close. I love sharing things with someone you couldn't possibly share with someone else. I love that trust. I love comforting arms telling you "It's okay." when it really isn't. Arms that hold you when you need them. I love the security that I feel in those arms. I love performing. I love not having to be myself. To escape the boundaries this world puts on me and being someone I am not. I love to make people feel I love to get so caught up in the moment I leave myself and can hardly remember what I'm doing. I love to be free. I hate that through all of this that for everything I've come up with that I love I can come up with two things that I don't.<br /><br />The end haha<br /><br />I'm starting to fall in love with writing. You were right.Christopher Blakehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03319577741068780845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640166592905430800.post-66805037182088702832009-09-13T23:14:00.000-07:002009-09-13T23:14:32.244-07:00THE BITCH<p>Early, 1982. I'm going through the Sheriff's Academy. My leg is already for shit. I went and asked the deputy that led PT if there was anything I could do to help it. The guy was in his early fifties. Six months earlier, he'd had heart surgery...and then he's leading all three classes(junior, senior, and reserves at night) in PT. Every day. So, like I said, I ask him if there's anything I can do about my leg. The guy was a stud. If anyone would know, it would be him. His response:</p><p><strong><em>It's just these pussy three mile runs we're going on right now. Once we get up to a man sized run, like six, eight miles or so, your legs will stretch out...mine do the same thing right now. You'll be fine.</em></strong></p><p>They said if you could walk, you could run. I could walk...and I was highly motivated. </p><p>The day after I asked him about it, my DI came up to me during the daily run. Right along side. Just looked at me for a while. Then he asks me:</p><p><strong><em>Your leg <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">botherin</span>' you, Wonder Bread?</em></strong></p><p><strong><em>Sir, No Sir!</em></strong></p><p><strong><em>Then don't be <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">botherin</span>' my PT instructor again. You got that?</em></strong></p><p><strong><em>Sir, Yes Sir!</em></strong></p><p>We had a routine for PT everyday. Stretch. Push-ups. Sit-ups. Run. We started at three miles. We were at four then. Working our way up to twelve. At the end of each run, we'd slow to a walk in the parking lot. Two laps. Then into the gym for stress-recovery-stress:25 seconds of as many push-ups as you could do, followed immediately by 25 seconds of as many sit-ups as you could do, followed by 25 seconds of as many three count squat thrusts as you could do, and finally, 25 seconds of as many jumping jacks as you could do. </p><p>Then you got a 30 second rest...and did it all over at 20 seconds. Then fifteen.</p><p>By the twelfth week we were doing 60 seconds, 55, and 50. It didn't matter who you were. It didn't matter how great of shape you were in. If you gave it everything you had during stress-recovery-stress, you were done when it was over. Couldn't even lift your arms over your head to take your shirt off before your shower. Your buddy had to do it for you, and vice-<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">versa</span>. And, you only got five minutes to get out of your PT gear, shower, and be back in uniform in formation. </p><p>That two lap walk to cool down at the end of the run was huge. You really needed it. </p><p>Starting that day, I no longer got it. </p><p>In 1982, the Los Angeles Sheriff's Academy was located at <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Biscailuz</span> Center in East LA. It's set on a hill. Every day, at the start of our run, we would head out of the parking lot down a serpentine road. On the final turn you looked up and saw what we affectionately referred to as, <strong>"The Bitch."</strong> It was a road that ran up a hill bordering the Jails on the west, the freeway on the east, and Sybil Brand women's jail on the north. It went up at about a forty-five degree angle for over a hundred yards, leveled for about ten, and then went up again at an even steeper angle for another hundred and fifty or so. There was a gate at the top of the hill, connecting <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">Biscailuz</span> with Sybil Brand. The gate was unlocked by a DI when we got there, and locked behind us after we went through. </p><p>Every time. </p><p>It was a security risk. That's why it had to be a DI to unlock it...and a DI to make sure it was locked behind us. </p><p>Every time.</p><p>But something changed that day. We get in the parking lot. Cool down walk time. Psyching up for stress-recovery-stress. My DI comes up to me as we're marching.</p><p><strong><em>Cadet Blake!</em></strong></p><p><strong><em>Sir, Yes Sir!</em></strong></p><p><strong><em>I don't think DI Massey locked the gate after we went through. I need someone to check it and make sure...you just volunteered...GO!</em></strong></p><p><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">Cocksucking</span>, ball-licking, punk ass bitch motherfucker...I said that to myself, of course...as I took off down the serpentine road. The Bitch was waiting for me when I turned the last curve. Smiling at me. Whispering. Telling me, in a very soothing voice, to just quit now. There was no way I could do it...and even if I did, I'd never make it through stress-recovery-stress after that anyway. Just quit. </p><p>Her voice was soft and cool. Silky against my heart. Seductive.</p><p>I told her to go fuck herself, and started up the hill. </p><p>I don't know how I made it up there that first time. I tried to keep my head down. Not look. When I finally did look up, I wasn't even halfway. I could feel my knee swelling. Grapefruit size by now. And the Bitch kept whispering sweet nothings into my ear...or was it the wind? Or my own tortured soul...</p><p>I <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">finally</span> made it to the top. The gate, of course, was locked. Tighter than Massey's sphincter. I turned around and headed back down.</p><p>They were kind enough to wait for me in the gym. Very thoughtful. My DI didn't want me to miss out on the full Academy experience. By the time we were done, I <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">could</span> barely walk. My knee was the size of a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">cantaloupe</span>. But I didn't limp. Got showered. Waited for <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">EOW</span>. When we were dismissed for the day, I went to the soda machines. I hate sodas. But I was hurting. I bought two Squirts. Drank one on the way to my car. Nursed the other while I sat there and smoked. Tears ran down my face from the pain. I couldn't bend my leg because of the swelling. I thanked God for getting me through it. I thanked Him it was a one time thing. </p><p>I didn't hear Him laughing.</p><p>Next day we're walking our laps after the run. Here comes my DI.</p><p><strong><em>Cadet Blake!</em></strong></p><p><strong><em>Sir, Yes Sir!</em></strong></p><p><strong><em>I don't think DI Massey locked the gate after we went through...</em></strong></p><p>And off I went again. Cursing him under my breath. Cursing God. Cursing the Bitch. Cursing the sweet whispers...</p><p>Everyday after that, the same thing. We started with over two hundred people. We lost sixty-five by the end of the second week. More each week after that. By the sixth week, people started to get the handle on things. Everyone but me. I was still checking the gate. By this point, we were up to about six and a half to seven miles on the run. My knee...well, it didn't look good. Still, I kept making it.</p><p>And the Bitch kept try to seduce me.</p><p>Seventh week. We're walking in the parking lot. I'm waiting for my DI. All of a sudden, they take the class back up to running speed. They start <strong><em>everyone</em></strong> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">down</span> the serpentine road. The class turned the corner...and looked up at the Bitch.</p><p>Half of the class quit before we ever started going up. Just quit. Almost all of the rest quit within the first fifty yards. When we got to the half way point where it leveled off, there were only three other cadets still running besides me. My DI was waiting there for us. He turned the other three back around and sent them down. He smiled at me.</p><p><strong><em>Check the gate, Blake.</em></strong></p><p><strong><em>Sir, Yes Sir!</em></strong></p><p>And I did. </p><p>I'd like to tell you it stopped after that. I'd also like to tell you that I look like George <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error">Clooney</span>, but unfortunately, my pictures on the blog. So, I won't lie about either one. </p><p>I had people after me while I was going through the Academy. Two <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-error">DIs</span> in particular. My DI wasn't one of the two. </p><p>I'm pretty sure that if I <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-error">hadn'</span>t been running up the Bitch all of those weeks, I would have dropped just like most of the others. That would have been all either of those two <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-error">DIs</span> would have needed. But, because I'd been doing it, it was no big deal to me.</p><p>Don't get me wrong. I never liked it. It always hurt. I almost always cried in pain before I went home. But, it didn't beat me. <strong><em>They</em></strong> didn't beat me. I made it. And, I'm not certain that I would have...if I hadn't been put through the shit first.</p><p>We all go through things in our lives. Some, much worse than others. We all have our own version of the Bitch. It's hard to think about it being to your benefit as your running up it...when your legs ache...when you have the dry heaves...when you think you can't take even one more step...and you know that stress-recovery-stress is waiting for you...if you make it. </p><p>James chapter one does <strong><em>NOT </em></strong>say that the testing of your faith works patience. Bad translation. The Greek word is for Endurance. Patience is passive. Endurance isn't. It's work. It makes you stronger. </p><p>God wants you to be as strong as you need to be for what's coming. He's not doing you any favors letting you sit on the couch eating <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-error">Bon-</span><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" class="blsp-spelling-error">Bons</span> if you have a marathon coming.</p><p>And this life isn't just a marathon. It's an obstacle course, gauntlet, marathon. And God <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_18" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">wants</span> you to do more than finish. </p><p>He wants you to win. </p><p>You get down when you're running up the Bitch. You get angry. Frustrated. Mad at God. That's all OK. It's normal. But, you don't have to run alone. We're running together. So, when your sucking wind...and you don't think you can take another step...talk to God...and yes, cussing Him out is still <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_19" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">talking</span>...you aren't going to shock Him. He expects it. </p><p>Then call up a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_20" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">Buddy</span>. Go have a beer together. Howl at the moon together. </p><p>Don't run alone.</p><p>You can always talk to God.</p><p>And, you can always talk to me.</p><p>We'll beat that Bitch.</p><p>Together. </p><p></p><p></p>Christopher Blakehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03319577741068780845noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640166592905430800.post-19959926992756996502009-09-12T21:15:00.000-07:002009-09-12T21:29:12.169-07:00Human Cockroaches<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-DWGqpS_wxv205_Eb06RObmBvkuu7l16myS3ChZe8-kxF8ESe8Uk7Ir77BOivrgHkiyjxTGpLe74dkL8PS52-wlN71-DT3B2nKEVxkQnvDIDtoKZFonbVr7vVArzUYT3lWVcgFfhhAUs/s1600-h/giant+cockroach.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 168px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 227px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380801247895474754" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-DWGqpS_wxv205_Eb06RObmBvkuu7l16myS3ChZe8-kxF8ESe8Uk7Ir77BOivrgHkiyjxTGpLe74dkL8PS52-wlN71-DT3B2nKEVxkQnvDIDtoKZFonbVr7vVArzUYT3lWVcgFfhhAUs/s320/giant+cockroach.jpg" /></a> Cockroaches are disgusting. They'll <div>do almost anything to survive. A cockroach can live for up to a week after its head has been cut off. Most cockroaches are nocturnal and only come out at night. Any sign of light and they scurry away. </div><div> </div><div>Human cockroaches are far worse. Once they take an interest in you or your family, they can't seem to ever let it go. They hide in the shadows and do everything surreptitiously. They live off of others, mainly through causing pain and suffering. They have no feelings for anyone or anything but themselves. They are filthy, vile, heartless and cruel. And, they are cowards.</div><div> </div><div>The one main difference between the insect and the human varieties?</div><div> </div><div>The human cockroach can't live for up to a week without its head. </div><div> </div><div>I have had trouble recently with a couple of human cockroaches. They think they are clever. Smart. They believe they have been able to keep what they have done, and are doing, in the dark. </div><div> </div><div>They're wrong. The evil deeds of these human cockroaches always come to light. </div>Christopher Blakehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03319577741068780845noreply@blogger.com0