Some Quick Thoughts On Secession

I don't necessarily think secession is a good idea, but that it is a conversation that needs to happen. Do not make whiny, twatwafflingly snide remarks about this, that, or the other. I have honestly never before in my life seen such blatant, unhinged, narrow minded behavior by people who seem don't seem to fully understand the concept of a democratic republic, just the club of democracy, as I have in response to the proposition of a discussion. The Democrats move further to the left, and the Republicans keep moving to the center. The Republicans nominate someone who might as well be a Democrat, two elections in a row, and that's not enough. That, in essence, is the problem with the left. It's not so much that they're tolerant, because if they were, they wouldn't insist that the right keep moving to the left. I'm not even a Republican and I see this. Anyway, I'm passing this along for the following reasons -
1. Because it is a discussion that needs to be had. I think the reaction to it is telling.
2. I think it should always be a possibility. What I want out of the discussion, is that the Republican part resets itself more Libertarian, so much so that Libertarians come into the fold instead of sitting in dark corners masturbating to texts on Austrian economics. I want America to be more of the Republic is was intended to be. And I would love for the discussion to cause the Democratic party to reflect and reset. Except for some places in the south where there might be some hold out, old school Blue Dogs, I have less hope of this happening than I do the Republican party bringing more Libertarians in.
3. The left has this real hypocritical, "My Country Right or Wrong But Only When We're in Power" streak I find loathsome on many levels. Preach about coming together, still blame and hate Bush for everything. Fuck you.
4. Why shouldn't the people of a state be able to discuss, vote, and leave the union if they see fit. "It's not going to happen," is not an answer. Neither is, "You're racist." Or, "You'll be at the mercy of Mexico, Russian, China, whoever." Would that be any worse than being at the mercy of our own out of control government? Or those who would disarm a people? Maybe we can deal with them. Maybe they'll honor the arrangements better  than our current government.

If the government fails to hold up it's end of the bargain. If it becomes tyrannical, ruins our money, becomes so infested with corruption that it is taken for granted, wages war on it's own citizens, systematically disarms them and uses government agencies to set the stage for the vindication of doing so, and grows in size, scope, and power to the point that the very system of government morphs and mutates to the point that one cannot tell where the corporations end and the government begins, why not?

Where I'm at, where I'm looking to go

It won't be much longer now.

I was hoping to give my grandmother another Christmas in her home.

Two, if we were really lucky.

It's almost Thanksgiving, and it's obvious she needs more than I can give her.

If Christmas is even possible, it will take work and coordination that may be out of our grasps.

Truth be told, she should be somewhere now.

And I hate this.

Words alone will never be able to adequately describe just exactly how much I hate this.

She's lived here since 1959. My mother's family spent a year in Chicago and came running back.

She does better when one of her children, my mother, her sister or brother, are here.

Me, I'm just a punk kid at 33.

The family fuck up.

The nutty vet not right with the world.

I'm in a real strange place.

For those who care, yes, I'm still waiting on cover art for book 2. If I don't have something in the next few days, I'll figure something else out. So, there's that.

Anyway, other than writing, and in some ways in conjunction with writing, I have some opportunities and possibilities on the horizon.

I don't really want to give too much away right now.

I'm trying to figure out best how to synthesize and synergize, and maybe stream line.

I'm still waiting on Austin to get back to me with a class date to get licensed to teach CHL.

I still need to take the NRA instructor's courses. Mostly this is formality, and paying dues, and having a piece of paper to show people who don't know much about guns.

I also have a list of people I want to train to actually learn from. People I want to seek out for skills and knowledge and perspective. A lot of this shit, despite what people will tell you, isn't really that goddamn difficult. People have been cracking each other over the head with rocks since fire was considered magical. What interests me isn't just the pursuit of knowledge, but the ability to relate that information to others in the most economical way possible.

That's one of the things I despise the most about the training and self defense industry. It's filled with faux macho would be Alpha males who live to do little more than assuage their own personal egos.

I know what I want to offer as a teacher. What I feel comfortable in both skill and knowledge being able to charge for, and where I want to be able to grow as a teacher.

I should say something about figuring out my brand, but the truth is, I don't give any more of a fuck about that than I ever have.

I'm out there. I'm me. I'm as open as can be. For better or worse. Good or bad. Love me or hate me.

I am just exactly who I am

I know I'm ready.

I'm excited.

I'm ashamed of all the time I wasted being a sad sack drunk.

When I published my first book, and first entered the world of social media, I was in many ways a different person. I was certainly in a much different place.

Believe it or not, I have reservations about just how much I put out there.

Sometimes living without filters feels like reality tv, only it's not as lucrative, and somehow maybe more sad, pathetic, and melancholy.

I know a lot of the readers I first collected read my writing because of that. The depression, the addiction, the struggle. All that drama.

So, I don't know.

I don't know exactly what's next.

I don't know where I'll be in a year's time.

I do know, when I'm 35, I want to be exponentially further from here than I am from where I was at 30.

I'm tired of wasting time.

I'm tired of wasting life.

And potential.

Maybe watching my grandmother's decline has sharpened my focus.

I don't know.

I barely even drink anymore, and when I do, it's rarely very much. When I drink and stay up, I feel sluggish and wish I hadn't.

When I go days without drink, it is no longer cause for celebration.

It's notice is but an after thought.

It's strange.

To go so long feeling like you're on the precipice.

A few years ago, I had one of the top agents in the country.

I was meeting famous people.

I thought I was a contenda, as it were.

But my book didn't get picked up.

I didn't get famous, or rich, or even really make any money to speak of.

I'm sure, the place I was then, the hope of greatness probably meant more to me than greatness itself.

Coming out of that dark place. Still shy of the light.

I'll always write.

I don't have a choice in that matter.

But I can't any promises.

I'm trying to organize my life, and schedule, and to instill discipline to my work.

Please understand, I beg you, I despise ritualized discipline.

I knew too many people in the army who worshiped it.

Also, that I do real well not to hate myself.

Those who have never dealt with severe depression will never understand.

I am not inserting this to use as an excuse.

Simply stating a fact.

And that I deal with it everyday the best I can.

Some days are better than others.

And even at my worst now, is so much better than my best then.

The other night, I lay in bed. I was sober, and staring in the darkness, and just thinking.

Before the bottle, this had been my favorite time.

When I realized the moment, something hard to describe washed over me.

That I can enjoy it once again seems like a foreign idea.

I actually prefer being sober to drunk, and am no longer surprised by it.

You don't know that when you're there, in that dark place.

You can only see it looking back.

Tough love doesn't work.

And all the hope and possibility I can see forming on the horizon, I would trade for a few good months for my grandmother.

I would trade my soul, fester in mud spackled obscurity forever, to give her back her mind.

The ravages of dementia are no gentle thing.

The madness I enjoyed before was itself self obsessed, frivolous, and childish. 

It was trifling twatwafflery. 

I guess that's what I get for trying to end this on a positive note.

Update of sorts on book 2, and stuff. Part 1, maybe

.OK, so, I still suck at blogging. I'm not even sure what I want to blog about right now. I keep telling myself if I ever want to make it as a writer, I've got to up my output. I get lost in my head sometimes, and I can't find my way out.

Anyway, book 2, The Lines We Cross, is with the editor/ proofers. I'm waiting on them and on cover art. That's it. Don't worry, I'm fucking done. I promise. Sometimes I have a spark of genius, something I need to go back over and check, some piece of dialogue I need to add or take out, but I'm fucking done.

I can beg your forgiveness for my tardiness, or I can just do the fucking work, and putting the fucking thing out there.

Maybe it's true of all second books. I don't know. I do know, this one was much harder than the first. I touched on deeper subjects, some of them political, and I tried to do so without trivializing or completely disrespecting people whose opinions might differ from my own.

Not that the book is really all that political. I don't think it is really more political than it needs to be to be relevant and reveal a snap shot of the world in which we live right now.

I believe if you're going to enter into a political discourse, or use the issues of the day as touchstones, you have a responsibility to show the world the way it is, not what you think it is or want it to be. You do not have all the answers, shut the fuck up.

To do otherwise, I think that it is the definition of hubris. I'm a four star fuck up. What fucking answers do I have for anyone?

I read a lot. Well, OK, I used to read a lot. Mostly detective fiction. This may surprise you, might I never really got into Men's Action/ Adventure. Didn't like pulp until my mid to late twenties. The writers I liked were the ones who lifted the genre into the literary realm. Most of these writers were liberals.

They provided much joy, entertainment, and in some cases, heroes for me to look up to. I learned a lot of from them. I learned the power of words, what they can mean when woven together correctly. A well written novel will expand both your mind and knowledge base, give you information you didn't have, and show you different ways of looking at the world and the people in it. Food, single malt scotch, weaponry, philosophy, survival and preparedness, women, music, poetry. These are all passions of mine that were either celebrated, show cased, or utilized in ways that fermented in my young mind, and often led me down wonderful rabbits holes looking for knowledge.

They made me think!

But sometimes I go back and read the same stories, and I realize just how completely one sided many of them are. The complicated, multifaceted, often conflicted characters I'd thought of as heroes really aren't always that intelligent or insightful. Like their creators, their complexities are very often nothing more than shallow concessions, brightly colored vestments, draped over extremely narrow world views, often held by people who have never considered themselves wrong in anything. Their view of the issues largely romantic dogmatism, their treatment of opposing viewpoints rarely meaningful, honest, or deep.

Simply put, they love the smell of their own farts, and look down on you for not doing so as well.

Anyone that tells you they have all the answers, deserves to get punched in the fucking throat.

Hard.

This is probably not the proper tact one should take as a struggling writer. If I really wanted to get out there, and make a name for myself, and make some money, the thing to do would be to choose a side, and defend it, right or wrong, come hell or high water. To tow a party line. To speak solely in idiotic bumper sticker slogans and bullshit euphemisms that do absolutely nothing but alienate people who don't agree with you, while galvanizing sycophantic followers into a rabid cult with literally nothing of substance to offer the world.

I don't say this because I'm a poor, pissed off, hack indie with a very narrow base. As much as I would really like for book 2 to be some sort of breakout work, to have steady, real money coming in, and the validation writers yearn for, my work on the shelf, I'm not going to do that. Despite the usual pretensions writers suffer, or indulge ourselves, I know my I'm not ever going to be a literary dynamo. I'll never be the cool kid, A list, whatever. I don't care. I don't care if New York likes me. I don't care if a bunch of tenured liberal college professors who write the same story over and over again, ever recognize my work. Men soft of hand, weak of heart, limp of dick. I don't give a fuck. I just don't care. I did for a long time. I wanted to be a part of that world. I thought, for a short while, I was on my way. To what? To associate with people who hate everything I believe in? Maybe be the token conservative, despite the fact that I'm obviously not a fucking conservative?

Fuck them.

My readers are veterans. Gun nuts. Welders and diesel mechanics. The occasional lost house wife. Alcoholics, and addicts and broken people. I have a strong suspicion a good portion of my reader base doesn't actually read all that much. Which kind of makes it even more of an honor that they read my work.

Back cover synposis The Lines We Cross. Maybe.

Back from the wars, once again.

After long years of doing bad things to worse people, doing government work without the retirement package, all Jebediah Shaw wanted was to visit his family, and enjoy a nice, quiet high lonesome in a dark bar. He had heavy things to contemplate, while recharging his long drained batteries.

It was all going better than expected, until violence interrupted his minor binge, embroiling those around him in a conspiracy spread across lines of class, age, and race. One generations in the making.

He doesn't want any part of it.

He didn't come home for this.

These things aren't supposed to happen here.

Jeb Shaw is a violent man. He gets paid to do what he does in the dark corners of the world, far away from the people he cares about. The innocent life they lead is something he cherishes.
But he is a warrior.

A violent man with a code.

And when violent men without a code retaliate against those he loves, there is little doubt what he'll do.

In a city on the brink, with decades old cultural conflicts coming to a head, a drug cartel with aspirations of Reconquesta, false flags, scheming politicians, a police force bound by bureaucracy and corruption, and idealistic activists each playing their own game, Jeb will take matters into his own hands. In order to keep those he loves and the city they live in safe, unravel the conspiracy, and find those responsible, there is nothing he won't do.

No line he won't cross.

From the old blog, How I Let A Douchebag at Work Turn Me Into That Guy I Hate

The Following is about a year old, from my old blog.

 Today, was a bad day. It started out shit, and just rolled down hill. The two days before had pretty much been shit to, and today was just icing on the goddamn cake. There's a lot of shit to cover if I were to cover the lead up to today, just suffice to say, it was shit. 

I woke up this morning, all fucked up and racked in pain. So, after fumbling around for a few brief minutes, I ate a little breakfast, just so I had something to put a couple of hydrocodones on top of, and went back to bed. I haven't been taking the pain pills recreationally like I once did, and I try not to take them now unless I really need them.

Anyway, when I got to work, I was still pissed off. Pissed off at various family members for various things, mostly how almost everyone seems to be too busy with their own lives to spend much time with my 84 year old, Alzheimer’s riddled grandmother. Pissed at myself because I don't think I spend enough time with her. Pissed off because a friend sent me an email, letting me know he might have a line on some security work overseas, had I finally gotten my fat ass back in shape yet? Pissed off because I wasn't yet in shape, because I'd been too busy being a sad sack drunk the past few years to get my mind right and do what needed done. Pissed off because I'd spent money I'd had allotted for other things toward investing in a new laptop, and downloading the old hard drive onto it. Pissed because I'm even further behind in finishing the next book with this bullshit. Pissed because, I'm off my schedule, and I'm not working out as often as I need to. 2-3 times a week is not nearly enough, to push me further down my path. Pissed because I realize I'm gonna have to get a new gym, and I'm going to have to fight with Bally's about ending my membership. Because Bally's sucks. 

Mainly, I'm just pissed. And being in more pain than usual, I'm really fucking pissed.
 So, I'm at work. And I'm sitting in one of the chairs along the wall for customers to sit. It's fucking empty, there's maybe two customers,and they're both on lanes. My boss, the big boss, the manager, is eating fried chicken from a Church's box, and trying to tempt me. He's cool, funny, joking about it, and I laugh as best I can and turn him down.

And, as I said before, I'm already pissed off. And I'm trying to do the math in my head, if I were to live on nothing but low-carb protein shakes and tuna, and did PT twice a day, how fast could I drop some serious fucking weight and get back in some semblance of fighting shape? I'm thinking about that security job overseas, that my friend told me about. Also, while I'm thinking this, I'm judging the best shape I was ever in, my mean level of fitness, and how much progress I've made thus far, and wondering how far I can get by the time I can get a passport. I'm pissed, also, because I doubt, even if I were to pull off this megalithic hat-trick, that I'd still be a big ol no go, because I'll still have a fucked up back. Now, if I moved a couple hundred pounds off my fat ass, would my back be as fucked up as it is now? Obviously not. But, enough to once again be employed as a warrior? And if so, would I be able to go anyway, as I still have duties here? To my grandmother, most of all.

The thing is, no matter how often I remind myself that my warrior days are behind me, that I have to learn to like being a writer and  work a day gun monkey, my only real motivation to better myself, is the thought that one day, I might fight again. The thing is, for guys like me, guys that took the warrior-poet bullshit to heart, it's a helluva thing to not be a warrior. For those of us whose heart beat, is only that of war drums, the call to arms, to protect the weak, and smite the evil, it never fades. To have to live with that, the violence inherent to our being, knowing that there are battles to be fought and evil to be vanquished, and that we can no longer be a part of them, and not by choice, well, it's a helluva goddamn thing. Until we've had our fill of it, and leave the field of our own accord, there is only one Zen for us.

So, anyway. I'm sitting there, and I'm thinking about all this shit, and I'm pissed off about everything, because I figure God just hates me and I'm fucked. Proper fucked. And the whole while everyone is cracking the usual jokes. Then, my boss asks what my problem is, and I tell him, and that no, I don't want any fried chicken, because a friend told me about a security job he knew about, and had an 'in', with, and I obviously couldn't go, because I was still a fat piece of shit, and his fried chicken, though delicious and tempting, wasn't going to help me one goddamn bit.

And that, was when this guy, this one guy, who I already, shall we say, don't love, started yapping his fucking gums. I wrote about this dude in my last blog. He's the guy who'd nearly rolled his eyes when mentioning my book, and I felt the old me reach up from the depths, wanting to snap his bitch neck.  
This guy, he's not really a bad guy. He's just a condescending asshole.I actually kind of like him, when he's not being a prick and talking down to people. And nothing he said was really that bad, it's just that he's the kind of guy, he can say something someone else just said, that was ok when they said it, and when he says it there's a meanness to it. Part of that, I'm sure, is my own projection. I'm human, and frail.

 However, I'm also a real emphatic motherfucker, intuitive, if you will. I'm real goddamn sensitive to tonal shifts and body language. You know those really smart motherfuckers, that talk down and belittle everyone they meet, yet, somehow, always manage to avoid being in a real fight? Those are the worst kind of bullies. I ever told you how much I hate bullies?

Anyway, he yaps his gums a bit, and I try to ignore him. And then he pauses, and looks at me a bit, taking stock, and then I say something. I say something I shouldn't say. Something I regret the moment it comes out of my mouth.  

Something I've never said to someone who wasn't a friend. I relate a story from my time at war. I didn't kill a lot of people, I only fired my weapon a handful of times. But, let's say I probably have a decent average. 
And one time, well, one time is something that I'll hear about from my friends until I die. Circumstances are what they are. 

Anyway, saying what I said, I crossed a line, if only to myself. I became that guy. Some guy, other than who I want to be. I just wanted him to shut his bitch mouth, and wipe the condescending smirk from his face. But I opened my fat fucking mouth, and shared something that didn't need to be shared. Truth be told, saying something at all was pretty light, compared to everything else that ran through my mind. 
I hate me some fucking bullies.

The Good Doctor

“Admit it, you just want to kill somebody with a garrote,” I asked. It had been a personal goal of his for at least two years. Ro just gave me the shit eating chin tuck and grin, winked, poured whatever booze was left in the plastic flask in his mouth, and made his way down the darkened sidewalk. The rest of the booze had been poured down the front of his shirt. In case he needed a cover story. I checked my watch, and turned to make my own way around the block.
The bag slung over my shoulder seemed heavier than it was. It didn’t contain much. Zip ties, rope, and duct tape to bind the wife and daughter, ski masks and gloves so we wouldn’t have to kill them, what little first aid we could gather, just in case, and a short handled five pound sledge in case we needed to break something. It was also serving as my primary weapon, because I didn’t trust the shitty little pocket knife clipped to the pocket of my cargo pants. It was a rush job, and we were going to have to acquire more meaningful armament as we went along.
There was a nice breeze coming off the ocean, a relief from the night’s ridiculous heat. It felt cool on my skin, and the salt air smelled fresh, pure, and from mother earth. When I turned down the narrow alley, the only thing I could feel was my skin, leaking like a sieve. The only thing I could smell was the baked in stench of piss and refuse. It hovered over the pavement at chest height.
I came to the brick and wrought iron fence that marked the target’s house, and the low hanging branch of the nara tree that hovered across the alley in the middle of it. I stopped for a minute, checked my watch, and tried to listen through the neighborhood rustle of late evening in a middle class neighborhood in the outskirts of Manila.
I scanned the house through the fence, no lights coming from the windows on this side of it. I looked over the house next door, but their fence was stucco, and taller. I checked my six, grabbed the overhanging limb with one hand and the fence with the other. I pulled myself up, and over, and let myself down gently on the other side. I squatted beside a large AC unit offset from the house, and pulled my mask and gloves out of the bag.
I heard the car park at the curb, the engine shut off, and two doors open and close. I pulled the hammer from the bag. The handle was coated in rubber, and between the tropical heat and my priming adrenal glands, it felt like it might melt through the gloves. I took as deep a breath as I dared, tried to slow down my heart rate, and waited.
I peeked over the AC unit, but I couldn’t see the street through the trees planted just inside fence. There was only a short driveway to the street, and the gate, though heavily constructed it, swung on automatic doors, but only the wife used it. It took them forever, until finally, I heard the sound of the iron gate swing open, and both men, a local police Captain and his driver, walked up the path toward the house. That was the ritual. Every night, whoever was standing guard for the Captain would come in with him, say his hello to the family, and the Captain’s wife would hand him his dinner in a Tupperware container, so that he could have a nice, hot meal while he kept watch from the car parked at the curb. Whatever genius thought that was security, I don’t know, but it’s always good news when the enemy’s perimeter is lax.
The door opened and closed without the sound of locks being turned, something I made a mental note of. The moments dragged. I begin to think my mind was going to boil inside the mask. A dull ache spread through my knees. The hammer in my hand got heavier and heavier. I had to piss in the worst way. I checked my watch. Only a few minutes had passed. I told myself to stop being a pussy, but it didn’t work all that well.
Eventually, the front door opened and closed, there were good-byes, and then the sound of steps away from the house. I risked a peak over the AC unit, and saw the driver’s back as he opened the gate and walked through, his dinner in his hand. I stood, and moved closer to edge of the house. If things got loud, and the target ran out, I’d have to take him by myself.
In my mind’s eyes, I could see the driver step outside the gate, the garrote sliding over his head and around his throat, Ro pulling it tight, cutting and choking at once. I could see Ro, turning back to back with the driver, and throwing the driver over his shoulder, snapping the man’s neck. I thought I could hear the dull thud of the body hit the ground.
Then, I heard a car turn at the corner, and saw headlights flicker through the trees, and I brought the hammer up and ready, like I could do a goddamn thing with it from my corner. The headlights passed without slowing down, and then the night returned to its relative silence. And then, I heard, for real, the trunk open and close, and a few moments later Ro slipped over the fence, grinning. He’d gotten his wish.
“Goddamn man, you already geared up? You’re lucky you haven’t boiled your brain with this shit on,” he asked, smiling at me. I handed him his mask, and he slipped it over his head. He handed me a set of keys. The driver would have a set to the house, in case of emergency. I pulled the carabineer from the bag, sets of zip ties premade and ready dangling from it, and hooked it over the bag's strap, for immediate use. Once inside we wouldn’t have time to fuck about.
“Got your hammer ready? Bam-Bam, Bam-Bam,” he said, grinning at me through the mask. Fucker had been calling me that since jump school.
We moved around to the front of the house. Ro was in the lead, the driver’s 9mm Beretta forward. We’d wanted to go through the back door, which was closer to where the family should be, but it was a large sliding glass door, well lit, and next to the kitchen. They’d see us coming before we had a chance to breech and overwhelm them. This was a laugh, in and of itself. We were going to overwhelm our target with a battered 9mm handgun and a hammer. Fucking super.
He stood guard while put I my hand on the knob. Somehow, it wasn’t locked, and I didn’t have to knock it out the other side with the hammer. I gave him the nod, he took his first step forward, and I threw open the door, stepping back out of the way just far enough to let him rush in.
I was right behind him, but he was so goddamn quick. He was through the little foyer, past a little sitting room and into the dining room where the family was seated at the table. At the head of the table, the Captain was rising out of his seat, his eyes darting to his pistol belt curled up on the coffee table in front of the tv. Ro hit him in the temple with the Beretta. Then the yelling started.
The wife darted from the dinner table to the living area, and her husband’s pistol lying on the table. I took two steps and tossed the hammer, underhanded, hitting her in the stomach and knocking her down, away from it. The daughter, about maybe 14, yelled a war cry, and ran at me with a steak knife.
I managed to grab the wrist holding the knife, and turn her around. I wrapped her up, and we fell, knocking over an end table beside the sofa. I put my hand over her mouth, and she bit it. I was afraid she was going to make me do something I’d regret, when I felt the serrations of the steak knife begin to rip open the flesh on my arm.
I latched on to the wrist with both hands, hoping I could keep her from doing any more damage without having to go to the next level. I didn’t want to do permanent damage to either her or her mother, but I had to get her to shut the fuck up, and I wasn’t going to sacrifice an arm to do it.
And then Ro leaned over us, the Beretta held by the barrel, and gave her a love tap right between the eyes. She went limp, the knife dropped out of her hand, and she rolled right off me. Ro helped me up, looked at the gash on my arm, and shook his head. The look in his eyes was almost comical, like he had to do everything.
The Captain’s wife was moaning from the floor, and Ro stood over her and told her in Tagalog to keep her mouth shut and do what she was told, or else. She was clutching her stomach where the hammer had hit her, but she wasn’t spitting blood so we didn’t worry about it.
We put the zip ties over their ankles and wrists, and duct taped their mouths shut. We zip tied the Captain’s hands behind his back, taped his mouth shut, and I took the pistol and spare magazines from his duty belt. With Ro in the lead, the three of us walked out to his car, put him in the trunk with his driver, and drove away.

Part 2
A light rain rattled off the tin roof of the tiny auto shop we were using. It helped muffle the cries coming from the wash closet and the electric zapping behind the door. I adjusted the dim desk lamp and tried to concentrate on sewing up my wound.
The shop was Ro’s cousin's. Or his uncle's. I never could remember which. That side of his family was big, and they all looked alike. It was just our good fortune to have the use of it. We had absolutely no idea how short our time table was.
We’d been in the region gearing up for another job that had fallen through. When it had, everyone else moved on, either to their respective homes of origin, and in some cases their families, while others took contracts elsewhere. We needed some R and R, and Ro hadn’t seen that part of his family in years, so we took the next month off to bum around, stay drunk, and see who could bang more chicks. Since he insisted prostitutes didn’t count, he was currently in the lead, but only slightly.
Then, the man from Champaign called. He knew we were still in the area. He knew everyone there was to know, and it seemed, everything. And he needed a favor. And in our business, when a man like that asks you a favor, it’s an honor. Since the job revolves around reputation and availability, it means you’re better than you ever thought you could be.
A friend of his, a well respected physician who spent half his time and considerable fortune in shit holes most people can’t find on a map, had been kidnapped. He’d been helping organize relief efforts for an earthquake that had shaken a couple of the smaller islands pretty bad, as well as donating his skill as a physician to the injured. He’d been taken prisoner, and was being held for ransom, by a local NPA cell.
He was supposed to be moved to a base in the mountains, but the army had gone all Apocalypse Now on it before he could be moved. The cell was small, closer to a street gang than a hardened and disciplined terrorist organization, and they’d stepped up their ransom demands. For proof of life, they streamed a video of someone chopping off the good doctor’s pinky.
At that moment, the man from Champaign was in a private jet with money, shooters, and medical gear. With him also was a deep, awful blade of fear that cut through his chakras; and it went against his spiritual practice not listen to it. So he called us, and gave us the Captain’s name. The Captain was also acting as the group’s negotiator, and his electronic security was actually worse than his physical security, so tracking and confirming him had been easier than eating ice cream on a hot day for the man from Champaign.
Ro walked out of the wash closet, letting the door slip closed behind him. He leaned over and inspected my dental floss stitches. He sat down, shaking his head.
“That’s going to be a nasty fucking scar,” he said. I shrugged.
“Captain fucking Save a Ho. You should’ve just knocked that bitch the fuck out. What if she’d cut you for real? What use would you be then?” He picked up the small bottle of vodka I’d used to disinfect the wound, and took a swig. He normally didn’t drink while working; and I knew he wouldn’t let himself get drunk, but nobody liked this part of the job. Not the part he’d been doing in the wash closet.
“Having to do the shit part alone, while you sew yourself up,” he said, his shit eating grin at full beam. Joking about it, so he could disengage a bit from what he’d been doing.
“It was your turn anyway,” I said. He flipped me off.
“Last time doesn’t count. You enjoyed that too much,” he said. I shrugged again.
The last time we’d had to do that, we’d been in one of those little Eastern European countries that seem to change hands every other day. It had been a Russian mobster, somebody who bought and sold girls into slavery. I’d be lying if I said some part of me hadn’t enjoyed it.
“He break?” I asked.
“Course he broke. Should be four guys, one in a chair right outside the door,” he said. We’d known they were holding him in a little compound with a square two story house, we just didn’t know how many there were, or which room he was in.
“Handle your business, bro, and I’ll tell you the floor plan on the way,” he said. I nodded, tied the last stitch, and left him at the table. It was only fair. He’d done the hard part while I was fixing myself, and that’s always a bitch to live with.
We’d debated leaving him alive, but decided against it. We didn’t like leaving enemies behind. We didn’t want to have to worry about him, should either one of us find ourselves back in Manila. More importantly, after that night, people he worked with would be looking for a snitch. If they knew he was dead, there was less of a risk of blow back on his family. At least, in theory. You never can be sure with psychotics.
His head was down, a thick, steady stream of blood dripping from his face to the plastic tarp below. He didn’t look at me, just cried softly and muttered something about a dead child.
“Your daughter is fine,” I told him, and cut his feet loose from the chair. “You’ll see her soon enough,” I lied. If we’d have thought his family would be safe from reprisal, we might’ve taken our chances leaving him alive
He didn’t believe me. He muttered something else about me being a monster, and killing his baby, and then he started to sing a lullaby.
I picked the hammer up off the sink, and felt the bones in my hand crack around the handle as I realized what he meant.

Part 3
I took position against the stucco wall, my hands formed in a cradle between my thighs. Ro placed his foot in my hands, and I lifted. At the top, he turned, and helped me up. We dropped over the side, and lay where we were, the battered Berettas in our hands.
We moved to the back of the building, and did it over, this time lifting Ro up to a second floor window. He stood on my shoulders while he slipped the lock, and then he lifted himself silently inside. When he reached back down, I was already holding the machete up for him.
When he took it, I followed the side of the house around to the front corner, where the guard sat in his chair. I took the hammer from my bag, and it in my right hand, gun in my left, began my approach. I could shoot better with my left hand than I could swing a hammer, and there would be no room for error.
I could see the guard’s legs, his feet propped up on a generator of some type. I could smell his body odor, and hear him snore. I had to force myself to think of the task at hand, instead of the Captains words, which I knew would haunt me. Goddamn it.
Finally, I heard Ro’s signal, a single bird whistle which I answered by taking three quick steps, and coming around the corner with the hammer like Casey Jones at the plate.
It made possibly the worst sound I ever heard, like a watermelon being struck by a bolt of God’s own lightning. I hit him so hard, not only did his head crack open in the front, it hit the wall behind him hard enough to crack a second time. There was blood and brain everywhere. Ignoring it, focusing on doing each thing as quickly and silently as possible, I dragged the body away from the door, and waited a ten count.
I slipped the Beretta back beneath my belt, checked the load in the ancient M-3A1 Grease Gun he’d been cradling in his sleep, flipped up the dust cover and retracted the bolt until it latched, readying it, and moved forward.
Beside the blood and brain painted wall, the door opened easily. Inside was a little room with a staircase leading up, and an opening that led to what looked like a kitchen, and beyond that, a room where someone was watching television. I could hear laughter, but the television was far too loud for me to make out how many different voices.
At the top of the stairs, Ro and the good doctor were staring down at me. The doc seemed to be in as good a shape as one could expect. Helluva way to be repaid for giving freely of your time, wealth, and skill, I thought.
I brought a thumb across my throat, and then held it up, indicating that I had killed one man. He brought a thumb across his own throat, and then held up his thumb and forefinger, indicating that he hadn’t killed anyone. He was pissed.
It wasn’t that we were serious about the box score, it was the simple fact that everyone we didn’t account for meant one more gun aimed at our backs. Just as they started down the stairs, we heard a car enter the little courtyard outside, and pull to a stop outside.
Ro froze, backing the doctor into a corner, covering him with his body, gun in one hand, machete in the other. I looked out the tiny window in the middle of the door, and saw two men step out of a police car. Inside the house I heard grumbling, and movement as the television was shut off.
Wanting to save our heaviest artillery, I pulled the Beretta, and opened the door. They were staring at the Pollack stain on the wall when I leaned out and double tapped each of them.
Ro was already bounding down the stairs with the doctor as I slipped back, dropping the Beretta’s hammer and pushing the door open for their escape. I jammed the Beretta in my back pocket, brought the M-3 up, and fired through the kitchen as they appeared.
They dropped in a pile as the gun ran dry, and I left it were it was. I ripped the pistol back out and charged out the door as Ro was slamming the door of the cruiser closed. I slipped in the back with the doctor and pushed his head down.
Ro put it in gear, and stomped on it, backing us out in a whirl of dust. Muzzle flashes barked from second floor windows. I returned fire as Ro stood on the accelerator and we rocketed off, the car’s rear fishtailing across the pavement as we turned out of the courtyard, and onto the road.
A minute later we were throttling down the highway without any sign that anyone had followed us out of the little compound, and Ro slowed to a more normal speed as he turned down the road that would take us to the drop car.
I checked the good doctor. Except for the missing digit, broken nose, and some nasty bruising, he was in pretty good goddamn spirits, and then it hit us that we’d made it, so far. Behind us were nightmares, and ahead lay a clean car, a safe house, and the promise of a private jet and the man from Champlain. The three of us laughed that weird, after adrenaline laugh, and Ro asked how he was doing.
“I’m great, thank you boys, so much,” the good doctor answered for himself, nearly in tears.
“That’s good,” Ro said, and held up a blood soaked hand. “Because you're gonna need to look at this shit when we switch cars.”
Goddamn it.

5 Things I've Come To Realize From Research and Life

1. People who identify themselves as knife people are, in general, pound for pound, a more fucked up collection of weirdos, nut jobs, psychopaths, miscreants, loons, and douchefuck morons than those who identify themselves as gun people. As a weapons aficionado, this both scares and baffles me.
2. From what I've observed, and discovered through conversation and research, commitment in “swinging”, or “open” relationships, requires a philosophical and mental rigor most people simply do not posses. This is not a moral judgment. Also relationships that are financially stable seem to be, even more so than normal, less at risk for meltdown. Another point, is that there is a very broad range of kink. From what I've picked up, couples for whom it is not a constant lifestyle, but some occasional fun seem to have healthier relationships then those who seem to be little more than really committed friends with benefits. Couples which spend a significant amount of time apart due to professional endeavors, and take the “What happens in wherever stays wherever” approach, seem to have about a 50/ 50 chance of success/ failure. This seems to work best for military couples, and others who can expect to be gone for long stretches at a time, with equally long stretches back home. Also, it seems to depend on the level of intimacy other than sex developed with non spousal partners. Sex is one thing, love is another. This was in no way a scientific survey, do not take it as such. This is what I've processed thus far. Yes, for various writing projects. And once again, no, I'm not judging. I don't do that.
3. There are basically three kinds of people who are not in violent criminal gangs that identify themselves as Norse/ Pagan. 1. Those who are actually agnostic/ atheist, but want to respect their cultural/ family heritage. Also enjoy pissing off Bible Nazis. 2. Those who consider themselves spiritual more than anything, and just like cool stories and symbols. And pissing off Bible Nazis. 3. Fucking morons.
4. Dallas is in a great many ways, a cultural Rubicon. It's L.A. without the movie stars, Savannah without the Gothic architecture, Manhattan without Wall Street, Chicago without the port. It's old money, and thirty thousand dollar millionaires. It's the last Southern city, and the first Middle America city. It is a great shame, that as often as Texas is a caricature in art and literature, Dallas is even more so. Dallas is the city of perpetually big ideas that are never quiet fulfilled. A dying arts district, infamously corrupt city government, and a love hate relationship with itself. King of the one horse towns. Dallas is in many ways the smallest big city in America, and the biggest small city in America, and it's always lost between the two.
5. Otherwise honest people fuck themselves more than any other way with overzealous, carefully crafted, self promotion. Every so often I will think to myself I should more carefully cultivate my image, and what info I post out there. Let's be honest, I have no filter. I just don't give a fuck. And I'm afraid that might hurt me in the future. Like, say, after I drop some more weight, and start looking for work in law enforcement or security because this writing shit still isn't paying the bills? Yeah, I'm a little afraid some of the shit I've said will come back. Because people are idiots, and don't recognize satire. Also, it's a little garish, isn't it? Sharing as much as I do, being as open as I am? Basically, I kind of use Facebook as a low rent reality show. Only I don't get paid. And I rarely sell books. Which was kind of the whole point, originally. I'm not going to though. That's how that shit begins. Where it starts. Fuck that. I'm not going to self destruct in an orgy of self induced fame and glory. Sure, I could use the money, but if I turn into the people I hate, I'll just end up having to kill myself. So, yeah. About that. I'm just gonna keep on being me.