WRITING: Unlimited Demand (An Index Card Novel)

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Unlimited Demand (An Index Card Novel)

# – # – #

“What did you do before the Shumer Hit The Fan, Uncle?”

The fat old white guy was old. Very old by the standards of the day. When the S did HTF, (Who cares which particular S it was. We all know that one of them will.), many people died.

“Well, Bobbie Jo, I was a sheeple like most folks. But maybe a little sharper than your average sheeple.” He laughed. “I read the various survivalist sites. I knew I was NOT John Rambo, or wealthy like Howard Hughes. And, what was the one thing that every survivalist writer or story teller harped on?”

“What Unlce? Tell us!”

“Toilet Paper!”


“Yup, I studied how I’d make TP after the S hit the F.”

# – # – #

In the Seventies, Johnny Carson made a joke about the United States facing an acute shortage of toilet paper. This prompts viewers to run out to stores and begin hoarding.

# – # – #

The fat old old white guy explained:

It was after a home construction project that created a lot of sawdust that I had the idea. I had a discarded blender. And a dream, of a profession after the S hit the F! I put the sawdust into a blender. A dash of hand lotion and a little water. Puree. Pour over a screen. Spread like butter. Roll it with a dowel as thick or as thin as you like. Cover screen with a towel. Cover with a board. Put something heavy on it. (I drove my car on it.) Stack your sheets after they’ve dried completely.

It was really just taking that experience and adjusting it to post SHTF scenario. I used a chipper to make mulch. Then, an old hamburger “drill” to make “sawdust”. Hydralic jack to squeeze it. Sunshine to dry it.

My prototype could push out a computer box of TP every sunny day. On bad days, I focused on making work in process up to the drying. On good days, I focued on drying.

Since I had that part of my act together, when the S did hit the F, I was the TP king.

And that children is how I became fabulously wealthy after the S hit the F.

# # # # #

WRITING: Seth Went Nuts (An Index Card Novel)

Monday, November 30, 2009

Seth Went Nuts (An Index Card Novel)

BEIJING, July 19, 2009 — China’s treasury debt holdings in the U.S. grew by 14.3 billion U.S. dollars in December amidst speculation that it was seeking other options to deploy its nearly $1.95 trillion in foreign exchange reserves.

# – # – #

Gas = 3 $ / gallon ~=~ 0.0026 oz gold @ 1,150 $ / oz

0.0026 oz * 6,300 $ / oz gold = Gas 16.43 $ / gallon

At 16.43 $ / gallon, the economy stops.

No economy; no debts get “serviced”!

# – # – #

American debt is unpayable. The Chinese “bought” the UN. A large force of “debt collectors” arrived. To recover their just repayment. The American people were sold out by the political class. Troops were told to stand down. The police as well.

With an interesting consequence.

The rural areas stood up to the “bill collectors”; the inner cities with their own “light infantry” drug gangs didn’t appreciate the “competition”. Motorcycle Outlaws also disagreed; they were just disagreeable with anyone who tried to disarm them.

# – # – #

The Chinese had two strategies: Kill anyone who speaks Chinese to keep their intentions private. Use the BATF records to pick up the guns but the rurals and the gangs didn’t register

Harvesting was done by taking the suburbanites and impressing them. Cheap tatooing of their zip code on the forearm ensure anyone outside that zip was killed. The old were sent to internment camps. The women were sent to other camps. The men were “harvesting” the suburbs.

# – # – #

The fat old white guy knew how to keep his mouth shut and his nose clean. When they “asked” who knew Chinese, he “knew” the boot camp answer. “Never volunteer”. He was smart and impressed his captors as a quisling. A quisling with a plan. He was given a team. Seth was a teenager with more size than brains. His brother, Adam, stuck close to him. Never spoke. Had a bald head. The fat old guy smelled a rat, but it was none of his business.

“Harvesting” consisted of his team supervised by a trio of “collectors” breaking into a house and scouring it for everything of value. Everything was set on the lawn for trucks to pick up. At the end of the day, the team was shaken down for contraband. The fat old guy bided his time.

# – # – #

The General in command of the “collectors” was upset. Casualties were mounting in the rural areas and the cities. He felt that the suburbs were doing something right. Differently from the others. He wanted to see just how they followed up on the BATF forms.

# – # – #

The team was harvesting the fat old white guys neighborhood. Adam went behind a bush and was slow coming back. One of the collectors went to check. “tā shì gè nǚ hái” The fat old white guy knew they were in trouble. The collector was dragging Adam back to the group with his pants around his ankles. The senior collector grabbed the crotch. The other one was laughing. Seth went nuts. He brained the one guy with a crowbar they used for getting in. Jumped on the senior tearing at his eyes. The guy dragging “Adam” drew a pistol and shot Seth. The team rushed him and stomped him. The fat old guy decided this was his time to go home.

The team followed him.

He quickly paced six steps back from the corner of the patio and four towards the property line. Peeling back the grass, he pulled up on a “lid”. Plastic pipes were stacked on end like straws. Grabing the first one, he pulled the quick tab on the seam. A puff of smoke and the tube was opened. Out slid a rifle. Bolt action. 308. Magazines in a web belt. A 1911. A shotgun. He handed them out with some instructions. Others pulled out other tubes. Monkey see; monkey do.

He went back to the patio. And peeled at the corner. Out came the LAW. A six pack of M72. They had fallen of a supply truck somewhere. He’d saved them just for this reason.

A troop of collectors came to reinforce the revold by a harvesting team. They came with a half-track. The General just happened to be on his ride along. They were expecting rifles and captured weapons. Murphy surprised them. So did the LAW that incinerated the half-track. And, the trucks that supported them.

# – # – #

The fat old white guy, a wounded Seth, and his sister Adalia hikes out of 08824. Seems like the suburbs were now too no longer safe for “collectors”.

# # # # #

WRITING: Boiling Frogs (An Index Card Novel)

Friday, November 27, 2009

Boiling Frogs (An Index Card Novel)

The boiling frog story is generally told in a metaphorical context, with the upshot being that people should make themselves aware of gradual change lest they suffer eventual undesirable consequences. This may be in support of a slippery slope argument. It is also used in business to illustrate the idea that change needs to be gradual to be accepted. The expression “boiling frog syndrome” is sometimes used as shorthand for the metaphor.


The fat old white man wasn’t that fat, that old, but definitely that white. A decade away from social security, medicare, and a pension. But up close and personal, another pink slip. Last one was four years ago; took a year to find a job at 20% less salary, less benefits, less time off, and a lot less dignity. Each time, he’d take another bad hit. Savings went. Retirement accounts went. Market losses and withdrawals left him with nothing.

He wasn’t stupid. He prepared. He was ready with a basement ‘bomb shelter’; not like in the stories, not like in the press, not like it cost fortunes. He could hold a dozen very good friends. No showers. Water tightly rationed, Food severely limited. Cost was next to nothing. No fancy expensive radiation stuff. A wind up clock and they’d stay “sheltered” for 7 weeks. More than that and they were “cooked” anyway. A wind up alarm clock, a calendar, and a pencil. That was his radiation detector.

If the asteroid hit, if the pandemic hit, or the seas rose / fell, he was screwed.

If he needed a gun when he got out, he had two rifles, two shotguns, and two 1911s. He had about a 1,000 rounds for each. Couldn’t afford the time to practice or the cost. He figured to bluff his way around.

If the grid collapsed, he did have the wind up radio / flashlight that he got with a magazine subscription.

If the infrastructure failed, did have some foods stocked. Maybe two weeks. Maybe four. He wasn’t big on planning; he’d forage from the empty stores like in the stories.

If the banks collapsed, he had two ounces of silver and ten tenths of gold. That would have to do.


The Shumer never did hit the fan.

At least not the way the stories predicted it. No dramatic event. No heroic speeches. No groups pulling together. No ravaging gangs of JBTs (Jack Booted Thugs) or MZBs (Mutant Zombie Bikers). Just a more boring life, but still deadly. To life and the spirit. Death of a thousand cuts. More than that. The sure and steady drip drip drip of financial water torture.

The bubble, after the bubble, after the bubble, just keep appearing and popping. Each time, the pop left a residue of poop to be cleaned up. The political powers that were in charge promised that the next law, regulation, or diktat would prevent it from ever ever happening again.


Interest rates hovered around 17%. The combined federal, state, and city tax rates varied from 80 to 90%. And there were a ton of sin, excise, import, export, and nuisance taxes. Corporate taxes were 65%; any business that could move did.

The world left the dollar for the IMF Special Drawing Rights. The local fiat currency was left to float to its proper worth. The global bankers had nothing intrinsic to hang value on. They mapped an SDR to basket of commodities that traded on the world’s markets. Commodity prices skyrocketed. No surprise there. Oil was priced in SDRs. That completed the dollar’s downfall. With the USA’s dollar collapsing, international trade went elsewhere. The USA borrow and spend was history.


The fat old white man, as well as all the not so old, never worked professionally again. He did get some work at Target, WalMart, and McDonalds. Each week, the minimum wage would go up and all the employees would be laid off or made part-time.

His best success was as a smuggler. Cigarettes, booze, prescription drugs, silver. You name it he’d smuggle it. He even found a little niche.

He’d read the Stainless Steel Rat as a kid. He tried to think like a roach.

It was a sad life. Shortened by stress, poor food, and gooferment healthcare.


TSHTF doesn’t have to be a “big event”. You can be “boiled” like that proverbial frog.

No one plans for a non-event.

# # # # #


Wednesday, November 18, 2009

NOTHING LEFT TO LOSE (An Index Card Novel)

# – # – #

In recent history, very few counterinsurgency wars have ended in success. Guerrillas, outgunned by a wealthier invading power, but they do have an advantage. They are fighting on their home turf, which they usually know much better than the invader.

# – # – #

The old wife died of “systematic malpractice”. Her “quality adjusted life expectancy” didn’t warrant the medicines she used to have. Just one more casualty of the President’s new “health care for everyone”. Everyone as long as you weren’t old and chronically ill.

The fat old white guy decide that was just not right.

# – # – #

He was a graduate of the finest Ivy League school. He happened to have the right roommate at Harvard. Hence he was the “Healthcare Sub-Czar for the Northeastern Region”. It was the beginning of eliminating the inconvenient States of old. He had a palatial home, a huge corner office, and lackeys galore. All he had to do was balance the income versus the outgo. It was easy. He had a list of services with a running total of cost. He just drew the line and God help those below the “waterline”.

# – # – #

The fat old white guy read the newspapers. It was not hard to replicate the DC Sniper’s set up. It wasn’t hard to find a home address. It wasn’t hard to find a good place to lie down. It wasn’t hard to sanitize the apparatus. It wasn’t hard to wait for a windless day.

# – # – #

It was a glorious morning. The Sub-Czar had done such a good job drawing his line that yesterday he was select to be promoted to Czar. He walked out his front door where his chauffeur was patiently waiting. He took a deep breath as was his usual practice.


He wondered where the truck backfire was coming from. He felt a pain. He looked at the shocked driver. His vision blurred.

# – # – #

The fat old white man walked away.

In a jogging suit, he looked like the typical fat breathless runner trying to catch up with his lost youth. Obviously struggling to catch his breath. If the President could win the Peace Prize, then he should have gotten an Academy Award.

He wondered who was the current sub-Czar in charge of … …

# – # – #

The Israeli Government of Ariel Sharon is, like its predecessors, committed to the policy of assassinating individuals who it believes pose a threat to its citizens.

In 1976, President Ford issued Executive Order 11905 to clarify U.S. foreign intelligence activities. The order was enacted in response to the post-Watergate revelations that the CIA had staged multiple attempts on the life of Cuban President Fidel Castro.

According to an October 21, 2001, Washington Post article, President Bush in September of last year signed an intelligence “finding” instructing the CIA to engage in “lethal covert operations” to destroy Osama bin Laden and his al Qaeda organization.

# – # – #

The fat old white guy needed no “policy” or “executive order”. No team. No “cheerleaders”. No co-conspirators. No nobody. Just one man truly acting alone. He just evened the score.

# # # # #

(This is a fictional story. And, not an indication of any type of activity that should be engaged in.)


# # # # #

INDEX CARD NOVEL: Never move the refrigerator

Thursday, November 5, 2009

INDEX CARD NOVEL: Never move the refrigerator

He was hit again in the face. His family was in various other rooms being tortured or worse. “Where’s the stuff, old man”? Smack. He pretended to be out. Water was splashed on him. He thought back a few weeks.


All of the media outlets had gone to commercial-free coverage. The Dow had dropped 4,000 points and trading was been suspended on Wall Street. Countries transferred their reserves from the US Dollar. Even the mighty Chinese couldn’t staunch the flow. They were holding 5T$ and were just a ruined as the US. Oil futures climbed to $5000 a barrel before trading was suspended. A national bank holiday! The grocery stores are cleared. The gas pumps dry up. Trucks delivering goods are stuck at truck stops. Inner city areas are zones. The Interstate becomes a parking lot.

The fat old man had a plan to shelter in place. He had his “stuff”. He had caches. He had guns. But he also had to sleep.

The gang had him.


The beatings continued. He’d had the survival school training. He knew he’d break but he had to make the act believable. He passed out again.

When he came to, in the time before it was obvious, he thought about a year ago. He told his family “Whatever anyone does, no one is to move the refrigerator except me.” Everyone shrugged; who cared. He did!


The screams from the bedrooms were getting louder. He couldn’t figure how anyone was going to escape this. It was time to give in. Sucked into a microscopic black hole? No, but it could seem like that.

“OK”, the fat old man gasped. “Where is it?” “You’ll let the others go?” “Sure” “Under the refrigerator” In a flash, the gang leader was at the fridge pulling at it. “You better not be lying, you fat piece of …”


The fat old white guy was an injineer. Small common household Liquefied Petroleum Gas canisters in the basement were intended for cooking and heating. A bunch of conventional pipe bombs strapped to them was an “insurance policy”. It was intended to be detonated if they were driven out of their safe house. There was a detonator buried at the property line. If he couldn’t have it, no one would enjoy it. As an after thought, he thought about the story where a survivor planned for mutants to take over his shelter. He added a pressure switch under the refrigerator.

He’d done his best. His family was no longer suffering and he’d cleaned up his part of the neighborhood.

Bad guys 8; fat old white guy 42.

And the motorcycles, they rode in on.


Moral of the story: Never move the refrigerator

# # # # #


Friday, July 31, 2009

THE PEN IS MIGHTIER (An Index Card Novel)

Munitions are defined as military supplies such as weapons and ammunition. The government of the United States and many other countries classified cryptology as munitions for many years. Those policies were relaxed in the 1990s, due to the rise of the Internet, which made the policies impossible to enforce.


The fat old white guy had a funny idea. He was tired of his email being like a post card. And, he had no confidence that ANY commercially available product was trustworthy. So being a crotchety old fart, he decided to reinvent the wheel.

During the “great” World Wars (i.e., One, Two, Cold, Semi-cold, Semi-sweet) — don’t forget there are lots of them — poverty, drugs, cigarette smoking — spies used One Time Pads as unbreakable ciphers. Now possession of a one time pad was a “red flag”. As well as sending the message itself was fraught with danger.

The fat old white guy found an algorithm for generating random text. Twenty six scrabble tiles. He sit while he was watching TV and during the commercials he’d draw a letter, transcribe it, return the tile to the bag, and shake. Could do as many as five letters per commercials. He watched a lot of TV and the commercials were very long.

Soon he self-published “My First Code Book”. With instructions. Write your message out, copy the one time pad key, “add” the letters, mod 26 if needed, and shazam you had your secret message. He wrote some blog posts about it. One was picked up by USA today. Instant hit. He was soon hard at work picking tiles for his subsequent volumes.


In China, a student found an odd message of a web site.

PAGE 120





So did the secret police.

But the student went to University, and heard about a funny fellow in the USA making a fortune selling “code books”. While he couldn’t buy the book, he could download a copy on to a Bit Torrent site.

The secret police did NOT hear about that wrinkle!

Sure enough he found the “code book”, and looked up Page 120.

It started:

bbiwy owytl xgwgc soshw hbxsu

ikfbt ubqzg shtlw nfofv vuorh

gudfr guyuu xwjzm amcjv nghzd

pfgql fobxm nloii vqimn hstdx

jscjo xvhsu ibvdv wxfkd pmyrg

He didn’t have a lot of instructions, but he had lots of time.


About a week later, he’d figured it out. He had to subtract to decrypt.

thepe oplew hopro fitfr omago

vernm entpr ogram aremo remot

ivate dtosu pport ittha nyoua

retoo ppose it

He was entranced.

He began writing his true feelings about liberty and posting them from internet cafes. He’d share his pages with his friends. Then he began to see others doing the same.


The secret police were at a loss as to how to stop this “virus”. Comments on blog posts were inciting people to think. Communications was unfettered. They even found stenography in a picture of the Chairman. Nothing like an obscenity in a picture.


“My First Code Book” made the New York Times bestseller list.

Governments around the world were banning it.

Chairman Mao’s “Little Red Book” became a global best seller.

People realized that any book can be a code book.

Privacy was liberating.

# # # # #


Sunday, July 26, 2009


Wahhabism is a sect attributed to Muhammad ibn Abd-al-Wahhab.

# – # – #

Allie Ahmed Ackbar was the perfect agent. Born of a Saudi intellectual and a Scandinavian woman, he looked like a Nordic skier. Raised as a Wahhabi, he learned about all the terrible things that had been done to his people. He was determined to get revenge.

# – # – #

It was a morality play. Allie hired an actress and three children. All nordic looking. They spoke no English. They were told that it was a pilot for an American TV show. All were very smart, diligent about learning their lines, and focused on giving an Oscar winning performance. This could be their big break.

In practice, the ‘wife’ was concerned, the middle girl could cry an ocean on command, the oldest boy would look fearfully stoic, and the youngest boy could appear to fight back tears. The stage was set.

Greed would spread the tainted money. Infecting all who touched it. Incubation. Launch the flu.

# – # – #

The fat old white man loved McD’s. His weekly diet treat was to go for a big mac. His svelte beautiful spouse would carefully cut it in quarters. And, give him a single quarter. He also got 22 french fries. He would dutifully and longingly throw the rest away. As he savored his meal in ecstasy, he was watching the hustle and bustle in the counter area. Maybe some day, he’d retire and work at McD’s. Free food. Sigh, and he’d be 800 pounds.

Over by the ATM, a man with a family was working the ATM. Obviously, things weren’t going well. The situation was deteriorating. He couldn’t recognize the language, but he could read the faces. The crying girl tugged at him. He was ready to “help” when his wife said MYOB. He contented himself with some cell phone pics.

The upset family marched out of the restaurant. The mother dragging the crying girl; the father with both boys by the hand marching to their doom. Or so it appeared. He was such a romantic. Now that they were gone, he went over to the ATM. It displayed “Do you want a receipt?” and he poked yes. With that the machine spit out a receipt and a wad of money. He was about grab it and realized he had special sauce all over his hand. He grabbed the money with a napkin.

Looking around for the family, they were no where in sight. He returned to the table where his wife said: “You can never mind you own business. Now what are you going to do?” “Well, it’s not mine and they must need it.” With that he called the cops. Not 911. But the regular number.

The cop looked at the money on the table still partially covered by the saucy napkin. Heard the story. Looked at the ATM and smelled a rat. He’d used that ATM and it looked different. It had a different dispenser. And, why wouldn’t the family have called the manager? He bagged the money as evidence. And, called for the detectives. This just didn’t smell right.

# – # – #

Back at their airport hotel, Allie’s comrades did some throat slitting. So as not to leave loose ends. He felt no compunction. These were just tools. Sheep to be slaughtered. He was actually doing them a favor. Their genes would permit the pandemic flu to kill them. Horribly. He was being merciful.

The crew went to the airport. They were all on different flights back to Saudi Arabia. They meet again at the mosque tomorrow to survey the collapse of the Great Satan. Taken down by their greed. Contaminated money.

Passport control is a interesting place. It’s evolved over the years. It’s a human man trap. As Allie passed thru passport control, he saw a grainy photo taped by the inspector’s workstation. It was a family by an ATM. The plexiglass partitions snapped into place. The inspector’s face was grim. He could hear excited men yelling at him “Keep Your Hands Where We Can See Them”.

# – # – #

The fat old white man modestly declined any publicity. He didn’t understand all the attention. He didn’t do anything special. He did what any McD lover would do. But he did accept the McD’s lifetime card for free Big Mac’s. His wife sill cut them in quarters giving him only one. Now he didn’t feel so bad about throwing away the excess.

# # # # #


Friday, July 24, 2009

3-Channel Super J3 Piper Cub EP RTF Radio Remote Controlled RC Plane 1/10 Scale Electric Powered


The Shumer hit. It was the long expected pandemic. Not swine. Anthrax.

Some zealot aimed at the Jews and hit the world. It doesn’t take long for a pandemic to circle the globe. And, they say a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. Besides, who in their right mind would open Pandora’s Box. A box provided by the combined weapons labs of the US and the USSR.


In his county, they were hit hard. The die off was close to 80%. Strangers were no longer welcome. Travelers were shot on sight. They were lucky to have so many Mormons and Amish in the county. Between the two, they’d have a functioning nucleus of society. IF they could keep from being infected.

That’s where he came in. Fat old white guy with an odd ball hobby and a tin foil hat. The tin foil hat had him prepared for any one of a number of scenarios. Most had him, and his extended family, retiring to their basement 1950′s fall out shelter for some number of days. He’d taught himself how to can from Backwoods Home magazine. Survival foods for years. It wasn’t a spacious retreat. But when the Four Horseman of the Apocalypse are out for a ride, anything is bearable.


The Sheriff, the new one, not the dead old one, looked him up when it became obvious there was activity at his place. The Sheriff had a posse. But trying to cover the county was a hopeless task. Despite that they didn’t have a lot of access roads (they were a poor farming county), and despite the Golden Horde never really materialized (thanks to a quick death), the posse was stretched too thin. Wouldn’t be long until there was an oversight.

As the Sheriff rode up to the gate, he was met by the fat old white guy. “You stand out here all day and night?”, the Sheriff asked. “No! Spotted you coming.” “How?” “My birds.” “Birds?” “Sure, wanna see?” “Yes I do.” With that the fat old white guy picked up a box and did something. The Sheriff heard the buzz as a high speed thing whizzed over his head. “It’s not a Predator. But it’s close. It has eyes and fangs.” “How would you like to be a deputy?”


The County Air Force was in full operation. There were 3 operators on duty at any one time. One operator could keep 15 birds in the air. It took 15 minutes to land one, take off a replacement, and have it set to circle its patrol area. One operator kept watching the bank of 15 monitors. One operator was in charge of refueling. They’d change every hour. Work a six hour shift and be relieved. It was the posse.

A rapid response team was ready to back them up. But weren’t often needed. If trouble was spotted, an strafing run would usually discourage the intruders.


One side benefit was that the community’s hunters didn’t waste a lot of time tracking deer. A drone could lead them directly to their prey. Most of the hunters really didn’t appreciate the “help” if they missed the shot. A quick pass from the sky would fix their aim. It wasn’t even sporting. Like fish in a barrel.

# # # # #

WRITING: NO GOOD DEED (An Index Card Novel)

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

“Remember the end of WW2 when the Nazis put their children into the field. A lot of GIs, who couldn’t envision a little kid being deadly accurate with a rifle, didn’t come home.”
    — CHURCH 10●19●62 Chapter 62


His team was on patrol. The LT was in back, Top was in front, Jimmy from “Hicksville” somewhere was his buddy. They came upon a Raghead Boy beating a puppy with a stick. No ROE for this. Jimmy took the pup; I administered a boot butt. And we moved on.


Months later, one night, evening really, the dog went nuts. Jimmy was up; I was dozing our hole. “The kid’s in the wire. Coming for his dog?”, he whispered. ROE was to waste him. Jimmy was still from “Hicksville”. The Raghead Boy made it in; as did his unseen friends. Suicide bombers. Carnage. What was left of Jimmy went to “Hicksville” for burial. No one made it but me. LT, Top, the the team, even the dog. All wasted. I got hit; shrapnel and some pieces of the Raghead Boy. Maybe even his friends.

Really, they should have killed me. They did kill me. Just was taking a while to die.


Back in the world. Partial D. Paid for room and booze. Even some weed. Family mostly didn’t understand. Unks and Unks in law who’d been to the “Republic of” did. Just drifting. Trying to save the unsavable. Why me?


One night, drifting, found an “urban yute”. Beating a puppy with a stick.

I flashed.

Saved the puppy. Beat the kid with the same stick. His momma was watching and called the cops.


I was convicted of misdemeanor assault by virtue of diminished capacity. Quietly shipped to a VA hospital for whatever. Doing an indeterminate stretch of at least 15. No big deal. Just waiting to join my team.

Year later, I heard that the “urban yute” had done a home invasion robbery. With some friends. Tied up the family. Got the goods. His friends left; he didn’t. Stopped to rape the kids, made the parents watch, then beat them all to death with a stick. He got juvee until he was 21.

Guess I was “Jimmy”. I should have killed both “Raghead” boys. What could they have done? Given mey 30. Sent me to my patrol. No good deed ….

# # # # #

WRITING: r ‘n’ r

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

READ AND REACT (An Index Card Novel)

The OODA Loop (for Observe, Orient, Decide and Act) is a concept. A tactical-level example can be found on the basketball court, where a player takes possession of the ball and must get past an opponent who is taller or faster. A straight dribble or pass is unlikely to succeed. Instead the player may engage in a rapid and elaborate series of body movements designed to befuddle the opponent and deny him the ability to take advantage of his superior size or speed.


It was the first day of the Sixth Grade Girls Basketball “tryouts”. (Tryout was a misnomer because everyone who “tried” would make the team.) She was a tall gawky scared girl. She had her designer jeans. (Her Mom wanted her to catch a man later in life and was raising a lady.) All the girls went to the try out to get out of class. Anything was better than being in prison. An old lady was the coach. Rumor had it that she was a semi-pro before “girls basket ball” hit its prime. She was aided by two old men.

The girl wandered out on the court. It was warm ups. She took a ball and walked to the basket. Wondering what she should do now. Silently, and a little scary, one of the old men was behind her. “You could be a great post player.” Huh? She replied: “I could? I don’t know anything?” The old man smiled: “We can teach you facts, drills, and stuff. But, practice is up to you.” “OK” “Let’s do something simple. Put down the purse. Put one foot on each side of this corner here. It’s called the top of the key. Pivot right and shoot. Next pivot left and shoot. Do each these a thousand times and it becomes yours. In a game, you won’t even think about it. Make half of those shots and you’ll be a great player. Hit them all you’ll be a pro. But remember it’s about having fun. You’ll learn to read and react.” It didn’t sound hard. BUT, (there is always a big butt), she objected: “I don’t have the clothes. And, what will the boys think?” “First, you have to want to do something; then you’ll find a way. Second, who cares what others think; you have to sail your own ship on your own course.”


“Ladies, today is your first time on the ‘confidence course’. Why do we call it that? Because today you will develop a self-confidence that you will always be able to handle any challenge that life hands you. And, it will challenge you. Run away and you’ll be running away for ever. Go over the top and new horizons will be in front of you.”

She was tired. Bone tired. To complete the exercise, she had to make a shot. Silly as it sounds, there was always a challenge. She reached back into her mental closet, put both feet on the top of the key and sighted. The instructor, a fat old man from a long ago war, said: “Good. Excellent stand. Shooting is like basketball. You have to read and react. Now clear your weapon and move out.”

It was hand to hand fighting in the dessert. Wasn’t supposed to be like that. Women were in the “rear”. But these days, there was no “rear”. And, the enemy must not have got the memo. She was always reading and reacting. Assume nothing. Ever. Assumptions kill. The fellow grabed her like an awkward rapist. She relaxed. He relaxed. Wrong move on his part. She pulled his leg out. They went to the ground. Her on top. She got her elbows out. Just like playing the post. And landed her elbow in his solar plexus. He was not good for much after that. But he only had a minute’s discomfort before she put him out of his misery.


She was out for the family run. Hubbie up in front. Her two boys trying to catch him. Her two girls trying not to embarass their brothers. Periodically, she run up and tell them to tell their Dad he was slowing down. They easily loped up, told him , and fell back. She was getting older. She could feel her time getting slower. But she was determined to wear out; not rust out. The coast country was beautiful. She thought back to all the men and women who helped her get to this point.

Then it struck. A big cat grabbed her husband’s head. In a flash, he was down. The children were screaming. She was calm. She set her feet at the top of the key and went for the shot. It was technically not a hard shot. Ten or twelve feet. The cat was intent on dragging its prey away; it presented a nice target. Emotionally, it was much harder. It was her husband. She needed him. It was only a 380. A ‘girlie gun’; the dealer called it. “I’m just a weak little girl”, she told him. He saw an Amazon and laughed.

To be sure, she may have been a little excited. She put two three shot groups into the cat. First group was the size of a Number 10 Can. Second was an inch and a half across. Old lessons come back quickly. Her fanny pack coughed up a kit. She was never without what she called her friend Bob. Husband had some bad deep wounds. She gather the children to him and stood guard. While treating him! Torn scalp. The blur of events began to slow down. She was telling the 911 operator on her cell phone the coordinates on her GPS. She reloaded her weapon quickly. What if the cat had a mate?


The ranger said the cat was a “nuisance”. The cop took her gun for testing. She was cited for an unlicensed firearm, killing an “endangered species”, and “noise pollution”. After they medivaced her husband out. EMTs confirmed it was more a precaution. She insisted the cop walk with them back to their car. She took quiet glee at how much he sweated, turned red with the little exercise, and was embarrased at his shape.

Getting in the car, her youngest asked her: “Momma, where did you learn that? Weren’t you afraid?” She smiled. “Various places, my child, and yes, I was terrified. But you learn to read and react to life’s challenges.”

She thought: “Read and react.” She looked around the parking lot. 360 degrees. “Seat belts! Two!”, she cried out. “Three, four, five, six”, came from the back. “OK, let’s go check on Number One!”.

Read and react!

She added “getting another 380 to her list for after the hospital. Til then she have to be satisfied with her knife and her hands.

Read and react.

She pulled out of the parking lot with a slight smile.


WRITING: 10% discount on Church from Lulu

Sunday, July 12, 2009

“It Started In Church – October 19th, 1962″,

or more simply “CHURCH 10●19●62″   



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WRITING: Riding The Rails (An Index Card Novel)

Friday, July 10, 2009

“everyone must give voluntary service to the community. its mandatory.”


The Homeland Service Corps was a measure designed to give “work” to disadvantaged “yutes”. It was formulate as a para-military organization. It had fatigue pants, heavy dark blue shirts, a blue web belt, and combat boots. Pants were bloused; on formal occasions, it was topped off with a red beret.

It reminded the thinning fat old white man of what he’d red about the red shirts, the brown shirts, and the black shirts. Now we had the blue shirts.


He was swept up in one of the night time street sweeps. There was a curfew, but it was mostly ignored. Like the myriad of laws, regulations, rules, and diktats, there wasn’t much respect for anything administrative. Everyone was poor. Everyone was hungry. Everyone was subsistence. He was one of the lucky ones; he had a niche. He was a licensed web designer. Couldn’t just allow anything to be put on the web. He’d fooled them; pretended to believe all their drivel. Had to; he and his family needed to eat. He was the support of what had been three families in the old days. He wondered what they’d do now without him. While he still had his passport, he now be missing critical attendance stamps. That verified that you had overnighted on your “block”. Without those stamps, he’d be arrested when he came or went from his block. Anne Frank’s attic came to mind. But would this ever end. But those were future problems, he was here and now. He smiled at all the web sites that would display different content when he wasn’t there to reset their timers.

They were herded into trucks one afternoon. World War Something Deuce and a half. A dozen. Since he was out of the compound, he was looking for a chance. It might kill him. But he had no illusions. He was white as were all the other “campers”; Homeland Service was all “ethnic”. He’d talked to WW2 Death Camp survivors. Never stop looking for a crack. As was his custom, he was wearing his thin blanket as a “roll” under his shirt. Losing weight meant he had space under and ever too big shirt. They were all dirty and smelly. The ride went on for an hour. THey were allowed to dismount. THey weren’t really “guarded”. As a matter of fact the guards were all grouped together getting instructions. He saw his chance. He slipped under the frame. He’d read about GIs rigging hammocks under their trucks to get shade in the dessert. His blanket made a U for his hips. His hands and feet had loops to hold. He was expecting a rough ride. If no one saw him!

They rode for another hour. It was dirty dusty and at times excruciating. A few times he almost lost it. But the blanket held. So did he! For dear life. The convoy stopped and the cargo was herded off to the side. He waited until it was quiet. Then he slipped off the other side. He could not free the blanket; the knots were tugged tight. Taking a chance he peeked in the truck cab. It smelled of something. He couldn’t place it. On the seat was wicked looking fixed blade knife; he stole it. He moved as quickly way from the convoy as he could. There was no real cover so he had to improvise. He mentally outlined a grave and with the knife sliced the brush and turf. Using the knife like a spatula, he peeled back the “cover”. He laid down and pulled it over him. Had no idea what it looked like but it was the best he could do. It was getting dark. He had to hope it covered. Then he heard thunder.

It wasn’t thunder but automatic weapons. Massacre? He thought of the “Great Escape”. It didn’t last long. He tried not to think about it. He heard voices coming in his direction. He heard water pouring. The voices departed.

It had been a while now. It was dark. He “arose from the dead”. The trucks were still there. At the back of the convoy, he could see a large fire. The Homeland Service goons were there. Most were sitting silently. A smell was reeking form their direction. A sweet smell. He moved away from them. He slipped up in the dark to the lead truck. He was hoping to score anything from the cab. There was a guard asleep. In his best commando movie style, he crawled up. Got a hand over the mouth and slit a throat.

He was up into the cab. Found a pack. And was off running. It was dark. It was rough. It was dangerous. He wanted to put a mile between them and him. It was exhausting. No water. No direction. No idea but to flee.

At the false dawn, he could see lights ahead. The city. A city. His city? No likely. He rested and examined his prize. Passports. Money. Watches. Rings. Ears!? And, packs of green oregano with the sweet smell.

He’d bury this a the next milestone. Maybe it was evidence.


The bag with its contents was presented to the Grand Jury. There was DNA reports from the human tissue. A few of the passports aligned with the DNA. Most did not. There were 800 or so documents. As the Great Leader stood in the dock, these murders were charged to him. They were specific.

The gaunt drawn old man testified to the terror. To the camps. To the result. To the authenticity of the bag.

The Great Leader was hung.

The nation was never the same. And, not surprisingly, the nation never returned to its former greatness. It dissolved into little warlord states. Constantly fighting and bickering. Along clan lines.

The old sickly white man, thin and frail, died in his sleep. He’d taken down the Great Leader. Avenged his fellow campers. But never did find his family. Sad to the end, he just passed quietly.

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WRITING: Just Junk DNA (An Index Card Novel)

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Just Junk DNA (An Index Card Novel)

“If science could invent a genetically modified common cold virus that would sterilize everyone on the planet with effectiveness E (where 90% < E < 100%), then maybe, just maybe, someone would have the courage to release it in the atmosphere.”


It was the killer genetic modification. All plants share a common DNA. He was the genius that could “dead end” evolution. In the DNA, in the “junk” DNA, just like in humans, he found “it”. In corn, he was able to develop “it”. It was the “stop sign”. The corn was for all intents and purposes perfect. Except it couldn’t reproduce. He had it.

Riches galore.

As an “independent researcher”, no corporation had the patent. He did. No “works for hire”. He owned the Midas touch.


“Comparative genomics studies of mammalian genomes suggest that approximately 5% of the human genome has been conserved by evolution since the divergence of those species approximately 200 million years ago, containing the vast majority of genes. Intriguingly, since genes and known regulatory sequences probably comprise less than 2% of the genome, this suggests that there may be more unknown functional sequence than known functional sequence.”


The Genetically Modified Food Companies beat a path to his door. He had the better mouse trap. Seeds that would not sprout. He controlled it. Winded and dined. His process was his.

Venture capitalists fronted the money for a 25% share. It was such a unique opportunity. They bid the price down among themselves. To get a share. Usually they’d get 95%, but he was smart!


“Some types of non-coding DNA are genetic “switches” that do not encode proteins, but do regulate when and where genes are expressed.”


His factories “processed” seeds of any type and quality. Trucks poured in one side and 30 minutes later sterile seeds poured back in.

The seed sellers were in hog heaven.

Testing showed that “processed” seeds would germinate but not reproduce.

Finally, they had the farmers locked in. No seed saving to compete with their sales any more.


“Vertebrates have essentially the same genes and regulatory gene sequences as humans, but with only one-eighth the “junk” DNA.”


The process had an unintentional side effect.

Don’t they always?

The “regulatory signal” had been activated. Airborne, undetectable, an almost mystical property.

Never since a grazillion years ago had evolution had it’s clock turned back. That “junk DNA” was from eons ago when it had served a purpose. Avoiding this bug or that.

Now, humans, puffer fish, and many other species stopped reproducing.

Humans could have sex without children now. Just as the feminists and the “free love” hippies had always wanted. But no one was having any children any more. Ever.

We’ve genetically modified ourselves out of existence.


“If you’re reading this, greetings. I’m the last person alive, don’t make out mistake. Don’t mess with the Lord’s handiwork.”

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WRITING: My Uncle’s House (An Index Card Novel)

Monday, July 6, 2009

The problems all started with the international collapse of the dollar. Dollars could no longer buy anything internationally. It wasn’t long before those dollars couldn’t buy much inside the US either. Oh they were still handy to pay taxes with! The government was really screwed. The more the value of a dollar collapsed; the more they could easily collect taxes. People brought the dollars to pay their taxes in wheelbarrows of dollar bundles. Just as in prisons, cigarettes or sardines are currency. In the “free world”, barter became fashionable. Silver and gold began to allow commerce to resume. While the “official” world market price of gold or silver was 7,000 yuan to the ounce, there was no dollars that could buy gold. You could buy a yuan for 2,700 dollars; you might even find some one silly enough to sell it to you. Any way, that made the price of an ounce of gold about 20 million Federal Reserve Banknote dollars. Why anyone would do that is incomprehensible? Funny, thing was that any tailor would make you or any clothing store would be happy to sell you their finest suit for two gold ounces. After the total collapse of the economy, a subsistence economy resumed based on barter and small transactions in silver coins.


It was cold last night. The thermostat for the house was set at 40 degrees. It was the house that he had inherited from his uncle. Before the latest round of death taxes made the rate 95% from dollar one. No one would be inheriting this house again. Forty degrees! That’s all the heat that we could afford. Just enough to keep the pipes from freezing.

He, his wife, his beloved twins, and the two younger children lived in the Master Bedroom. He’d build the bunk beds himself out of scrap lumber they found and scavenged. His sister, her husband, and their three kids live in the second bedroom. His cousin, his husband, and their two children live in the third small bedroom. The garage was occupied by another pair of cousins and their children. The house was over occupied by anyone’s standard.

The township bureaucrats were still trying to handle the influx of all sorts of double ups. Multiple generations of families were living together. Only if there was no “blood” relation, could they “red tag” the building and force everyone out. Where people go in that case, they assert is not their problem. The bureaucrats would then move to seize the house as a participant in an “economic crime”. Some one would but it to rent out. People had to live somewhere. Amazing how the bureaucrats always seemed to be landlords.


The Department of Homeland Security using Google’s seized technology, was overflying the country with its scanners. When “threats” were found, local agents were dispatched to arrest the trouble makers.

The agents barged into the Uncle’s house demanding to see him. The nephew took them to a corner of the backyard. A small wooden cross marked it. The agent cited him for an unlicensed cemetery. Another bill to be paid. But they had lots of dollars. No heat, but lots of paper.

The agent showed him the ariel picture taken with ground penetrating radar. In the backyard, there was random buried junk. But in the front yard, the slogan was clearly visible on the scan. “Sic Semper Tyrannis” Unmistakable. The agent gave him a day to dig it up and correct the problem. And, another citation for an unlicensed advertisement. The nephew bit his tongue. Several of the folks in the house were cited for various violations. They’d total it up tonight. And, see who had what that could be hocked to pay for their “freedom”.

So several of the adults were out digging. With the one real shovel and several improvised tools. The nephew’s wife got some salt. “For replanting!” Grass, or rather the absence of, would make a political statement. The metal was only a few inches down. Easily removable.

But under the metal was a little surprise. A plastic tube. Sealed at both ends. Printed on the tube, in a shake handwritten letters, “Sic Semper Tyrannis”. The tubes were brought back to the house quickly and quietly. Who new which of the neighbors was the Homeland Security snitch?


The children were sent to bed. The adults gathered in the living room. The first tube was opened.

A block of old FRB dollars came tumbling out.

The nephew involuntarily exclaimed: “Stupid, Old Man, stupid!”

Another shake and out came some heavy plastic cylinders and a note. The note said: “I’m old; not senile! Here’s some stuff I think you might need.”

In the cylinders, gold coins. Another tube held a rifle. Pistols. Ammo. Knives.


The nephew and the other men went out that night. The Homeland Security patrol was goofing off behind the strip club where honest women had to degrade themselves to support their families. The patrol would get free sex to allow them to proceed home. The men crawled up. The patrol never knew what hit them.


Newspaper and internet ad: “The Department of Homeland Security is please to announce that due to promotions there are openings in the Patrol Division. All that is required is a certificate of political correctness. blah, blah, blah”

No one applied.

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WRITING: Ready, Aim, Fire! (An Index Card Novel)

Friday, July 3, 2009

Ready, Aim, Fire! (An Index Card Novel)

Obeying a direct order to fire on fellow Americans has not been seen since the 1860s. So, this dynamic is a wild card. How many law enforcement and military personnel will obey such an order?


He was a young high school graduate. The local high school was average at best. The teacher’s union ran the State. Education was a secondary consideration. That didn’t matter to his Mom. She was a naturalized citizen. Engrish was not her first language. But everyone knew the sacrifices she made to get to the land of opportunity. And, having made it here, every opportunity would be her child’s. She badgered his teachers, her minister, their neighbors, and even her postman. She had reading lists galore. She would sit with all the children as they did their lessons. She was a hard taskmistress. There was no goofing off; no “breaks”. She’d ask questions. Hard ones. As someone who just didn’t understand, he had to explain everything. It helped him learn.


He had a nice entry level job. A part-time job. And he joined the State Guard as another adder. Within a year he was a squad leader. It wasn’t hard, but he was busy. He was saving money. Part-time at the local community college had him on his trek to “education”. He was amazed how “stupid” his class mates and workmates. They were just oblivious to everything they could have if they just tried.


A flood led to the call. The Guard was called out. His squad was detailed to “looter suppression”. The Captain looked him straight in the eye and said: “Curfew violations: shoot them!” Then, later he was told: “Seize any weapons. Before they can be used against us.” Finally, he heard: “Round up anyone left and put them on the trucks to the camp. For everyone’s own good.”


His squad was in the center of the line. Citizens were outraged at the restrictions. The deportations. The attempted weapons collection. They were marching on the Military Government’s HQ. They were mad as hell. The Captain ordered: “Fix bayonets. Fire when you see the flare.” He looked at the people. Eyeballs. Big and small. A mix of races, sexes, and ages. The flare went up.

He thought of his Mom. And, all the lessons. And, gave the order!

“Safe your weapons!”

He’d joined the Revolution.

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WRITING: Thou Shalt Not Murder (An index Card Novel)

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Thou Shalt Not Murder (An index Card Novel)

The fat old white man was alone. He felt really old. He began to contemplate his life. Some would call it depression; some would call it the Final Enlightenment. He considered all that he’d learned over his lifetime. Several lessons, several axioms, several bits of wisdom all rushed into his mind. He resumed meditation. When he was a youth, he had studied religion. Later he’d studied science. “The Universe means one song; we each have a part in the chorus.” “Heisenburg: The observer effects that which is observed.” “Everything is created twice, first in the mind, then in the space we call reality.” “God’s metaphoric faculty of speech, being one and the same as action, is mirrored in man’s ability to effect his surrounding reality for the positive or negative.” He final came up with his principle: “Man’s heart connects to his mind and determines the physical reaction.”

Now philosophers will argue for eons about “does man’s collective mind discover or create reality”.

As the fat very old white man sat and thought in deep meditation, he constructed a new meme. He believed that inanimate objects were never truly inanimate. They would take some animation from the higher order mover. The Universe set a new “Law” into place.


A wave of disturbance radiated out over the sea of consciousness.

A majority were unaware of it. But some were.

The Dali Lama was in his private mediation. He felt the change. Could not express it in words. But gathered his acolytes and told them that the world had changed.

In Trappist monasteries, Shinto temples, Jewish seminaries, Amish meeting houses, and in countless meditation sessions around the globe, people felt that something had changed. Dramatically.

It was reported in the odd ball press but no one could put their feelings accurately into words.


It was three AM the bar closed. A drunk walks to his car but it will not start.

A would be suicide bomber vest herself in a deadly garment, travels to the nightclub, and presses the detonator. Nothing happens.

A dotty old dictator inspects his nuclear missile. Receives assurances that this will finally wipe Israel from the face of the earth. He orders the immediate launch. It fails completely. He order the execution of the Chief Scientist. The firing squad weapons don’t work.

The religious mob chains the young girl to the rock. She’s accused of being raped. The crown throws rocks but the rocks fall immediately to the ground. Despite prodigious effort, no one can propel them at the girl. One man carries a big one over above her head and lets go. It remains adhered to his hand.

The drug dealer is besieged by outraged addicts. What did he sell them? They can’t get high. Hospitals are overwhelmed with jonesing addicts. Medical supplies work to alleviate suffering. Some addicts get the idea to rob hospital pharmacies; those drugs don’t work.

In a fit of rage, the man takes up a knife to kill his wife. The blade stabs with all the force he can muster. The point stops at her skin. The knife gets so hot it burns his hand. The force breaks his arm as if he’d swung his arm into a granite wall.

A pornographer logs onto his internet server. He checks his earnings. Zero. In fact, his credit card company is charging him back for countless subscriptions. It can’t be? He logs onto the site. All the jpegs are just black. All the movie files don’t play. The duplicate files on his computer are the same. But not every picture is black. The pictures of his wife, kids, and dog are just fine.

A man walks from his car to his office. He is going to move money offshore and bilk his partners. He turns the key in the door. The lock works but the door won’t open. He goes back to his car but it won’t start.

A policeman and a street thug wrestles for the officer’s gun. The policeman squeeze off an errant shot then the thug twists it away. With murder in his eyes, the thug pulls the trigger. Nothing happens. He runs, but the cop catches and subdues him.


The new is full of reports of a new computer virus that infect cars. The tag line is “Experts mystified”. It’s more than just cars. And all the experts are! It’s like stuff has a mind of its own

Politicians, bureaucrats, and all sorts of crooks can’t make anything work.

The honest car mechanic calls his minister. It seems that people can’t start their cars. But when he makes a service call, it starts right up. He watches them get in and it won’t for them. He’s confused. “Minister, what should I charge?” “What’s fair in your mind?” “My hourly rate. Nothing more nothing less. And when they call, I’ll tell them that I don’t think I can fix their problem.” “That sounds fair. Remember to follow your conscience.”


The fat very old white man has grokked reality and fundamentally changed it. His work is done. He leaves the planet a better place for his presence. A very confused place. Man must now discover the new fundamental laws of physic and conscience. “The heart tells the mind what laws physical reality will follow.” Like the great mystics throughout the ages, no one knows his name. No one knows the service he has done. Peace reigns; anyone who tries different finds that stuff doesn’t work.

It’s like EMP for bad guys. A partial TEOTWAWKI (The End Of The World As We Know It)!


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WRITING: Where2Aim (An Index Card Story)

Monday, June 29, 2009

Where2Aim (An Index Card Story)

She is a thin young blonde college student. Senior. Slightly shy. Built. Demure. Feeling her way in the world. Out on her own for the first time. Classes and the dorm were all strange. Some of the guys were nice. Some of the others on the hunt were threatening. She stuck to her pack and the scarier guys were moved on by the herd effect. Graduation and everyone went their separate ways. She moved to the City. Her own apartment. With a room mate. A girl, of course. Like herself, a recent graduate. “Madison Avenue” competitors in the same industry, but fellow travelers on life’s road. One of the “hunters” from her college days looked her up. She was uncomfortable with his attentions. Told him so. But there was no “herd” to drive him off. So it was not surprising that one night after the girls were asleep, he came “calling”. Silently he cut the window glass that let him into the kitchen. Like a cat, he made his way to her bedroom. As he turned the door handle, he heard something drop to the floor on the other side. He pushed in quickly! He’d expected to find her “take-able”.


She was upright in the bed with a BIG ugly gun. “HALT!”, she yelled in a surprisingly deep voice. He was impressed. And, somewhat scared. In the dim light of the bedroom, he liked what he saw. He always knew she had nice assets. But, he was turned off by her aim. A little woman had not aimed at the center of mass. Some what lower! He noted that her finger was on the gun’s frame, bent in a half-circle. She was no longer timid and shy. She was a different person. “ON YOUR KNEES! NOW!” He had a decision to make. That aim and that confidence! Mostly that aim. He had no desire to be a eunuch.


The Police Detective was finishing up the report. The “fun” was over and all that was left was the paperwork. “And, Miss, here’s your desk appearance ticket for an unregistered handgun. With Heller, it’s a very nebulous legal environment. We’ve had to take your handgun. A real beauty. Sorry we had to take it. You wont be getting it back. So where did you get it? It’s a big gun for a little girl.”

Her thoughts went back to a crazy uncle who had said some even crazier things. When she graduated and announced she was going to the city. He gave her a 1911, took her to the range, and instructed her on the fine art of trigger discipline. And instructed her where to aim. His parting words were “don’t hesitate”. She always slept with the 1911 under her pillow. Slept lightly, but safe. Like her uncle was there protecting her.

She locked the door after he left. Went to the closet. And, found her uncle’s range box. The detective didn’t know but her uncle believed in twins. She’d be moving home to New Hampshire tomorrow. She’d had enough of the Capitol City’s “protection”.


“But NOTHING reduces a man’s fear of being shot in the genitals. This point of aim seems to definitely get their attention, in my experience.” Massad Ayoob

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WRITING: The Garden Of Eden (An Index Card Novel)

Sunday, June 28, 2009

Bees… can be trained in a couple of days to pick up the scent of the explosive in the landmine… When released into a minefield, the bees find their way toward the mines … are too small to detect either with the naked eye or high-resolution video at long ranges. So instead, the team employs a laser emitter that sweeps an area like radar or sonar. When the light hits a bee, it reflects, and sensors are able to tell by the reflection just where the bee is. After sweeping several times, the scientists are able to crunch the data and see statistically where the higher occurrences of bees are located.


The Obamaites had collected the knives. The Homland Protection Squadron was a combination of squads from the appropriate government agencies: IRS, FDA, DEA, BATF, FBI, CIA, NSA, FCC, FTC, Treasury, and even the Department of Agriculture. The squadron is near 300 men and women. They were on point against drug gangs, Ponzi schemers, and “religious” sects.


The fat old white man was a retired executive. He’d gotten “religion” during Y2K and had started his withdrawal from the “game”. That’s what he called Wall Street finance. It was a crooked game, where the ability to buy politicians, manupulate the law, and screw the people. He often was quoted that the Street was a “crooked casino”. Y2K was the beginning of his transition. From “player on the Street” to gentleman farmer. He wasnt disappointed that society dodge a dagger by an intense conversion effort. But, he learned a lot about Numian goats, mules, rabbits, farm fish, and even honeybees. It was fun. He invited schools for trips. It was a Mennonite area and he learned a lot. A lot about animal training.


Homeland Protection’s media review squad eventually found the fat old white man’s blog. He made no secret of his disgust for government. Extremely critical of the Glorious Leader, his holiness, the President for Life. They targeted him for enforcement. And, he did have real estate and, while no paper trail existed, a supposed store of precious metals. It was scheduled for the first Monday of July. It wasn’t til the week before they realized that they had the day off. Fourth of July weekend.


On Monday the Sixth of July, one car from the FDA pulled up to the front gate. The fat old white guy inquired of the dumbfounded Drug Cop. He asked “Wearz everyone?” “Everyone who?” “Never mind!”

Hairs on the back of his head went up.


On Tuesday the Seventh of July at 10AM, the entire squadron moved in. Signs at the gate said: “No Trespassing. No explosives permitted in the test area. This is your only warning.”

The leadership grouped up and, after a short discussion, gave the “forward ho” signal. The mob followed the tanks. He was a short hike to the main house. The fat old white man stood calmly on the porch with his hands in his pocket. The leader told him he was under arrest and to put his hands up. The man put his hands up and one had had what looked like a Staples Easy Button. The leader was afraid. Explosives? With that the man presed the panic button in his pocket.

In minutes, the sky was filled with a golden horde. Bees. They descended on the firearms with their minute quantities of explosives. That’s when the cowards made their mistake. Collectively. Individually. They swatted and smashed. That was an attack on the colony. The pheromones of the crushed individuals sent the swarm into a freenzey.

There was no mercy. The insects were overwhelming.


The local community notified the government that thier squadron could be retrieved at the interstate. Drones showed Amish men in buggies bring bodies from the targeted farm to the interstate. No one was armed. Guns, weapons, and equipment belts lay on the farm where they were dropped.


The Homeland Security commandos moved in at dark to recon. They had no sooner entered onto the farm then they were best upon.

The next day the Amish brought new bodies to the interstate.


The President was briefed. The area was declared off limits. They considered how to handle the new threat. The bees were expanding their territory. They were now in a six miles radius of the farm and expanding about one mile per day.

Since peace was mandatory inside their circle, the farm was called “the Garden of Eden”.

Just not to the President’s face.

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WRITING: Sorry, it’s rationed (An Index Card Novel)

Saturday, June 20, 2009

The store had a color poster. A young blond Aryan-Looking woman in an apron raises her hand to take a pledge. “Food Fights for Freedom”. “Produce and Conserve” “Share and Play Square”. The older couple had survived the First World War with their victory garden. Now, with rationing, and their modest savings, it was hard to make end met. They were too old and too frail to put in a garden that they’d need to survive. Their Church provided some. Their family some. But eventually it was just too hard. They weren’t listed as casualties of war, but they were. The poverty of war. If all the young men weren’t off dying in some far flung part of the world, they’d have been to home and tending to the communities’ needs. The local guard. Contributing to churches, fraternities, and civil society in general. But, they were off dying. Just like the old couple, casualties of war.


The recently retired fat old white guy brought his equally old wife into the hospital’s emergency room. Heart failure was an easy diagnosis. Then the “fun” began. No more evil insurance companies to do battle with. No more hospital bills at all. Couldn’t pay if you wanted to. Couldn’t buy drugs anywhere at any price. Everything was “free”. Doctor Phil came into the old girl’s room. She wasn’t that old 60 something. But the “guidelines” were very clear. Palliative care. Hospice care. Informed of their “final options”. Those drugs were cheap! The “doctor” explained that they had nothing to offer them. The old gent was pretty funny. To the doc’s standard “just be a minute”, he’d replied “take two, we have lots”. The doc confided that there were drugs, operations, and therapies available “off-shore”. If she could survive the trip. If they could afford the trip. If they could keep it secret. (The Healthy Homeland Bureaucracy didn’t take kindly to their regulations being evaded.) In the end, there wasn’t much anyone could do. The old lady was a casualty of the war. Whatever the current war was that prevented society from treating its young and old humanely. Everyone was dying. Just like the old couple, casualties of war.


The hospital had a color poster. A multicultural group had their collective hands raised to take a pledge. “Health is a village responsibility” “One for all; all for the common good” “Play fair; do your part”

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WRITING: A Revolution starts with one man (An Index Card Novel)

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

He was just an old Jew in post World War One Germany. His only child, his son, was caught by the Brown Shirts and beaten to death. After that his wife lost the will to live, she was raped and killed by some drunken Nazi soldiers on leave. If they’d done that to an Aryan woman, they’d have been shot. Instead they got “genetic counseling”, and punishment for “wasting their seeds” on the Fatherland. He had received notice to prepare to be resettled. He knew in his heart what that meant. The Torah didn’t approve of murder, but that’s what he had in his heart.

He slid the old credenza away from the wall and took out his “tools” from World War I. The Gas Mask, the Mauser, the ammo. In the soon to be darkened railroad apartment, he put dark blankets crumpled on the floor to confuse things. Some gasoline was spread around. Kerosene lamps were in abundance. At the end of the apartment, in the kitchen, he put a sand bag rest. Extinguished the lights. He got down on the floor and waited. It wouldn’t be long.

In the Schutzstaffel, he was an up and comer. He’d already deported 600 Jews. Killed 400 resisting deportation. He had several crack squads. As Obersturmführer, he had his duty. Pickings were getting slim. To boost his numbers, he had his squads sweeping Jews up off the street whenever the opportunity presented itself. He always hated the apartment raids. Fighting on the other man’s ground. But it often couldn’t be helped. He went along on the raids to inspire his men. This apartment was a little different. The occupant didn’t go quietly. There were casualties. He’d lost 6 of his best men. He went to inspect. One Jew dead; six of his best. Didn’t seem like a fair trade. As he walked thru, he smelt gas. Was there a leak? By the door, one of the slackers lit a cigarette.


The Obersturmführer died screaming. Along with 13 of his crack squad.

19 for 1!


He was just an old Catholic Pro-life gun owner in Amerika. His only child, his son, was killed in some -stan or another. After that his wife lost the will to live, she was raped and killed by some illegal immigrant who the government had given amnesty. He had received notice to prepare to be ‘inspected”. He had like a good citizen “papered” his guns. The Obama BATF was coming to collect them. He had a paper trail when he bought his gold coins; the FBI was coming to collect them. He’d made some obscure paperwork mistake on his 1040, despite using an accountant, the IRS was coming to seize their rightful wealth. He knew in his heart what that meant. The Bible didn’t approve of murder, but that’s what he had in his heart.

He slid the old credenza away from the wall and took out his “tools” from the Y2K scare. The Gas Mask, the AR15 with a special seer plate, the ammo. In the soon to be darkened railroad house, he put dark blankets crumpled on the floor to confuse things. In the basement, the natural gas to the hot water heater was disconnected. Kerosene lamps were in abundance down there. On the main level, he had phosphorus ready to disrupt night vision googles. At the end of the apartment, in the kitchen, he put a sand bag rest. Extinguished the lights. He got down on the floor and waited. It wouldn’t be long. He thought of Pastor Martin Niemîller.

In the Obama Homeland Security, he was an up and comer. He’d already arrested 300 Pro-Lifers, 150 Gun Owners, 100 Gold bugs, and 75 Born Again Christians. Killed another 400 resisting “inspection”, or arrest. He had several crack squads. As an Assistant Regional Director, he had his duty. Pickings were getting slim. To boost his numbers, he had his squads sweeping people up off the street whenever the opportunity presented itself. As long as they were not Muslims or people of color, he could always find a reason to justify the arrest. He always hated the apartment raids. Fighting on the other man’s ground. But it often couldn’t be helped. He went along on the raids to inspire his men. This apartment was a little different. The occupant didn’t go quietly. There were casualties. He’d lost 16 of his best men. He went to inspect. One fat old white man dead; many of his best too. Didn’t seem like a fair trade. Here the man had an interesting tactic. He shot a few inches off the ground. No one had bullet proof boots. All of his casualties were knocked down by ankle wounds. Then they were prone and their bullet proof armor was useless. They were shot laying down. Even their night vision googles were made useless by the blinding light. The dead resister obviously had a plan. He’d have to adjust their tactics. As he walked thru, he smelt gas. Was there a leak? By the door, one of the slackers lit a cigarette.


The Captain died screaming. Along with another 23 of his crack squad.

40 for 1!


At Homeland Security Headquarters, they were running out of people willing to serve arrest and seizure warrants.

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WRITING: Nous allons vous rembourser! (An index card novel)

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

It was a no name French village. He was a no name GI. The young girl was huddled with her brothers and sisters in a corner of the basement. Cold. Dirty. Starving. His squad had learned the bitter combat lesson to leave no stone unturned. Snakes can come out to bite. Hidden enemies bypassed kill; they don’t meekly surrender. Many comrades would not be going home who failed to watch their A double Q and, when time permitted, everyone diligently looked for snake dens in their rear. So, his squad found the parentless family led by a strong heroic young woman. A camp stove started warming up the hole in the ground. Calling it a basement implied there was a house over head. What do you call a hole covered by debris? They called it home. Precious blankets were distributed. The gift would warm the men’s hearts more than mere cloth. They’d get replacements; there were always replacements. Food was easy. Rations were always in large supply. Not gourmet, but they prevent starvation. As the squad moved out, the “old” beyond her years girl said: “Bon ami, nous allons vous rembourser!” (“Good friend, we will pay you back.)


It was a no name village in America. She was a no name French girl. In her proud blue beret, she was there to save the Americans from themselves. World leaders agreed. Troops moved in to quell the violence after the collapse. And, to collect debts long owed. Like the police restoring order to a fraternity party of consumption that had gone on for sixty years. It was not fair. Three per cent of the population consumed half of the world’s stores and wrote bad checks to pay for it besides. Always a proud country, the Americans had shoved their brand of “freedom” down everyone’s throat. But, now the UN was in charge. Sort of. The guns had been collected by the Obamaites. Part of making America safe for politicians, bureaucrats, and criminals of color. So for the most part, her mission was just tax collection and “peace keeping”. Peace was what the masters defined it as. Collecting wealth was easy. The Sheriff of Nottingham had a lighter hand. Time these Americans learned to bow to their European betters. Her squad was surveying the village for resettlement to a reeducation camp. It would be cleared soon. And the ground returned to the Global Ecological Trust. The small young boy was found huddled with his even younger brothers and sisters in a corner of the basement. Cold. Dirty. Starving. Her squad had learned the bitter combat lesson to leave no stone unturned. Snakes can come out to bite. Hidden enemies bypassed kill; they don’t meekly surrender. Many comrades would not be going home who failed to watch their A double Q and, when time permitted, the squad diligently looked for snake dens in their rear. So, her squad found the parentless family led by a strong heroic very young boy. A camp stove started warming up the hole in the ground. Calling it a basement implied there was a house over head. What do you call a hole covered by debris? They called it home. Precious blankets were distributed. The gift would warm the hearts of the gallant squad men and women more than mere cloth. They’d get replacements; there were always replacements. Food was easy. Rations were always in large supply. Not gourmet, but they prevent starvation. As the squad moved out, the children rushed them. Thinking they were going to get hugs of affection and pleadings not to leave, the squad was surprised. Murphy got them. Improvised knives plunged into breasts and slashed throats. Some caress. Some hug. Weapons were seized and a new guerrilla squad would soon be armed. The blue beret-ed squad would not walk away that day. It was essential that the revolution not leave any survivors to report this devastating tactic. Soon, too soon, the “young boy” would either be killed, or too old to slip beneath the radar. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it. As the “family” moved out to deliver their arms booty to waiting men, they would then once again make themselves “unarmed” and vulnerable; setting another deadly ambush. Living to fight another day. To kill. How many more tyrants? How many more ambushes? Before their luck would run out? The “young boy”, now an “old man”, old beyond his callendar thirteen years, said to the many cooling corpses: ‘Récupération de la pute, salope!” (Payback’s a bitch, bitch!)

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WRITING: Behind Every Blade Of Grass (An Index Card Novel)

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

General Sanchez and Colonel Achmed were in fits. The invasion hadn’t gotten off to a very good start. The coordinated bio / nuclear attack had been an initial success. Biologicals — the West Nile Virus’ more virulent cousin — had decimated the population. The invasion needed to wait a week for it to die out. It was estimated that only a tenth of the population had natural resistance. The high altitude energy pulse destroyed all electronics. In that week of quarantine, all semblance of government and society was expected to collapse. There were forty similar invasion forces aligned on all four sides. Muslim, Spanish, and Chinese — all aligned to rid the world of the largest imperialist power. It had all been planned and executed without a single electronic communication. Human couriers didn’t allow the Great Satan’s “intel” in on the surprise.

The Mid Atlantic task force showed up at the appointed time and place. A small seaside beach community on an island just off the mainland. Operations began at 0800 local; delayed two hours as the fleet was waiting for an unexpected fog to lift. Such were the fortunes of war. It didn’t. The motorized landing craft began their runs. Over the dead land, the noise was unmistakable, a wake up call, and call to arms. Someone uninvited was coming.

Unbeknown to the invaders, many survivalists and prepers had planned their bug outs to go to the seaside. Fish, birds, and water. The fish could be caught to supplement; birds trapped. Seawater desalinated by sunshine. Surprisingly, while not friends, there was a modest amount of trade and mutual assistance in the week following the troubles. A rather small island had a surprisingly large number of survivors.

The fat old man was the only survivor on his block. His family, that bugged with him, were buried in the backyard. He heard the engine noise from the sea and thought of Private Ryan. He grabbed his M1A and his ammo and went to a nearby condo. He had forced the doors open scavaging earlier in the week, so it took no time to get to the third floor front, open a window slightly, and start firing at the beach. He could hear he wasn’t alone. About 30 shots in 30 minutes resulted in an anti-tank rocket ending his resistance.

The Greatest Generation had a few tricks left up their collective sleeve. A bunch of loons at the American Legion had a ceremonial howitzer. It wasn’t so ceremonial. They took out the bridge off the island. The VFW had a half-track. It didn’t run any more, but it’s machine gun did. A whole company of invaders found that assumptions about no resistance could be deadly as an 80 year old gunner and and 79 year old feeder got a whole lot of joy out of remembering an old skill.

On the beach, a General and Colonel were getting reports of fierce resistance from survivors. A woman, a child, old vets! Suicidally fighting for no good reason. Leaderless. Without hope. Individuals, pairs, small teams. Damn fog. They couldn’t risk close air in it for friendly fire. The recon found the bridges to the mainland down. That really snafued their plan. As the general signaled the withdrawal, the radio reported many similar failures. Who’d have known that urban drug gangs would turn into such fine light infantry? With automatic weapons too.

Just about that time the American Legion artillery and the VFW scouts had coordinated their efforts. It was their land after all. And, plotting a location with coordinates was a handy skill to have. A runner with a walker “ran” them back. The “location plot” team took out a few more. The American Legion howitzer sent the General and Colonel a special “Welcome to America”. A lucky shot? Devastatingly lucky! Murphy is always around. In this case, the spirit of Audey Murphy. Maybe Sargent York too. As the General lay dying, he thought back to a famous Admiral, awaking a sleeping tiger, and riflemen behind every blade of grass.

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WRITING: The Last Reader (An index card novel)

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

“News 8 has recently revealed serious flaws in the way the FAA licenses mechanics who fix planes.”

# – # – #

The downward spiral continued. At first, schools just papered it over with phony tests and declining scores. But soon, it was official. Future generations were not learning to read. Not that they could not; just that they would not. Large percentages of the population were content to ignore the way data, information, knowledge, and wisdom were transferred. And, it was global; although the debate was over willingness or poverty. Some said it was the iphone. Some said it was TV. Some said it was “society’s fault”. The conclusion was that in “rich” countries it was unwillingness and in “poor” countries it was access. Bottom line: humans were losing their ability to communicate with past generations or with each other without speaking.

# – # – #

John was an old man. Luckily, he’d chosen to live in the Pennsylvania Dutch country. An area that was gently stuck in the late 1800′s. It meant that he could eat locally. Commerce had retrenched into a 1890′s model. Goods and services didn’t move more than twenty miles. Maintaining cars and refining gasoline require people who can read. Humanity had regressed to an oral model of knowledge transfer. People traveled great distances with documents for him to read. There was no electricity anymore; there was no one to read how to maintain the systems. Medical care had regressed to the same era; the medieval apprentice model was in use for training new doctors. Specialists and lab tests were a thing of the past. Drugs were just unavailable at any price. Politics was very local. There was no newspapers; no news and no way to transmit it. Eventually all the ipods and iphones died. There were massive die offs in the cities as people fought for ever scarcer stuff. Turf wars erupted. Refugees from the city, (the so called golden horde), were killed by the rural peasants who had not enough for themselves, their families, and their neighbors. 300 Million become 3 million. Two political parties emerged — the Democrats saying that they had led us to save the planet and the Republicans saying that they had led us back to the simpler time we all wanted. Luckily, there wasn’t much wealth to be political about; politicians starved just like ordinary people, just a little slower. John died that winter of a flu. Some flu or another.

The human population was eventually extinct. A victim of technology and stupidity.

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Writing: The Last Smart Generation (An index card novel)

Friday, May 22, 2009

The Last Smart Generation

The old man was dying. His academic work was prestigious. He had even written some popular “shock” titles that were a commercial success. His wife had preceded him last year; his boy and girl were with him.

He mused over things. Most notably their future. He would leave them a substantive estate. Some to be taxed; some to be evaded. He could do nothing to assure their survival. He had warned about the fate of humanity. He chuckled at all the tin foil hats who feared asteroids, flu, Nazis, global warming, global cooling, and all manner of “disasters”. They were right to be afraid; they didn’t realize that the disaster was “hidden” in our genes and memes. He’d warned, but no one listened.

He’d try once more to give his children his message. But sadly, they weren’t “smart”. Not smart enough to understand the light at the end of the tunnel was a locomotive. Not smart enough to make their contemporaries understand. Not smart enought to avoid the onrushing disaster.


“Children, I’ve tried to warn society that we have turned on to a road that leads to destruction. The Greatest Generation was followed by the Me Generation. The Greatest Generation made a terrible mistake. They allowed themselves to pave the road for their children. They made it too easy, too ‘democratic’, too … too … too ‘universal’. The Nazi’s gave eugenics a bad name. They turned society off to the idea that our genes were worth studying. It wasn’t race that was to be focused on, but human achievement. The Athenians and the Spartans made the same mistake — brains and brawn must BOTH be valued. The Romans made the same mistake; the citizen soldier was replaced by mercenaries serving debauchery. Today, the global society means there is no reserve of ‘virtue’ to come forward and save humanity. ‘Coach potatoes’ develop the diseases of old age and quadriplegics as they watch mind numbing amounts of TV. The Greatest Generation made the mistake after WW2 to expand ‘education’ to everyone. The ‘education industry’ became a government job. No competition to get in; no competition with in it. High schools and colleges ‘graduated’ functional illiterates; grade inflation hid the truth. Your generation is ‘dumber’ than mine. For eons, the human race has struggled and evolved to solve new and harder problems. This is the last generation that innovates. I’ve tried to turn the Titanic away from the iceberg of stagnation. I tried to make people listen. Our genes need challenges and hardships. Our memes have made easy living that which is valued. Be afraid; be very afraid.”

The children ascribed it to the lunacy of old age. He was dying. The daughter was a plumber with a PhD in Theater. The son was an electrician with a double Masters in Fine Art and Creative Writing Criticism. They were comfortable.

It wasn’t long. In three generations, humanity died out. The Earth said good bye to another species that had failed to adapt to a new hardship. The hardship was unrecognized by any until they had slipped below critical mass. The descent was meteoric.

That old man had identified it. The hardship was “abundance”. Humanity was not smart enough to recognize the challenge and succumbed to it. All that was left was emptiness. There was no species to evolve up. The petrochemicals had all been used. Creation ended in loneliness. Earth was stuck in a dead end with no way out.

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WRITING: CHURCH 10●19●62 in another location

Monday, May 18, 2009
View this document on Scribd

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WRITING: Yes, you really should NOT gum up the works.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Don’t gum up the works

The drunk staggered along the street. He was dirty, smelly, and bedraggled. He bumped between parking meters and cars. Like a sad ping pong match. The police car was at the corner. Illegally parked, of course; the members of the long blue line were on doughnut break. From their “selfless” mission, protecting and serving the entrenched elite. The drunk was an equal opportunity ping pong ball. He bounced off their car, around the corner and away.


It was the death of his wife that set him off. No one much cared about him. But, then that feeling was mutual with him. He was a self-described “tin foil hat patriot”. Who would know if he was a pinhead or a patriot? Who’d much care! As long as he paid his taxes, there was much he could do. Frustratingly, he blogged. He wrote his letters. He went to demonstrations. He voted religiously. But nothing much mattered. It all came to him in an Auto Parts store. He needed replacement windshield wiper blades. A very mundane purchase. After all if was one of the last things you could do on a car without the government’s permission. The socialists had succeeded in making everything with cars either illegal, expensive, or sealed. You could put an additive in your oil; it’s damaging the planet. Gas was eight bucks a gallon, seven of which was tax; taxed like beer, treated liked drugs. The twenty two hundred dollar catalytic converter was sealed shut; the earth had to “breathe” too you know. Global warming. Remember Mother Earth. For the children. The Auto Parts store had some vintage signs as decoration. One was for an old product called Gunk Out. The slogan was: “Don’t gum up the works!”. Next to the car register were small packages of liquid epoxy designed to stick trim back on cars. Their slogan was: “It’ll never be loose again.” On an impulse, he bought five at this store. And went to another store for more.


It was the end of a quiet shift. The police pair had been “clocked out” as they drove into the station parking lot. Due to budget crises, there was an automatic badge reader that recorded their status. They just had to refill the patrol car on their own time. The city saved grazillions on the “free labor”; their union had gotten other off-budget concessions. So, their end of shift chores were “off the clock”. Fill up the tank, record the serial number of ammo returned to the armory, lock up their personal weapons until next shift, download their computers to the HQ network. All their problem. Pulling up to the gas pump, the non-driver went to pump. They switched roles each shift. Just like they’d change who was the “bad cop” in their “good cop / bad cop” routine they’d run on suspects. It was all about making their quotas. The gas tank cover wouldn’t open. They were befuddled. They tried knives. They called for help. Finally, the mechanic drilled the cover and cut it off. Four hours later, gas was flowing into their tank. Their car was put out of service for repair. They were being investigated by Internal Affairs for sabatoge. Fixing that was going to be expensive. Especially at government prices!


The next morning, the city’s 311 number was taking calls from irate citizens. There was no where to park. Every other meter on several blocks wouldn’t take money. What’s worse, if the parker ignored the problem, the automated parking meters would sense there was a car parked, that no graft was being paid to the city for that privilege, and a traffic agent was printed out a ticket automatically to be delivered to that car. Maybe it even got there. On some of the newer meters, it would also read the license plate, and mail a three day violation notice to the registered owner. After three days, if the $125 fine was not paid, their license and registration was suspended automatically. After seven days, a collection agency was engaged. After fourteen days, an arrest warrant was issued. All automagically. The older meters still relied on the Civil Servants to eventually get the paperwork where it should be. The law was written for the new meters. May take years but everyone would be penalized in due time. There’d be arrests for eons based on the old tickets; no statue of limitations and no requirement that tickets be done promptly by the government. But, no such “grace period” for the rabble. It was making pinheads into patriots everywhere in society. It was hard to be uninvolved. Everyone was getting into the act!


It really wasn’t so bad. They were doing OK until the internet got the story. They had suppressed the press from reporting. They were the lapdogs of the politicians. But, eventually, six days later, the blogosphere erupted with the news. Enraged bloggers caught in the mess screamed to Holy Heaven. The the patriot bloggers picked it up. Then the outlawed bittorrenters distributed pointers to how it was done. All sorts of glue sold out in a few days. Then the fun really began. Finally way to late, wweks later, the government suspended the sale of all glue. It was more heavily regulated than guns.


Eventually government ceased to function. Society thrived. But government was “glued” solid. Unmovable. Yes, it was a little inconvenient to get around the “road blocks”. But it was funny to see the mayor’s limo encased in epoxy!


Yes, you really should NOT gum up the works.

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[NOTE: This is Johnathan Swift satire, you should NOT do this!]

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