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”.

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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.

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WRITING: NOTHING LEFT TO LOSE (An Index Card Novel)

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.

CRACK!

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.)

;-)

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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

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WRITING: THE PEN IS MIGHTIER (An Index Card Novel)

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

YXMNO DMKYI FVMYR YXMNO WOYZJ

OXTSK ZPKPY HOLMJ OXTSK NZBGB

JGWRW KONNP NMYRG JGWRW BFWUE

SOOXR VEQQR WFKME SOOXR XFSVE

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.

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WRITING: DIOGENES OF SINOPE’S MAN (An Index Card Novel)

Sunday, July 26, 2009

DIOGENES OF SINOPE’S MAN (An Index Card Novel)

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.

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WRITING: IT WASN’T VERY SPORTING (An Index Card Novel)

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.

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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 ….

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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.

+++++

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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”   

http://www.itstartedinchurch.com

200907081405.jpg

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