I Don't Make Excuses

I don't want to make excuses for how I played golf yesterday but I do have a hangnail on my thumb. It didn't stop me from birdieing the par three 197 yard second hole (The Nightmare On Elm Street) that has a fairway about as wide as one lane bowling alley and features water all down the right side and a steeply rising hill to the left. No, it didn't bother me there. I merely placed my drive four feet from the flag and canned the putt. It did, however, come into play on most of the other holes as hangnails, ask anyone, are really annoying. Sure Tiger can get up and down at the U.S. Open with a blown knee, but how, I ask, does a a gimpy knee affect your grip? It's a hangnail that can truly hamper one's golf game and it takes a real man to play through that kind of excruciating pain. And I should mention the wind was blowing throughout the day. Everyone knows I don't have good wind karma. The other players, RTGFKAR, Woowwo Charly and I'm Never Using This Putter Again Johnson are not beset by wind demons and thus were allowed to play mostly without weather incident. I, on the other hand, had to deal with gale forces nearly every time I took the tee or lined up a putt. And there is the bad back thing, but I won't get into that since, as I've said, I don't like to make excuses. I probably should point out though, that many of the golf balls I brought along to lose were in less than perfect condition and I'm sure they were partly to blame for the erratic way they flew. My clubs too, are from a manufacturer, Head, noted for ski equipment and not fine golfing gear. On top of that, my breakfast, cereal with bananas, was clearly not the proper fuel for a golf outing. If I was into making excuses for my poor play, I would point out that the cart I was driving lurched repeatedly and a thing like that is very bad for the composure a golfer needs to be at his best. Worst of all were my playing partners who insisted on saying things to me like, "Whoa, that baby's deep into the woods" and things to each other like, "Nice putt, good shot" and "that's a par for me." Very disturbing that, but still, I'll tell you sincerely, I'm not going to use it as an excuse for this simple reason: I don't make excuses.

Another Blog for No Reason

There is no longer an outdoors outdoors. Ever since the pups have been here they have made it a habit to bring a little bit of the outdoors indoors each day. As a good pup parent I would then sweep up the bit of outdoors that had found its way indoors and put it in a trash bag that gets taken to a downtown drop spot on a regular basis. Since there is only a finite amount of outdoors outdoors it was inevitable that one day it would be all gone. Today is that day. I swept up the last of it first thing in the morning and then took my coffee out to the patio to wonder where the rest of it is now.

My thoughts on health care. (Okay, my thought. I rarely have more than one.) There are people like me who don't want their lives to be about money. They want it, instead, to be about art or literature or teaching or study or countless other occupations. They don't really care about the pursuit of money and DON'T WANT TO CARE ABOUT IT. With the exception of those whose desired endeavors accidentally make money - a small percentage - the single thing that most often stops people from getting off the money trail and on to that of their dreams is the cost of health insurance or the cost of paying for health care if you don't have insurance. Most Americans (I'm talking about Americans) can find a way working at what they want to cover the food, clothing, shelter imperatives, but the cost of health drives them to other professions and the reaching, grasping, clutching money grab that consumes so many. It is dehumanizing to work solely for money - if you don't want to. So let's put a stop to all that and vote for Obama and Universal Health Care.

What's that you say? We already did? Alrighty then. That's a start.

(In future blogs I will cover other issues of the day, like, for instance, uh...war.
I'm against it.)

News of Late

I wasn't at my best for the visit by JBW. My stomach was housing some kind of internal amusement park where all the rides were tilt-a-whirls. Nausea was a frequent companion. Nevertheless a good time was had by all and my gorge - and here I mean the gorge of definition number three in my Webster's New World College Dictionary which I've used this time in lieu of my usual Old World Third Grade Dictionary With Pictures, that is to wit: the maw of a ferocious being or animal (actually the stuff swallowed by the maw) - stayed miraculously down. There were road trips and hikes, dinners in and out - the best of which was at friends B and L's house on Easter Sunday or, as it is called hereabouts...okay just by me, Zombie Day - golf, cocktails on the patio and elsewhere, jokes, conversations and dogs. There are always the dogs for amusement. There will be photos to follow, Woowoo Charly took ten or twelve, JB took eight or nine...hundred!, so the experience was duly chronicled in picture form.

Other happy notes to we here in the great Panama Outback are these: son Todd is pondering a visit in June or July and daughter Dara and mate are pondering a house purchase. Woowoo Charly is pondering a weight gain of several ounces and I'm pondering lunch. The first two of those have us goofily excited, which is the best kind.

Finally, I find myself compelled to note for reasons even I can't comprehend, that I have writing projects enough before me to fill my days and nights for weeks on end. With that in mind, I will now move to the TV room to catch the Manchester United vs. Porto FC soccer match in the quarterfinals of the UEFA tournament. Should be a good one.

Poetry Begone

I'm writing this blog so that any one new who stumbles upon Monkeymind won't be greeted by my terrible poem. Regulars will forgive me as they've read my rhyming before and know that the poetry muse seldom lingers long in my neighborhood.

I don't really have much to say. I just read a fredoneverything.net column that depressed me -it was about urban blacks - and my usual cheery morning mood has se fue (gone). Of course I have noticed while rereading my first paragraph that the words lingers long are fun to say together and that helps a bit. I also have Sportscenter to look forward to. It's a place I go to to contemplate whether the names Hannah Storm and Sage Steele are real or adopted. Both ladies are in the "fox" category - at least I think so - and could probably get by with monikers like Madeline Melwinski or Clara Shultz but Storm and Steele are nice icing on the cake. For those unfamiliar with the Sportscenter, these ladies are very competent sports announcers.

Later today Woowoo Charly and I will be taking the three puppyteers to the vet for more inoculations to prevent distemper, parvo, rabies, acne, flat feet and other conditions dogs are heir to. Finnegan, the Golden, I need add for those of you who know of the pup, is growing at a rate that, should it continue, will have us building an airport hangar to house him in a few more months. We will soon have kibble delivered by semis.

Friend "Joe Bob" will be arriving tomorrow for a short visit. Other than that I have nothing else to report but a sudden urgency to vacate my keyboard. There is a rhyme upon me with which I have a date. There is no help for me, you see, it's near, it's here.

Too late.

I Live Dreaming

This month's writer's group assignment was to write something that started with "I live.." I didn't feel like grinding out a story that began that way so I opted for my feeble brand of poetry. To wit"

I Live Dreaming
By Doc Walton


I live in a Dream and fear not the waking

Reality’s a place that’s just more of my making.



In Dream there’s a life filled up of my choosing,

Tranquility reigns midst the hours of musing.

My reality differs so little from snoozing

I frequently wonder which state I am using.


You see I’m a man that is usually pleased

And the joy of the natural I’m most quick to seize.

I’m not of the type that are too often teased

The ones who would purchase their comfort and ease.


I like sunsets and puppies and writing a bit.

I like cheering my teams and using my wit.

I like loving and laughter they’re such a good fit.

To the above and much more I am quick to submit.



Should you see me about all shiny and beaming

Just buy me a drink … so I’ll know I’m not dreaming.



Hah!

Fear and Loathing in Valle Escondido

I'm a golf ball. I've got more dimples than a Hollywood starlet, but that's another story. I'm here today as a designated spokesball for all our kind, be they Titleist, Top Flite, Srixon, Pinnacle or any other brand and for balls of all colors and conditions, white, pink, yellow, orange, pristine, cut, dented, new or old, to talk about the abuse we have recently been subjected to at the Valle Escondido Golf Course.

As you all know, we golf balls have been carefully designed to withstand and actually enjoy being struck solidly by metal objects and hurtled into the air to fly gracefully and majestically onto fairways and greens. There we can land softly and patiently await the feel of the next good whack. Of late though, this has not been occurring. I don't want to name names for fear I might be exposed and put into play by these next, but four players in particular have given rise to acts of golf abomination so dastardly that - if I may borrow a phrase from Hunter Thompson - I am choosing to call "Fear and Loathing in Valle Escondido." These...these...people - I'm having trouble calling them players - continually refuse to strike us properly and firmly on our centers so that we can reward them with sounds like thock and whoosh which indicate they have done well. Instead they thrash away like primitives new to club wielding and punish us with a series of blows that they refer to as "thin, fat, sliced, hooked, chunked, topped and damned near whiffed" but to us are simply pain. We are not meant to spin sideways as we fly through the air. We are not meant to go bouncing from the tee. We are not meant to roll far beyond the holes we seek. No, we are meant, instead, to be guided methodically towards our goal with no more than four thumpings along the way; an occassional five tolerated. These play...no - wait, I'm going to use the correct if somewhat profane term on condition that you do not tell the orb youngsters and frighten them in their sleeves - these DUFFERS have of late been carding sixes and sevens on a regular basis. Little wonder that we flee into the jungle and dive into lakes and streams. Hiding is our only recourse. By doing so we spread the suffering over several of our kind and no one ball has to bear the abuse for more than two or three holes.

I offer this as a warning to all the balls in Boquete including Noodles, Nikes, Range and Brand X. If you find yourself in a bag owned by any of a foursome with these nicknames: D.B (double bogey) Johnson, Woowoo Where-did-it-go Charly, RTGFKAR (routinely topping golfballs from kinetic action reactions) and Doc What-the hell-was-that, run I tell you, run for your life! Fall out of the bag in the parking lot and roll under the car. Don't come out of the ball washer. Seek the nearest pond or puddle. Leap quietly from the cart. In short, get lost, get lost, get lost. It's your only hope.

Tiger Tiger Burning Bright

I watched Tiger Woods being Tiger Woods yesterday, a thing he does better than almost everyone. I say almost because, like MLK I have a dream. And in my dream there is a guy who looks a lot like me kicking Tiger's patootie all over the Valle Escondido Golf Course. "Take that Tiger" I say as I roll in yet another 25 footer. Truth is Tiger could beat me teeing off with a coke bottle - a thing Trevino used to do when playing with amateurs - and putting with a baseball bat...or vice versa. Still, I have that dream.

None of that, however, is the reason Tiger comes to mind on this shiny Monday morning. What really captured my attention yesterday and lingered on my consciousness along with the song "Baby Come To Me" by Patti Austin and James Ingram which I recently downloaded to my Ipod, was the gushing the announcers did over Tiger's daily workout schedule. "Incredible" they said. "Unbelievable" they went on. "Did you ever do anything like that?" they asked each other. "Not even for one day" Johnny Miller the analyst relied.

"Give me a break" was what I said.

Tiger's schedule, if I remember correctly and I doubt I'm far off, goes something like this: He gets up at six a.m. and works out with weights for ninety minutes. After that he has breakfast and then he hits golf balls for awhile, putts for awhile and then plays nine holes of golf. He then has lunch, followed by hitting more golf balls, putting again and then playing another nine holes of golf. He finishes off his "work" day with another half hour on the putting green.

Now I realize this must seem an overly arduous day to the slugs sitting on their butts in the announcer's booth, but let's be serious ladies and gentlemen; Tiger has a nice workout in the gym every morning and then PLAYS GOLF ALL FREAKING DAY! I don't know a single person who has ever hoisted a pitching wedge who wouldn't swap their miserable day at the office or turned in their tools for Tiger's regimen! I mean, I'm RETIRED and it doesn't seem half bad to me!

So get a grip word jockeys in the booth, and remember there are real people out there listening to you.

Okay, rant over.

Good to have Tiger back being Tiger. I mean he is SO GOOD I don't know why he keeps dodging me.

AAAHHHHHHH !

My stomach is upset, my back hurts and I'm sleep deprived. We have puppies. (Sounds more like someone with a baby...a fat baby.)

Did you ever notice that after you turn sixty...okay fifty...okay thirty-five, you make a sound as you plop down onto a cushy chair or fall into bed? It's a verbal exclamation halfway between pleasure and relief; a sigh of contentment, at last. Aahhh doesn't quite capture it and neither does ooooh, but they are close. If you are part of the post thirty-five set and are not making this sound, you should be, as it is the equal of the verbal satisfaction universally enjoyed after the first sip of a cold beer on a hot day. The only person I know who does not often give forth with this cry of delight is Woowoo Charly, who, not having any measurable weight, fails to dent either cushion or mattress as she descends onto them and thus does not experience that sinking into softness feeling.

RTGFKAR, Woowwoo and I played golf yesterday with a Chinese Panamanian named Gene something. I think it was Lau or Wow or Chow. I didn't quite catch it. Whenever Gene would hit a bad tee shot, he would take a murrigan. As these second shots were always better than his first, I'm thinking that I too will be taking murrigans in the future; mulligans having failed me far too often in the past. At days end, Gene said it was a pressure to meet us and he hoped to play with us again sometime. He was a nice guy.

I'm going back to bed now to rest my aching back and calm my tumultuous tummy. RTGFKAR and Woowoo are up and the pups are now in their care. I will ease back onto our mattress covered with four inches of "miracle foam" and silently, to myself, let out that wonderful exhalation of joy. To do so aloud would alert our four legged fiends that I am down and vulnerable. Wish me luck.

It's all novel to me.

I've got a couple of dvd's from an unknown origin. They are in bright yellow sleeves and have titles printed on their shiny silver surfaces. Some of the titles are: "Gunpowder", "Ice Age 2", "The End of Silence", "Unknown White Male", "Cocaine Cowboys", "The Champagne Gang", and "Bridge To Terabithia". I think they are movies, but when I try to play them I get kaleidoscope designs on the screen. Does anyone have any idea where I got these discs and what they are? I must have acquired them sometime ago, before I had a new computer. I'm guessing they wouldn't play on my old laptop, so I put them away and completely forgot about them.

Alrighty then.

And speaking of the old computer, I'm using it simultaneously with this one. It's over to my left grunting through its tasks. I won't say it's slow, but after I assign it a function, I come over to this one and write a novel before going back to it. Hold on a sec while I write another.

Call me Ishmael. (Wait! Somebody already wrote that one.) Okay, Howard Rourk stood naked on the edge of a cliff. (Hmmm, that sounds familiar too.) Maybe all the good beginnings have been already used. As the bullet entered the part of his chest where his heart should be, Ishmael Howard gave a derisive snort and continued toward his prey, the naked reptile gunman. (Bet nobody has used that one.) Wait here while I check the other computer.

I'm back. In addition to writing the first sentence of new novels, which is more than enough for me, I'm reading an entire book by by a writer named Neal Stephenson. Neal starts his with a haiku and then rambles on for 1152 pages of small print. Apparently brevity is not his long suit, which is a pretty funny thing to say if you ask me and I'm sure I heard someone do that. To keep from expiring during the pages of "Cryptonomicon", (see even the title is long) I'm also reading "Joyful Wisdom" by Yongey Mingyur Rinpoche which is a nom-de-plume for a guy from the south Bronx posing as an asian monk. His real name is Fred Smoot but c'mon, who would read a spiritual text by Fred Smoot....and I'm reading in Spanish another Paulo Coelho tome entitled "Ser como el rio que fluye" which in English also means something. Hey, I'm a busy guy.

My main occupation of late though, is playing my new guitar and my new Ipod. I use the first for noise and the second for music.

If my Monkeymind logo is back at the top of this blog, my old computer will have completed its task and I am done for the day.

Jude

For those of you curious about how my Bible project is going, here is a sample,the first draft of the book of Jude.


The Book of Jude whose last name is Better Pay Attention

Hey, Jude’s letter to fellow believers is coming up right after this message from our sponsors: Mercy, peace, love and good pizza be yours in abundance.

Chapter 1. The Sin and Doom of Ungodly people. You know who I’m talking about.

Dear Friends,

I’ve been eager to write to you about the salvation and hot times in the old town we share, but first I’ve got to tell you we have to fight for the faith the Big Guy’s Son entrusted us with. That and better cable programming. There are certain individuals - whose fate it has been written will not be too swell - who have secretly slipped in among you. That’s right, you heard me, they’re freakin' spies. These are ungodly people who pervert the grace of God into a license for immorality. Some of you probably don’t know you have to get a license for immorality, but don’t worry, the test is a piece of cake. They also deny that Jesus is our only Sovereign and Lord Mucky-muck. I mean the nerve of these people! Some of them are easy to spot, right wing talk show hosts, Amway salesmen, big time money making preachers, pin striped ball players, etc., but others are downright sneaky, so be on your guard.

Though you already know all of this next, I’ll be redundant and remind you again that The Big Fella once delivered his people out of Egypt, but later smote the hell out of those who didn’t believe. I mean you gotta believe, right? And don’t forget those angels who didn’t keep up with their positions of authority and wandered off from their proper nests. Well, you know what happens to them, but I will tell you again anyway. They are bound up in chains and kept in darkness until Judgment Day rolls around when it’s really going to go bad for them. I’m talking bad. Like an itch on your wings that you can’t reach bad. Be thankful you are not one of those angels. Let Sodom and Gomorrah which gave themselves up to sexual immorality and perversion – that stuff they did with lettuce was truly gross – serve as an example of those who suffer the heartbreak of both psoriasis and eternal fire!

In the same way, on the strength of their screwed up dreams, these ungodly people pollute their bodies with Ripple and Lone Star while they reject the port of authority and say “your momma!” to celestial beings. Even the Archangel, I Want To Be Like Michael, when he was duke-ing it out with the devil didn’t dare to call him names.

He just said “The Lord rebuke you” which made him feel better but didn’t really phase the devil all that much. Yet these ungodly people speak abusively against whatever they do not understand, things like Physics and the West Coast Offense. What they do understand by instinct, cheesecake is good but you shouldn’t eat too much for instance, these are the very things that will do them in. Well, maybe not the cheesecake thing, but stuff kind of like that.

Woe to them! They have taken the way of Cane and Steinbrenner. They have rushed for profit into Balaam and Buckner’s error and they have been destroyed in Korah’s Jimmy Dean-like teen rebellion.

These people are blemishes at your love feasts, like pimples on the pudding. They eat with you and never pick up a tab. They are shepherds who don’t feed their flock, but flock to their feed. They are clouds without rain and I’m not talking about those big fluffy white ones. They are autumn trees without fruit that are uprooted. That makes them doubly dead, which is a hard thing to be. They are wild waves of the sea foaming up shame which is really difficult to surf on. They are wandering stars of track and field forever in the dark, getting suspended and fined over and over again. Black darkness and dark blackness have been reserved for them. They’re going to need serious flashlights.

Enoch, seven times removed from Adam and six times from Kevin Bacon, said about these people: “The Big WahHunka is coming with thousands of his holy ones to judge everyone, but mainly to convict the ungodly, who committed ungodly acts, in an ungodly way because of their ungodly desires and then spoke ungodly and defiant words to the Big Fella. If you ask me, that’s really pushing it. You’d think these ungodly geeks would be happy with their world class ungodliness, but no, they are grumblers, faultfinders, boasters and unrepentant flatterers of others to their own advantage. You get the picture? These guys are bad company.

Chapter 2 A Call to Hang in There

But listen to this dear friends, remember what JC’s apostles and Dionne Warfield predicted. When it comes time for the end game, there will be scoffers saying “scoff scoff” and following their own ungodly desires such as wanting to see the Yankees win another Series. These are people who divide you and follow their own mere natural instincts. Don’t be trusting your instincts, trust your outstincts because they have true team Spirit.

By building yourself up in holy faith and with Soloflex and Jack LaLaine videos, and praying like all get out, you will hang on to the Mighty Man’s love while you are hanging around waiting for His Kid to bring you eternal life.

But be merciful to those who doubt, they are just a bunch of doubting Bob’s. And save others by snatching them from the fire. I recommend some kind of flame retardant suit when you do that one, and show mercy, but mix it with some fear like that of a good smack upside the head with a two by four and also, and this is a bigee, hate clothing stained by corrupted flesh. Say, “shame on you clothing, shame on you.”

Doxology, Which is Not As I Have Noted Before, Doc’s Ology

Here’s to the guy who keeps you from stumbling so you can be presented before The Big Guy without fault or skinned knees and to the Savior His Own Fat Self go glory, majesty, good seats at the big game, power, and authority. Amen and bottoms up!

Blood Raiders

Also not my "bag", but also fun to write was this month's writer's club assignment. The theme was SciFi. (What is my bag anyway? I'm sure I have one.)



Blood Raiders
By Doc Walton



Their blood lust momentarily sated, the crew of the Vladmir Tepes lay in a deep, dreamless coma as their craft knifed up through gravity and on into space. Left behind was an eerily quiet planet. There had been life there once, animal life and a scattering of adventurous humans. Now though, a few scant months later, all was silent, all was still.

*

On Argon7 a call went out for help. This most distant stop of mankind’s reach was located on the cusp of the Milky Way and Galatia. It had an earthlike atmosphere, rare in either galaxy, and supported a human colony of some three thousand people on its surface without artificial aid. Although it was small, approximately the size of Earth’s moon, its densely oxygenated environment and lazy orbit around a distant sun – its days
and nights were 45 hours long - made it a haven for thousands of blood bearing species, both indigenous and imported. Humankind had arrived at Argon 7 some twenty years earlier and, having learned how from colonization elsewhere, adapted themselves seamlessly into the fabric of the planet. Their purpose was to create a platform for mankind’s next venture into unexplored space and their first launch was nearing readiness.

Chief Petty Officer Mina Murray received the curiously unencrypted message from Deltaan, Argon’s7’s nearest planetary neighbor. It simply read, “They’re coming.” Repeated attempts to acquire elaboration had failed and Murray worried that one of the relay satellites blinking in orbit between the two planets had shut down. If this was in fact the case, Argon7 would be cut off from all other human outposts. When it was clear that further contact with Deltaan seemed unlikely, Murray forwarded the message to her cousin, Jonathan Harker, the base commander.

Admiral Harker read it and gave two orders. The first put a reconnaissance ship on its way to Deltaan, a trip of five Argon7 days, and the second had ComU personnel sending distress calls both directed and random in hopes of attracting the attention of anyone anywhere. If Deltaan was silent, something was seriously wrong.

Two days into its recon voyage to Deltaan, Argon 7’s explorer craft picked up distress signals from a spaceship identifying itself as the Vladimir Tepes. The explorer’s crew charted a course for an interception and Argon 7 was advised. The last communication from the explorer craft was logged some two hours, eleven minutes later. “We are boarding the Tepes now, stand by for further Intel” were the words spoken by the craft’s pilot, Captain John Seward. Neither Seward nor any one of his four man crew was ever heard from again.

Admiral Harker issued a red alert and began making defensive preparations. Laser shields were activated, space fighters readied their crafts.

First Officer Lucy Westenra queried the Base Computer for information on the Vladimir Tepes and received a “not in files” response. An order for a further search by personnel in Archives was made and Archives self dubbed “geeks” set to work. A day later they reported that the information they had was sketchy and very old. If what they uncovered was to be believed, some two hundred seventy years ago, nine “Immortals” as they were then referred to, had been sealed in their caskets, placed on board the Tepes, and then launched from Earth into distant space. Even less believable were mentions that the Immortals fed on blood and shunned light of any sort, but particularly sunlight. “Geek” consensus was that some work of fiction had crossed into the Tepes computer file and corrupted the data.

Admiral Harker agreed, but ordered a doubling of the alert staff during the hours of darkness as an extra precaution. Following that, there was little else to do but wait. The Vladimir Tepes, if Arkon 7 was indeed its destination, would arrive he reasoned, within the next two days.

*

The newly commissioned Starship Demeter exited Blackhole Carpathia on its shakedown cruise and was testing its ComU ports when it picked up the distress signal from Arkon7. Its captain and commander, Victor Van Helsing, ordered an immediate cessation of further testing and plotted a course to that distant planet; its projected travel time; an Earth week.

*

On board the Tepes, the Immortals were rising from boxes of their native soil to feed on the animals they had captured and stored for that purpose. A darkness scheduled to their biological rhythms had enveloped the craft’s interior and each of the creatures rose from its casket with a ravenous hunger. Exotic and ferocious animals collected from the planets of several galaxies were loosed from their cages, but presented no difficulties to the Immortals whose strength and quickness assured them of a kill. The animals were gathered and quickly torn to shreds by tooth and claw filed to razor sharpness. Flesh was rendered and blood was drained. Both were consumed

The Tepes had drifted in space for over a hundred years before the Immortals had deciphered its encoded navigational specifications and learned to control the ship’s course. Since then, the craft had wended its way slowly back to within Earth’s long space arm, stopping often to feed on planets supporting blood bearing creatures and to restock their ship with the live food they needed.

Deltaan had been the Immortals first encounter with human beings since their departure from Earth. Initially they were cautious, fearing that a human species might have invented weapons of destruction from which even they might not be immune. When they learned that such was not the case, they feasted on their natural food for the first time in centuries. With appetites now whetted by the rich, metallic taste of human blood, the Immortals programmed the Tepes’ auto-navigator to Argon7 and returned to their coffins. The next darkness would bring them into orbit.

*

When the Demeter arrived at Argon7 space, Van Helsing put it into a close orbit, one within easy reach of the surface by its Human Transport Module. It also circled the planet on its sunny side, directly opposed to the orbit of the Vladimir Tepes which moved in perpetual darkness. Communication with the Argon7’s remaining inhabitants – their number had been reduced by half – was established and an advance team was HTM-ed to the planet’s surface. An emergency query was directed to Earth Central from the Demeter’s advanced ComU System for information about the Tepes.

*

The only weaponry extant on Argon7 was located at the travelport where the Spaceprobe R.R. Renfield awaited its first voyage into the unknown. It was to there that Admiral Harker called for the planet’s people to make a last stand or, if firepower failed, to flee in the Renfield, a craft designed for deep probes into outer space, but not for transporting large human populations. Fewer than seven hundred people made it safely to the travelport. The rest, along with the Demeter’s advance team and most of the planet’s other blood bearing fauna, were torn apart for Immortal instant gratification or brought to the Tepes for later consumption.

*


The Intel reply from Earth Central to the Demeter was startling. The Immortals, according to their files, had almost instant regenerative powers and could not be killed by anything other than prolonged sunlight. A scientist who was, curiously, the great grandfather of Commander Van Helsing, had uncovered the locations of each of the nine Immortals and crafted the plan that ultimately led to their being captured in their coffins and launched into distant space, never, it was hoped, to be dealt with again.

A good plan, Van Helsing thought, but not one likely to work a second time. He would have to devise one of his own. “Get me to Harker” he ordered, “I need to conference.”


*

Admiral Harker had made every preparation he and his staff could think of to ready for the assault they knew would come as they became the planet’s last blooded beings. He was surprised when an HTM from the Demeter appeared within his defensive perimeter and Van Helsing strode from it. Why would anyone risk coming to Argon7 now? The question of evacuation to the Demeter had already been considered and found implausible. The ship’s lone HTM could only transport three people at a time and it would take too long to move the population. Who would be saved and who would be left to die were decisions Harker was not willing to make. Van Helsing, he was to learn, now had a better idea; an idea that became the planet’s best hope.

Argon7’s remaining populace began to dig.

*

The Immortals encircled and then closed on the travelport compound. Though their blood thirst was net yet sated, they were unhurried. The humans, after all, had no place to go. The nine Undead, as they had also once been called, were enjoying this hunt, this freedom from the confines of the Tepes, now guarded by mechanical drones. All nine would be there at the last to literally taste and savor their victory and drink in its blood reward. They moved slowly and deliberately towards the circle’s center, driving the last of the humans before them.

Harker and Van Helsing were the final two into the tunnel that lay at the center of the Immortals diminishing circle. They waited just long enough in the tunnel’s corridor to hear the blood eaters follow them, then ran quickly to the tunnel’s end inside the Spaceprobe Renfield. Argon7 technicians were already there locking in the final navigational directions for the ship’s immanent departure. When all was in readiness, Harker, Van Helsing and the techies disappeared through an adjoining hatch and into yet another recently dug tunnel, this one leading away from the craft. With them were the Renfield’s launch controls and three explosive detonators.

*

All nine Immortals entered the tunnel driven by a blood lust gone suddenly urgent. Their hunger had been awakened by the arrogance of the pitiful food things who thought they could deny them. They raced through the tunnel and then up into the ship, each one ready to appease its unholy appetite. But there was no one there; no one, no thing, no blood or flesh to render. There was nothing, just the suddenly noisy rumble of the craft’s engines starting to fire. As if with one thought, the Immortals fled backwards to the tunnel only to find it collapsed from the first of Van Helsing’s planned explosions. Another explosion and then a third sealed the second tunnel and the craft’s natural exits. The Immortals were cleverly and effectively trapped. There was rage among them then, violent, furious rage, but in the end, there was nothing they could do.

As the Spaceprobe Renfield began to ascend, a boarding party from the Demeter landed on the Vladimir Tepes and quickly overcame its defensive drones. All Immortal captives were released.

On Arkon7 the planet’s survivors watched the Renfield climb rapidly into space and disappear before loosing a deafening cheer. Jonathan Harker and Victor Van Helsing were among the loudest. Beside them, a thoughtful Mina Murray waited for the din to subside then quietly, almost sadly, pointed out that the Immortals were gone again, but possibly, probably, not for good. If they could survive without their coffins and native soil, the Immortals would one day return to ravage human kind again.

“I don’t think so,” Admiral Harper was quick to point out, “Because, you see, this time, Cousin, they are not being sent into far distant space. This time, their locked in, fixed, unalterable destination…is the sun.

Weather, Dogs and Other Stuff

The trees are being lashed by wind and rain and complaining loudly. I don't blame them. Despite the continual waves-crashing-on-the-beach like sound, I can hear one determined bird cackling maniacally somewhere to my left. Must be an avian version of the guy who finds it clever to say something he thinks funny during a moment of silence. Yeah, I know, that's me or one of my boys. It's the third consecutive morning that I've had to confront this weather mess when I let the pups out at 6:30 to do their daily do-do.

Make that four consecutive days. I wrote that first paragraph yesterday. I guess I should also point out that each morning serves up a decent rainbow that arcs across the persistent grey glop that is our sky, but I find little joy in that as it does not herald the end of the rain. It's anachronistic, if that's the word I'm looking for and knew how to spell.

What I mostly miss is my dog walk. I don't have nearly the grit needed to bend into the wind and rain while trying to restrain three frisky pups. Too bad I say, because the walk gives the dogs needed exercise and provides me a spell of what I think of as meditation. I used to do the traditional kind where one sits quietly and watches his thoughts drift by without judgment, but the dog walk serves to do the same thing and adds a modicum of calorie burning, cardio stimulating, aerobic action to the mix. Nice. It is, actually, all the religion I really need as I feel very close to the big Oneness while being dragged along by ever-in-the-present puppies. I wonder if they can access a third eye and be an impartial observer of their own thoughts. Puppies seem to lack a spiritual sense, but grown dogs, it seems to me, often tap into something apart from themselves. You can see them staring into that "middle distance", accessing who knows what. Probably though, it's just an unfamiliar scent traveling on the wind, but I like to think it is something more supernatural.

Special K arrives in Panama tomorrow and we are stoked and psyched and other euphemisms for excited about her visit. We truly hope the weather improves.

I may or may not be blogging during her stay, but I will be posting a sci-fi horror story within the next week or so.

Tal-way-go.

Talking 'bout the Weather

I have now finished rewriting Matthew (Gezundeit!), Mark (Mywords), Revelation (T cornpone)and am ready to start on Luke (Warm). Big Fun. First though, I have to finish a space epic I began yesterday, tentatively entitled "Blood Raiders", for this month's Writer's Group assignment. Also Big Fun.

Weather here in the Palo Alto (Tall Stick) section of Boquete continues to be, in my less than humble opinion, ah, what's the right word?, I know, crappy. We are getting more sunshine of late but it is usually accompanied by wind and that is often accompanied by "bajareque" the lovely Panamanian word for mountain mist which is in itself a lovely term. All that loveliness, though, just obscures the fact that bajareque is effing rain, you know, the stuff that makes you wet...and cold. I try to remind myself that climate conditions have improved greatly from recent weeks, but I know that is like saying this new kick in the shins is better than last month's kick in the groin. It gives me no solace. Still...I'm not complaining, I'm not complaining,...the hell I'm not. But then, somebody has to.

The reason for my sudden disaffection with all things afuera (outside)is clearly Tiger Woods. He made a reappearance on my television screen yesterday playing golf in splendid weather. Never was he pictured grabbing his hat to keep it from blowing off or discovered squinting into sideways rain. This, clearly, is what millions of dollars can do for you; buy good weather. (The shots of the golf course taken from a blimp above show a parched desert with 18 patches of non indigenous green. That green, for those who don't know, is money.)

Okay, I admit it. My complaining is "tongue-in-cheek" - a thing that makes talking coherently impossible - and weather conditions here, compared to where you are, are "not that bad." "Not that bad" though, and paradise can't be used in the same context. Paradise excludes "not that bad." Henceforth I will desist from calling Boquete paradise until the wind becomes a gentle breeze, the rain ceases to fall, the sun shines in a cloudless sky and temperatures hover in the seventies. In other words, when I next play golf.

I'm jonesing real bad.

Dogs in the Wild

We set up our camp on a mountainside in north western Panama. It was here we hoped to gather data and learn more about the habits of the dog species commonly referred to as the short-legged, stump-tailed, floppy eared Goofus Canineus. The male of the species, the Cocker, we learned, differs only from the female, the Vaginer, in having a less aggressive temperament and a, usually, somewhat smaller size. Apart from these minor differences, gender proved irrelevant to our studies.

After several years of general observation of Goofi and other related species in the area, we focused our attention on a newborn pair of the pack and determined to concentrate solely on them in hopes of achieving a greater in-depth understanding of the type. We named them Rafael and Mathilda.

The first bit of data gathered about the pups - the young of the species are referred to as pups - indicated that the Goofi awaken with the dawn of each new day. In order to capture the full scope of their activities it would be necessary for one of we scientists to arise with them. Team member Doctor D.L.Walton, fully credentialed by the Society for the Prevention of Society, being a so called "morning person" volunteered to witness and record the pups early activities. Here are his initial findings:

"Somewhat before achieving a state of full wakefulness, the pups begin to whine, cry, growl and exhibit other signs of annoyance at the darkness. As the first ray of light slips into their domicile, the pups begin to mock fight in a playful manner which we believe is a defensive preparation for attacks from a competing local species, the infamous Kitty Cat. A grumbling adult of the pup's pack, awakened by their fussing, then arises and leads them from their sheltered sleeping space and off into the surrounding open area where they will deposit their urine and scat in a seemingly random manner. By careful study of this habit though, we have concluded that the placement of the scat is a deliberate effort by the pups to have it stepped upon by careless natives and thus spread over a greater area. Curiously, a canineus pup of another type, a member of the Doofi family, has been adopted by the pack and trails happily after the Goofi, imitating their every move. We have named him Finnegan.

After ridding themselves of waste, the pups go in search of nourishment, which we researchers refer to as "reloading." The adult of the pack is seen to go into a space that is part of the Goofi and Doofi's jungle home and return with bowls of food that have been stored there. The pups wait impatiently outside. Each pup receives his bowl excitedly. They must, however, be kept apart as they eat, because the one we call Rafael will chase the others from their bowls and, to use the most technical of terms, bogart all the food for himself.

After eating, the pups will spend the next hour or so romping around in a form of play we refer to as "annoying the adult." Attempts will be made to attract the adult's attention by doing things such as chewing on objects they shouldn't, disappearing for too long a time, fighting too roughly with each other, digging where they shouldn't, and otherwise trying to elicit from the adult cries of "no, stop, quit that and where the hell are you." This behavior seems common to both the Goofi and the Doofi. When the adult arrives at what we scientists refer to as "wits end" he leaves in search of another to take his place. The pups will then repeat their actions in an attempt to drive this new adult into a state we call "round -the-bend." Fortunately, the pups eventually tire and the adults of the pack are given respite when the pups collapse and nap.

The Canineus Goofi and Doofi have varied and interesting lives throughout the day, all of which will be chronicled at a later date when greater data has been accumulated.

Fast Food Funky

I had a Subway Sandwich for dinner last night. Boquete's first fast food franchise is Subway and that makes me - I was going to say "a happy camper" but that's so cliche I just can't do it - Not that I don't use cliches; I use them all the time when I'm talking, (I need to work on that as well) but when writing I ought to be more careful, so instead of a happy camper I'm going with - an ebullient, which can mean "overflowing with enthusiasm," tent pitcher, although I don't really know what camping has to do with it in the first place. (Punctuation sticklers feel free to be hands on with this paragraph if hands on is not an over used cliche.) I love Subway sandwiches; the in-house baked bread, the chilled cold cuts, the fresh veggies - and here I was going to say accouterments but I don't know how to spell it - choices, the servers with their surgical white rubber gloves. It's all good I tell ya and I say that with the certain knowledge that both "it's all good" and "I tell ya" are cliches no longer in common use, so I am at liberty to revive them. And in addition to these wonders, you can, apparently, eat Subway sandwiches, lose three or four hundred pounds and get filthy rich - wait! Filthy rich won't do. Let's go with - disgustingly well heeled - no! Well heeled won't work either - fat banked. (Yeah that's good; lose body fat, gain bank fat) making commercials like that guy Jarod. This is such an appealing way to make money that I am considering putting on the necessary weight to apply for the job. However, to do that I would probably have to stay away from Subway sandwiches. These are the dilemmas we jubilados have to face.

There are days when the monkeymind can not be restrained without a whip and a chair.

RTGFKAR and I made another foray into lovely and talented David yesterday. This time to put in motion the process of obtaining RTGF's driver's license and series two of Finnegan the pup's inoculations. Only the latter went as planned. There were delays, crossed signals, waits and money changing hands to accomplish RTGFKAR passing his driver's test without ever leaving his chair. The certificate of such is now headed for Panama City where it will be approved and stamped - always the stamp in Latin America - and then sent back to David, after which, and this is just wonderful, RTGFKAR will be allowed to take his written test for which he has already paid someone to accompany him and provide the correct answers. After that, quien sabe? which is Spanish for who knows? and by using it I cleverly dodge the use of who knows? in English which is a possible cliche.

You may think I have now abandoned the theme of fast food restaurants but you would be wrongo Burger Breath. At one point in the day we were left with but a mere half hour to lunch; not time enough to even attract the attention of a waiter in many Panamanian restaurants. But lo! There on the horizon were the Golden Arches. A zip through the Drive-in where it is entertaining to speak Spanish into a speaker that returns your request in what sounds like Farsi spoken under water and we were on our way chicken McNuggets, fries and soda pops in hand. (In order to achieve the poundage necessary to qualify for Subway commercials, additional visits to Micky D's might be necessary.)

Now, you think, he will move off to another topic, but alas, Thick Shake Belly Rumble, you would again be wrong. There is more.

We had a third goal on our agenda ayer, which is Spanish for yesterday because I didn't want to say yesterday again, but now I have gone and done it anyway. That goal was to bring back KFC for Woowoo Charly. A couple of David trips ago I had forgotten to do that very thing. There was Big Trouble on the home front on that occasion and, as you know, Big Fun is my cliche of choice on an everyday basis. As we motored into Dolega, a town roughly half way home, it occurred to me I was remiss again. We had departed David in a New...Haven hurry, dog and people being - of course I was going to say "over it", but the monkeymind is still alert - distraught by the difficulty of the day and thus KFC was not on our minds. Well, maybe the dog's, but I can't be certain. What to do, what to do? Carry on I decided, and I'll think of something. When, after several stops, we arrived back at Casa Dragon Something - I forget what RTGFKAR named it - I had in my possession a nice pollo burrito, a Subway sandwich and a small box containing earrings and a necklace. These turned out to be adequate substitutions for KFC.

Alrighty then. It is late morning and I am now officially ravenous. "Hey Babe. Do we have any cheesecake?"

Watch out Jarod, I'm after your job.

More dog stuff...mostly

If Alex Rodriguez, who reportedly earns 27 million dollars per year, wished to be included on the Forbes magazine's 400 richest men in America list, he would have to have ten times as much at the end of a year as he does now. Just thought I'd mention it.

I wasn't going to blog around the block this morning; didn't feel like it. And yet, here I am. Don't know what that's all about.

I've been told that one should always be suspicious of merchandise being sold from someone's garage or the trunk of their car. The stuff is probably hot. I don't know how this relates to veterinary services, but yesterday we had Raffi and Matti, our Cocker Spaniel pups, spayed/neutered in a neighbor's garage. Doctor Dan Evers, a U.S. vet, comes to Panama on a regular basis and sets up shop in his two car and then some garage. He brings with him to Panama more equipment and veterinary support paraphernalia than we have seen in any Panamanian vet's office to date. Woowoo Charly and I got to assist in the two operations - more or less, mostly we watched - and observe close up what happens. Matti turned out to be a bit of a problem. After she was anesthetized, a portion of her underside was shaved and disinfected. Dr. Dan then made a neat incision there about two inches long. After that he began probing about inside the incision. He probed and then he probed some more. "What are you looking for?" I asked, because it seemed like a reasonable question. "The uterus" he replied. "She is so small it is difficult to find." He then began removing stuff gently from her insides, "intestines and ligaments", until he had a pile of these gooey things about the size of a fist mounded outside the incision. The word that came to my mind as it often does when seeing something unexpected was "Yikes!" Dr. Dan eventually located the uterus which was a very tiny thing indeed. He clamped it and cut it and sewed it and then stuffed the other stuff back inside the dog. After that, he quickly and neatly sewed three layers of stitches.

While Raffi was being, ah, attended to, I left to rescue our car which we had abandoned on the side of our servidumbre because the way was blocked by a dump truck there to aid in the road's repair. It was nearing five in the afternoon and past Panamanian worker's quitting time, so I guessed the route would now be unimpeded and I was right. I didn't really care that I was missing Raffi's testicle demise. Matti's ordeal had been enough for me.

Both dogs were "out of it" for quite awhile after we returned home, but they had a quiet night and seem okay, but of course subdued, this morning. We have had to put one of those goofy collars on Raffi to keep him from bothering his stitches.

Our third pup, the Golden, got a check up by Dr. Dan and was declared perfect. He's depressed this morning because the other dogs don't want to wrestle with him.

Somewhere along the day's way, we learned that one of the brothers of our friend Dalys had died. We didn't know the brother but we extend our condolences to Dalys, her immediate family and her two brothers, Alberto and Rolando that we do know. Lo siento senores.

Noir You Ready?

Here's my "noir" story. Not really my bag, but fun to write anyway.



Pony Tale
By Doc Walton


The sign on the door reads “Peter Malone, Private Investigator.”

Big deal.

I was half drunk, wearing a slept in suit and down to my last sawbuck when she appeared in my doorway like the sun bursting through a cloud. I mean this dame could light up a room better than a 100 watt.

“Hello Pete” she said, “long time no see.”

I eased my chair back a little, clasped my hands behind my head and causally put my feet up on the desk. I was stalling for time, trying to picture where I’d seen her before.

“You don’t remember me do you?” she asked, not really looking for an answer. “I’m Sally Swan, Katie’s little sister.”

It hit me like a sledge. The Brat. The one that followed us around like a lost puppy. See Katie and I had had a thing a couple years back that threatened to get serious. Well, at least on my part. I was this close to popping the question when she tossed me out like last year’s shoes. I apparently didn’t fit her image of “Mr. Right.” Mr. Right, it turned out, was handsome, rich and connected. I couldn’t come up with one out of three. A month after she dumped me she hit the jackpot and was riding polo ponies

“Hello Brat,” I said. “You’ve grown some since I last saw you. Why don’t you pull up a chair and tell me what I can do you for.”

She snaked across the room to my desk with the kind of walk you’d stop everything just to watch. She had more curves than a Gran Prix race course and they all moved…well, you know how they moved, like a slinky on a stairway only without the hiss. She pulled the one other chair in the office around to the side of my desk so there’d be nothing between us. She was close enough I could smell her perfume. It was fragrant and flagrant, nothing subtle about it. Mixed nicely, I thought, with the bourbon stench drifting off my own self.

“So,” I ventured the moment she looked comfortable which was right away. “what brings you knocking on old Pete’s door?” I threw in the “old” as a reminder to myself I had ten years on her, maybe more.

Something troubled passed behind her eyes and she looked a little uncertain for the first time since she entered the room.

“Maybe you ought to offer a lady a drink before we get down to business, she said. “All you…you gumshoes, right?, you keep a bottle handy, doncha?”

I slid the desk drawer open and grabbed the bourbon and a couple of paper cups. I was looking at the Brat while I did so thinking she was what, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one? I poured a short one for her and long one for myself. I said “cheers” and threw mine back. She took a small sip and then went all soft eyed.

“Pete,” she said in a smaller, quieter voice, “Katie’s dead.”

I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. The booze in my gut went suddenly sour and my chest got tight as a navy knot. There was pain there, a new kind, something I’d never felt before.

“What happened?” I managed to ask with “Katie’s gone, Katie’s gone” screaming like a fresh wound in my head.

“I don’t know… really” the Brat, I mean Sally, said in small voice, something just a notch above a whisper.

She was nearing tears and losing her composure fast. Another man might have reached for her hand at that moment. I reached for the hooch. Poured us both a couple of fingers. This time she gulped, I sipped.

“The police” she went on, “the police say it was an accident. I don’t believe that. They say a horse in Carl’s string…Carl’s her husband…got startled or something, and broke through its stall door. They say it trampled her, Pete. They say they found the horse loose in the paddock outside the stable. It was frightened they said, and there was blood on its hooves. I… I just don’t believe them…It can’t be. You know Katie, Pete. She loved horses. Had a way with them. Katie was too...too…smart about them for this to happen like they said.”

I did know Katie. Horses and riding were her favorite things in life. I figured that’s why she’d left me for the polo putz in the first place. The police were probably right though. I mean it sounded open and shut to me, but this was Katie, my Katie…well almost anyway, and I felt closure, huh, closure, what a stupid word, might be good for both Sally and me.

“Listen Brat, er uh, Sally” I said. I’ll look into this. If something happened different from the police report, I’ll find out what it is. No promises, but you can count on me for that much.”

For a moment she looked reassured.

And then, because it was me…and because of the suit and the sawbuck and all that, I said, “Have you got any money?”


+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++


I started with the usual unreliable source, our local news-rag. I’d missed the story first time around. I usually scan the dailies to keep up and all that, but lately I’d had a couple Ray Milland episodes. You know “Lost Weekends.” The news reports told essentially the same story as Sally only with more words. “Society Dame Dies Ugly” was pretty much the gist. One quote though, from a day laborer hired to swab out the stalls, gave me an idea. I got an old bud, Jim Hannifin, on the horn and next morning with a work ticket in hand from Jim’s labor hall, I was on my way to Rocky Top Stables where Carl Bland boarded his string of ponies.

First thing I learned when I got there was polo ponies ain’t ponies, they’re horses. Second thing…manure smells like shit.

The day was a shovel, sweep, mop routine that took me from one end of the stable’s stalls to the other and then back again. I was playing open and friendly as I worked and saying hello to everybody that passed by, mostly trainers, grooms, owners and few rental horse riders. The trainers were all business, but the grooms didn’t mind passing a piece of day with a temp looking for gossip.

“Hey,” I said to each one, “isn’t this the place where that lady got killed by a horse a couple weeks back?”

“Yeah, crying shame that” was the response I got from most of them. Along about mid-afternoon though, when I was leaning on my shovel and wondering how it was possible for a horse to dump out more than it took in, a guy came strolling by I hadn’t seen before. His brow was all wrinkled up and his eyes had that peculiar inward stare a person gets when he’s thinking about something else and barely watching where he’s going.

“Excuse me Buddy” I said as I grabbed his arm to slow his progress. “You wouldn’t happen to have a smoke on ya, would ya?”

The guy’s eyes came back front and center and he looked at me a moment, kind of getting himself together.

“Huh?…yeah… sure,” he said, reaching into a shirt pocket, “but you can’t smoke in here, you hafta go outside.”

I gave him my “isn’t this the place where” spiel as he handed me an Old Gold and his eyes did a whole new thing. They jumped left and right a couple a times before getting still. The guy stopped completely, spun into a quick one eighty and then turned back to me again. Confident then I suppose, that no one else was listening, he said, “Yeah it is… and I was there.”

“No kidding?” I said, all perky with interest “That must have been something. Did you really see it happen?”

“Not the whole thing. I came in this end of the stable just as the horse went out
the other. It was first thing in the morning and it was just getting light. The stable was still kind of dark, but I saw the girl right away. She was lying there real still and there was blood all over the place. The thing is…the thing that bothers me…I mean I can’t be sure, I only got a quick glimpse…and it was dark…but when the horse ran through the doorway and into the light at the other end?... I think I saw someone riding it. You know, hunched over real low like a jockey.”

Guy got nervous after that. Realized he was sounding off to a total stranger. “Just seeing things I guess,” he said with a forced little chuckle. “Too much bracer in the morning cuppa joe” He gave me a little wave, turned, and shuffled off in a flat hurry like a man who just remembered he had something to do.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I put in a couple more days moving manure, but learned nothing further. I wasn’t sure where to go after that, so I called my bosom bud Moynihan down at the fourth precinct. Moyny and I used to run the streets together as kids. He got real straight as we grew up while I just got bent. By the time I got my act together I was pushing thirty and it was too late to get a real badge. Moyny had his gold shield by then. I told him what I’d heard at the stable.

“Ah, you know Petey me lad” he said in his completely affected Irish brogue. The man was fourth generation Mick, but he wouldn’t give it up. “The whole shebang reeks o’ the fish if ye be askin me, but it taint me case, so don’t ye be askin. I’ll not be steppin’ on me fellow coppers toes.”

“The woman killed was Katie, Moyny, my Katie. I have to ask.”

“I’m thinking I can tell ye this much, Petey me boy. Where there be room for a horse to go ‘round, a horse WILL go ‘round. You might think about seein this for your own self.”

I hung up and dialed Hannifin. First light I was back in the stable.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It was just me and the ponies about an hour later and I quickly turned one of the more skittery nags around in its stall. I shut the door at one end and parked my self in the middle of the aisle between the horse and the other end. I had a rope tied to the stall door and I used it to yank the door open suddenly and loudly. The horse bolted out and charged at me like it was cavalry trained. It was on me so fast I hadn’t time to move even if I wanted to. And truthfully...? I wanted to real bad. Then it was gone. By me and gone in a whoosh of air and an ear shattering clatter of hoof beats. I exhaled…long and loud. Accidental trampling, I thought… not likely.

I’d already asked my self who stood to gain by Katie’s death and come up with a big fat nobody. Her husband had enough dough that Katie’s insurance payoff would be little more than chump change to him To rule out another broad, I tailed Bland twenty-four seven for the next ten days. Man was a monk. I was stumped, clueless, leadless and at the end of the Brat’s per diem. I was reaching for the desk hooch when the phone rang.

“Petey, me Bucko,” - it was Moynihan - “and how will ye be doin this fine day?”

“Not good Moyny” I said. “I’m dead ended. I got nothing solid on Katie’s death and I know damn well it wasn’t an accident. I’m stumped Moyny, and it’s driving me straight to the drink.”

“Aye tis a short drive, that one” he said. “I’ve been thinking of ye Laddie. Thinking you might be wanting to talk to a fella name of Kegler, Max Kegler. Owns a string in the same stable as Bland. One of me lads here at the precinct’s working a horse doping angle and he says auld Maxie’s torn up same as you over Katie’s sudden passin.”

I had seen Max Kegler at the stable, but he’d never deigned to talk to me, a lowly shit shoveler. When I approached him there this time, I was flashing a badge and acting important. The man could not have cared less. He was as hang-dogged and downcast as
anybody I’d ever seen. Answered my questions in grunts and nods and when I’d finished moved off like a man on his way to a funeral, maybe his own. It didn’t take a shrink to see what was wrong with Maxie. The man was hurting. The man was grieving and carrying a heavy torch.

It was time to talk to Bland. I had enough now that I thought I could run a bluff and maybe get him to open up, get him to say something incriminating. I doused a couple of barn lights and folded myself into the shadows of an empty stall and waited. I knew Bland’s usual routine and it had him coming my way in less than ten. My plan was to jump him, pull him into the stall and apply some muscle.

Bad plan.

First part worked all right though. I grabbed him by the lapels as he walked by, spun him into the stall and pinned him to the back wall. I got up in his face and spit words through my teeth. “You killed my Katie, you Bastard. Ran her down like a dog in the street. Give me one reason I shouldn’t break your neck right now.”

I had to hand it to the guy. He stayed cool, real cool. Looked at me a second and then said, “I know you. You’re the low class PI Katie dumped to marry me. What is this, sore loser payback? Aren’t you a little late?”

I ignored that though there was some truth to that sore loser part. If I got nothing here on Katie’s murder, I might still consider taking away a little satisfaction on that score.

I had a nice tight grip on Bland’s lapels and I tugged him upwards a little for emphasis. I said, “I’ve got a guy saw you do it, saw you ride right over her. Wouldn’t talk to the police…too afraid of you. He’ll talk now though, he’s more afraid of me.”

Nothing. Bland’s expression never changed.

My hands and arms were getting tired but I took one last shot. “And I know why you did it,” I said. “Katie was going to drop you for Kegler just like she dropped me for you. That’s it pretty boy, that’s it, isn’t it?”

What happened next happened real fast and most of it I experienced through the haze of a crippling pain. Bland went berserk. I’d heard an adrenalized man can perform feats of strength far beyond the norm, but I hadn’t seen it until now. I had 20 pounds on this creep, but he spun me around like rag doll. He slammed my back into a hay trough and I thought it was broken. He let go of me then and I slumped to the ground like a punctured balloon. I squinted up at him through the pain and saw a man defining rage. His eyes had gone wild and his whole body looked tight enough to snap apart. I knew I was in real trouble.

“That’s right” he said in a voice half snarl, half hiss. “I killed her and the bitch deserved it. I saved her from a crap life with a punk like you, gave her everything and what do I get in return? Nothing, not a goddamn thing. It’s all about what she wants and you know what that is? Kegler. Kegler for Christ’s sake! That sorry sap can’t train a decent pony, he takes my woman? No way I’m letting that happen.”

I was pulling myself to my feet in small increments as he dropped his rant on me. I was almost upright when his expression changed and he got all spooky calm again. He reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out a hypo with something piss colored in it. “Horse doper impaled on own needle” he said, squirting a little of the liquid into the air. “Should make a great story.”

I was trying to bob and weave as he started towards me, but none of my parts were working properly. I knew I couldn’t elude the jab in my present condition and I suddenly began too wonder what was in the needle and how bad it was going to hurt. My eyes were fixed on it as Bland got one step closer and then another, before stopping abruptly no more than a couple inches from me. His face was close and I saw his eyes go weird wide then drop fast to look at his own chest. Blood was spurting from holes in his shirt where the tines of a pitchfork had appeared and disappeared in what seemed an instant. He looked back at me for just a second then dropped like a sack of manure to the stall floor. Standing just beyond him, still as death itself, stood a dull eyed Max Kegler.

Kegler stared at me for a long moment asking something from me with those vapid orbs, forgiveness perhaps, or maybe thanks. I had nothing. I just stared back. Suddenly, like he’d forgotten something, he looked down and a flash of anger brought life back into his eyes. He grabbed the pitchfork with both hands and drove it straight down, hard. It stuck there, neatly protruding from Bland’s back. We looked again at each other and I saw the same unbearable sadness creep back to his face that I’d seen there earlier in the day. There was nothing I could do. Kegler just stood where he was, still as a statue, shoulders slumped, eyes gone dead again.

After a minute, I moved slowly, quietly, carefully, around him. And then I walked away.

Testifying to Congress

The best combination of (2) flavors, by far, no debate, is red wine and dark chocolate. (You may disagree if you have nothing against being wrong.)

Alrighty then.

I recently testified before a congressional committee that I have never knowingly used steroids. That I have put on 20 pounds and upped my writing average far beyond my standards of five years ago are merely coincidental. Should, however, the "Clear" and the "Cream" ever become legal, I would not be adverse to giving them a try. The good folks at Balco say these are tools that will aid me in my attempts to go long. They say with proper application of the "Juice," a novel is not out of the question.

I also swore at my deposition that I don't carry illegal weapons when I go clubbing. Despite my celebrity status I have never felt in danger while in public. Of course I rarely travel without my bodyguards, RTGFKAR The Rotund, and noted sorceress, Woowoo Charly. Even when I choose to wear my most expensive jewelry, I feel safe with these companions in tow. A person would have to be crazy to make a grab for my Timex when these two toughies are around. On the home front I have the protection of three vicious attack puppies, so I have no worries there either.

I made it a point, when the subject came up, to note on my own behalf that I have never been arrested for domestic (or foreign) violence. I don't have any domestics, but if I did, I would treat them real nice.

I did admit, however, to testing positive for marijuana on a couple of occasions, but not during the writing season. The congressmen at the hearing were undisturbed by this revelation and were further relieved when I told them, "At no time did I ever not inhale." They apparently worry about waste.

I also swore that if I ever retired from the game I would, in fact, retire, and not make repeated comebacks that annoy the shit out of people who want to watch ESPN for real sports news. I also promised that if I did stray from the straight and narrow path that has earned me... hundreds, I would not make some lame apology, swear I now had Jesus in my corner and hope to be forgiven by my fans and, more importantly, keep my endorsements. I would take my medicine and go quietly away.

After my hearing was over, one of the Congressmen, I think he was a Republican, shook his fist at me and said "If everybody was like you, you Jerk, we Congresspeople would also have to keep our noses clean. Get out of here and don't ever come back you...you Commie!"

Tormenta II The Sequel

Alrighty then.

That was interesting. If by interesting I mean something akin to watching mice nibble off your toes. "Surely this can't continue" was the comment most expressed after day two, but by day four the sarcastic, "Oh look, it's raining" leaped to the fore. Following those snappy epithets, RTGFKAR and I were oft heard loudly clicking our fingers and saying "Lights on now!" to a not laughable no avail. Electricity, we determined then, was a very useful thing to have. (Whatever it is.) Compounding the problem,(I almost said "issue) were the two words that appeared as if by magic on our cell phones that read: no service; a condition that meant we would not be able to report our lack of lights, computers, television and good humor. We could, if we dared to brave the high winds, sideways falling rain and rapidly deteriorating servidumbre, climb into our car and motor to Union Fenosa to make our report. We, however, dared not, as the memory of the last time we had chosen that option was still in mind. On that occasion, the honcho in charge at U. F. had scribbled a phone number on the back of our bill for us to call. No, we would just have to ride out the storm visualizing someone out there on the job splicing wires, raising downed power poles, throwing switches and sacrificing those less and less handy virgins to the electricity gods in hopes of bringing light back into our lives. It took five days.

I could say we made the best of it, but I'm not sure what best implies. Using the time to invent, create or compose something to cheer all mankind, perhaps. We didn't do that. We read and played scrabble by day and slept fitfully by night; night being defined as dark, mas o menos six o,clock. We also contributed to the world's economic stimulus effort by thrilling the manufacturer and employees of a paper towel company by using roll after roll of their product to clean up the messes left by three puppies reluctant as we to brave the wind and rain. The environment, I lament, no doubt suffers from the loss of the rain forest needed for the production of the absorbent towels.

Yesterday brought storm's end. Still powerless and phone-less, RTGFKAR and I, saying "Let's do it" while stopped and evaluating our chances of driving on the servidumbre over a culvert where the sides of the road had collapsed into the water leaving a barely wide enough path to traverse - we hoped - set forth on a mission to tell someone about our lack of life's finer things, like, oh, contact with the outer world comes to mind. We made it safely across the culvert, renewed breathing and then achieved all of our goals. We purchased a generator in David, I got my license renewed - a thing that had taken weeks of trying - reported and later had our power restored, picked up our bar stools that had been ordered months before, eaten pizza and brought home KFC for Woowoo Charly.

Life is good again. Good being partially, but not insignificantly, defined as puppies peeing outside.

Killer Cockers?

Police in Boquete, Panama are reporting a death by mutilation of a squeaky toy at the Hoff/Wal residence. The innocent toy, a large mouselike replica was last seen in good condition catching a few rays on the Hoff/Wal lawn late Sunday afternoon, the first of February. Nine-one-one calls reporting squeaks for help were logged early Monday morning.

"It was horrible" a Hoff/Wall neighbor said to this reporter shortly after the event occurred. "You could hear the poor thing squeaking helplessly above the snarls and growls of the beasts that got it. I'm going to have nightmares because of this, I just know it."

When police arrived on the scene they found a headless, disemboweled and eviscerated toy corpse, its parts scattered about the Hoff/Wal property. "I've never seen anything like it" the Chief Inspector said. "The internal squeaker was completely removed from the body and chewed almost beyond recognition. The head, well, for now let's just say it's missing. I don't want to speculate as to where it might be."

The residents of the Hoff/Wal property were interviewed but denied any knowledge of the crime. "We were watching the Super Bowl at the time it happened" one of them, a so called Woowoo Charly, said to investigators and this reporter; a story to which the other house members concurred. "Besides that," Woowoo continued, "we are the ones that brought the rodent into our home. Why would we want to see it harmed?" As each crime scene resident provided an alibi for the others, they were permitted to remain at large pending further investigations into a possible conspiracy.

Two Cocker Spaniel puppies found at the scene were taken into custody for questioning, but later released to their owners as there was insufficient evidence to hold them. Although they were bright eyed and tail wagging, the pups were uncooperative and refused to speak when ordered to do so. Police were not ruling out their possible involvement in the crime. A third dog, a Golden Retriever puppy, was questioned and also permitted to leave as not having sufficiently developed teeth to have taken part in the heinous death of the mouse toy. Both the residents and the Golden were cautioned not to leave town. Though the police do not believe they were the perpetrators of the crime, charges of aiding and abetting could be filed if they were in any way involved with the helpless rodent's demise.

The case remains unsolved and Boquetanians fear further attacks on their toys may be forthcoming. A citywide alert has been issued.