Romans 12: I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that you present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to God, which is your reasonable service.

2 And do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, that you may prove what is that good and acceptable and perfect will of God.

3 For I say, through the grace given to me, to everyone who is among you, not to think of himself more highly than he ought to think, but to think soberly, as God has dealt to each one a measure of faith.

4 For as we have many members in one body, but all the members do not have the same function,

5 so we, being many, are one body in Christ, and individually members of one another.

6 Having then gifts differing according to the grace that is given to us, let us use them: if prophecy, let us prophesy in proportion to our faith;

7 or ministry, let us use it in our ministering; he who teaches, in teaching;

8 he who exhorts, in exhortation; he who gives, with liberality; he who leads, with diligence; he who shows mercy, with cheerfulness.

9 Let love be without hypocrisy. Abhor what is evil. Cling to what is good.

10 Be kindly affectionate to one another with brotherly love, in honor giving preference to one another;

11 not lagging in diligence, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord;

12 rejoicing in hope, patient in tribulation, continuing steadfastly in prayer;

13 distributing to the needs of the saints, given to hospitality.

14 Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse.

15 Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep.

16 Be of the same mind toward one another. Do not set your mind on high things, but associate with the humble. Do not be wise in your own opinion.

17 Repay no one evil for evil. Have regard for good things in the sight of all men.

18 If it is possible, as much as depends on you, live peaceably with all men.

19 Beloved, do not avenge yourselves, but rather give place to wrath; for it is written, “Vengeance is Mine, I will repay,” says the Lord.

20 Therefore “If your enemy is hungry, feed him; If he is thirsty, give him a drink; For in so doing you will heap coals of fire on his head.”

21 Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.

(Chicago) Daily Inter-Ocean, March 12, 1896. For no other pie did people behave this way.

A fények halvány arannyal festik az apró helyiséget, félhomály játszik finoman bőrünkön. Lassan mélyet lélegzek a pici szoba parfümmel illatos levegőjéből, s hagyom, hogy az illat először finom, majd egyre szédítőbb delíriumba ringasson.

Óvatos érintések, ujjak kulcsolódnak egymás közé, apró puszik, szilánkokká csattanó szavak. A félhomály lassan beszövi a lelkekbe tépett sebeket. Ölelő karok fonódnak körém, s én előre dőlök, egyenest a mellkasának; a szívverését hallgatom.

Minden pillanat maga az örökkévalóság, ahogy a csend egyszerre váj szakadékot közénk, s forraszt össze minket egyetlen végtelenül intim pillanatban.

Lassan felemelem a tekintetem; borostyánok ragyogják túl a bizonytalan fények aranyát. A következő pillanatban különleges, telt ajkak puha bársonya simít végig ajkaimon, s egy apró pillanatig megáll az idő folyása. Az emberek elhallgatnak, a távolról dübörgő zene egyenletes sistergéssé halkul, az autók zaját sem hallani már; egyedül két, túlontúl gyors, szívverés, s egymáshoz súrlódó ruhák zaja töri meg a világ egyenletes csendjét.

Shards of happiness under my skin.

“No one knows what it’s like
To be the bad man
To be the sad man
Behind blue eyes
And no one knows
What it’s like to be hated
To be fated to telling only lies

Jessica Brooklyn Vicious

The Winchester Mystery House was bought by Sarah Winchester, as a normal house, around 1884. She was the widow of William Wirt Winchester, who had been the second president of the Winchester Repeating Arms Company and only son of the company’s owner. When he died, at the age of 44 in 1881, she was grief stricken. Having already lost her only child to marasmus in the 1860s. Believing her family to be cursed she consulted a medium who, it is said, told her that the spirits of the people who had been killed by the winchester rifle were many and they wanted vengeance. The medium told her she had to move west, she originally lived in Connecticutt, buy a house and begin continuous construction on it so that she and the spirits could live in it. She was never to stop building on the house and if she did, she would die. She followed what she had been told, buying the house and beginning work on it immediately. She had an income, from her husband’s death and owning half of the Winchester Repeating Arms Company, that gave her the rough equivalent of $22,000 (£13,262) a day. The house was originally an 8 room farmhouse that stood on 162 acres in what is now San Jose, California. Construction work began on the house and continued for 24 hours a day, 7 days a week for the next 38 years. When Sarah Winchester died in 1922 at the age of 83 work on the house immediately ceased. The house itself is set out in such an odd way that certain doors open onto walls and has staircases that lead nowhere. It is claimed this was ordered by Mrs Winchester so that the spirits would get lost in the house. Staff also needed maps to find their way around. There are around 160 rooms including 40 bedrooms, 10,000 window panes, 7 chimneys, 2 basements, 3 elevators and 2 ballrooms. The number 13 also features heavily in the house. It once reached 7 storeys high but following damage in the 1906 earthquake it is now 4 storeys. The total cost of the building work has been estimated at around $5.5 million ($70 million;  £42,079,285 in 2008) After her death she left the contents of the house to her niece. It reportedly took the removers eight trucks a day for six and a half weeks to empty it. Today it is a tourist attraction, it is said to be haunted, and is open every day except for Christmas. Special tours are held every Friday 13th and Halloween. Thanks for reading.

Vengeance des supporters Algerien d’Egyptiens au Soudan

Boston Daily Journal. December 5, 1889. Tom Stoppard and Richard Powers are collaborating on an operatic libretto encompassing these items. Johnny Greenwood is signed to write the score.

Oh, just kiddin’. But the longer I stare at these old newspapers, the more I am bewitched by the cumulative insanity and variety and intellectual free-fall of these deep stacks of randomly interesting nonsense.

They put me much in mind the work of Neil Postman, whose books The Disappearance of Childhood and Amusing Ourselves to Death seemed to me very profound when I read them in my 20s. The guy’s basic theme was that print imposed rationality, but video annihilated it. That, according to Mr. Postman, was because TV equaled vaudeville and vaudeville equaled chaos. Whereas print was inherently rational.

But that’s fundamentally utopian, i.e. stupid, because vaudeville is the default condition of the human mind, regardless of prevailing medium. Am I right? I got Shakespeare and Chaucer on my side here.

P.S. I see some boffins at a Harvardian thinktank are on my side too. I would have tidied up, avoir su.

By Jason Brooks

Carlson threw a mini-bottle of whiskey across the room, while Wheaton punched a hole in the room’s sheetrock. Solomon merely scratched his chin and nodded.

“Well, if that’s what he wants, that’s what we do,” Solomon said, nonplussed.

Lucas sat at the table, marveling at the strange personnel group that was Solomon’s team, struggling to figure out each member. He had been sure that Solomon would be the one to go off in anger; he’d figured the two soldiers would be used to the government changing military plans.

“Son of bitch!” Carlson yelled again. Another whiskey bottled exploded against the bathroom mirror. “Don’t those stupid politicians know that operations like this require precise timing? Do they just not care?”

“Maybe they’ve gotten some new intelligence, something that made the change necessary,” Lucas offered.

Wheaton snorted. “There’s always some new intelligence, Lucas. Always some last minute change of heart, or new revelation; politicians thrive on intel, not to better the mission, but to make sure they can strike while it’s beneficial for them.”

Lucas held his right side; it was really throbbing from sitting so long this morning. “Then ignore the order. Do it on your own time frame.”

The two soldiers stared at him. Solomon did too.

“Violating an order, even a stupid, senseless one, is unacceptable. It corrodes discipline amongst the team,” Carlson said. Wheaton nodded agreement.

“So it’s better to follow a dumb order and be loyal than to ignore it and be successful?” Lucas shook his head. “Boy, I always thought beaurocracy was stupid, but this takes the cake.”

Carlson walked to Lucas. “Following orders is the only way to survive in the field.”

“Yeah, thinking for yourself is highly overrated,” Lucas retorted.

Carlson grabbed Lucas by the shirt collar and pulled him out of the chair. Lucas screamed in pain and his vision blurred. He could feel the room spin.

Solomon stepped in. “Enough. Put him down Carlson.”

Carlson didn’t budge.

“I said put him down, soldier, and that’s an order.”

Carlson’s face twisted into a malicious grin. “Maybe what he was saying about following orders is right after all. Maybe I should just go ahead and do what I want.”

Solomon stood silent. Wheaton stifled a laugh. Lucas moaned in agony.

Carlson carried the reporter back to his bed and laid him down. Lucas sighed with relief as Carlson leaned down into his face.

“See, Lucas? Following orders is better for everyone. Especially you.”

Solomon came over and pushed Carlson out of the way. “Go get the van ready, Carlson, and take Wheaton with you. We don’t have time to beat the hell out of civilians today.”

“At least not the ones on our team,” Carlson laughed. He waved at Wheaton. “Come one, time for us grunts to do the grunt work.”

Once the door closed, Solomon said, “Lucas, you’ll learn to just keep your mouth shut. It’s easier that way.”

Lucas nodded.

Solomon handed Lucas a com-link. “Here. This morning, Carlson had disabled yours without my knowledge. Keep this on you at all times.”

Lucas put the com-link in his ear. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Solomon stood to leave.

“Solomon?” Lucas called. “Who’s the mole?”

Solomon sat back down. “What do you mean, who’s the mole?”

“I mean, the President has to be monitoring this team in some other way besides my blog. So who’s the contact person?”

Solomon smiled. “I am.”

“Should’ve known.”

“Yeah, you should’ve.” Solomon smiled. “What made you realize that there had to be someone else?”

“Oh, just the way the President was typing his messages to me earlier this morning. The absurdity of the President relying solely on a newspaper reporter kind of struck me, and I realized that there had to be someone else.”

“Interesting.”

Lucas smiled. “Not really.”

Solomon leaned closer to Lucas. “I file a report every three hours, whether we’ve done anything or not. I knew that we would be moving the timetable up, but didn’t say anything.”

“Why not?” Lucas asked.

“Because the President received reliable information that Wheaton might not be as loyal as she seems.”

The revelation startled Lucas. “What kind of information?”

“Oh, you know how things are with the Internet. You make a video, it’s bound to get into the wrong hands eventually.”

“So there’s a video suggesting she’s not reliable?”

“Yeah. It’s of her being baptized by members of a small Christian cell.”

Lucas’ stomach sank. “She’s a Christian?”

Solomon shrugged. “Who knows? Apparently the video is several years old, and not all so-called conversions are genuine. She’s since gone on to be a damn fine soldier.”

Solomon stood again. “But as we learned with 9/11 and the Fort Hood shootings, just because something is history doesn’t mean it won’t impact the present.”

“Like last night,” Lucas said.

“Yeah. Obviously there are some raw emotions with her, and emotions get people killed. I’ve ordered Carlson to shoot her without hesitation if she gets out of line in any way.”

Lucas frowned. “Define out of line.”

“He’ll know it when he sees it,” Solomon said. “If he sees it.”

“And what happens if he ‘sees’ something that isn’t there?”

Solomon frowned. “Then I’ll kill him.”

Lucas’ side flared in pain and he rolled over with a groan. Solomon walked over to the table and drug it to Lucas’ bedside.

“Since you obviously can’t get out of bed to do your job, let’s make it easier on you.”

Lucas nodded. “Thanks.”

“Not a problem. I’m going to load up. Make sure you’re live-blogging as soon as you see the van pull away. The President will want to know what’s going on.”

Solomon walked to the door and opened it.

“And Lucas? Keep your gun ready. You just never know.”

Lucas looked at the service pistol on the nightstand. When he looked up, Solomon was gone.

Lucas powered up all of his gear and waited. The com-link kept him wired into the conversation, augmenting the video feed.

“Let’s move out,” he heard Solomon say.

Lucas watched as the van moved slowly away from the hotel, turning in a wide, lazy arc onto the highway. Lucas’ fingers began dancing across the keyboard.

They’re off. Team is loaded, prepped and en route.

The team was silent for the most part. Carlson drove, with Solomon riding shotgun. Wheaton and Aristotle were in the back, watching the video feed of the house. Lucas could see that there were several people slowly filing into the one-story home; many of them were younger, and several were clearly children. Lucas typed as much into the blog entry. He hit send.

An instant message popped up. Good. Better to get ‘em while they’re young and dumb.

“Jesus,” muttered Lucas.

“What’s that, Lucas?” Solomon asked.

“Uh, nothing. Just a dumb comment.”

“Well, unless you see something really important we need to know about, how about keeping the channel clear?”

“Understood.”

Lucas pulled the transmitter away from his mouth. The van passed the target house and eased through the four-way stop. Then, Carlson made a quick left onto a side street, approaching the home from the back. Lucas could see Wheaton and Solomon getting their assault rifles ready. Lucas’ fingers were cramping from the constant typing.

“We’re in position,” Solomon said.

Another instant message popped up for Lucas. They can go at any time.

Lucas pulled his transmitter up. “You’re clear to go.”

“Understood,” Solomon replied.

The four-feed screen went insane with motion; Lucas’ head rolled just trying to keep up. Each feed shook as the team ran towards the house, the bushes and trees becoming violent blurs. Finally, Solomon’s feed steadied as he paused at the home’s front door.

“One, two, THREE!” he yelled.

The door splintered beneath his boot and Lucas watched in horror as Solomon burst into the room, fired three shots into what appeared to be a small child, possibly no more than five, and stepped over the dead body on his way to the kitchen.

Lucas pushed back from the screen to help his eyes settle. Instead of trying to concentrate on each feed, he looked at the monitor as a whole, and the plan became clear: Solomon was flushing the small group of people towards a back door.

Lucas’ eyes darted to the feed for Carlson and Wheaton; the pictures were roughly the same: the rear exit of the house, flanked by dead boxwood bushes. The gunsights of their rifles were just in frame. Lucas marveled at the footage, a real-live honest-to-God first person shooter game was playing itself out before his eyes.

When the back door burst open and the first person stepped through, Lucas’ eyes swam with tears as Wheaton and Carlson simply opened fire. The ceaseless flow of bullets into the doorway resulted in spurts of blood and flesh, the launching of bone fragments into the air, the piling of bodies at the door until small children were being help up and hoisted over the corpses.

“Please don’t shoot my baby!” once woman cried, tossing her three year old son over the body pile and into the yard. The child screeched for its mother, reaching back for the pile before finally standing and waddling back towards the door.

The sharp report of a single gunshot corresponded with the child’s body flying sideways onto the porch, landing in a motionless heap. From inside, the mother’s voice filled the house, until another gunshot, this one from inside, quickly silenced the scream.

Solomon’s camera showed him standing over the few remaining survivors.

“Where’s the pastor?” he demanded. “Where is Anshu Parminder?”

Lucas no longer typed. He was transfixed by the spectacle of blood and death and cruelty being streamed into his eyes. He heard another gunshot, then Carlson’s voice.

“Had one trying to sneak away. He’s down.”

Aristotle’s frame shook as the judge made his way into the house. Solomon turned to look at him, and Lucas saw what the other’s did: a tall man, dressed in black, sweeping into the house to render a verdict of death. The Grim Reaper writ large on this perverted game.

“According to Congressional Act 12576, the Federal Hate Crimes Statute, all persons engaged in unlawful and detrimental conduct as defined by the Congress of these United States, will be hereby sentenced to immediate death. As this house has been known and proven to be a terrorist cell, it is my duty as a Tribunal member of Congress to order such sentence to be carried out here.”

Solomon turned back to the rear door of the house, where Wheaton and Carlson were climbing over the pile of bodies and assuming a firing squad position near him. Each one took a stance in front of one of the terrorists, placed their rifle barrel to the person’s head, and pulled the trigger for a one-shot kill.

Lucas turned his head, but heard all 18 of the shots. Solomon came on the line.

“Lucas, you there?”

“Yes,” he mumbled. His stomach was weak and his heart raced; the sheer brutality of the raid was exceeded only by its swiftness.

“Are you watching the monitors?” Solomon asked.

“No,” Lucas answered.

“Well, sit up, wipe the slobber off your chin and be a big boy. I need you to confirm our kills.”

Lucas sat up, despite his head’s violent protest. The throbbing and spinning accentuated the nausea in his stomach and Lucas feared he would pass out.

“We’re going to walk around the house,” Solomon continued, “and you need to note how many bodies we count out. If you see we’re missing one, or see that something seems off, you just say so.”

Lucas threw up on the floor.

“Lucas?”

“Here.”

“Suck it up and start taking notes. Here we go.”

Lucas kept his eyes trained on the four video feeds, assiduously cross-referencing each camera angle to make certain the count was accurate. His stomach, knotted and acidic, growled with each close up of a dead body, but Lucas detached himself after the third or fourth one; even the children were easy once the count reached into the thirties.

“That makes 37 bodies all told,” Solomon said.

“Confirmed,” said Carlson.

“Confirmed,” echoed Wheaton.

Lucas sat silently. Then: “Confirmed.”

Solomon walked over to Wheaton. Lucas watched as their faces each loomed large in the other’s camera lens.

“Lucas, we’ll be on our way back in less than an hour. Is that enough time for you to submit your blog report?”

“Yes,” Lucas answered.

“Okay then. The video feed automatically downloads and stores in a zipped folder on the monitoring laptop. If you need to replay anything, just select which camera feed you want and pull it up.”

Lucas leaned over and threw up again.

“And Lucas?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Call the front desk and have them come clean up your puke. I don’t want to even smell that crap when we get back. Solomon out.”

The four video feeds went black and the com-link went back to call mode, where only by directly dialing a team member could Lucas hear or talk with anybody. And that was fine with him. Staring at the blank monitor, seeing the nightmare image of that three year old child in his mind’s eye again and again, Lucas knew he couldn’t do what was being asked of him.

But the blog laptop sat open, the screen blinking with another message from Thepotus:

I want details, Lucas, down to the last splash of blood.

And below that, a second message.

Now.

Lucas stared at the keyboard, his heart sinking in agony and revulsion. But knowing that the fate that just befell those “terrorists” could easily be his, he put his conscience to the side and began to type.

Dear Thepotus…

I saw a movie earlier tonight that was the cliched story of a man who takes things into his own hands when the system does not give him the justice that he deserves. I want to express that I do not have all the answers to this issue because it is HUGE but I will say a few pertinent things you could selah on.

The Ruckus: God is the one that takes care of vengeance because He is the only one worthy to judge and keep men accountable for their actions. He is the judge and we are too not take vengeance into our own hands.

So, what do we do when what we cannot control comes against us. Because everyone has suffered  eft misunderstood at why life can be so harsh. Believer and unbeliever desires to reckon ineffable pain and suffering.

As I was watching this movie I was bombarded with the applause from the crowd that an ordinary man had his family taken away forom him. That the whole justice system must pay for its corruption.

The conclusion, we surrender it all to God. For everyone, lawyers, citizens will all answer before the judgment seat of Christ. And it is then that we are spoken for and God will take care of our enemies out of  His love for Justice and holiness. This is who He is.

Dusky shadows settle on her white skin,
A drifting contrast: Nemesis, queen of
Saviours and destroyers, madmen and
Half-mortal heroes. She smiles on them all.

By Jason Brooks

Anshu Parminder stared at the littered table in front of him. Dozens of pieces of paper, books, pens and his laptop clogged up his immediate space and reminded him that he had a lot of work left to do. His sermon for the small house church he pastored was nowhere near ready; tomorrow night’s meeting would be a short one indeed if he couldn’t pull his thoughts together more coherently.

“Dear Lord,” he muttered. “Why do I do this?”

He tapped away at his laptop, uninspired, trying to get his creative juices flowing. But there just wasn’t much he could think to say about God’s power and provision in the wake of the federal jihad declared against his faith. Anshu, frustrated, banged his keyboard with his fists, sending a litany of unintelligible nonsense skittering across his monitor.

“Better than what I had,” he chuckled.

He went to delete the gibberish, but something in the middle caught his eye. There, the midst of a string of random letters, numbers and signs, was a solitary word. Anshu couldn’t believe it; the probability of the event was beyond comprehension, but there, plain as day, was the word pray. Spelled out perfectly, nestled in the midst of his annoyed outburst.

“A thousand monkeys with a thousand typewriters, given infinity, would eventually produce the collected works of Shakespeare,” he said to himself.

He looked at the word again. Anshu stood from his desk and walked into his bedroom. He closed the door behind him to eliminate distraction, and he fell on his knees.

The roar of the jet engine drowned out the chance for a real conversation, Lucas thought. Harnessed tight into the jump seat on the deck of the stripped-down Gulfstream g650, he looked at the others from his unit. Solomon was seated directly in front of him; Carlson, Solomon’s handpicked bodyguard was seated next to Solomon. A gentleman who went only by the name Aristotle was in the row beside Lucas; from what Lucas understood, Aristotle was there to make sure the proceedings met the requirements for legality.

Lucas laughed. Given what he’d been able to read in his dossier, legality was one hell of a punch line.

Lucas’ seatmate was a Navy SEAL, brought in as the other half of the unit’s muscle. Tall and leanly built, Wheaton embodied the SEAL ethic. She was also quite funny.

Lucas leaned over. “What’s going to happen again?” he yelled.

“LALO,” she replied.

“And that means…?” he yelled back.

“Low Altitude Low Opening airborne maneuver. Basically,” she yelled, “we’re going to throw your ass out of this plane, and you’re parachute will open just before you splatter all over God’s green earth.”

“How will I know when to open it?” Lucas asked.

“You won’t. The plane does all the work for you.”

“What happens if something goes wrong?”

Wheaton looked forward and smiled. Lucas’ stomach exploded with acid.

From the forward part of the plane’s cabin, a small LED went green. Solomon unbuckled himself and stood, motioning for the rest of the unit to do the same. Following Wheaton’s lead, Lucas trudged his way to the front of the cabin where Solomon showed him and Aristotle how to connect to secure bar.

Another LED went amber and the noise in the cabin increased.

“What the hell?” Lucas screamed at Solomon.

“Cabin de-pressurization,” he yelled back.

“Do we have to do that?” Lucas asked.

“Got to or the plane will crash when we open the door to jump.”

Carlson wrenched the handle on the Gulfstream’s door and pulled it inside and into the open position. The big soldier looked back at Solomon, who gave a thumbs-up. Carlson disappeared out the door.

Wheaton followed immediately afterward. Solomon moved to the door and looked back at Aristotle and Lucas. He waved and fell backwards out of the plane.

Aristotle froze. Lucas could see out the door now, and was astonished at how fast the terrain beneath was rushing by. He looked at the Tribunal judge, whose face was pale behind his jump mask. Lucas could tell he wasn’t going to move, so he nudged the man with his arm.

Aristotle didn’t budge.

Lucas tried calculating how far away from the rest of the unit were by now, and he decided they couldn’t wait. Taking a step back, he threw himself forward into Aristotle’s body and the two fell into the open air.

Immediately, their parachutes became tangled from the automatic opening. Lucas could hear the rush of their descent coupled with Aristotle’s screams of pure terror. Even though they had been briefly trained for this, neither was truly prepared. Lucas struggled to find his release pull, hoping to disengage his primary chute. He found it and gave it a hard tug.

Aristotle’s parachute ripped away, and Lucas was jerked backwards, away from the man. He could see Aristotle fumbling for his secondary chute, and when the judge finally got it open, he rocketed upward, out of Lucas’ sight.

Lucas could see the ground rushing towards him: a thick canopy of trees next to a dark blue lake. He couldn’t find his release pull; there was a mass of serpentine cords running all across his body, confusing his eyes, making it impossible to sort them out.

Finally, Lucas just gave up. He quit struggling, closed his eyes, and stretched his arms out at his sides. The alternating pull of the two parachutes entwined with him disoriented him, and hoped only to die on impact.

Expecting to see his life flash before his eyes, Lucas got nothing. No childhood images, no adult memories; just a discomforting blackness followed by a collision with what had to be cement.

The world went black.

Solomon watched as the reporter hit the lake. There was a slight wind blowing, which made for a disrupted surface; Solomon hoped that bit of luck would help Lucas survive. He could see that Wheaton had already discarded her gear and dove into the water; she was halfway to the impact zone before Solomon had even gotten his parachute off.

Carlson entered the water, so Solomon decided it would be better for him to try and find Aristotle. The Tribunal judge had landed on the same side of the lake; a quick hike through the trees would allow Solomon to have all of his team located, if not in one piece. Wheaton and Carlson would be able to handle the situation with Lucas, and if they needed him, they each had their communication links.

Solomon disappeared into forest growth in front of him at a fast clip. He struggled to maintain his bearing, having lost the major landmarks he’d used to estimate Aristotle’s landing site. But, just a few hundred yards in, his com-link screeched to life.

“This is Aristotle,” the radio squawked. “Anyone out there?”

“Solomon, here. Where are you judge?”

“I don’t know.”

Solomon broke into a trot. “Can you see the lake from where you are?”

“Yes, I seem to be on the shore of it. There are a lot of reeds and cattails. But I don’t see anyone else.”

Solomon bore to his left; he had been heading away from the lake based on what he’d seen. That Aristotle was on the shoreline was puzzling.

“Judge, on your belt is a small GPS locator. If you’ll flip the switch, I can power up my unit and come right to you.”

“Okay. I’ll try that.”

Solomon looked at his smart phone. The GPS navigation program was open and within seconds a small red dot appeared on the map. Solomon sighed. He was less than three hundred yards away from the Tribunal member.

“I’ve got you judge. Just stay put.”

“What about the rest of the team?” Aristotle asked.

“I worry about them, not you. I’m on my way.”

Solomon escalated his trot into a full fledged run, hurtling himself breakneck through the unfamiliar forest. A couple of times his foot caught on a rock or root, causing him to lose his balance, but it wasn’t until he was within sight of Aristotle that he fell.

Pitching headfirst into the dirt, Solomon felt the sharp sting of rock against his temple. Cursing his clumsiness, Solomon stood and put a hand to his head; the blood flowed steadily and his temple throbbed from the impact. Aristotle came to his side, winded.

“I saw you go down,” the judge panted. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Solomon replied. “Just a little nick. How are you doing?”

Aristotle raised a hand. Solomon could tell he was winded.

“You know what, judge? Don’t worry about answering that. I’m just happy you’re alive.”

A static-filled transmission burst in his headset. He pulled the earpiece from his ear and shook his head. Reinserting it, he could hear Carlson’s voice.

“…ing well. He’s bruised up pretty good, but he’ll live.”

“Come again?” Solomon asked.

“Sir, yes sir. I said that Somerhalder is doing well. He’s bruised up, but should be fine.”

“What the hell happened up there?” Solomon demanded.

“Best I can tell, he and Aristotle got tangled up off the jump. Lucas managed to get the judge’s chute to release, but couldn’t do so himself.”

“So he hit the water a full speed?”

“No sir. There was a bit of drag from the two tangled chutes, and he actually did a smart thing by relaxing and spreading out his arms. My guess is he had enough resistance to slow his momentum, and the water being disturbed by the wind gave him soft water to land in.”

Solomon rubbed his temple again. The blood was slowing down. So was the adrenaline; his headache got worse.

“So the bastard got lucky?” Solomon asked.

“Once-in-a-lifetime lucky, sir.”

“Well, let’s hope the luck sticks,” Solomon said. He turned to Aristotle and motioned for him to follow. The two made their way around the lake’s perimeter towards the rest of the team.

Anshu stood. He had been on his knees for over forty minutes, silent and still in the exercise of prayer. He felt as if he accomplished much with his obedience to God’s skillful little message; just what that accomplishment might be he had no idea, but the burden to pray had left him, and he felt he could return to his sermon.

Opening the door to his bedroom, he could see the sunlight streaming in through the window’s in the hall. It was a glorious day outside. Anshu stood there a minute, staring out at the glory of the scenery: the trees were fully stocked with leaves, and the fresh mid-western air fairly sparkled as their branches stirred with the wind.

Anshu walked to the window to get a better view of the lake. It was a dark blue, and he could see that the rippled water meant the wind was doing more than gently blowing. He smiled.

“God, your works are wonderful,” he said.

He stepped away from his window and headed back to the kitchen table, back to his papers, pens and laptop, back to his sermon, for which he had renewed passion. As he stepped away, five figures darted from the trees across the street from his house, into a waiting van. One of the figures was carried by two others.

Solomon, seated in the van’s passenger seat, typed out a quick TSMS message to the President: Jump successful. Target acquired. Parminder’s HC will be done by tonight. Solomon hit send and turned his attention to Lucas, in the care of Wheaton and Aristotle. Satisfied that the reporter was fine, he turned to Carlson behind the wheel.

“Let’s go.”

Anshu noticed the van drive by from his seat at the table. His curiosity was piqued by the vehicle’s passing, but he gave it no further thought. Instead, he turned his laptop on and began to type about the power and providence of God.

Have You Seen Smallville: Season 5 Episode 13 – Vengeance?

Episode Synopsis:

Clark Kent drops out the rest of the semester from Metropolis University to help Martha on the farm. He misses Jonathan and has not superseded the loss of his foster father. Martha offers Jonathan’s watch to Clark, but he refuses. Martha goes to Metropolis to donate Jonathan’s belongings to a mission, and she is assaulted by two lowlife criminals. However, she is rescued by a masked and powerful vigilante, but one of the punks steals the watch. Clark feels guilty about the watch and visits Chloe, trying to track the muggers. They decide to find the ‘Angel of Vengeance,’ and when they meet her, she discloses her identity of Chloe’s klutzy colleague Andrea Rojas and tells that she became powerful six months ago after a heart transplantation of a donate that was hit by the meteor shower. Her mother and she were attacked by a mugger who killed her mother while Andrea survived, thirsty of revenge against the killer of her mother. Clark joins Andrea, but with a different viewpoint of justice since Andrea believes in killing criminals who have gotten away with murder through legal technicalities, whereas Clark still believes in the court system despite it not working most of the time. Meanwhile, Lionel tries to take the LuthorCorp from Lex, but he is blackmailed and gives up his intention.

So what do you think of this episode?

If you missed it, you can watch it here.

By Jason Brooks

The West Wing of the White House wasn’t exactly what the movies made it out to be, Lucas thought. Elegant but very small, it needed something; a skylight, maybe. But the thought of someone attempting to use the skylight to attack the President gave Lucas a shiver. He was seated just outside the Oval Office in a comfortable chair made uncomfortable by the Secret Service agents flanking him. The same pair from his office just a few hours earlier, Lucas still didn’t know their names, which was a shame because they had become quite intimate.

The two agents had thoroughly strip-searched him when their motorcade arrived at the White House. Then they escorted him to the bathroom, and stood by while he used the urinal.

“Uh, fellas? Can I get a little privacy?” he’d asked.

Neither responded. Lucas went. On his way to the door, the taller one said, “Don’t forget to wash your hands.”

The chair sat on a carpet embroidered with the presidential seal. Next to it was a side table with ornate legs, intricately carved and designed. According to a plaque on the table’s far edge, it was a gift from the last emperor of China to Woodrow Wilson on his election to the presidency in 1912. Lucas marveled at the one-hundred-plus-year history of the piece.

“That’s a long time for a table to last, especially around here,” a voice said.

Lucas looked up. It was the President. Lucas leapt to his feet, attempting a salute, then deciding to offer his hand to shake, and then just putting both hands limp at his side.

The President laughed. “That’s not the most awkward greeting I’ve ever gotten, but it’s close.” He stuck out a tanned hand.

“Guess it’s not everyday you get to shake the hand of the most powerful homosexual in the world.”

Lucas took the hand; it was firm, with a solid grip that didn’t overpower. Somehow the exchange was comforting. Lucas dropped the hand and smiled.

“I guess I should be relived you shook my hand and not my neck.”

The President laughed. “Thought about it. But as you well know, my staff doesn’t do the best job on cover-ups. Let’s head into the office, shall we?”

He stepped to the side and gestured towards the hidden door to the Oval Office. Lucas followed the extended arm and entered into the room with the Resolute desk. Everything was pretty much the way he’d seen it pictured, except for the size. Again, it was smaller than it appeared on TV.

The cream colored couches facing the President’s desk were arranged in a small sitting area, including a coffee table loaded with drinks and snacks. Lucas could tell that this was a formal meeting disguised as an informal chat. A man with whom Lucas was unfamiliar sat on one of the couches, his left leg bouncing with impatience. He seemed a mixture of anger and resolve, especially with the thick dossier on his lap.

Lucas sat on the other couch, across from the stranger.

“Lucas,” the President said, “meet Solomon Curry. Solomon, Lucas Somerhalder.” The President motioned for the pair to shake.

Solomon sneered. “I know who you are.”

“Really? That’s fascinating because I have no idea who the hell you are,” Lucas replied.

The President sat down at his desk. Lucas and Solomon followed suit.

“I’ve brought you together because you will be part of the same team. Solomon, I believe you have a copy of your dossier for Lucas?” the President asked.

Solomon held the dossier on his lap tighter. “I thought this information was highly classified, sir. I have reservations about handing it over to a reporter, especially one with Mr. Somerhalder’s dubious reputation.”

“As your Commander-In-Chief, I’m ordering you to give the dossier to Mr. Somerhalder, and I assure you that he has the highest security clearance from all of our agencies, plus my personal guarantee.”

The President turned to Lucas and smiled. Lucas’ face was green.

Solomon tossed the dossier onto the coffee table, knocking some of the empty glasses and snack bowls helter-skelter. Lucas picked up the leaden folder; packed with papers, meticulously color coded and tabbed, it was roughly the size of the Warren Report. Lucas said as much.

“Have you seen the Warren Report?” Solomon asked.

“The redacted version, yes,” Lucas replied. “But now that I have super-powered security clearance, I might take a new look at it. I’m sure the unedited version is more informative.”

Solomon stood. “See, Mr. President? This is what I’m talking about! This cavalier attitude and nosiness will not mix well with the assignment you’ve given me. I need men I can trust; not some glorified publicity whore peeking over my shoulder and chasing reckless leads.”

The President motioned for Solomon to sit down. Solomon did, but he was shaking all over now. Lucas knew there was more going on here than he had imagined.

“Mr. Curry, I am quite trustworthy,” Lucas said. “You can ask any of my sources over the history of my career: I’ve never ratted one out, and I never will. I take my responsibilities as a journalist quite seriously.”

“Good to know,” Solomon said, “but in this instance, you won’t be a traditional reporter. You’ll be an agent of the Central Intelligence Agency passing top secret data along secured channels to the President of the United States.”

Solomon leaned forward. “So the question isn’t whether or not you’re a good journalist; it’s whether or not you can be a good soldier and a better spy.”

The dossier weighed heavy in Lucas’ hands. The room shrank, and the two men facing him seemed to grow by comparison. Solomon, dark and angry, shaking and bouncing and radiating impatience; the President, tall and open and warm, a Gibraltar behind his desk; two men waiting for Lucas to say something, anything. Lucas swallowed.

“I don’t think I fully understand what I’m being asked to do,” he said. “Mr. President, I was told that I would be writing a personal blog for you.”

Solomon shook his head and laughed. The President leaned forward at his desk.

“Yes, Lucas, that’s exactly what you will do. You will be my eyes and ears in the field with Solomon. I’ve given him a very specific job in the fight against terrorism, and I want to be sure that the job is done right.”

The President’s eyes narrowed. “I trust your instincts; you ferreted out my secret when I felt sure it would never be discovered. I want you to apply that same determination and skill to your assessment of Solomon’s work.

“I want to know,” the President said, “that the bodies are piling up. Or if they aren’t. Do you understand, Lucas?”

Lucas looked between the two men. He locked eyes with the President, who held the gaze. His eyes were cold and unflinching; Lucas could see that the President had a very particular plan in mind for Solomon, a plan that he would not back away from. Lucas looked down at the dossier.

“Can I have some time to read this?” he asked. “I think if I can get a handle on the parameters of the mission, I can better answer your questions.”

He turned from the President to Solomon. “Both of your questions.”

The President rose and walked over the couches. He sat opposite of Lucas beside Solomon. Lucas noticed that Solomon stiffened and moved away from the President just slightly.

“Lucas,” the President said, “if I had the time to give you, I would let you have it. But this is a time-critical launch; the dossier was meant to catch you up as you go, not inform your decision on whether you would go.”

The President looked at Solomon, then leaned forward, bringing his full frame into square before Lucas’ eyes.

“In short, Lucas, you don’t have a choice. You will get your ass on the airplane with the rest of Solomon’s crew. Your equipment will be waiting on you, and you’ll find all of your necessary instructions, passwords, codes and clearances in that dossier.”

Lucas fell backward against the couch. “I’m being drafted.”

“No,” the President said, “you’ve been drafted, and it’s time to go to work.”

He stood, buttoning his silk suit jacket. The picture of style and substance, he smiled the same smile that had won him the election. Lucas felt his stomach wrench into knots at the sight.

“I’ll look forward to your first report. And Lucas,” he said, the smile becoming more ravenous, “don’t leave out any details. I want to smell every drop of blood.”

The hidden doorway to the Oval Office opened, and the President of the United States strode out, followed by a half-dozen Secret Services agents. The door closed, leaving Solomon and Lucas alone in the hallowed room.

“Welcome aboard Team Inquisition,” Solomon said. “Hope you have a strong stomach.”

Solomon stood and motioned for Lucas to do the same. Instead of going out the way the President had, Solomon instead crossed to the outer door of the Oval Office and opened it. It was only then that Lucas could hear the gigantic Sikorsky helicopter descending on the West Lawn. The door to the chopper opened and Solomon turned to Lucas.

“Into the rabbit hole?” he yelled; then he ran into the waiting chopper.

Lucas measured the dossier in his hands one last time, before looking around the White House lawn. He felt quite a bit like Alice.

And he followed Solomon down the rabbit hole.

Tonight is bad, very bad. Her death is hitting me and the total finality is bad. And I don’t have enough pills or alcohol to kill it. No one has enough to kill the pain of death. I don’t like it.

I hate that little redhead I used to call mine for getting in the way of our reunion, but honestly it’s all on me, but I still hate that little Irish bitch for making me stop talking to her. If things had happened as Paula wanted, maybe she wouldn’t be dead. And I blame myself. And always will. She is/was my soulmate.

So long Paula, maybe next time around, and a warm tub and razor or a quick shot from my .45 or AK my make it sooner. Alcohol and guns do not mix, not for me anyway, I keep my czeck made Ak in my tweed Fender guitar case and the Taurus .45 in the night stand. Maybe it will happen tonight, maybe not. I’m out of smokes and too drunk to drive to get more, so that aggitates things.

WHY DID YOU DIE!!!!!!!!

My soulmate, why, fuck you god, yeheshua, jesus, mohamed, budda, what ever your fucking name is, FUCK YOU! Never mind that, I can’t disrespect mother Mary, I’m sorry, but I;m in a very dangerous place right now and I’ve isolated myself from my family and friends in town. My purpose of the trip to Colorado is to bring justice to the mother fucker who killed her, because the pigs won’t. Not only do I have her death, I have her retribution on my shoulders and it’s too much.

So I drink and listen to music until it happens.

Free Bird.

By Jason Brooks

The interrogation room was small and gray. Seated at a metal table was a young woman, about 25, with long black hair. She didn’t look up from the table top.

“Are you praying right now?” Clarke asked.

He was standing across the room from her, arms folded, his voice filled with sarcasm. Carlson sat at the table with the woman, just inches away from her.

“I’m just curious,” Clarke continued, “because you haven’t looked at anything other than that damn table top all morning long.”

Clarke walked over and put his mouth next to the woman’s ear.

“I figure anyone staring at something for that long is either crazy or up to something. Given your history, prayer was the first thought that came to mind.”

Clarke grabbed the woman by the neck and slammed her face into the table. Blood spurted out along with a small whimper. Clarke held her head pressed against the table; he whispered in her ear.

“So: do you think God is listening?”

“…”

“What’s that?” Clarke asked. “Speak up. I can’t hear you because you have a table in your face.”

Carlson reached over and pulled Clarke’s hand away.

“She said ‘Yes.’”

Clarke’s eyes flared. “Carlson, will you step outside with me for a moment?”

The junior soldier stood and left the room. Clarke leaned over the young woman, his hand resting on her shoulder, which he pinched. She wriggled in discomfort.

“I’ll be right back. You keep on praying.”

The door was still closing when Clarke yelled, “What the HELL!”

Carlson backed up from the blast of Clarke’s voice.

“Good cop/bad cop, remember? I’m supposed to be the good cop,” Carlson replied.

Clarke walked to Carlson, getting so close that his spittle flew into Carlson’s mouth. “You were over the line.”

Carlson wiped his mouth. “I would say you were.”

The hand around his throat surprised him, and so did the intensity of its grip. Carlson grabbed at his senior officer’s hand and tried to pry it loose. It might as well have been tempered steel.

“Don’t push me, boy. I’ve got a lot of leeway with these subjects, and I intend to use all of it.”

“Can’t… torture…” Carlson croaked.

“I can’t? Since when? Torture has been an unofficial policy for years now. I can bribe, cajole, yell, stomp, grab, push, pull, and water board anyone I damn well please.

“Fundamentalists like her,” he nodded over his shoulder, “aren’t protected by the Fourth Amendment anymore.”

“Still… not… right…”

Clarke let go. Carlson fell to the floor gasping.

“Jesus,” Clarke muttered, running his hands through his hair. Carlson struggled to stand. Clarke reached down and pulled him up.

“We have a bigger picture now, Sergeant. Don’t get all righteous on me. I need your help.”

Sergeant Carlson stared at his commanding officer. Such a strange face, Clarke’s: full of indignation yet compassion. Carlson remembered why he liked serving under the Commander; or, at least, used to like serving under him.

The coming footsteps told the soldiers it was time to get back to the business at hand. When Solomon rounded the corner, hands full of folders, steaming towards them, both knew something was up.

“Morning Clarke, Carlson,” Solomon sang.

“Morning, sir,” the pair replied.

Solomon opened the door to the interrogation room and walked inside. Clarke and Carlson followed.

“Good morning, Miss…” Solomon looked at one of the folders. “Dally. Bridgette Dally, or am I misinformed?”

The young woman said nothing. Solomon looked at his two soldiers. Clarke shrugged.

“She’s been like that all morning,” Carlson said.

Solomon ran his finger along the blood spatter on the table top. “And I see we’ve tried persuasion.”

Clarke grinned. “Well, we were working it in.”

“Carlson? Your thoughts?”

Carlson looked between his two superiors. Solomon’s face was open, as if inviting honesty and creative thinking; Clarke’s was friendly, but frozen. Carlson knew behind the veneer was a fury waiting to burst out when Carlson said the wrong thing.

If Carlson said the wrong thing.

“Sir, Major Clarke was administering persuasive interrogation techniques as approved by the DCIA, DDI and the White House, per Executive Order 13440, signed on 20 July, 2007.”

“Nice non-answer,” Solomon said. “Major Clarke?”

“I was prepared to beat the living hell out of her sir.”

“I like it. Quite the team.”

Solomon sat down across from the young woman and pushed a folder into her line of sight. She didn’t move, but her breathing changed and Solomon knew she was reading.

“Disturbing piece of paper for you isn’t it?” he asked. His voice was casual.

The woman nodded.

“You realize that authorizes me to do whatever I deem necessary in the acquisition of intelligence regarding hostile and acknowledged threats against the government don’t you?”

Another nod.

“Then you also realize that your life does not exist outside this room.”

She looked up. Clarke and Carlson looked at Solomon as well. He shifted in his chair, crossing his right leg over his left. He put his hands behind his head.

“That’s right. The President has declared that any members of any group on the acknowledged watch list of terrorist organizations are considered expatriates and therefore without protection of Constitutional guarantee.”

Solomon stood and walked to the young woman’s side. He placed a hand on the table and used the other one to brush her black hair back. He leaned down next to her exposed right ear.

“In short, your ass is mine.”

Solomon kicked the chair from beneath her. Her chin slammed onto the edge of the table and before she could fall, Solomon caught her, wrenching her up and backwards onto the table with considerable force. She shrieked in pain, her arms flailing wildly, somehow managing to get a fingernail on Solomon’s face. The gouge was deep; his blood dripped onto her blouse, spreading across her midsection.

“Solomon!” Clarke cried.

But he didn’t hear; his fist slammed into the woman’s face over and over again, the sound of flesh meeting flesh replaced by bone breaking bone. The woman’s eyes swelled, her nose gushing blood, her face disappearing fistfall after fistfall.

Carlson crossed the room and grabbed Solomon, and Clark followed suit. Together, the soldiers pulled him off of the woman. After a brief standoff, Solomon collected himself. Smoothing his hair with his bloody hands, he coolly walked back to his seat and collected his folders.

“Gentlemen,” he said, his voice low, “this is no longer a simple operation. We have stepped beyond the bounds of standard law enforcement. You will either learn to comply with the freedoms and responsibilities granted you, or you will find yourself another unit for assignment.”

He walked over and handed each a folder. Both men looked at the blood-smeared manila with mixed levels of disgust and duty. Solomon laughed and walked to the door.

“You’ll find you’ve been assigned to my private unit, very hush-hush, very elite. I chose you because of your outstanding field work and because I felt you had the stomach and patriotism to carry out our President’s orders.”

Solomon opened the door. Clarke and Carlson read through the folders quickly, scanning their assignment and responsibilities. Carlson looked up.

“These numbers… are they for real?” he asked.

“Yes, Carlson, they are. The President knows that a task like this one requires extra compensation.”

“Beats the hell out of my current pay,” Carlson murmured.

“Yes, I’m sure it does. But then again, seven figures are always better than five.”

Carlson closed the folder and walked to Solomon’s side. “I’m in.”

Solomon turned to the senior officer. Clarke was re-reading the folder, shaking his head. His expression was not what Solomon expected.

“Problems Major Clarke?”

“I don’t know,” the solider replied. “I understand the passion behind this, but…”

“But what?” Solomon challenged.

“Everything I’ve stood for as a military man, as an American citizen – this goes beyond the pale. It would be turning my back on my oath as a solider.”

Solomon crossed his arms over his chest. Carlson begged with his eyes.

“I don’t think I can do this,” Clarke offered, weakly.

Solomon snorted. “Just a moment ago you were willingly beating this woman, and probably enjoying it. You mean that just a small change in your operating orders, one that actually gives you the latitude you need to truly do your job, is enough to make you think twice?”

Clarke swallowed. “Beating someone isn’t the same thing as completely stealing their life. I’ve killed for my country, but always within the limits of the law. This is different.”

“But it’s not,” Solomon said. “Re-read your folder, Major; the privileges and operational leeway you will have are fully approved by the President and the sitting Congress. That makes it within the law, and therefore no violation of your oath as a soldier.”

“Being legal and being right are two different things,” Clarke said. “I just can’t.”

Solomon walked over to him, placing a hand comfortingly on the major’s shoulder. He leaned over and whispered into the big man’s ear, and Clarke’s face went white. In one smooth motion, Solomon drew the major’s sidearm and put a bullet in Clarke’s head. The big soldier’s body fell to the ground with a splat.

Before Carlson could react, Solomon spun and fired two shots into the chest of the unidentified woman. The blood from both bodies covered his suit and shoes, but Solomon seemed nonplussed; he put the gun down on the table and wiped his face clean with a handkerchief.

Solomon grabbed the gun and tossed it to Carlson. “Get that to the lab. We’ll have to report this, of course, but there will be no inquiry. In fact, after the janitors dump the bodies in the Agency’s incinerator, there will be no recollection of this at all.”

Solomon walked past his new unit commander. “Is that understood, Carlson?”

“Yes sir,” Carlson replied.

“Good. As soon as you can, meet me in my office. We’ll need to pick a replacement for Clarke, and I’d like your input. After that, we’re on the road for a while.”

Carlson nodded. “Understood, sir.”

“You have family, Carlson?”

“Yes sir. Wife and two kids.”

Solomon smiled. “That’s nice. Be sure to spend some time with them. While the money is good, the hours and travel suck.”

Carlson opened his mouth to speak. Solomon cut him off.

“You have issues?”

“Not especially. I was just wondering: why kill Clarke? Why not just let him transfer like you said?”

“Because,” Solomon replied, “things have changed. There is no place for someone with a conscience in this unit, even one as warped and obscene as Clarke’s. This is an end game, Carlson; we’re not just trying to end terrorism. We will end it.”

“Sir, yes sir!” Carlson said. He offered a crisp salute.

“Oh, cut that crap out.”

Carlson dropped his hand. “It’s a sign of respect, sir. Habit.”

“Well, when you quit respecting me, I’ll know. And you won’t have to worry about much after that.”

Solomon spun on his heels and walked down the hallway, rifling through his folders as emergency personnel ran to the interrogation room where Carlson stood. New faces came out of the woodwork, and by the time the scene was secured, reviewed, and sanitized, Carlson had been standing in the same spot for almost three hours. Finally, one of the janitorial techs walked up to him with a clipboard and a form.

“Need you to sign this, sir.”

Carlson took the clipboard and stared at it for a moment. “What is this exactly?”

“Standard release and waiver of culpability; you’ve never seen one of these before?”

Carlson shook his head. He signed the form on the “X” and handed it back to the janitor. “I take it this is common then?”

“More than you realize. But now that Mr. Solomon has the full authority of the President, things should really get interesting.”

“How so?” Carlson asked.

“Imagine unchaining the world’s hungriest dragon, one so powerful that no one or no thing can stop him.”

Carlson nodded.

“That’s the son of a bitch you just signed on to work for. Just a tip: don’t piss him off.”

The tech put the form in his pocket and wheeled his cleaning cart down the hall. Carlson stood in the doorway, looking at the small room that somehow seemed much larger and more evil than before.

Parce que les monstres sont toujours parmis nous, parce que ce que j’ai subit ne sert à rien, parce que certaines femmes sont toujours des victimes…

J’ai la haine, une haine qui m’irradie entièrement, une haine de ces mecs qui se croient tout permis parce qu’une gamine c’est mise en jupe….

Une haine parce qu’encore une fois il n’y aura pas de suite, parce que le courage manque parce que la honte domine parce que personne ne la croira….

J’ai la rage contre moi parce que malgré son appel à l’aide, je ne ferais rien, parce qu’égoistement je ne prendrais pas le risque de ne pas voir un ami parce que j’aurais déconné….

J’ai la rage parce que finalement je suis comme les autres….

Under lång tid har säkerheten på Der A-manns officiella bloggkontor varit något högre än vanligt. Inga okända besökare har släpps in på startplattan. Än mindre fått åka med stabens pendelraket ( vi ligger i omloppsbana vid Lagrangepunkten L4) utan särskilt tillstånd. Oss veterligen har ingen information läckt in eller ut. Men då vi rör oss i bloggosfären, albeit hundratals mil från jorden, tillhör det sakens natur att hemligheter inte låter sig hållas instängda mer än fem sekunder efter att de yppats. Skvaller är vår affärsidé.
De senaste dagarna har rapporterna om milslånga köer framför internetcafeér runt om i världen inkommit i ökande takt.

Förväntansfulla läsare köar utanför Tw@t-cybercafé, Williamsburg PY

Utan mer ado(och inläggets näst sista anglicism i kursiv stil, i promise).
Mannen som startade en träffpunkt för de psykist distraherade, mannen som var så snygg att trummisen i Weezer anammades hans look, mannen som beslöt sig för att ge kollektivet ett stort fett centralt placerat finger, mannen som gav umlauten ett ansikte i form av ett illaluktande havslevande däggdjur är tillbaks.
Numera kallar han sig för “Fist of Cheese” och återfinns här:

Sanity Catch revolves dimensionally around free-will – in its tangibly raw, real, hectically tragic yet simultaneously liberating essence. A positive message is often more powerful when it touches base with the damningly dirty, primal nature of man, when it trancends a dreamscape to engage the observer with situations that hold for them a moral rigidity. It is where the question of free-will – often considered a pseudoscience – truly arrises, coupled with a dash of spirit.

The objective of the film is not to provoke thought. The objective is to still the mind and touch the soul. Where nothing needs be spoken. Where a deep seed of insight within the subconscious of the observer is sprinkled with perspective.

By Jason Brooks

In a white panel van at the top of the street, a small but powerful man smiled with satisfaction. It had taken a long time for his team to track down Steven, and even longer to get the hate crimes statute through Congress and onto the President’s desk, but the wait was worth it.

According to the new statute, Steven would now receive a fairly expeditious trial and then a fairly lengthy jail sentence. At least, that was how the statute read. The reality was that the smiling man had been given Presidential “discretion” to deal with each credible threat in whatever manner seemed appropriate. Sometimes that meant bringing the suspect in. Sometimes it meant subduing the suspect with a little necessary force.

Tonight it meant something entirely different.

The man named Solomon smiled, thinking about what lay ahead of him this evening. It would be a night to remember.

***

Clarke and his men entered the basement of a small house. Herding the captives in a brusque fashion, they quickly separated the man named Steven from the rest and shoved him, handcuffed, into a corner. Blood trickled from his mouth and nose, the result of a sudden “stumble” on his way out of the house. Of course he had only stumbled because he had been shoved into the wall on his way out the door.

The collision left Steven dizzy. He could only clearly recall the soldiers’ laughter: when bouncing his head off the hardwood floor, when they kicked him, when they punched him so hard in the stomach that he lost control of his bladder, wetting himself. He could hear their malignant amusement echoing in his head, even has he felt his ribs grind together in a couple of places. He grimaced in pain, certain he was in for more of the same treatment.

If not worse.

After several minutes of delay, the soldiers moved the other prisoners out of the basement. Only Steven remained. When one of the soldiers stood him up, Steven thought he was being moved as well. But the soldier, whose name tag read Carlson, slapped Steven across the face, leaving a stinging imprint and the feeling that he would never leave that basement.

It was not an unnerving feeling; instead it was peaceful, as if he were no longer in a room full of enemies, but  surrounded by love and warmth. In his heart Steven could discern a movement of sorts, almost as if a small voice were whispering into his soul. He couldn’t help but smile, even though he knew there was nothing about his situation worth smiling about.

The soldier that pulled Steven to his feet stood next to him, waiting for his next order. All Carlson knew was that the Tribunal would assemble right there in the basement and he had to guard the prisoner until the brass showed up. Shifting his weight around, Carlson examined his captive.

Slightly built compared to the barrel-chested Carlson, the little man seemed larger than he actually was. He wore the strangest expression, as if he were in another world, one filled with happiness. Carlson marveled at the sight; surely this guy had to know he was about to die. He couldn’t possibly think everything would end well. Carlson certainly didn’t; the soldier knew that before the sun rose he’d be mopping up this criminal’s blood.

And yet Steven’s face was the picture of peace and serenity. It shouldn’t have bothered him, but Carlson could feel the anger building, a rage that would need – and get – a good release.

These people, Carlson thought, they’re not right at all, This guy’s about to die and he’s smiling!

Carlson thought about giving Steven a taste of what lay ahead, but the rest of his unit came racing downstairs, scrambling into formation before the basement door. Carlson knew that the Tribunal’s membership would be next and he felt a twinge of fear. These men were ruthless in their judgment, a fact well known among the soldiers beneath their command.

Too many times his unit had stood as silent sentries while the Tribunal passed sentences of beatings or worse. The only sentence the Tribunal had never carried out was death, and that was only because the Constitution prohibited it. But they pushed the limit regularly.

Carlson looked at Steven and felt slight pity for him; it seemed wrong that a person’s beliefs should be illegal, as Steven’s were. But then again, Steven’s beliefs were the worst kind. The unit had watched countless surveillance videos of his street corner preaching, as well as his work in a soup kitchen for the widowed and orphaned. While he spoke of grace and love for all, he also spoke against people who didn’t live his lifestyle, suggesting those who lived differently would somehow be punished.

To the government, it was hate speech that bordered on terrorism; to Carlson it was just the ramblings of a sad, pathetic man. But, he was only a soldier and soldiers followed orders. He checked to make sure his pistol was properly loaded.

The Tribunal descended the stairs, assembling themselves in a line directly across from Steven. Each member wore the Tribunal outfit: black boots, black pants, and black jackets. There were officially 125 members on the court, but they traveled in groups of 5 to more efficiently dole out justice. Each group was headed by a senior member who acted as chief justice; the group that traveled with Carlson and Clarke’s unit was under the guidance of a man named Aristotle. Tall and thin with graying hair, Aristotle had served on the Tribunal for over twenty years, making him the member with the most seniority.

Well known in certain circles for his disdain of “socially stunted minorities,” Aristotle was known as the most ruthless of all Tribunal members. A devout atheist, he believed that life was best explained by science and reason. Other members of the five-person panel embraced religion; one a Wiccan, another a Buddhist. Their personal philosophies didn’t collide with his beloved science like Steven’s did. Aristotle saw his peers’ faith more as a throwback to very old times when humanity didn’t know their place as the pinnacle of evolution.

The Tribunal arranged itself in formation for trial, a noiseless dance that usually preceded wailing and crying. The silence throbbed in the soldiers’ ears; there were whispers the Tribunal would extend their harshest verdict ever. The unit buzzed with the idea that they would be the instruments of that decision. In a way, it brought even more pressure to bear, knowing that what was about to happen had already been decided in the most privileged corridors of power.

Five metal chairs stood in a single line on the back wall of the basement. Once the formation was complete, each member took a seat, with Aristotle in the center chair. To his left were a woman and a man, and to his left were two women. The members did not look at one another, nor did they look at the soldiers. Instead, each of them fastened their eyes on Steven.

What he saw in those ten eyes confirmed the finality he had felt earlier.

The silence roared. Finally, Aristotle spoke.

“Your name is Steven, correct?”

Steven nodded.

“Do you understand why you have been called before this Tribunal?”

Another nod.

“Having reviewed this case thoroughly, our membership has reached judgment. However, we will allow you to speak in your own defense.”

Steven nodded.

“However,” Aristotle continued, “there is no reason to believe that what you say will in any way influence our decision. But, as we are not barbarians, you may be heard.”

Steven bowed his head momentarily, and the silence flooded back. The Tribunal sat perfectly still; the soldiers shifted the weight of their gear from foot to foot. Carlson let out a slight sigh, which drew the disapproving eye of Aristotle. He quickly resumed his stand at attention.

Finally, Steven spoke.

“Members of the Tribunal, as you have so carefully reminded me, I cannot change your minds on my fate. I know that in a few moments I will die for crimes that are not crimes at all.”

Aristotle’s face shrank, his mouth drawing into a deep scowl. Steven’s face was placid, unmarred. He drew a breath and continued.

“However, I accept your judgment and do not hold you responsible for your error. You have been blinded by a powerful force, one that corrupts and destroys everything it touches – and that force is sin.”

The Tribunal members and the soldiers remained motionless – but only through self-control. The criminal had stupidly chosen to parade his crimes in front of his judges and executioners. The audacity stunned some and enraged others. Several of the soldiers subtly reached for the safety on their gun and disengaged it. Aristotle leaned forward slightly, amused at the fool’s choice of defense. Steven continued.

“Each of us in this room has been tainted with sin, a condition of willful disobedience to the Living God. Our crime has been judged and death is the only suitable punishment for such a blatant and heinous offence. While my sentence is to be carried out tonight,” he looked knowingly at the soldiers, “yours is yet to come. But one day each of you will die; you will draw a final breath and then you will be no more on this earth.”

“But that will not be the end of you. Rather it will only be the beginning. You will meet your Creator, the Eternal God, and you will receive the never-ending punishment of your souls.”

Steven looked slowly into the eyes of each member of the Tribunal.

“In that moment, you will finally understand what judgment really is.”

Searching each face for a hint of understanding, Steven was disappointed. The two women on the left were unmoved, as was the woman on the right. The man on the end seemed ready to kill Steven with his bare hands. Only the middle one, the one that had spoken, seemed intent on listening to Steven now, so Steven made him the focus of his passionate plea.

“But you can avoid that judgment. You can avoid the death of your souls. If you would simply turn to Jesus Christ, the God-man you have marginalized and belittled for the centuries, you can be saved…”

Aristotle cut him off with a snap of his fingers. The judge sneered.

“This is what you’ve chosen to say? To spit out your hate speech when you should be begging for mercy?”

Aristotle stood. The walk to Steven was less than seven paces, and he crossed it fluidly. Standing nose to nose, the taller Aristotle hissed at the condemned man.

“I’m of a mind to kill you myself.”

Steven looked into the black eyes boring into his own.

“The only authority you have over me is whatever my Heavenly Father allows you to have. Whatever you do, it’s all in His plan.”

Aristotle’s face contorted with rage. The sheer audacity of this ignorant wretch was appalling, but it ultimately proved to Aristotle the wisdom and rightness of the Hate Crimes Statute. He patted Steven on the face.

“I’m sure that’s how you wish things worked, and I’m all for allowing people their delusions, no matter how harmful to themselves.”

Aristotle walked back to this chair and sat down. He leaned back, his face dark and set like concrete.

“But you don’t keep this pestilent garbage to yourself. You insist on spreading it around, and by doing so, you create chaos and harm in our nation. That I will not allow.”

Aristotle motioned to the soldiers who all snapped their rifles to their shoulders. Carlson did as commanded, but something about Steven was weakening his resolve. His finger rested lightly on the trigger; Carlson couldn’t decide if he would pull it when the time came.

Aristotle reached into his jacket and produced a small scrap of paper, no bigger than a Kleenex.

“This is your death warrant. Having been found guilty of crimes against humanity, we hereby sentence you to death, to be carried out immediately over against all hopes of appeal.”

Aristotle turned and looked at Clarke, who stood at the head of the line.

“Major, your men may fire when ready.”

Clarke saluted. “Yes sir.”

“And Major?” Aristotle continued.

“Yes sir?”

“Don’t feel like you have to spare the ammunition. Have a little fun.”

Clarke’s teeth shone in the dim light. “With pleasure sir.”

“Oh, I hope so,” Aristotle said, laughing. He looked at Steven. “I certainly hope so.”

The wall of soldiers flanked Steven to his right. They each steadied their rifle in the fire position, holding for the command of their leader, Major Clarke. Carlson was next to last in the line, and he could feel his hands shaking. He’d never experienced anything like this before.

But then again, he’d never been asked to kill an innocent man before, either.

Carlson’s eyes burned with sweat. Was Steven really innocent? His speeches obviously didn’t do much to keep order in the nation, but were they really worth killing him over? His finger tightened on the trigger.

Hell of a time to grow a conscience.

Clarke took a deep breath. “Ready?”

“Sir, yes sir!” came the trained reply.

“Then aim!”

The guns pointed at Steven’s chest. He could hear faint music in the air, voices from beyond the room. A flash of light filled his eyes, and suddenly all Steven could see was a form walking towards him from the light.

“Make no mistakes men! We want this man dead!”

“Sir, yes sir!”

Steven stared at the figure walking toward him. It seemed familiar somehow, like Steven had known the shape and stride of the person all of his life. The face came into his view, and instantly Steven smiled.

“The bastard is laughing at us! Fire, fire, fire!” Clarke yelled.

The bullets riddled Steven’s body at a rate impossible to fathom. He could feel each one puncture his skin and bones and insides, yet the overall feeling was of one massive punch to his body. Tendons in his legs snapped as bullets ripped through his knees and thighs, and Steven spilled to the floor.

“Cease fire!” Clarke called. It took a full seven seconds before his command was met. Clarke stepped to the offending soldier.

“You have a problem following orders, Carlson?”

“Sir, no sir! I just wanted to make sure the terrorist was good and dead, sir!”

Clarke smiled. “I like it. Let’s make sure he is then, shall we?”

Clarke and Carlson walked to the fallen man’s body. Blood covered everything, splattered in a thousand different places, pooling in several more. Steven’s face was submerged in one such pool.

“Seems dead to me,” Clarke laughed.

“Me too, sir,” Carlson responded.

Steven moaned, forcing their attention back to him. “Fa… fath…”

“Oh, for God’s sake, he’s not dead!” Clarke yelled. He jumped to his feet.

Carlson stayed on his knees, listening.

“Father… forgive,” Steven whispered. “Forgive… they don’t…”

The sound of the gun shot shattered Carlson’s concentration. Pieces of Steven’s brain matter splashed across the soldier’s face and he recoiled in horror. He turned and looked at his commanding officer, who stood above him, his service pistol smoking in his hand.

“Forgive nothing,” Clarke said.

My old friend from Colorado, is coming out tonight after his shift. He’s taking 3 days off. My family, even my dad in Colorado doesn’t know I’ll be back in Denver. But I have a reason and purpose and they don’t need to know.

My one and only true love was murderer by a drunk driver who only got charged with running a stop sign because he comes from a very rich family. He’s about to meet working class justice. And my old friend, who remains nameless and ALWAYS will, even if I get busted, Is at my side. He is one of my two best friends, both “criminals”, but the most trustworthy guys ever. Always at your side and always covering your back, no matter what.

Now a little Phil Collins for that Cadillac driving Boulder aristocrat punk. Count your breaths, the furies come from afar and the fates bow their beautiful heads, and the gun will disappear in the 760 mile treck home.

A life for a life.

In The Air.