Serge and his Apples III

 It's been almost a year since I wrote the cliffhanger of part two, today's a good day for part three (never said I was a quick thinker).

I walked between Viktor and Lazar, and behind Felix as we left the latest bar I had decided to attempt to find a beautiful oblivion. I was well on my way to that oblivion, regaling some whippersnapper sent by "her" with the tale of Serge and his apples, when Felix and his playmates decided my presence was required elsewhere. Being the accommodating type, and not currently being strapped, I decided to follow along with Felix. After all, where else did I have to be? It's hard to get places you need or want to be with two broken knees, and one eye swollen shut, which is Felix's playmates general way of persuading you to 'come along quietly and don't make a fuss'. I had seen it happen to several people before, and made the command decision that I was too pretty for one of those persuasions. Therefore, I decided to follow along with Felix's plan without know what it was because I decided that the ability to walk and see were pretty important in my line of work. If I ever decided to do any work.

We reached the street, and Felix pointed to the straight out of central casting black sedan, and said "get in GI, we are going for a little ride." I sighed "Jesus, Felix can you be anymore of a stereotype? Why can't you lot show up in something with some colour? Try red or yellow, no one would ever suspect you're up to no good if you show up in a bright yellow roadster." Felix's smile did not reach his eyes, "Get the fuck in GI, and stop with the comedy act. You'll need it for your next audience." That didn't bode well for me, as I figured Felix was the worst audience I was going to have. If wherever we were going was worst that where I thought Felix was taking me, then I wasn't nearly drunk enough for this shit. "Fine Felix, just let me finish one thing" I said, and took my trusty flask from my coat pocket swirled it around, uncapped it, and before his thugs could stop me finished the contents at a gallop. I coughed "Christ, alright Felix I am ready for my close up as the saying goes" and I got into the car followed by Viktor and Lazar who took up their stations on either side of me. Sometimes Felix's imagination lacks a certain flair.

Felix got in the front seat, and looked over at the driver, some mug I had never seen before, and said "you know where we are going, get us there without an fuss." I settled into my seat and tried to make myself as comfortable as possible, that being a difficult task since I was squashed between two bruisers, slightly drunk, and with no clue where I was going, and if I was going to have access to a bathroom anytime soon (that shit in the flask goes right through you sometimes). As the car pulled out into traffic I reflected on why at 2 p.m. Felix was even awake and roaming the streets. With nothing better to do I asked "Felix, it's 2 in the afternoon, why are you awake, and roaming the streets? Didn't you have a long night of beating the shit out of someone to tire you out before your warm milk and bedtime?" He arched an eyebrow at that, not sure if he thought I was guessing or really knew that he liked warm milk before bed, sometimes it's best just to throw lines into the water and see if anything will bite. You just have to be careful they aren't too big to reel in, and don't bite too hard. "Not that you deserve to know, but I despise milk, and I don't beat the shit out of people. I just gently persuade them to tell kind Uncle Felix what he wants to know. Failing that these two sweethearts" here he pointed to Viktor and Lazar, "beat the shit out of them, as you so colourfully put it."

I figured that was about all the conversation I was going to get out of Felix, he's a tight lipped bastard even on his most expansive days, and Mutt and Jeff were the grunting type. I don't think I'd ever heard either of them say more that five words total, so I decided to enjoy the ride. I generally walk places I need to be, it makes the stagger home more interesting and challenging. A car ride I didn't have to pay for was a treat. Then I noticed we weren't going the right direction, "Hey Felix, is your boy new? He just missed the turn onto Water Street, how else are we getting to your 'office' if not that way?" Felix turned around and said "we aren't going to my office GI, why don't you just relax?" When a man like Felix tells you to relax, you start to get nervous, very fucking nervous. "I'm so relaxed that I am almost in a coma Felix, but I'm curious where are we going? Let me guess, you've decided to take me to a nice restaurant for my birthday, but Felix today isn't my birthday, surely you know that?"  He didn't bother to turn as he answered me "I'm also not taking you for a walk in the country, just settle down, and try to keep your face shut for the rest of the trip, though your birthday joke will be even funnier later." 

I knew that a "walk in the country" with Felix meant that Felix would have a nice walk and come back, you would have a nice walk and not, so I decided to keep my whore mouth shut, and began to ponder his birthday remark. Felix is not a man to say things by accident, and only tells you things he wants you to hear. It's a character flaw of his that I have discussed with him many times, and yet he persists in doing it. Some dogs just can't or won't learn new tricks. I suppose the good news, if there was any good news, was that Felix said "later" implying that there would be a "later" in which I would be able to enjoy (or more likely rue) my birthday joke. It's the small mercies that are sometimes the most appreciated.  I decided to try one more ploy with Felix, it might not be the best idea, but I don't generally like surprises, and I had a feeling that Felix was about to give me a very unpleasant (for me) surprise. "Well, I know we aren't going to your house Felix, because we aren't going east." That bolt did find its way home. He turned fully around, and snarled "I said for you to keep your face shut, and you had to open your mouth and turn smart didn't you?" He gestured to Viktor, and Viktor punched me very quickly, very quietly, and VERY hard in the ribs. I gasped in quite real pain "Christ, Felix that wasn't necessary." He smiled "it wasn't until you made it so, now settle down, and if you like your ribs in their current condition, stay silent. It's not too far now." 

I looked around with a tad more interest in my surroundings, we had turned into a slightly more posh neighborhood, one where "my kind of people" were only welcome if we were taking trash off the sidewalk, or here to fix the plumbing issue of one of the toffs who lived there. "Wait a second" I begin "Felix are you lost or have you gone mad? This is. . ." "I know exactly where we are going, and so do you, you've been here at least 4 times before, though according to my information the last time was unpleasant. Remember your joke? Now you can see why I think it's final got a little humor in it." He held up a gloved hand and showed me a little red pill, "Though I suspect your last little shot of liquid courage may have been enough to keep you calm enough, we will just have to make sure. Boys have him open wide." His goons nodded in unison and grabbed my jaws and forced them open. Felix handed Lazar the pill. "Make sure he swallows it, he will thank me for this mercy the next time he sees me." I struggled, but it was mostly for show. A man has to know when he beat, and I was beat. Lazar shoved the pill into my mouth and I dutifully swallowed it down. Felix nodded and said "Good lad, now in about 10 minutes you are going to say good night for a while. I am not exactly sure where you'll wake up, but that wasn't part of my deal. I am just the delivery boy. Enjoy your nap GI, I don't think from what I've been able to tell about the person I am delivering you to that you will enjoy waking up from it." About 8 minutes later he nodded to his goons, and I was dumped like a piece of the aforementioned trash onto the sidewalk. I knew then that sleep was on its way too quickly for me to leg it, and so with a sigh I sat down and waited for what was to come. All the while thinking what an absolute bastard Felix had become.   to be continued (again).

 

 

Of Barbarbians and Safes

"Not all men seek rest and peace; some are born with the storm in their blood" - Robert E. Howard.

M. Howard from whom I shamelessly steal the above quote was the man who "created" Conan the Barbarian. It was a very long time ago, and many of us have only accessed Conan through the films starring the former governor of California. Giving the books a read, or a listen in this digital age is worth your time. After all, sexting your boss at 3 a.m. is starting to get old, and you have to try to better yourself as a human being right? 

There is a school of thought that rest and peace will allow you do that. I mean hours of study and self-reflection, if properly done, will advance your knowledge (if you study the "right" stuff), and make you more fun to talk to at parties that you probably don't want to attend. Reflecting upon the mysteries of life, and using the right 'detectives' to help you unlock them is a grand undertaking. Aristotle, Plato, all the Greeks will help, but don't forget the Philip Marlowes of the world. The allegory of the cave is a wonderful thing, and there is a lot of life lessons in it to be learned, but The Big Sleep has a lot of more gritty life lessons that you will need to learn as well, especially if you want to get your hands a little dirty. Peace is also a wonderful thing, we all want peace right? Civil unrest, and disorder start to strain the seams of society. However don't forget "the Romans create a wasteland and call it peace."  Peace can be a tricky thing, and no all men are made for it. Hindenburg and Ludendorff were pretty necessary for Germany in World War I, and they were not men of peace. Conan is not a man of peace, he is a man of action, and a lot of people think that peace is not an action it is the lack of action.

A nice warm study with a volume of Voltaire is not for the men of Conan's ilk. They can solve the mysteries of the universe if they want, but Conan is out in the universe. Discovering its mysteries by running amok in it. Most men will spend their lives in quiet desperation, reading about the adventures of Conan, and men like him pondering what they would do if they had the balls to do what Conan does. Some might try to "arm chair quarterback" Conan, and point out his 'mistakes' and what they would have done differently to get the girl and the treasure rather than sacrificing one to save the other. That is easy to do with a glass of fine brandy in one hand, and your cock in the other. Any damn fool can point out the errors of others, it takes a different kind of fool to realize that many times those mistakes make the story.  These 'men of peace' aren't going to risk anything more than tripping over the cat on the way to the bathroom, and certainly are going to go barrelling around the world in a loincloth with a sword looking for dragons to slay, and women to 'rescue' (whether they need it or not).  Perhaps, if they think about it enough these fellows will understand the fact that the warm study, the glass of brandy, and even the cat exist for them because of men like Conan. Maybe they are hyper-aware of the situation of the world, and maybe they appreciate Conan and his kind. Probably they don't, that is why the term barbarian gets stuck to him. They look down their long noses at his savagery, and tut tut his actions as the actions of an uncivilized boor. However, they overlook the fact that without boors like Conan, they probably would have been gored to death by a boar a long time ago.

Take some time to think about the circle of people you loosely call your friends, is there a man or woman (this is the 21st century after all. I for one, wouldn't be upset at being rescued by a 'storm blooded woman') among them? Would they consider you to be that person? Are you all men of peace? Are you all men at peace? Of peace and at peace are very, very different things. Men like Conan may have moments in their lives where they are 'at peace' they are probably never 'of peace'. The storm in their blood doesn't work that way, and it shouldn't. The storm in the blood is there since birth or at least it develops at a very young age. Conan (since his is fictional) is lucky he lives in the Hyborian Age that gives him ample chance to unleash the storm in his blood, and plenty of dragons, snakes, and other monsters to slay (even the human kind). Being more 'civilized' we are unlikely to take up sword and loincloth and go racing to the 'rescue' of the damsels in our lives. Most of us would look shockingly bad in a loincloth, and probably couldn't lift a sword over our head for the life of us, and more than likely the damsels don't really need rescuing in the first place. Polite society, or at least the idea of it, can be rather boring for men with the storm in their blood.

That is the unique thing about this storm, it might can probably be suppressed if you struggle hard enough. That struggle is hard (as a proper struggle should be), and you're never to know if suppression is the 'right' decision. You have to realize that once unleashed the storm is not going to be "put back in the bottle." You unleash the Kraken that is the storm, and you are no longer a man of peace. Storms like that aren't like punk ass bitches of hurricanes that lash a coastal area for a couple of days, pouring rain down on poor citizens, and flooding them out of whatever hovel they call home, and then disappearing inland to go out with a whimper. No this storm is not a novelty, it is not something that you can control any longer. It is the surge in your blood that is going to put you on Conan's path. It is, in some ways, a declaration of independence. A way to tell the world that you aren't going to be bullied anymore. It is also probably going to cost you. Maybe it will cost you the job that you pretend is a career. It might cost you the girl that you are pretending is the 'one'. It might cost you the hovel you are pretending is a home.  It might cost you that circle of friends that you are pretending are your best mates.

 

 But in counter weight to all those losses are the potential gains. Don't be confused and fall for the trap of thinking that Conan doesn't have moments of mind numbing terror, he does. Don't think that Conan always get the treasure and the girl, he doesn't. Don't think Conan lives the high life, he spends a lot of nights "sleeping rough" without a copper to his name. He doesn't sleep in a lot of soft comfy beds. He sleeps where he can, and shitty inns with vermin infested beds and kitchens are the norm rather than the exception.  Don't think that just because he has the balls (so to speak) to run around in a loincloth that Conan doesn't have his own doubts, he does. He just doesn't let them control him, they may occasionally slow him down, but they don't stop him. Don't think that just slashing the monster's throat always solves the problem it doesn't. The monsters outnumber you on a staggering scale, and those so called men of peace are creating more monsters daily. You, and your kind, will always be outnumbered. The siren's call of the 'storm in your blood' life can also be a dirge. A dirge to the comfy beds, the steady pay, the decent food, and the steady, uncomplicated relationships (yeah right) that make up your placid life. It is a decision that one would think must needs to be made, but in reality indecision can be just as much of a decision as an active unleashing of the storm. You may 'choose' to suppress the storm, and/or not act upon its call. Not choosing it is just as hard of a decision to make. It creates a duality in you that is not always going to be pleasant, and is probably never going to go fully away, or be fully resolved to your (or anyone else's) satisfaction. 

 

Perhaps Howard had the storm in his blood, but living the in the early 20th century, he realized the chances to chuck it all over, and go slay dragons were very limited, so he created Conan. I doubt Conan was his alter ego, and I am not familiar enough with Howard's works to attempt that kind of deep analysis, I am just stealing a quote from him, and fashioning a stupid blog post around it (that also doesn't need any deep seated analysis). Maybe Conan gets a lot of the girls because Howard only ever had one girlfriend in his life, and that didn't end well. Neither did Howard's life, at around the age of 30, distraught over his mother's slipping into a coma from which he was told she would never awaken, he walked out of the hospital, and blew his brains out with a pistol. Not the happiest of ending for a man who created a legend, but all stories can't end with the half naked girl wrapping herself around you while you look over the carnage you've created with your broadsword. The storm exacts its own price, and you just have to be willing to pay it, no matter how high of a price it might be. It takes courage, but sometimes the game has to be worth the candle. I wish you luck. 

 

 

 

Of Wheels and their Wagons

 He staggered in at a little past 2 a.m., and given that it was what he likes to call "a school night" I knew something must have gone terribly wrong. He was listing like a Spanish galleon, and looked a little worse for the wear, and I decided to try to handle him the best I could before he caused too much of a scene. I didn't need a 2:30 a.m. visit from Felix and his boys.  I met him close to the door, and boomed "GI so glad to see you gracing my fine establishment. What brings you down here to the docks to drink among the peasants at such a late hour?" He trained his bleary eyes on me "piss off with the fancy talk Sully, you know why I'm here, at least you should if you have a calendar handy, and posses the ability to read it. Which I actually somehow doubt, men like you are only worried about the 1st of the month when all the money you are owed comes due, and you have to figure out how many legs you need to order to be broken." I took a step back, "that seems a bit harsh GI, even for you. You know I run a honest business, and abhor violence. I am a man of peace." That brought a harsh laugh from him "sure thing Gandhi, now peacefully let me find a place to sit down, and then peacefully bring me a turbo, and then bugger off and let me drink in peace, man of peace my arse." 

I lead him to the booth in the back, the one nearest the restroom figuring that he would need to be close to it when all the booze he'd clearly had caught up to him, and it was also the one I could just fold him into and let him sleep it off with the least amount of trouble, it wouldn't be the first time he'd done it. "Certainly GI, might I recommend the booth near the facilities?" Again he laughed "you mean the one closest to the shitter in case I have to puke? And the one I can sleep in without too my fuss? Lead on Sully there are beers that are dying to be drunk, and before you ask" here he pulled a wad of bills from his coat pocket and waved them around "I've got the coin to pay for them." I considered this to be good news, usually the bastard was piss drunk, and piss poor. I didn't bother to ask where or how he'd gotten the money, that wasn't my business. I figured the less I knew, the less I'd have to tell anyone who asked, and I didn't fancy a night out 'dancing' with Felix and his goons. I'm too old, and have robbed too many banks for that shit. "Well, this is an even greater pleasure then GI, your company, and the money to make it bearable!"

"Just get out of my way Sully, I can find the booth myself, and get me a damn drink. I'd rather die of drink than of thirst." I moved out of his way, and made my own way to the bar. I waved the bartender over, "Tomas, pour GI one of his turbos, and make him a cup of coffee, he will be needed one or the other if not both. I'll take them over myself, no wait that will make him suspicious, or rather more suspicious. Betsy (not her real name, or at least I don't think it is, but good help is hard to find) GI likes you well enough, for a blonde, be a good lass and take these drinks over to his table. Whatever you do, don't make eye contact with him, or you'll be stuck there the rest of the damn night, or morning or whatever you call this time of day/night. If he's doing anything particularly stupid let me know, and I'll come over and sort him. It wouldn't be the first time I've had to." Betsy nodded, and took the tray of drinks over to his table without incident, came back to the bar and said "he's just sitting there talking to himself, or at least there's no one with him, but he seems to be carrying on quite the conversation." I nodded "thanks Betsy. He's known to get lost in his own head from time to time, and when he's tight it has a tendency to spill out verbally. It's most gibberish, and makes sense only to him, but every now and then he says shit he shouldn't." 

I snapped my fingers, "Tomas you know what to do, go over there quite like and sit your ass down in the booth behind him and listen. No wait" I looked at Tomas' considerable girth. "That would be like asking him to miss a mountain, and I don't think he's quite drunk enough for that yet. Go get one of the kitchen boys, the smallest one if you can manage it, and bring him to me." Tomas nodded and soon returned with a small, rather dirty lad that fit the bill perfectly. I looked at him, nodded my approval and sent Tomas back to the bar. He would find out the full story tomorrow without me telling him, Tomas is like that, he learns all sorts of shit that he probably shouldn't and one day it's probably going to get him killed. "Okay lad, I need you to wander slowly over to that booth" here I pointed to the one behind GI "and sit your ass down nurse this beer, and listen to what he says. Can you read and write boy?' He nodded, "good here's pencil and paper, if you can write it all down, and bring it back to me. Don't be obvious, and don't make in sudden moves. The man might look drunk, and he is, and he might look harmless, but he's not. So be careful, and do a good job, and there will be a little extra in your pay packet come Friday."

I didn't tell the damn fool that I had noticed the obvious bulge in GI's left coat pocket, and had sussed out what that meant. I didn't feel the need to scare him that badly. Besides it was my hope that I was mistaken and it was just another wad of cash carelessly wadded up and stuffed in the most accessible pocket. A few minutes passed, and I kept one eye trained in GI's direction. The boy seemed to have settled in behind GI without notice, and was busy scribbling what looked to be his life's history, as GI's arms moved about a bit in time with his head moving. Clearly he was have an animated discussion with someone that only he could see. I hoped it wasn't anything too serious, crazy, or worse something that he was supposed to be saying out loud. Betsy soon came by on her rounds to report that he was downing the beer like it was mother's milk, but hadn't touched the coffee. I had expected that, he wasn't blurry enough to not care what was in front of him yet. "Bring him another round of both, raise the turbo level on the beer just a touch, it will be the last one we give him. Or at least one that isn't a small beer."

Betsy did as I requested, came back and said "Umm, there's a revolver on the table, and he's still talking to himself. Should we do something?"  I sighed, my guess had been right. "Tomas, go fetch Roscoe for me, and then recall our little "listening post." I need to read what he's heard so far. Tomas nodded came back with Roscoe, and I slid him into my coat pocket just to be safe. A dangerous drunk with a gun wasn't something that I needed on a random Thursday night. The boy made his way back handed me his "homework" and said "he seems to be telling some crazy story about two people named Rome, and Readel I can't make any sense of it, but it seems important to him." I nodded as I begin to read what he had written, nothing in it made a whole lot of sense if you didn't know GI, but I knew him and despite the boy's poor spelling and dodgy grammar, I made enough sense of it to be slightly alarmed, and a mental note to educate the boy a little better.  "Here Betsy let me take him another round over to him, just the beer though the coffee is useless at this point." I walked over to him he was muttered about horses or some shit, I knew what that meant as well. "Don't you think you're taking this if people are horse bullshit just a little too far?" He glanced up, smiled and said "well Sully we will see, I mean not every bet is a winning bet. You just have to make sure you don't bet more than you can lose." I looked down at him, go to the men's room you daft cunt, you've spilled beer on yourself." He looked down starting to disagree when I poured just about a fourth of the pint I had brought him onto his coat. "Whoops clumsy of me. You know we don't have a fucking back door, so don't try to bounce on the tab, clean up and come back and I'll top this one off for you on the house." He reached down for his revolver, "leave it, ain't no one in here to steal it, and no one is going to try to kill you in the damn toilet" I patted my own coat pocket "and I've got me own iron." 

He nodded, I was thankful he had enough sauce in him not to argue, and toddled off to the bathroom. Both of us knew what I was doing, but at least he had the sense to do it. I grabbed his revolver, emptied it, and placed it back on the table, he gave me ample time to do it before he came back to the booth. Nodding his thanks for the beer (wink, wink), he picked up his pistol, hefted it, nodded knowingly to me, and said "well, I guess I need to be heading home." Grabbing the coffee and drinking it down in one long gulp he said "thanks for the beer Sully, here's your coin, minus of course the cost of the bullets you just took off of me." Grinning I replied "you're welcome GI, now get the fuck out of here, and make your bosses proud by showing up on time tomorrow like a good boy." "The last thing my bosses think of me is as a good boy Sully, but I'll do my best. See you next Thursday."

 

 

Heureuse

 We (the non royal we that is) are going to try a little something different in this post. It will probably fall to shit somewhere in the middle, like the majority of the things we write, but at least it will be a different kind of shit. Sometimes you have to try new things in order to realize the old thing was better for a reason. 

We are going to leave behind, for the nonce, the seedy little world that GI has been trying to navigate himself, and by extension ourselves, through without getting himself killed, or giving away too much of the actual truth. Today we leave behind Serge and his apples (that aren't really apples), Sully and his bar that sounds a real palace, Felix and his fanaticism, and any other "characters" that GI has, or might introduce us to that will make us wonder about his poor taste in relationships. They will return to foul the internet soon, but for now let's us talk about you, and the elusive idea of happiness. This is going to be difficult, so bear with me dear reader(s).

If you've been rotating on this planet, and by extension revolving around the class M star that is our Sun, for any length of time, more than likely someone, somewhere has told you something along the lines of "I just want you to be happy." If you are lucky they actually meant it, for some of us it was generally said as the person was making us decidedly unhappy, but that isn't the point of this ramble. I will try to stay focused. Happy is, from what we hear, a lovely thing to be. Birds sing louder and more melodiously, the sun is a little brighter, but not as hot, and grass is a lot greener, and doesn't make us break out into hives when we are happy. Things just taste, feel, smell, and look better when we are happy. They (whomever they are) tell us that happiness is contagious like the clap, though most of "them" don't use that analogy.  One other problem that "they" leave out when they make that statement is they don't tell you how to achieve this happiness that they seem to desperately want you to be. If you are a little chubby, there are loads of people both willing and able to help you with ideas about how to become less thick and more fit. If you have less than acute fashion sense, many people will give you "helpful" advice on how "not to dress like a homeless person." Many of life's problems are just a helpful agony column away from being solved, but happy, well happy is a tougher nut to crack. It involves a lot of variables that are quite beyond your control, or so you would think, and it depends on whether you think it is the type of feeling you have in the here and now, or the type that thinks it concerns your overall life quality.

Before we delve into that last idea, we have to take a bit of a detour, you were warned dear reader that things might fall to shit, and this might be where it happens. We need to discuss you for a minute. You, whoever you are, have probably been told that you are a unique, one of a kind, individual, and that it makes you "special" (the good kind of special not the sad kind of special), well we hate to break it to you, but that probably isn't true. You are one of around 7 billion people on the planet, and the idea that you are unique on the planet is unlikely. Depending on where you live, there are probably a lot of people in your city, county, state, province, region, or country. Then we start to talk continents, lots of people live on at least 6 of them. There are probably one or two of "yous" running amok in your country, probably 3 or 4 "yous" on the planet, and then we start to expand our horizons, I mean that's what horizons are for. 

We start with the easy expansion, science is pretty sure that Earth is the only planet with a "you" on it in this particular solar system. That's good, no version of you is rotting away in a prison on Mercury, or dying of radiation poisoning on Jupiter, sadly this also means that no "you" is emperor of a large chunk of Saturn. We continue our expansion to the Milky Way the barred spiral shaped galaxy which all the version of you inhabit. It's a monster to us, but fairly mundane in the universe of 'galaxies'. It contains about 100-400 billion stars, and about an equal number of planets. It is about 170,000 light years wide whatever the hell that means. A group of people way smarter than any version of you knows, have estimated that there are at least 30 "active, intelligent, communicating civilizations" in the Milky Way, we just can't figure out where exactly they are, and how to communicate with them, maybe they can't either, or have made contact with us, saw how shitty we run this planet and decided to bugger off without talking to us (can't says that we blame them). There are a whole lot of other mind boggling numbers that we could toss out here about the Milky Way that would make you feel even more small and insignificant, but we aren't here to do that, this is about happy. We leave our loving "little" Milky Way, and expand further to the universe. That monster of a Milky Way is but one galaxy in the universe which contains somewhere around 2 trillion galaxies, of which about 500 billion would be "Milky Ways." Ponder that for a second (we will wait), and think of the implications it has to "you" and your uniqueness.

If those clever people are correct and there are 30 "active, intelligent, communicating civilizations" in our Milky Way, then if all things are equal (and of course we've no idea if they are or not) multiple 500 billion by 30, and in theory at least that would give you a working number of how many "active, intelligent, communicating civilizations" that are pinging around in the universe. Of course, all of this is in theory, and certainly some of those civilizations probably are Klignons or Ewoks, making them unlikely to contain a 'you'. A Klignon you isn't just quite the same, and you can feel safe in the idea that in relation to Klignons you are unique by comparison. Also in theory, some of those civilizations might be less advanced than we are. Maybe they haven't reached the walking upright stage yet, therefore rendering you unique in comparison to them as well. We can eliminate a certain amount of those civilizations as not quite good enough (in your theory, we are sure) to contain a 'you'. That is the good news, the bad news is that even if we err on the side of 'you' and eliminate 65% of those civilizations, well we still have 35% left, and by our exacting standards and well reasoned research that leaves a virtual fuck ton (which has to be an actual unit of measurement somewhere in the universe) of potential 'yous' populating a whole lot of other places.

Process that for a second, or longer if you need to, it is a sobering thought in many ways, and then begin to ponder what that means to 'you'. You've just been knocked off a very high perch, one that the rest of the world has put 'you' and themselves on since time immemorial. It is an idea sanctioned by usage and consecrated by time. That idea is that you are unique like a snowflake (not the political sissy type, but actual snow), and that the world would at least be different without you in it. Maybe not better, hopefully not worse, but at least different. Let's not break our arm patting ourselves on the back, the idea that the world would be worse off without you is hubris, which is also a long held idea by a lot of people but that need not detain us here.  More than likely, any of the 'yous' wandering around scratching their respective asses in the universe(s) aren't in any position of power that would make their respective demises world altering events, but I guess you never know. Maybe you are the head of some far reaching, world crushing empire, and when you gasp your last breath the entire trajectory of that world will change. I suppose that is both a depressing, and comforting thought. Depressing in the fact that it isn't the 'you' you know about and sort of makes this version of 'you' seem a bit of a failure, comforting in the fact that at least one version of 'you' has achieved the world domination that you are pretty sure all versions of 'you' have planned since birth.

However, those versions, however likely, are unconfirmed and probably never will be confirmed to your satisfaction.  World domination aside, this version of 'you' has goals even if you don't exactly realize it. A goal can be as highbrow as writing the great American novel, or as simple as getting through the day without strangling someone to death. Goals can be defined very broadly. Not committing homicide is a good goal to achieve, and if you manage it, you should buy yourself a beverage of your choice to celebrate. If you are generous you could buy the person who came the closest to having you fail in that homicidal goal a drink as well, and just merely talk about how'd you almost murdered them today. Maybe you can tell them of your desire to write the great American novel about your plan/desire to murder them as a plot device, and they find it funny or flattering, or perhaps they run screaming from the bar, and you never see them again. Thus, removing the problem of potential homicide from your life without you having to solve the pesky problem of how to get rid of a dead body. 

All of this of this rambling shitshow of a post has been written in the aid of making this version of 'you' happy. I suspect it has failed in that task, but then again happy is, for the most part, an undiscovered county or a bridge too far for a lot of people. The point is that even if there are 30 or more other versions of 'you' flailing about in the void, or picking their nose in the next county over, you are this version. The version that has been dealt these cards at this moment, in this place, and you have to play them. Certainly they may not be the royal flush you were hoping for, and they may (more than likely do) suck, but they are 'your' cards. You are the one that must needs play them. For better or for worse they are all you've got. Bluff if you have to, bet wisely, but don't fold them, they are the only cards you can be certain you'll get. And if those cards lead you down the path of curing cancer great, but if they have you turning in to a serial killer (which isn't so great) at least be the best at it you can be. 'You' won't be dealt a new set of cards, or at least if 'you' are it won't be anytime soon. I wish 'you' luck.

 

Of Wagons and their Wheels

 The knock when it came at the ungodly hour of 2 a.m. (it's a sign I am getting old when 2 a.m. becomes an "ungodly hour") wasn't delivered with the force that I had expected. It was a hesitant, almost nervous, knock. It was like the person on the other side of my door really didn't want me to be home to answer, and was knocking out of a sense of duty, and hope that they would be able to go back to whomever sent them to me and say "sorry governor, but the cove wasn't at home, I knocked loud and proper like." Sadly for my nocturnal visitor, I was awake having just ushered a "lady friend" out the aforementioned door with a sigh, and a promise of "brunch" tomorrow. At least that was the plan, I figured our reluctant knocker probably was about to change tomorrow's plans for me. At least I knew it wasn't Felix or one of his goons, their knocks thundered throughout the neighborhood, and damn near took the door off its hinges. Nothing like a good show for Felix and his playmates. Since I didn't have a "double header" scheduled for the night, I decided to end the mystery, and open my door to the nervous Nellie knocking on it. Upon opening it, I was met with a kid of about 10-12 years old holding a note in his, none too clean, hands. "You GI?" he asked, I nodded, "this is for you Sully sent me, said you'd know what it meant." and with that he handed me the, none too clean, piece of paper and scarpered off like he had been shot out of a cannon. 

I suspected that I already knew the gist of the note, if not the actual words, and I began to get dressed (putting on pants at 2 a.m. is just wrong I tell you). For form's sake, if for nothing else, I opened the note and read it "your boy's here, and his wagon has developed a wobble in its wheel. signed SULLY" It was pretty much as I had expected and since it was technically Thursday, I knew what that meant. With a curse and a sigh for being put upon again for the same thing, I left my cozy little love nest and headed to Sully's. It was looking like "brunch" tomorrow was going to have to wait. The walk to Sully's isn't too terribly far from the shithole in which I live, and I figured I would use the time to try to think of a new idea to fix this weekly problem that had begun to plague me, and the few people I sometimes refer to as friends. Multiple approaches had been tried, and they all seem to have failed. Of course, that is the problem inherent in the fact that you've got multiple people trying to solve the same problem each in their own way, and a lack of a "leader" to coordinate the effort. But we do our best, and hope it's good enough, though lately it rarely seemed to be.

"He's been pouring whiskey down his neck for the better part of four hours, figured it was time to let you know your duty. It being Thursday and all." Sully's greeting was delivered with just a slight grin on his ugly mug, and I grimaced in reply and said "thanks Sully you're a sweetheart as always, bring him the coffee he doesn't want, but needs, and me one of your 'turbo' beers. No need for both to be all the way sober for this shit show." I glanced around Sully's place, which didn't take long being as it's as big as a postage stamp, and saw "my boy" propped up in a booth near the back. Good place for him, since it was closest to the bathroom, and the most dimly lit (which is saying something). I slid into the booth across from him, "what's the rumpus cowboy? To what do I owe the 2 a.m. call of the wild?" He focused his bleary eyes on me, which took a considerable amount of both time and effort. "She's dating someone else, and is probably going to sleep with him." I sighed "well it has been months, and it is my understanding of relationships, limited as it might be, that at some point sleeping together is involved, if you are to advance the relationship that is, otherwise you're just friends without benefits." That at least brought a laugh out of him "of all my 'handlers', and yes I know about your schedule, you're the one that makes me laugh the most GI. Why do you think I picked this shit hole on a Thursday? It ain't for the atmosphere or the crowd." Here he waved a hand expansively about taking in the glory that is Sully's bar, and the 5 patrons in various states of drunkenness that inhabited the place.

"So, because I'm the quickest wit of the group, I get the pleasure of this enthralling conversation? Well isn't it just my lucky day" I replied making a mental note to swap my scheduled day with another of our group just to avoid him becoming too smug, and thinking I was at his beck and call. Wait for him to try the old "get drunk at Sully's on Thursday, and expect GI to show up trick again, and be surprised when the least favorite of the group storms in and rips him a new one because they hate Sully's with a passion. He put up a conciliatory hand " now, now don't take it that way, other than the quickest wit, you've also been in the same boat I'm in more often, and more recently than the rest of that lot that call themselves my handlers." I rubbed my eyes "well that is true, but I'd don't think I handled my 'boat' very well, and certainly not well enough to warrant the giving of advice on how to handle yours." He smiled "oh no I'm not going to do what you did, I keep you around as an object lesson, a lesson in what NOT to do."   

The waitress, gods love her, chose that moment to bring our drinks, keeping me from swearing at him with the venom he deserved for that wisecrack. "Here drink your fucking coffee, and no we are not going to "Irish" it up for you." I nodded my thanks to the waitress, gods love her, and sipped my 'turbo' beer, coughed a bit as I realized that Sully had gone heavy on the 'turbo' and light on the beer.  "Well my failures aside, what are we here to discuss? her moving on, your crippling inability to deal with that fact, or the fact we've both got to work in the damn morning, and our boss(es) won't be happy to see how shitty we look when we come into the office?"  "Oh GI, that is tomorrow's problem, if we survive will handle that tomorrow, for now let's try to deal with today's problem shall we?" 

"This, whatever this is, isn't today's problem. It didn't just pop up this morning and surprise you like an Apache scout coming out the bushes and putting an arrow in our cowboy hero's back. This has been an ongoing problem, and I suppose you've picked today for it to come bubbling to surface like oil, but I don't think we are going to get rich off of it" He smirked, "always the wise ass aren't you?" I nodded "yeah, that's me the wise ass who doesn't know any better than to be in this dive with you on a school night. Other than a sense of duty to keep you employed, and not have to do your work if you get fired that is." He laughed again "don't die because I don't want to handle your "cases." I guess that was the battle cry of our group back in the day wasn't it? Well, back before the group went to shit, for which you are partially to blame, I might add." I sighed "we aren't here to discuss my high crimes and misdemeanors, I don't have enough of this in me for that." I said as I waved my beer glass in front of me.

He opened his mouth to reply, but I raised a hand "stop, just stop talking for a bit. You wanted me and my 'quick wit' here, well you've got it, and now I am going to regale you with slash force you to listen to a story that will help you out. It's all connected to the solution of your problem that I came to on the walk here. I'm going to shorten it a bit for you, because Sully will want us out of here soon, and given the amount of rot gut you've had, I figure your attention span has been considerably shortened. The story or stories involve two men, one named Alfred Redl and the other Ernst Rohm. One was an Austrian military officer, and the other a German thug. They had a few things in common the full details of which need not detain us here, but the major thing they had in common was their end. Both found themselves in rather hopeless situations, and were given a loaded revolver and told "to do the honourable thing." Meaning here take this gun, go into that room, and blow your own brains out, if you do we will say you died a "hero's death" and your family won't have to live with your shame."

He sighed and started to speak, but I was quicker "one of them chose the hero's death, and blew his brains out. It was Redl, I guess being a military man, he had a sense of honour or some shit I don't know, but he took the simple way out and avoided the scandal. Rohm, the thug, was actually a decorated veteran of World War I, but when he was offered his loaded gun, a room alone, and 10 minutes to do the right thing, he refused. After the allotted time, hearing no gun shot two of his jailers walked into his room (cell) and shot him. He was then erased from history, at least for as long as his killers were in power. We remember them both today, but neither are remembered fondly. Infamy is the price of treason I suppose." I paused and looked at him, gathering my thoughts for the next bit of my speech to explain to him the plan I had formulated on the walk over. I didn't think he would like it, but I wasn't in the mood to coddle him. He had been coddled enough in his life, which I figured was half the reason we were in this shithole of a bar at an ungodly hour.

I took out my own revolver, and pushed it across the table to him. "It's got the one bullet it needs, and there is the bathroom." I pointed behind him. "Sully knows all about this, and this place has a very discreet back door, and no one here will have seen or heard anything, if you choose to take Redl's path. The good news that if you don't, you won't be faced with what happened to Rohm, you just come back here give me the gun, and we won't speak of this ever again." He looked at me with alarm, then looked at the gun, "back that way?" I nodded "the men's room yeah. It's closer to the back door, and it's got a lock. I'll expect a decision in 10 minutes. If it's time enough for Rohm, it's time enough for you." He nodded his head, grabbed the gun, and stumbled his way to the bathroom. Sully came over and dropped another "turbo" in front of me, and said "you mad bastard what are you doing?" Inclining his head towards the men's room. "I'm giving the lad a choice, and waiting to see which one he takes." Sully shook his head "don't you think you're taking this "if people are horses" bullshit just a bit too far?" I smiled "well Sully, we will see, I mean not every bet is a winning bet, you just have to make sure you don't bet more than you can lose." Sully shook his head, and got up "you damn well know we don't have a fucking back door." and walked away without another word.

I looked at my watch, but about that time he came out of the bathroom, handed me the gun, and sat back down. "I couldn't do "the right thing" as you call it, guess I'm a Rohm like coward after all." I shook my head, "no lad you're not a coward at all. Your crime isn't treason, and all of this was just an unfair test. Sorry I had to do it, but I had to know." I flipped open the cylinder on the revolver and turned the gun over, nothing came out. "It wasn't loaded anyway. I was just listening for the click. Also, there isn't a back door anywhere near the bathroom, and carting your fat, dead ass out of there was more work than I was prepared to do. Dead men are heavier than broken hearts.”  His eyes widened and he spluttered "you bastard, you gave me a gun with no bullets and told me go shoot myself? You.... you..." I smiled "I gave you a unloaded gun, and told you to do the right thing. Which you did, now the hard part starts." He raised an eyebrow "and what is the hard part?" I smiled "living you daft cunt, living is the hard part, and living without her is going to be harder than Chinese math, at least for a while, but you've made the first step onto that path, and now let's continue that trip by getting the fuck out of here, going home, and making our bosses proud by showing up to work tomorrow like good little boys."

Of Silver and Bags

 I find myself in a strange room, not Star Trek strange it's not that exotic, just a room that I am fairly certain I've never been in before, and I begin to wonder why and how I got here, and who is responsible for my presence in this strange room when the door opens. A cheery, fat fellow walks in, smiles brightly and says "Oh good, you're awake at last." I nod, not quite sure when I was supposed to have "gone to sleep" and not sure why I would have, and I figure it's best not to talk much (or at all) until I figure out what in the blue fuck is going on here. The fat fellow pushes his glasses back up on his nose, smiles again, and proceeds to look at me with some curiosity. "You seem to have calmed down a bit since they brought you in earlier today. Good that means that maybe now we are ready to begin with why you are here." I nod again, narrowing my eyes, but still don't say a work. Since I don't know where "here" is exactly, and do not remember being brought "here", I figure to let fatty do most of the talking. He nods "I understand your reluctance to talk, maybe you don't remember the last few hours, and are worried about what you've done to be wearing that" here he points at the "gown" that I am wearing. Paper thin (aren't they all) and a light shade of blue that has been tied at the waist, but still feels like I am less clothed than I need to be whatever the situation.  

"You were found wandering down Elm, near Main babbling about "trying to find someone to sell her cocaine, and were quite adamant that you did not want to cooperate with the fellows who found you. In fact, one of them has a lovely bruise on his jaw thanks to you. However, there were more of them than there were of you, and eventually you were "persuaded" to get in the car, and be taken here." I grunt in reply, as I do the math, and figure out where here is, still I have no recollection of wandering down Elm, or any other street near Main, at least recently. I begin to wonder if that 'last call' drink might have been a bridge too far, and perhaps that is the reason I am about to have an unpleasant time with this fat fellow. I shrug mentally to myself, and think it wouldn't be the first unpleasant time I've had with a fat fellow. I suppose I should try to make the best of it. Fat boy chooses this moment to stand up, leave the room without a word, come back a few minutes later, and toss a bundle of clothes in my lap. "Here, we washed them, and got them clean, put them on, we have an appointment, and that," he pointed at my gown "isn't suitable attire for our meeting, it would shock the tender sensibilities of the majority of the Nazi party, and certainly we aren't going to be meeting any of them, get dressed."

I nodded again, and he had the decency to leave the room, while I got dressed into my newly clean clothes, they smelled like industrial cleaner, but I guess beggars can't be choosers. Chubs comes back into the room, gives me an appraising look, and snorts "good enough for our purposes I suppose, but you could do with a shave. Oh well, no time for that now, and I am sure they won't mind, I'd imagine they seen you look much worse many times." I raise an eyebrow at the mention of "they", but fatso ignores my silent inquiry, and walks out, motioning for me to follow. I sigh, ponder the identity of they, suspect it isn't going to be Nicole Kidman coming to take me away from my life of toil that I am going to meet, and follow him out the door. I follow the fellow down a few hallways of your typical bland, institutional type building with the gray walls, and the neutral smells that are designed to be calming, but rarely succeed. We pass no one on the way out, and we eventually make it to chubs car. "Get in we don't have far to go, my office is close, and I figure that would be the best place for our little conference." I slid into the passenger seat, and buckle my seat belt. I figure at some point this is going to be a bumpy ride, might as well get prepared in advance. 

A few minutes later, we pulled up to a typical office building that I assumed contained my new fat friend's office. Confirmed seconds later, when he said "my office, get out, and remember try to play nice. Playing nice is going to be VERY important for your future." Just what I wanted a fat, cryptic fellow trying to be all James Bond on me, while I was still trying to sort out the last missing few hours of my life. I go out of the car, and followed the smug bastard into the building. "In here old boy, and remember, PLAY NICE." He opened the door, and gestured me inside. I walked in, took one look around, noticed the occupants,and turned on my heel with a snarl to head back out the way I had came. Suddenly fatty had a large playmate at his side, a large man with a lot of muscles that were just begging to be used on some idiot like me. Fatty smiled again (he's quite the smiler, our fatty) "now, now just stay calm, and have a seat, and Clarence here" he waved at the mountain beside him "won't have to ensure your compliance."  I looked up at the mountain, and figured that I might hit him, but I doubted he would have the decency to fall down if I did, and therefore would probably hit me back, and since I am a decent fellow, I would fall down, and probably wouldn't be in the mood to get back up, so I decided to not test that theory.

I turned back to face the room (and the "music" inside), glanced around, and took the seat furthest from the other occupants.  There were two of them, and neither would ever be confused for members of my fan club (I am convinced I have a fan club, though I've never met anyone who claims membership).  Fatty chimed in with "I guess you all wonder why you are here?" Neither of the other two spoke a word, just sat there stony faced, clearly as unhappy as I was in be in this situation. I decided to finally break my silence, and replied "not particularly wondering as much as can't see the point of it. None of us, and I am sure my silent partners will agree, think we have anything further to discuss with or about each other."  Tubby grinned, and replied "Oh, I sure you, and these two lovely ladies actually agree about that, it might be the only thing you agree upon, but I am here to give you the, unwelcome to you, news."

I looked at my companions "since I've apparently got a hole in my recent memory, can either of you lovely ladies clue me into what this fat fuck is talking about?"  I pointed at the smug, fat bastard across from us. Both of my companions shook their respective heads in the negative, one looking innocent as is her custom, and the other looking angry as is hers.  Mr. Know it All waved a hand "oh no, no none of you would have any idea that this little conference was going to happen today, so don't rack your brains trying to figure out if you missed something. I mean you have missed something, all three of you, but none of you would have any idea that you missed THIS."  Here he waved a print out of some considerable thickness, and said "you see when we found Mr. drunk off his ass there (here he pointed at me) wobbling down the street last night, he had this on him and was waving it around like a street preacher waves the bible, the only thing missing was the 'doom and gloom' speech about it being the end of the world. Which is ironic, because after reading this" here he dropped the manuscript onto the table in front of him, " someone's just might." 

That was when the drunken memory flooded back to me. I stood up, rather too suddenly for my head to get the message, swayed a bit, pointed my finger at the fat bastard and shouted "you fat son of a bitch! I knew it! I knew you'd betray me, and here you are making ME pay the price for YOUR betrayal!" I lunged at the table, grabbed the papers sitting there, and begin walking to the door. "Call your boy the mountain if you have to tubby, but I am walking out the door, and out of this shit show of a meeting. I suppose I'll give you the customary 30 pieces of silver for this little 'passion play' at a later time, but for now, I am getting the hell out of here."  He put up a forestalling hand trying to placate me "now, now it's not as bad as you think maybe you should read the highlights of that little manuscript before you go off the rails entirely." 

I glanced down at the papers I was holding and rifled through them quickly, oddly most of them were blank. "Are you taking the piss out of me, their blank" I said. "Look closer at the last two pages" he replied. I thumbed to the two back pages, and smile bleakly. "Of course, I should have known that even drunk me would have to be too clever by half. Here you go ladies, I'll leave this mystery solving bit with you" and I left the room. I had made it about 5 steps out the door before I heard them both mutter in unison. "that son of a bitch!" Being the aforementioned son of a bitch, I resolved two things to stay off Elm Street, and to thank a certain apple seller for his silence.

L'Auto Nouvelle

"Well this is fancy" I thought to myself as I pulled my newly purchased, new to me, car out of the "dealership." Time to take her on the "open" road, open her up, and see what she will do. Odd how we give ships and cars the female gender (one notable exception Herbie the Love Bug, strange). I wasn't too worried about why we call our cars "her." Truth be told, I was more excited about the joys of ownership to worry about much of anything.  After all, I had possessed the same car for quite a number of years, and was pretty chuffed to try out the "bells and whistles" on my newer model.  Newness is a wonderful thing, be it a new pair of sneakers, a new pen, or a new car, we all like to try out the newness of our freshly "purchased" items. We like to show them off to our friends (and even our enemies) in a "see what I got you bastards" type of way. Envy me, you peasants, because I've got something new, and you are left with your "old" shit. Admiring glances are nice when they are cast in your direction, and you don't really care if the admiration is for you, or your new possession, at some point, you take what you can get.

Which is the point of new possession, taking/purchasing what you can get. It is a fundamental tenet of the market. If it isn't for sale, well then sorry lad, you aren't purchasing that particular model today. However, even if the luxury row isn't for you, there are other aisles for you to shop. We all need something to live for, and for some of us new possessions will do as well as anything else. In this mad, mad world where black is white, and up is down, why not live for a new possession? Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die has never before struck quite so close to home. Home might be where the hearth is, but this new toy of mine isn't ready for the staid garage that is attached to my lovely house. At least not quite yet. For now this new toy is ready to be taken out and given her head. Let home wait, it will be there when I get back, and eventually we have to head home at some point. Just not right this second.

No, this second, or minute or hour is going to be devoted to learning the "ins and outs" of my new toy. The previous owner didn't have much to say about her, not that I asked. The transfer of title between me and him wasn't the most "open" transaction on the market, but that is a "him" problem not (yet) a "me" problem, so I will leave him to solve it.  She is much sleeker than my older model, and quite a bit faster, this is not exactly a surprise, I mean after all technology is a wonderful thing, but it is a pleasant thing to have confirmed. Just a little press on the accelerator, and off she goes like a shot. Who knew she was ready for life in the fast lane? Oh yeah, the previous owner(s) probably knew. After all, I am not the first to sit behind this wheel, and while I am "ok" with that, I don't really want to give it too much thought. Thoughts like that might "angry up the blood" or take away a bit of the pleasure coursing through my body as my new toy reaches speeds that I haven't been at for a long, long time.   

As I reach those speeds, I imagine my new toy telling me that "she" had never been driven quite this fast or this well, I mean after all we all want to be Jimmy Johnson, and be the baddest driver on the road right? I have no trouble thinking this to be true, after all why would the new toy lie? Especially so soon.  The engine makes a lovely little purr when I give the fuel necessary, and it is a lovely sound to my ears. I haven't heard that 'purr' in a very, very long time, and I think I could get used to it. If this is the way this toy is going to react, then I believe it is going to require a lot more of my attention. Which is just fine with me. My other toys have gotten a bit staid by now, and gone to seed a bit as well. But this one, is just my type, as George Jones put it, "long and lean, and every young man's dream." And while I wouldn't be called a young man the idea is still the same. Turning heads is a lot of fun, especially at the DMV. This is the kind of ride that needs to be kept behind a gate, to keep prying eyes, and wandering hands away.

Motoring along the King's Highway headed west, I feel as if everything is coming up in my favour. New toy, old owner fleeced, and miles of unexplored road in front of me.  But wait, what the devil is that red light on the dashboard?  That's a new symbol, the old car didn't have as many bells and whistles, and now I might have a deeper appreciation of that. Less features, the less that can go wrong. Bollocks what was that grinding noise? Nothing to do for it but to pull over, and check out the owner's manual. Hopefully it can shed some light on the "break" that is currently happening with my new toy. I open up the glove box, and out falls some papers, not the owner's manual but maybe it will help? Unfolding them, I get a sneaky suspicion that perhaps my new toy, now belching smoke, and making odd rattling noises, might not have been the "steal of the decade" after all. I unfold the papers, and begin to read, the title seems to be written in French, oddly fitting since today is Bastille Day. The rest is written in English, which is a relief since I've no French to speak of.  It starts with "you won't thank me for this...", and only gets worse from there. The main take away from it seems to be that I have bought a "goer, not a stayer" and as the engine finally dies with a loud noise that could be heard a country mile away, I am beginning to think that might be correct.

Whomever wrote this little 'love letter' to the next generation seemed to have experienced the same problem that, it appears, I am about to have, I wonder how it turned out for him? Since I am in the driver's seat, I would guess not so well. Great just what I need a fellow traveler on the road to perdition. Reading further, I figure out that the previous owner will not actually walk with me to the city of fools, nor will he welcome me there when/if I make it. Well, that is just grand, he seemed a bit of a cunt anyway, but still in the meantime what the actual fuck do I do about my current situation. Trying to restart my toy doesn't seem to be working, and the owner's manual is not in the glove box, just that letter that was enlightening, but not helpful. I put my head in my hands and wonder, should I call  my wife? No that doesn't seem to be the best plan, at least at the moment. Wait, squinting into the middle distance behind me, I see a small building on the side of the road, and volia! I remember I had just passed an apple stand, I wonder if the apple seller might be able to help out a fellow in need. Nothing to do for it, but to hoof it that way and see.

Of Tallyrand and Banks

"Good Morning Chief" he said as he does almost every morning that he swans into my office to annoy me about some trivial matter or the other, and to steal chocolate, always stealing chocolate. I looked up from doing actual work, and noticed he looked a bit "different." I couldn't resist, so I asked "you look like death eating a cracker, something wrong?" He smirked at the insult, sat down heavily, and replied "I under slept a little." In fact, it looked like he had not slept at all, and I figured I was about to get the reason why. He likes to use me as a sounding board, and then generally does what he wants to anyway, but I indulge him, because shifting his fat ass out of my office would take a crane, and I don't own a crane. I gave him the opening he was going to take anyway, and asked "so what's the rumpus?"

"Aren't you so very clever?" he replied. "It's not like I hide the lack of sleep well, so I guess I'll lay it on you, and see what you think. Sadly, this time chief, I think I may have to leave the solution of this problem in your lap. I am very sorry for that, but once I explain it (using too many words) you will understand why I do not think I have much of a choice." He popped a chocolate in his mouth, chewed it slowly as if to give him time to think of how to start, even though we both knew he had already "written" it out in his head hours ago when he was not sleeping. I waited with as much patience as I could muster, which these days is not much, but rushing him generally doesn't do a whole lot of good. Plus, generally he can tell a good tale when the mood strikes him, and it had appeared the mood had struck him several times over the course of a sleepless night.

"I have a moral dilemma chief, and one of my long held theories is that when I have a moral dilemma, I always ask myself "what would Tallyrand do?" He sighed and waved his hand "I know this is going to require a bit of a side trip through history, but I owe a lot of money to the student loan people, so let consider this as a benefit of my classical (and as yet, unpaid for) education. Charles Maurice de Tallyrand, to give him most of his names, was an absolute bastard of a Frenchmen who lived from 1754-1838. A pretty wild time to be alive, and French. The main thing to admire about our boy Tallyrand is that he was able to serve as a high government official to King Louis XVI, to the government of the Revolution, to Napoleon, to King Louis XVIII, and finally, to King Louis-Phillipe. I understand that most people don't understand the talent it takes to pull off such a feat, and I struggle to put it in modern terms, but let's just say that collection of governments and masters were pretty much the entire "political spectrum" in France during his life. Sort of like being a Capulet and a Montague at the same time."

"One of my favorite quotes from Tallyrand is 'I condemn not, I praise not, I merely tell a tale' well chief, that's what I am about to drop on you, a tale (full of sighs) that I have been unfortunate enough to be a minor player in, involved mostly against my will. Well, at least for the last part." This last part was said with a grin, because he had noticed my arched eyebrow, and the skeptical look on my face. "One other thing to remember about our boy Tallyrand, is that he served a lot of masters, but few, if any of them every really trusted him, but he was the best they had, so they used him in some really important shit, like sending him to the Congress of Vienna. Also, he was not the only bastard around, Napoleon was not a sweetheart, and his rival the Minister of Police was a bit of a bastard as well. One last thing about Tallyrand that drew me to him years ago as I was borrowing the price of a F-35 jet fighter to get my education, was that he shared a certain physical handicap that I also possess. It was as close to an inspiration as I was likely to get."

"But let's leave Tallyrand, at, or near the top of the many greasy poles he climbed (handicap notwithstanding) for the nonce, and move on to part two of this story." Part two concerns banks, and Fat Uncle Carl." I interrupted "who the hell is Fat Uncle Carl, and what is this nonsense about banks, are you drunk, as well as sleep deprived?" He chuckled "sadly I am as sober as a judge, and it will all make some sense at the end I promise. Let's start with banks, since they are only a small part of the story, but still a critical one. We need not go through the history of banking, delving into the Fuggers, and the Welsers, and their near banking monopoly of the 16th century economy in Europe, it is an interesting tale, but one that does not need to detain us at the moment. A famous thief was once asked why he robbed banks, and he replied "that's where they keep the money." pretty simple, and a very clever idea. I mean why waste time robbing the liquor store, that's bush league. Go big or go home, rob a bank, write your name large in the history of thieving."

"As you're aware, I am a prole, and once a prole, always a prole in my view, and therefore I am not overly fond of banks. As an institution I understand why it has to exist, and I even use a bank on occasion, but that doesn't mean I have to like them. As Winston Churchill once said of his view on the church, "I could hardly be called a pillar of the Church, I am more in the nature of a buttress, for I support it from the outside." That's sort of my view of the institution of banking, necessary, but not exactly something I can get behind with any sort of enthusiasm. Besides there are so ever many choices in the banking world, and I just can never pick out which one is best for me. Some people stay with the same bank for years, and I guess that's commendable, but I also think that at some point familiarity breeds contempt. Maybe people get tired of the same bank after so many years, and want to take their money elsewhere. Who knows why people do the things they do? All banks are not exactly created equal."

"However, that's is enough about the joys and perils of banking, at least directly, for now let's move on to Fat Uncle Carl's Kleptomaniacs. No one is every really sure if there is actually a Fat Uncle Carl, there is a place, a club, a hangout, or a shithole (depending on one's tastes) that goes under the name of "Fat Carl's", but no one is really sure if he exists, or why the word Uncle got added to his description (it's just Fat Carl's on the sign). I suppose he might be a bit like Keyser Soze, a myth to keep the thieves that come to his club in line. Give us our 15% of the take, or Fat Carl will break your knees, don't steal from other member or Fat Carl will burn your house down to the ground with you in it. I don't know if Fat Carl is real or not, and even if he is, I sure as fuck never, ever want to be (knowingly) in the same room with him. There is no honour among thieves, but they can be convinced to act right by fear, and a healthy fear of Fat Carl keeps many a thief in line. Several miscreants have been led away to face the modern version of the Minister of Police because they broke Fat Carl's rules."

"Fat Carl's club is the hangout for a bunch of low characters, which is why I go there a lot. I like to fit in, and Fat Carl's is generally a judgement free zone. After all, you can't really look down your nose at a thief if you are polishing the silverware you nicked the night before from some unsuspecting citizen's house now can you? Fat Carl's club has a few unique rules. You can't just walk in off the street like some yeg, and expect people in there to accept you like you're one of Ali Baba's forty.  A vetting system, of which few people understand, is in place to keep the absolute riff raff out is in place. Also, there is a password system in place that is a twist on the usual password game. For to get into Fat Carl's requires a password, but the twist is that each 'patron' has their own, unique password, and you give that at the door to the guy with the password book. You say your password i.e. Kumquat, and he looks in the book and decides if your 'nest' is ready. Another unique thing about Fat Carl's is there isn't really a public room. There are sets of "nests"  two (or at a pinch) three seat stalls with curtains that allow you to conduct your business in private. If you see another cove at Fat Carl's it is usually only a fleeting glance, and you are best to forget the sighting as soon as possible."

"There is also a 'rent' system in place, you have to give Fat Carl his share or your nest ceases to exist. Maybe that's where the Uncle title originates.  Fat Carl is the jovial uncle that loves his nieces and nephews as long as they pay the rent, but skip a payment and Fat Carl's sunny, sweet disposition starts to cloud over. No one wants to cloud over Fat Carl's sunny disposition. We are all thieves at Fat Carl's hence the "kleptomaniacs" addition to the title. Of course, it is unofficial, can't put that on the sign out front, and not expect the gendarmes not to get wise to the idea. Obviously, there are more thieves that are 'members' of Fat Carl's than there are nests (it isn't an overly large establishment), and when you give your password at the door, you have to wait to see if your nest is free. Fat Carl's other innovation is the "time sheet." When you get there is not the important bit it is the when you leave that matters, and you have to sign a book when you leave. Each cove has his or her own book, and they are kept separately  by the gorilla at the door (for he is a large, large man who's bad side you never want to be on).  It is a system designed purely to protect Fat Carl. He has the ability to say to the gendarmes "nope don't know what time he got here, how long he stayed, or who he talked to, but this is the time he left. Hope that helps officer." Fat Carl is loyal only up to a point, and between you and him, Fat Carl will pick himself every single time."

"Now that the majority of the background is out of the way, I can get to the actual dilemma." You see I have my password book at Fat Carl's  and I know other people who do, of course we have to pretend like we don't but you don't get into Fat Carl's by openly wearing a mask, so sometimes a glance is exchanged in the joint. The other trick concerns the fact that me and this other thief got pretty cozy a few years back, and I sorted out their password. If I had to, I could access their visit book, and tell you what time on what day they left Fat Carl's. Not that I would. There is some honour among thieves, but if the gendarmes are trying to pin something on me that I know this dodgy cove may have had a hand in, well, honour is great, but freedom is greater. Which leads to the exact problem, I am about 92% sure that this daft cunt has pulled a bank job, I am also just a sure that the gendarmes have figured that part out as well, and in their rounding up of the "usual suspects" I am sure to have my chance to hold a number up in front of me, turn to the right, turn to the left, and speak some random line to an audience I can't see 'in a normal speaking voice'.  I've been there and done that, and it isn't pleasant. I also wasn't a part of the job, but I knew about it (I had seen them planning it at Fat Carl's in one of those accidental meetings we try ever so hard to avoid, and I put it together rather quicker than most)."

"One of the problems I have with the gendarmes is they aren't the type to accept Sargent Schultz's "I know nothing, I see nothing, I hear nothing" excuse. They want things simple. They want their man (or woman) they want them now, and they want it as neatly done as possible. Don't get me wrong, my hypocrisy only extends so far, I have pulled a bank job or two in my past, and I am not fan of banks, or what they represent, but I also like waking up in my own (or a pretty girl's bed) without having to wonder if there is an over eager gendarme waiting for me on my walk to the corner store to buy beef jerky and fizzy water." I held up a forestalling hand, "so what is the actual dilemma?" He sighed "I have a copy of the book..." He trailed off shaking his head,  "and I don't know which group wants to know what I know more, the gendarmes, or Fat Carl." I don't want to go to stir, especially for something I didn't do, but I also don't want Fat Carl to break my damn legs." I stopped him again, handed him a piece of paper that I had scribbled something on, and stood up ( I had work to do) "here go talk to this guy, tell him all of this, and if he doesn't throw you out on your ass, he might help you."  I watched him take the paper, unfold it, read what I had written, and with a look of bewilderment ask "who the fuck is Serge, and what the hell do I want to know about his apples?"

A Romantic Death

On this day, X number of years ago the Romantic made a decision that would ultimately lead him to receive the knife between the ribs that killed him. I know this because I have, finally, completed my exhaustive investigation into the many records he left behind him. Truth be told, today is the anniversary not of the beginning of the decision that would kill him, but the end of the beginning. He had put his feet on the path that lead to his demise about 60 days or so earlier, although it took him 30 days to figure out that he was headed the right direction. He never was the swiftest horse in the stable, and sometimes things just were beyond his understanding until they were spelled out for him. Which may be the reason he (and myself) were/are such terrible spellers. We've also been accused of writing with the skill of a poorly educated 13 year old, but I suppose that's never stopped us before (though it has given us considerable pause, and is part of the reason for the dearth of posts lately).

It seems that the Romantic not only liked to flirt with death, he liked to invite him home with him, have a romp with it, and then buy it cookies. No wonder the damn fool came to a bad end. With that kind of cavalier attitude towards death it is a wonder he managed to stay alive as long as he did. Perhaps the gods do smile on fools and children. However, it is no wonder that his death was as messy as it was, he just couldn't fathom certain things that when told to him were untrue.  It was that inability to discern a lie when it was told to his face (no matter how pretty the teller, or how pretty the lie) that distinguishes the two of us. I have a tendency to believe no one about much of anything, no matter what the situation or who they are. If you expect the worst out of people or things then when it happens (as it usually does) then you are rarely disappointed. I am not sure it is a better approach that my Romantic friend, but I think it will at least make the knife I get in the ribs (which I am sure awaits me at some point) less of a surprise and more of a relief.

The decision he made that day cannot be changed, and for better or worse I am still dealing with the results of it today. Maybe the anniversary thing has made me maudlin, or maybe it is just the need to write something, anything no matter the topic, and this was the only thing I could come up with last night before I passed out asleep, but it does feel like a release to be "writing" again even if it like a poorly educated 13 year old. My investigation into the records the Romantic left behind has been quite the education. The problem is I am not sure what the education is actually going to teach me. Sometimes it feels like he is trying to teach me maths, but my textbook is about German. Like sitting down to lunch, ordering a steak, and the waiter brings you chicken salad "because he thinks it's better for you." It is a twisted record, and although it is linear in nature it is still, at times, very difficult to follow. I know what I am supposed to be looking for in the record, but sometimes the Romantic took the long way around to get what he wanted or to express what he meant, and I have to follow that meandering trail, and try not to get lost in the forest of his obfuscation.

He had to be vague for reasons that need not detain us here, but sometimes vagueness can lead to a major misunderstanding, and since he is no longer around to question about his intent or his motives, one must be cautious with the conclusions that one tries to draw. I have been able to ascertain that he had a plan, a goal, and a future in mind when he did what he did X years ago. I don't think (though I am not sure) that the plan was fully developed on that anniversary day. I believe that he had the outlines of an idea, but was taken off guard when the idea was accepted by the other party as something they were on board with doing. Typical of the idiot that he was, he basically just closed his eyes and hoped for the best, and when the best happened, he was completely taken off guard. Like hitting a bullseye with your eyes closed. Fortune favors the brave, as the saying goes, and he was brave in his own way, probably as an offshoot of him also being stupid. He was just too dumb to be afraid, and when things didn't fall to shit at the beginning, he was committed, and that is when (I believe) the plan came into being. He talked about the "plan" gave it a name, and sketched it out with just enough detail to give you the general idea, but not too much as to make it easily apparent to anyone else.

In his defense, and I have no real desire to defend him, he was not the only "sinner" that day. The decision he made required a partner, like the getaway driver at a bank robbery, and his partner probably knew more about what was going to happen that day than he did. It doesn't excuse his stupidity, but it does goes a little way in helping us understand it. The less said of that partner the better their "guilt" in this conspiracy against common sense is their burden let them bear it, if they can. That they put the Romantic on the path to destruction should bother them, but if it doesn't there isn't a lot I, or anyone else can do about it. We have to "push our own rock up our own hill" and for his partner that is between them and whatever god/fate they choose to believe exists. It is not for us to judge, even though it is difficult not to do, it is still not our place. Their role in the passion play that led to the death of the Romantic is significant, but my fate is no longer entwined with theirs. The record is pretty clear that the "plan" the Romantic formulated, was agreed to by his partner, and maybe that absolves him ever so slightly from the charge of being an absolute idiot.

Another sad conclusion that I can draw from the record is that he would probably do the same thing again given the chance. Hindsight is 20/20, and we all hope we learn from the mistakes of our past, but given his track record, it is my opinion that, if he were alive, (and we thank fuck daily that he's not) he would follow the exact same path again. It is one of the multitude of reasons that the knife had to go into his ribs. Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me, was not a saying that the Romantic seemed to understand. At some point doing the same thing and expecting difference results puts one on the road to the madhouse, and his inability to understand that lead him to the grave. Maybe, just maybe that is the way he wanted it. He was (as he mentions in the record several times) a man out of touch with his time, and maybe he realized that he was never going to get "in step" with the times, and this was his solution. He might have seen the problem as unsolvable, and taking that into account decided that the world needed one less Romantic. Lacking the courage to do it himself he managed to walk himself into the knife wielded by someone else with more sense. Perhaps it was an attempt at release or redemption.  Release from the inescapable prison of his "rinse and repeat" life, or redemption for the sins of his youth. 

The good news, if there is to be any good news, is that the death of the Romantic wasn't the end of the story, a new, hopefully brighter (in more ways than one) regime has taken over after the Romantic's demise, and for now things seem to have regained a sense of normalcy, or at least as close to normal as we can get. Yesterday's tragedy is tomorrow's triumph due to today's steadfastness.

Shell Game

"Sit down" I said a little more harshly that I had intended, but I had had a rough day, and the person I was "asking" to sit down had contributed to that in no small measure. I was really not in the super sparkly mood to play nice. With them or anyone else.  I received a slightly arched eyebrow at my tone, and my command, but I figured if that was the worst reaction I was going to get, then things were going to go smoothly. I knew better, but hope springs eternal.  I decided to just go ahead and press my luck, after all it was going to fall to shit anyway, might as well get it over with sooner rather than later. "Is there anything you'd like to tell me?" She looked puzzled, and replied "about what?" I smiled "well I'm not too concerned about the state of the nation, or the condition of the pork belly market, so just in general, is there anything you'd like to tell me?" "No" she said and shook her head. She has the great ability to shut down when faced with conversations she deems "unpleasant" and we had had several of those recently. So many that I began to call her shutdowns "going turtle" she didn't like it, but she did agree that is what she did.

"Well, since you've gone turtle again, I suppose I'll do all the talking. I hope the acoustics in your shell are good enough for you to hear me clearly, because I don't plan on saying this more than once, and I want to be clear." Another nod, this one briefer than the first. Another way of showing her retreat into her shell. The shorter the nod, the further back she had gone. It was a simple, but efficient way of trying to avoid things, and she had been doing it for years (and not just with me). I was in no mood to play turtles, "I'm in no mood to play turtles, so I am going to try to make this clear. The crux of the reason I've asked you here to talk, even though I know you won't do much talking, is that I have grown weary. Weary of hearing a set of things coming out of your mouth on a daily basis, and then watching you perform acts (well I don't get to see them, but you understand my meaning) that are the polar opposite of what you say." She actually opened her mouth to respond, but I wasn't in the mood. "No, for once stay in your shell." I said as I put up a forestalling hand. "I've no great desire to be interrupted at the moment, and plus I've been practicing this speech for a while, and it needs to be said, and today is the day I'm going to say it. You don't exactly owe it to me to listen, but it would be the decent thing to do, and if you have any shred of decency left, which I am beginning to seriously doubt, you'll just sit there and listen." She flushed red at that last bit, and I could tell she didn't like it, but then again her recent behaviour had lead to my doubts to begin with, and she knew it. She knew she could sputter some attempt to justify herself, but that I wouldn't even bother to listen, so she kept her excuse to herself. Better that way.

"Certainly words, and actions don't always have to march in lock step with each other, and we all say a lot of shit that we don't really mean. Especially in the 'heat of the moment', and we've had a lot of moments." I hoped she knew how I meant that, because it wasn't meant to be kind, she was a relatively clever lass (at one point at least), and I saw the anger flare again in her eyes, and knew that my point had been made. "But your actions and words aren't even going the same direction, they aren't on the same path, and they have two, very different destinations." I won't waste my breath, or insult your intelligence by sketching out the words, and the actions of which I speak. You know what you say, after all you are the one saying it, and you know what you do because again, you are the one doing it. The doing is a bit vague at times, and I wonder if you don't think I'm clever enough to catch on to it, but rest assured I am. After all this time you of all people, should know that. I am going to pretend, for my sake, that you do, and you either don't care or you somehow think that your actions and words are reconcilable. They aren't and that is the reason for this little tete a tete."

"Of course your problem, whether you know it or not (or care which I'm not sure you do), is that the fellow you would want to hear your words and see your actions is dead. That Romantic fool that you took for a merry ride has shuffled off this mortal coil, and I am here as his replacement. You knew that, I told you that, and yet you didn't deem it necessary to change your words or your behaviour. Pity that, because it makes a significant difference to me. You know which one I am, I've told you that too, if you were paying attention, and I think you were, you know I'm the Rationalist, and I am a different kettle of fish from that fool the Romantic. I killed him, this you know as well, I've told you that too, it wasn't hard, but it wasn't exactly the pinnacle of my career. I took very little pleasure in the act, but then again I also do not mourn the daft bastard. He had to die, in order that I might live, and in the game of "it's you or them" I pick them to get the short end of the stick, or in this case the pointy end of the knife. Putting the knife into him was necessary, and watching the light fade from his eyes was the price of keeping myself alive, it had to be done, for the greater glory of us all."

"The pity, at least for you, is that the Romantic wouldn't be having this conversation with you. He would tear himself apart trying to reconcile your actions and your words. The logical inconsistency of them would drive him mad, and he wouldn't rest until he figured it out. The problem for him is that he would NEVER figure them out, he wasn't that clever, another reason he had to die, and he would continue to bash his head against that brick wall until he was brain dead. He would desperately want to believe your words, and to be fair, they were sweet words, words he wanted to hear and sincerely wanted to believe. But, you knew that didn't you? After all, that's why you said them. He wasn't too complicated our Romantic, he confused easily, and wanted to believe those honeyed words. He was mad for sweets, and your words were like a jolt of sugar for him. One thing you and him had in common was that you are/were (in his case) cowards. Yours is the cowardice of avoidance, his was the cowardice of belief. Two very distinct types, but cowards nevertheless."

"No, sadly for you, I am here now and I quite simply don't give a fuck. I will not allow myself to give a fuck. Giving a fuck is what got him the knife in the ribs. It's a hard life to not give a fuck. People actually expect you to give quite a lot of fucks in your day to day life. It can be exhausting to try to pretend to give a fuck, I mean I'm not exactly a savage. I do, on too many occasions than I want, find myself pretending to give a fuck that someone's child is ill, or that the elderly gran of another has passed away, or that someone's dog finally learned to not shit on the Persian rug. Yes, a lot of my day is whiled away pretending to give an actual fuck about mundane things. Therefore, when you coming waltzing in here with your words saying X and your actions saying Y, I can't be bothered to give an actual fuck. I will not lose precious hours of sleep pondering the difference, I will not worry myself sick about which one of the two to believe, I will not skip meals because I pondering which is really "true" X or Y.  As far as I can tell, the only person who gives a fuck about me is me. Therefore, as the self-appointed custodian of my own mental health, I am not going to play this game just to keep things going."

"It is up to you to figure this mystery out, if you mean the words, that's just grand. As I said they are lovely words, and if I thought you meant them I might actually consider believing them. Notice I said consider, for that is the best I can promise (and it is dependent on your ability to convince me you mean them), and it's probably better than you deserve. Or, if on the other hand, your actions are the true indication of your character (or lack thereof) then you and I have nothing further to discuss. You can stop with the pretty words, and take yourself (and others) straight to hell.  Either way, it's your decision. I am pretty certain I know the answer, but I will let you have the final say in the matter. Call it my one act of kindness. Because, sister I am not that kind, and you made a murderer out of me. The vengeance that I took in your name was not a pleasant sight, and if I gave a fuck, it might actually haunt me, but we have covered that ground already. Also, I am not certain that my vengeance is finished, but that need not concern you overmuch."

"Well, that's about all I've got. I know it's a lot, and I don't expect an answer right now, or maybe ever, knowing you as I do, but somethings just have to be said out loud for their own sake. You can make of it what you wish, or you can ignore it in its entirety. I am not hard to find, nor am I difficult to talk to (at least in my opinion) you should know your own mind, and I would appreciate the benefit of you sharing it with me. I figure (because of course I do) it's the least you could do, and like most people in this world doing the least you can do is usually what people pick to do." For the briefest of moments she looked like she was going to say something, then she just nodded her head, got up, said "you are wrong on so many levels", and walked out of the room. I've not seen her since.

35degrees 8' 12" N 89degrees 59' 24" W

"I am not your enemy" my companion said as they tasted the cold, frothy beverage that I placed in front of them, and then let out a satisfied sigh" I glanced at them, a person I had known the better part of a decade, and wondered how much of what they was telling me was anywhere in the neighborhood of the truth, or were they just telling me what they thought I wanted to hear, and would say it was true regardless? I struggled not to give a detailed lecture on the Manichaeism temptation, the one that decrees that "if you aren't my friend, then you are my enemy." That temptation is just that a temptation a very alluring view of the world. Either you're with me or you're against me. It makes the world very black and white, divides it clearly between good (my side clearly), and evil (their side clearly).  It makes it very simple, and very easy to place objects in their place. That is if objects will just stay in place, funny thing about them is that they tend to move about.

I doubted my present drinking buddy had ever heard of Mani, the founder of the religion that leads to the temptation that bears his name, and I very much doubted they wanted to hear me fill in the blank space on their map of knowledge on this subject. I am not pedantic, but have been told that I would be a better person if "I learned to keep my mouth shut." "In fact, I would like to think that I am your friend." I nodded, let out a sigh, and figured that the "mouth shut" theory wasn't going to work this time. After all, only so much of a conversation can be carried on when all one person does is nod and smile, or grunt and grimace. The nature of the word conversation mainly implies that two people are going to be, at some point, talking (hopefully not at the same time, but that is how a lot of my "chats" with people end up going).  I took another long sip of my beverage, mainly in order to give me time to think of a reply, but also because it was fucking delicious, and replied (as laconically as possible) "I know that." I figured the fewer words I supplied in this conversation the better, for multiple reasons. One, I wasn't exactly sure I believed them, and therefore I couldn't be sure how much of what I said was going to be reported back to my actual enemies (of which my companion is very well acquainted). Two, I also wasn't sure I wanted to have this conversation, after all I was just here to get slightly drunk, and wake up tomorrow with a headache, but with no regrets about what I had said to them. Or worse get very drunk, and not remember what I had said to them, and worry how much of my theory on Mani, and his temptation I had shared.

However, I could tell that three words weren't going to be sufficient to finish this conversation to their satisfaction. Pity that, because I wasn't really prepared to reopen the wounds that they wanted to discuss, but Custer didn't exactly didn't get to pick the ground for his "last stand." I had hopes this wouldn't be quite that bad of a disaster, but when I'm involved, one never knows how badly things are going to go.  I did feel some sense of regret that we were having the conversation in the first place, after all my actions (to be fair I was acting in concert with someone) were what led us to the point of having to "clear the air" with this conversation. I never figured it would get this bad, but that is what I get for not expecting the worst to happen. If you expect the worst, you are rarely disappointed, and usually (if the worst doesn't happen) can be happily surprised. Sadly, in this case the worst (or at least it's first cousin) had happened. No one died, but a lot of trust, belief, and companionship were grievously, perhaps fatally, wounded. Those smug bastards that have a saying for everything will tell us "that time heals all wounds." What they leave out is that time also deals wounds, serious ones that hurt like the dickens, and feel fatal at the time. Time has to pass for them to heal, and it decides its own pace, and when you are wounded, time's march seems to be a crawl.

 I decided to try a simpler, more widely known approach. I bought them a shot, and hoped they got to the state of drunkenness that allowed me to just talk about sex, sports, and nothing of any particular importance. Sadly, I was wrong, they seemed to be trying to make a point about this "friend/enemy" thing, and cheap liquor wasn't going to sidetrack them. In fact, I think it might have made it worse, it made them more determined to talk about it, and neglect a perfectly good looking fellow barfly across the way trying to get their attention. One had to admire their determination while rolling ones eyes at their inability to spot a clue when it was placed in front of them. They were well into the "we've known each other a long time, and we've seen a lot of shit" portion of the friend speech, when I finally cracked, and put up a forestalling hand. I wasn't prepared to trot out Mani and his temptation, and therefore figured a more popular (if slightly different) world view might explain my theory on the situation.

"You watched enough westerns to know the general idea of the Wild West, so I will try to explain my theory in that context. The good guys wear the white hats, and the bad guys wear the black ones. That's the general conception, of course like most general conceptions it's wrong. I mean sure it's true of the Roy Rogers western, but even the cowboy world isn't that simple. You don't ride around in a white hat on a white horse saving the day from clearly defined (by their headgear) bad guys, and get the damsel in distress to fall madly in love with you, and maybe cook you dinner. That's not how any of this works. In the real world the "bad guys" aren't that well defined. Few of them are all the way bad, just like you (the hero of your own story) aren't all the way good. If you're honest (with yourself at least, lie to others, but try to be honest with yourself) you might realize that good and bad is a situational kind of thing. In someone's story, I am the villain, the bad guy that doesn't love his mother enough, and probably kicks dogs for fun, and I need to be the one "eliminated." This isn't as simple as the world where the "only good Indian is a dead Indian." That's just a dream world that some fellow who has never sat on anything other than a carousel horse dreamed up at some desk in some posh office in an urban jungle."

They nodded, and didn't reply, so I figured they had decided to let me ramble, and I decided to oblige them. "This isn't the world where the barkeep" and here I motioned to the fellow behind the bar, a fellow of long standing acquaintance, and a few shared drinks, "doesn't just take your order of whiskey, and place a whole bottle of it in front of you, and wait for you to drink it down like a good boy. That world isn't real, sure he will give you whiskey, but in measures he pours not you. That is probably symbolic of something, but I am not clever enough to figure out of what. Certainly no one wants to be the villain, no matter how good we look in black we all want to be the good guy. The guy with the strong jawline, strong chin, and an even stronger sense of morality. No one really wants to tie the damsel to the railroad, and wait for the train to slice her into neat halves, no one wants to shoot the teller of bank we are robbing for the sake of a few dollars (and out of greed). No one really wants to have to shoot the sheriff or his deputy. No one wants to be a tool, and become a cardboard cut out or a poorly drawn picture on a wanted dead or alive poster in the post office. Generally circumstances quite beyond our control decide the "good guy/bad guy" dichotomy, and we are just left to play the part to the best of our ability, or to try to convince the "director" of this passion play that we have been grossly miscast as the villain."

Another nod, and another sip was their reply, and I wondered if they were listening out of habit, or listening in order to remember and repeat. At this point I was no longer sure I cared. I had had enough of that whiskey, and it was possible that I was talking to myself, and they just happened to be sitting next to me. It didn't matter overmuch then, and if it did later, well that was a problem for sober me.  Sometimes you are the only audience you need, and that audience needs to hear what you are saying out loud for a change the running monologue in your head needs to be spoken aloud sometimes. I continued with my monologue "The one thing you don't want to be my friend is the little kid in the western." They arched an eyebrow "little kid?" "Yes" I replied. "You don't want to be the little kid that always somehow wanders away from his or her loving mother and winds up in the street standing between the two gunfighters about to settle their score the only was the West knows how. That is not the place for you, or for anyone, sure you hope the good guy won't shoot the kid, but if he doesn't will the villain shoot him for hesitating? You also like to hope the bad guy won't shoot the kid, but fuck he's the bad guy, he didn't get  that hat because he loves kids, apple pie, Jesus, and his mother. He got that black hat for a reason and it wasn't a gift from the benevolent society for all his (or her no need to be sexiest, you ladies can be villains too) good works."

 "Shooting a kid, on the way to shooting the good guy might just be what our villain would call the price of doing business, and if the good guy wants to play by some code of honour or a set of rules that they put into place for themselves, then more the fool to him. Just because you follow the rules, doesn't mean the rest of the world has to (there are rules, and there are RULES), or will. Certain people are basically above the rules, and the sooner you learn both that, and that you aren't one of them the easier your life will be." Finally, I began to realize they were still listening, but not really hearing what I had to say. I had reached the tipping point of giving them too much to ponder, and not enough time in which to ponder it. Knowing we to 'exit stage left' is a very difficult art to master, but it has to be done on occasion, and now was the occasion. I called for our tab(s), paid the friendly bar too little for the drinks, but over tipped him a ridiculous amount, sat down my, now empty, glass, and gave them one last parting gift. "Tomorrow you will have a massive headache, and will regret this night of boozing. But remember those drinks, think of them as individual moments in your life. Treat them like a relationship, sure it ended in pain, but you drank them all of your own accord, and enjoyed ever drop on the way. And in this world of shit, that's really all you can hope for. Bon chance."