Forgiveness: The Unholy Trinity in my life...I should accept

After blogging for these oh so many months, it is sometimes really difficult for me to avoid just who I am and how I got to today. Many of the things that shape your life are unavoidable; you just weren't given much of a choice in the matter. Likely the hardest thing is to forgive it - or them - because as a person, we expected better. So, given that others have the courage to delve into that path in ways that are beyond me, I'd like to relate where I've come from and undoubtly will lose some of you on that journey...But if honesty does that, what of lies?

Note: This is told in the shortest way possible --because it's a book.

#1. I grew up in Tennessee until 10. My father was someone who always had that potential to do more, but got in his own way. And I know why to some degree. As the 9th out of 10 kids, in a family where his dad was a State Pen guard and his mother was a half-Cherokee, tough as leather on a 100 degree day caregiver, love was not in much supply. His dad was provoked into strange disciplining of the kids. The worse you did, the easier the punishment. Break a glass, get your ass beat.

At 14, my father finally stood up to grandpa (not William L. Clark, a different grandpa) in calling his own mother a bitch. My dad got more than a beating, it was a one-sided fight, but as the story went, he called out his dad, "Is that all you got, old man!" After that, it was all downhill.

My dad carried that into his marriages, 4 of them to be exact. My mother was wife #2 when they were both 20 and 21. I was born on a military base, but I should not have been. Whatever my mother saw in my dad, it turned pretty violent, pretty quickly. She as a fairly devout Catholic struggled to make a marriage work to a Christian Fundamentalist, that was neither Christian nor very fundamental in his life. My dad jumped from job to job, ran around with loose women and drank, did Columbia dancing dust and worked a bar, the 64 Club, that I became acquainted with.

When I was 9, my mother after a long night at work got a ride home from "Chuck Baker," some employee of the same place. My dad was high and was mad at her for everything. So the beating commenced. It went on for an hour, I guess. I was scared to death, in the closet of my room, paralyzed with fear. Then my dad called me out, "---, come here!" I panicked..."---, come, here!" So I did.

What I saw was a mess. Aside from the kitchen, my mother was black and blue and wet all over. She did not look like mom. My dad had a knife, and he wanted me to kill him. My mother wanted me to kill him, in her eyes. He handed me the knife and asked me again. In a split second I could have done the entire world a favor...

After their divorce, the problems were just as bad...My dad OBSESSED like no other about my mom. He stalked her. He threatened me more than once if I did not ask the questions he wanted of her. So I lied to keep him happy. GOD became an obsession like no other..too. Between Revelations, John and Jesus I got so tired of listening as a 5th grader.

My mother left me behind. It got too much for her. So she moved North. I stayed in Tennessee for 6 weeks, until my dad couldn't stand me around and the leverage I was to him, faded. My mother's family, William L. Clark and Co., came to the rescue once again. But one did not care a lick.

#2. aunt, my mother's only sister, is a damaged human being. She's a perfectionist, that could not perfect a normal life. I do feel sorry for her biggest secret: the ones that destroy as a child. But she hates children. She couldn't stand me at age 10-11. I was no picnic, after the last 18 months of my life had seen a dozen places to stay, threats, violence and even a night in a jail cell under, "for his protection." Really?! While my dad roamed free...

My aunt took to harassing me with mocking my words, always suggesting I was stupid. She talked about my mother's failure of a marriage as, "See, that what happens when you leave home." My aunt has never left home on her own. Her dad William once got her an interview at US Steel just to see her sabotage herself by bringing another lady along to the Interview!!! That's how she thinks...and it pisses me off to no end.

Once my mother and I could move to a 1-bedroom apt. across the street, we did. But my aunt was always chided me. He plays too much. He won't work. He won't do enough around here.

I got a paper route at 12. Mowed lawns all summer. Played baseball whenever I could. Wanted to go to instructional camps on the sport, but could not ever afford it. So I got a dishwashing job at age 16, two days after I became 16. I work 30 hours a week while going to school. Not good enough.

I scored in the 98% on the SAT Math section. I was in advance courses and accepted to Purdue. My English sucked though. But my actions were selfish according to her. She felt cheated...not enough attention.

I moved to college, nearly permanently. I would only come "home" to see my mom, who now lived back with her sister after both grandparents passed away. My mother owned a consignment shop for clothes, a good little business that I could only give some help to, but my aunt found ways to avoid the shop, doing only work behind the scenes... She only works with her relatives, namely my mother now, and has a flair for the DRAMA of any situation.

Upon graduation from Purdue, the only one who cared to show was my mother. My aunt had "foot issues" and did not show up. That was expected...

In 1997, I had worked as an Industrial Engineer for a year, but the money I took could not pay bills. I tried to get a 2nd job, but 60 hours in one place doesn't get it. I got mad, went to a better paying, but horrible job for Navistar. After 3 weeks, I found I couldn't stand my boss. So I quit.

I drug my ass "home" to hear the music. It took about a month. One night, I overheard my aunt, "When is he ever going to get anything right? He's just stupid." My mother did not defend me, "He's like his father sometimes..."

My father in 1988 was convicted of the worst crime you'll EVER read about. He spent 9 years in Ft. Leavenworth, since he went back to the Marines, and had remarried again and hurt his own stepdaughter in ways I don't know about...but I know.

I joined the U.S. Navy about 3 weeks after that overheard conversation. It was a mistake. College educated as an enlisted bloat. The people are fine if you can handle your alcohol. I can't...it makes me a far worse person than I really am. And I have the criminal record to prove that....see below.

On March 6, 1999, after boot camp, A-school, and an OCS application that got derailed due to my weight (I was put in a remedial gym class, even though I completed my PRT (Physical Readiness Test)with an outstanding), I got drunk and stupid. I tried to commit suicide.

My aunt is a person you would think is nice, unless you heard her talk away from you. It has rubbed off since I am talking about her. But that's my choice...

#3. Another woman. For some reason I fell in love with her. After my honorable discharge due to alcohol rehabiliation failure, I managed to convince a warehouse to hire me as an Industrial Engineer. And I dried out on my own. 19 months I did not drink- without AA or BB or the AFL-CIO help. I actually began to do what I should, like make a difference at work. I joined a community organization...and meet another woman.

It took awhile for me -- never been a ladie's man, go figure, so I was afraid to come to it. I pretended to be confident, secure (like now) and tried humor often. She took notice. Not hanging all over me notice, but notice. But I was hooked.

After a few months, and quite a few emails, I thought she might like to go out with me. She rejected politely, but encouraged me in ways I just did not understand...Never have understood. I told her my own personal secrets--the drinking and suicide attempt --and she was supportive sort of... like a pat on the head for being a good boy.

Then I told her about my father. That did it. She gave me a book - Legacy of the Heart --about dealing with a bad childhood and forgiveness, and thus the reason I am writing.

Within 24 hours, the tone changed.

She threatened me with legal pursuit (mission accomplished) and bragged about her life. Calling herself a conceited bitch, that she could tell if a man was gay or straight, that I acted if I deserved her and that I was a child of God that she did not want to know...

I did not respond rationally...I was pitiful actually. I cried all the way to Kansas as I drove.

After that, I tried to apologize via email!!! Yep, I was apologizing for being a failed person, with secrets and things I'd rather forget every single day of my life. But I can't and people that I barely know now, know it.

When the police came to my door that did it. I wrote the worst email in human existence that did not include a single threat in it. But it did include this line: "The gall and audacity of a self-righteous, self-centered poor-excuse-for-a-babymaker bitch..." I was drunk for the first time in 19 months...writing no less.

My best friend in the world of a decade got this letter, along with others. We'd met at Purdue and bounced around our lives like twenty-somethings typically do. He did not respond. I called him later -- and he was worried, so worried he forgot to write, call or otherwise put two cups and attach them to a string.

A protective order was enforced. I never saw her again...until court.

I felt guilt like you can barely imagine. I OBSESSED over it all. I wrote volumes of "I'm sorry" sent to no one.

I moved away from the area - 100 miles away in another state- taking a job that I had talked to her about. (Soon to be important.) About a month after the final nail in the coffin, I got a warrant issued for my arrest for Invasion of Privacy due to that email sent to her and others. Funny, it was not mentioned at the hearing that enforced the Protective order.

So, I stress over that. For 3 months, I worked and avoided the State. I called the lawyer I had hired. He filed a motion to dismiss. Failed. I wanted to go to jail because I DESERVE it. I called her a bitch and ruined a friendship, because that is all it really was, after all.

For some fucking reason, I cared about her. Maybe she reminded me of my father not seen in 20 years or the better parts of whatever was my aunt. Had to be something. We shared a bunch of similiar interests, even the fucking LAW. (I took the LSAT and scored pretty well.)

In early spring, I finally turned myself in and was OR out. But I lost my job as a consultant because I was too scared to admit I was in the wheels of justice. (They had hired me to replace a foreign worker whose VISA ran out...)

After nearly 6 months, I wrote her again another silly, drunken apology. You can imagine how I pleaded.
I offered her things and money I did not have.

After another very long email to anyone I ever knew, I turned myself in. Big mistake. I spent 27 months behind bars - 3 for the Invasion and 24 for the new Stalking charge. I GOT WHAT I DESERVED.

At the sentencing hearing, the victim wrote a 9 1/2 page, single spaced statement to the court. She lied a lot.

She compared me to a rapist, a murderer, a robber and a child molester. She used the word Stalker 20 plus times. It was a good piece of fiction. According to her:

1. I robbed her 93 year old grandmother in the state I moved to
2. Broke into a U-lock
3. Had 3 black men follow her around in beat up cars
4. Use peanut oil to pick her lock
5. Read her diary
6. Watched her cook breakfast

And plenty more I don't remember off hand. Course I never did those things--and was never charged, or saw a police report to any of that. By the way, she worked for a top security company that has a history tied to the Presidents. And she said they could not protect her. That my one year of Naval Service as a technician was a danger. (I've shot a gun twice - neither time in the U.S. Navy.)

Why I tell this? Because I no longer have any more chances. After Prison, I have applied to over 400+ jobs. No one wants a convict. I don't want a convict.

I live at home with mom, using the library to post these blogs. My aunt is ever a thorn in my side. I avoid her like the plague, she does like wise.

I try to think positive thoughts...If there is a God, he knows.

IF YOU READ ALL OF THIS AND STILL READ ME IN THE FUTURE, you are a kind soul.

THE OTHERS, I understand. You don't need the drama. I wish you the best in your journeys.

Take you back: My first ever blog entry

In reading Wonderland or Not, an excellent blog that tagged me recently :) , it reminded me of the first post I made at another blog. So this is a Back to the Future sort of post. Hopefully the story is worth the internet storage space.

My first blog: Funny thing this morning, I didn't set out to discover blogging while driving on a delivery route. It just came to me as a way to share what I feel is important to me, and hopefully, others. The day before the 4th of July has always been a bittersweet reminder of my Grandfather's passing in 1986 on the 4th.

I started writing a significant journal on July 4, 1997. Since then, my ability to write has gotten me into trouble at times, but also benefited me, at times too. But to further that premise, here's a true story about my Grandfather, William L. Clark Jr.

My grandpa was involved in WWII like most other people's grandfathers. He was a Boatswain's Mate from late 1942-1947, driving an LCVP (landing craft vehicle personnel) similar to the ones in 'Saving Private Ryan' except around the Pacific Ocean. Before he reached active duty, in the latter part of basic training, his younger brother Harold died in a drowning accident near Paris, Illinois. Harold was 9 or 10 at the time and travelling with his boyscout troop on some outdoor expedition.

My grandfather went back on emergency leave to pay his last respects and see to the needs of the family. I am sure that wasn't easy and his being involved in a war training only heighten the dreaded aura of possibly losing one's life fighting the Japanese and the Germans. After his 72-hour leave, he went back to Pensacola (I think) to ship out with his group. Upon returning, the group he was assigned to had all ready 'shipped out' on another LST, heading out to the Pacific. (I don't recall the LST #, but his was #838..)

After a short while, he heard back that his former 'mates' had been engaged and sunk by a Japanese submarine in what was called 'The Slot', a piece of ocean in the Solomon Islands containing Guadalcanal. Most of the sailors on board went down with the ship. As he told me this, my grandfather said, "I'm lucky...because of Harold's death. You wouldn't be alive if it wasn't for him."

Harold was quite a boy. He was also was nicknamed the 'Firecracker' because he was born on the 4th of July. My grandfather passed on July 4th due to respiratory arrest resulting from complications of lung cancer.

William L. Clark Jr. loved baseball, especially Ted Williams, and Westerns, especially John Wayne. He tried out for the Brooklyn Dodgers (Leo Durocher was their HOF manager and future Cubs skipper) ,and before he enlisted, made their Minor League roster. He could have been quite the ballplayer I am sure, but timing IS EVERYTHING in this life. (Luck or fate or whimsy of chance...)

My future thoughts will revolve around my baseball opinions, discussion of Bill James and the reality I feel exists. But I will always try to tie that into the grander scheme of life. I hope.
This entry is for you GRAMPS!!! You are the best man I've ever known!

Note #1: Not Always will post sometime next week.
Note #2: SBwrites, Elaine, Wonderland, Rogue and many others, I'll be by soon enough!

Baseball & Society: Why It matters

I have received a comment or two on why people would not typically read what I post because their interests do not include baseball. I can understand that, being they are women, and sports seem mundane and related too much to testosterone. Well, here are a few reasons you should give professional baseball a looksie:

The founding of the oldest professional league took place in 1876. The centennial of this nation. The National League survived due to William Hulbert taking his business sense and strictness and showing little mercy for gamblers, players on the take and bad behavior.

Baseball turned into a profession shortly after the U.S. Civil War, but left behind men of color until 1947. Several black men played professional baseball (Weldy Wilberforce Walker, Moses Fleetwood Walker (see picture above) and George Stovey, for example) played up until 1887, when Adrian Constantine 'Cap' Anson , legend of the Chicago Cubs refused to play with black players. His racist example, led to a 60-year moratorium on equality for all players.

Baseball for over 80 years has merited antitrust exemption. In 1922, Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes, considered by many amongst the greatest Jurists in American History, wrote "baseball is a sport, not a business" and that baseball played across state lines was not "interstate commerce" and thus did not fall under the perview of regulation by the U.S. Revocation of this was still being bantered about in 2002. Baseball has been "redefined" over the years, even the stingy Phil K. Wrigley, said, "Baseball is most definitely a business." In 1950!

Baseball has produced plenty of greater writers, historians and novelists. Grantland Rice, Roger Kahn, George F. Will, Leonard Koppett, Sam Lacy, Wendell Smith, Lee Allen and Bill James are just a very few that have shaped the way baseball is viewed. They have plied their craft so well that their words resonate on until this very day.

In 1947, nearly a decade before the Civil Rights Era sprung to life under the small, but determined spirit of Rosa Parks, Jackie Roosevelt Robinson took the field and changed baseball. Jackie played four sports at UCLA, not including tennis, and was spirited to say the very least. He survived a court martial as a commissioned officer in the Army - a rarity once again - to just become the 1st black in sixty years to play in the Majors. He suffered through plenty of hardship and was treated uneven by his teammates and opponents alike. But his is the only MLB number retired on every team . (#42)

Free Agency. Though often misinterpreted as "baseball players getting rich" , free agency was a basic right all people in the workforce strive for. In baseball, for nearly 100 years, a player was attached to a team "for life" unless he retired or otherwise did not play. Owners had the option to never release a player and could pay him whatever the owner determined. (Unlike you and I, who can shop our services to the highest bidder...) Curt Flood started the ball rolling, when he refused a trade to the Philadelphia Phillies. After writing a stirring letter (though legendary legal man Marvin Miller likely helped) to Bowie Kuhn, commissioner of baseball, Flood's case went before the U.S. Supreme Court, argued by former Supreme Arthur Goldberg, only to lose. However, within 4 years, his actions would gain traction and bear fruit for hundreds of MLB players.

These are only a few reasons to be interested in baseball. It is more than a sport, more than a pasttime, and more than just grown men hitting a ball around the field. It has influenced culture, legal issues, the backdrop of society's struggles and has kept its place through tumultuous times in America.

Not Always: Part VI and VII

Part VI – Blame it on Rio

The fight had begun 500 years ago. When the Spanish ruled the seas and had visions of dynasty dancing in their heads. They landed ashore in the Caribbean, ran into foreign plants like sugarcane and tobacco, and were semi-disappointed they had not reached the Spice Islands where explorer Marco Polo had brought back from China plenty of wondrous things just two centuries earlier.

As the curious Conquistadors when forward into the continent searching for treasure and immortality, they found the Aztecs, Mayans, Incas and a few other worthy cultures of note. Is wasn’t long before they were fighting them for their treasures and plundering their great civilizations for booty. Their greatest weapon in this cause was their biology. Bringing foreign diseases from Europe, the Native Americans were soon dropping like flies and made it so much easier to conquer them. In a century, the once great societies of the Central & South America were decimated and offered little future resistance.

But the Spanish gradually lost their mistaken empire as the British, French and Dutch came on short word that plentiful booty, warm climate and enormous natural resources existed just across the Atlantic. After the British defeated the Spanish Armada in 1588, the scales of power tipped to Britain. Leaving the Spanish to scramble to South America to retain the most influence until Simon Bolivar brought about independence.

Portugal had its foray into the area. Pedro Álvares Cabral explored the New World, founding Brazil. Unlike the rest of South America, Portuguese is the main language, but that is of little consequence.

But once the exploration phase of the New World petered out, and the founding of the most powerful nation in the world history took place, the cards were reshuffled yet again. World Wars, Civil Rights, The Industrial Revolution and The Information Age brought them to the present.

Those abundant natural resources had rapidly dwindled, pollution increased and economics of the world lay in the hands of those that still had resources and nerve to use them.

Juan Pablo Calderone was such a man. As the new leader of Petrobras, he saw the short-term future of Brazilians tied to the bioethanol market and the exportation of its product to the highest bidder and largest user of fossil fuels, the United States.

Currently, that did not seem possible. The United States placed $.50 per gallon tariffs on Brazilian ethanol because the sugarcane processing in Brazil was cheaper by $.25 US, not counting the substantially subsidized part of the U.S. corn ethanol market. Worse was the inefficient nature of corn produced only produces 1.3 parts of energy for each one used, whereas, Sugarcane produced ethanol produced 8.3 units of energy to one.

This was completely due to the byproducts of sugarcane-to-ethanol process being bagasse, vinasse, and carbon dioxide. In modern sugarcane ethanol plants, bagasse is used for production of steam and electricity. Vinasse is the left over liquid after alcohol is removed (stillage). Vinasse contains nutrients such as nitrogen, potash, phosphate, sucrose, and yeast which could be applied to cropland as a fertilizer. Carbon dioxide could be collected for sale to beverage companies.

Bagasse is the real mover. The amount of electricity produced is then sold off to utilities. A very profitable residual benefit.

Petrobras currently produced 4.5 Billions gallons of ethanol. It provided 40% of the Brazilian motorist fuel in their endeavors. This though could be ramped up to 30 Billion gallons in five years, under the right market conditions and proper investment from outside.

Currently, the United States, as Juan Pablo saw it, was facing a two-fold dilemma: 25% of the worlds oil was being used by the U.S. but the production from non-OPEC countries would not increase in the future. OPEC had power because it was sitting on huge oil reserves the United States needed to get at. So now the United States would go on its exploration into the Middle East for oil (and war) – and the Middle East knew that. The Middle Eastern countries suspiciously eyed any U.S. involvement in their affairs, since the only substantial difference from them and African states was the oil in the ground. To get at the oil, ‘wars of economics’ were being fought. The terrorist attacks in 2001 were likely motivated by a fearful concern over the U.S. encroachment on sacred lands that just so happen to contain oil.

The nation founded by accident, abundant in a wide array of materials, was now out on the prowl for replacement resources.

The second dilemma was tied to the Heartland of America. Corn was abundant there; and could be converted to ethanol, as 15% all ready was, but only provided 2% of the gas needed. The input costs were going up and the crop yields at 130 bushels/acre were driven by over fertilizing, and thus not providing the environmental benefit the watchdog groups supported and were gaining traction in enforcing. Immigration workers were soon going to be hauled back in greater amounts, as the population was growing increasingly worrisome over people that don’t speak English thanks to the terrorism scare.

The U.S. Sugarcane crop is produced in Texas, Louisiana, Florida and Hawaii. Climatologists predict more hurricanes hitting the Gulf regions where the sugarcane was produced, reducing yields, and nixing the benefit. On top of that, the operating cycle of Gulf sugarcane is only 3 to 6 months compared to 9 months for the tropical Brazil. Hawaii’s climate would be optimal; but for the land acquisition price that has shattered that market option.

So, the United States could not produced more bioethanol without significant cost barriers, and Brazil still had one more ace-in-the-hole: The Amazon Rainforest.

Juan Pablo Calderone had convinced the recent advisory board of Petrobras that expanding operations into the Cerrado portion of the Amazon made sense. That the new deal with Nippon Alcohol Hanbai, the Japanese supplier of ethanol to all of Japan, the ability to supply them long term would require it. He smoothed over the environmental concerns with a wit and charm only a former street person could muster. Living in a Favela, he survived outside overcrowded Sao Paulo in his formative years and made his way out through the grace of God, prayers to Maria and killing when necessary.

Now at age 44, twenty years removed from that fray, Pablo could envision gas prices in the United States of $5.75-$6.50 a gallon, forcing them to take on 10 Billion gallons of Brazilian ethanol, if only they reached the tipping point quickly.

Waiting for the come on the river was not Pablo’s style. He’d rather fix the game and get the money and leave.

He did not care if the reports showed the Amazon was a key component to water vapor cycle in the world, and thus attached to all Global Warming projections. Or that the damage could tip the world’s climate so drastically that people in the freezing cold would be too warm and people in comfortable climates would face starvation. To him it was all too scientific and too much conjecture. By the time anyone really knows for sure, he’ll be somewhere else and rich enough not to give a damn.

Part VII – Taken

Bobby was silently considering just how it had all went so wrong. At that moment, the years behind him came rushing back to the present. It didn’t matter that a naked woman with perky ice cream cone pre-fabricated boobs was gyrating to ‘Fergalicious’ just 3 yards away. Or that Manny kept on asking him about Veronica, the new girl, as if he could give a damn about another lost soul at the moment.

No, Bobby had been doing fine until two hours ago. Now, he suspected it would be all about just how far he was willing to take his life of immorality and leeching off the shattered, confused and stupid. The money was there, all ready $250,000 placed in the bank, with $1 million upon successful completion of kidnapping. Kidnapping. That was the flaw to him.

He had never killed or directly robbed anyone. Assaulted and threaten, sure, that came with the territory. He’d made a living off of weaker people since he was 12 years old. He’d been an imposing kid and used his fists and tone of voice to get people to do things early on. Now 6’5” 245 lbs with old Hollywood looks, and considerable reputation, Bobby could just suggest things and people would dance. Being nice, initially, worked. There was an art form to getting your way.

Bobby could remember a more innocent time. He had loved art and could paint a passable copy of Renoir’s Mme. Charpentier and Her Children by age 16. He spent his “off hours” cultivating that knack for painting and found the innocence of it refreshing from the bullying of weak people. If only that had been his path, but artists did not get paid in accolades until after their death.

“Hey Bobby! How’s this one?” Manny, a low-level mob thug, was pointing out the strawberry blonde next to him. She had a nice face if the makeup wasn’t so damn hideous.

“Manny, whatever. I’m busy.” Bobby replied annoyed.

“Sorry Bobby. You letting that broad get to you?”

Bobby bolts up, and in a fraction of second is in Manny’s face, “What the fuck do you know? What the fuck?”

Now petrified, “Nothing Bobby! Just that call and your mood, that’s all.”

“What it is… is none of your concern.” Bobby breaths heavily on Manny, then backs away. The strippers are standing as far back as their other customers will allow. “Get me a fucking drink.” Bobby turns away and plops down again, as the song switches to Akon’s ‘I Wanna Fuck You.’ As the base kicks in, Manny heads up to the bar for Bobby’s vodka concoction.

Bobby is now determined to do it.

Coming Soon...

Part VIII - Tom & Marissa Dance Their Tune

This is a work of bad fiction.... it in no way represents people, companies, acts or otherwise portrays a real situation...It's fun, leave it that way.

Not Always: Parts IV and IV

Part IV - The Indy 500 of Business

It lasted only forty seconds. The same amount of time it takes an average Indy car to circumnavigate the 2 1/2 mile oval at Indianapolis Motor Speedway. While the thrill of reaching 240 miles per hour in the back straightaway reaches nirvana for those special drivers, this round of emotionless sex was becoming more a chore each time performed, Tina thought. But it had its uses.

Tina DeBois had grown up dirt poor in the backwoods of Tennessee. Her uncle ran moonshine, bought off sunglass-laden sheriffs and been too friendly with her. But she fixed him - Bobbit style - and escaped to the North, like a runaway slave on the Underground Railroad. After bouncing from shelter to shelter, passing through a dozen cities in three years, Tina met Bobby in New York.

Bobby was a semi-handsome, Gregory Peck look-a-like pimp, but a nice one, that took considerable interest in Tina for more than sex. She got a better deal than the rest of Bobby's "non-exempt" employees in getting an opportunity to attend community college during the day. Majoring in business, Tina went through an associate's degree at SUNY in a year with all A's.

Her going rate at night was 1,500 dollars up front, 500 extra for kink, another 250 for special dress, the cop, nurse or cheerleader fetish. Bobby only took 10% back from her; his usual kickback was 25% to 35% from 50 different girls of lesser quality. Before long, she had a considerable bank account and a closer relationship with Bobby than anyone else in years.

After nine months, they parted ways semi-amicably. Even after their sexual-symbiotic relationship climaxed and faded away, Tina could call on Bobby. He no longer made attempts to get sex from her; only wondered when she would be running the place.

Tina finished up her bachelors at City University of New York's, Brooklyn College, once again getting all A's. With that, she opened the door to Wall Street's Hass, Zitters & Moss Mergers & Acquisition Department as the international finance secretary for Mr. Hyrum Hass, an overweight legend from the 1980's when Wall Street hummed along under the depraved dealings of Ivan Boesky and Michael Milken. Hyrum got his success the old fashion way: piggy backing on other peoples' money train. Though never caught, he was making the most of the inside information game. And nothing ever really changed.

As Hyrum rolled off Tina, and the satisfied and contented man came back to his real purpose, Tina leaned over to the night stand, got a pill and swallowed.

"So you think she heard our plans?" Hyrum reached for a snifter of double malt scotch.

"Enough, I suppose. But not enough to do anything about it. When you want me contact Bobby?" Tina was gently massaging the salt-n-pepper hair on Hyrum's chest.

"Won't be too long -- the Arabs are anxious to get this deal done."

"I don't like using her child in this -- even as a bargaining chip -- but we'll do it all right."

"It has to be done. Preoccupied people are careless people." Hyrum reflects pensively. "Those Arabs are doing much worse."

"Yeah, they really have a knack for chaos. Thousands of years of practice, I suppose." Tina adds.

"Well, it will be worth it. It always is on the street." As Hyrum closes his eyes to snooze, Tina smiles almost innocently.

Part V- Texas Tea

Thousands of miles away from New York in a bright midday sun rides a fully-loaded silver Binz S-class limousine at high speed down what would be considered an immaculate freeway. The temperature in the car was a comfortable 66 degrees, 40 degrees cooler than a normal Middle East day.

The tall, tan, athletic 40ish man in the back was dressed impeccably in suit costing five thousand dollars, without the shoes. He was a renegade in his world - a world filled with renegades. He had the discipline of very few of his ilk. Spent days thinking out things, that others made snap judgments in minutes or hours. That cost them their lives or the lives of others they cared about.

The misconception in the world is that all Arabian Muslims don't care about life. They do. Even more than many Christians or Jews. The problem was the various sides were starkly influenced by religion, national pride and secular concerns that fiercely divided the people from Algeria to Bangladesh. And the warring factions made and broke treaties in such short order that trust and understanding was no longer a realistic option. Yet they survived in the most inhospitable lands, while controlling what every other country wanted: oil.

Suresh Mamghatti Husam's father was a successful bazaar owner in India. Through the marketplaces, Suresh learned plenty from his father. Patience and neutrality in business being the most important. Because of that, Suresh did not let religion or country of origin bother him. He made deals. And smoothed over the minute differences he had with others by knowing their hearts and their ambitions.

He adapted to the scenario, even learning languages and dialects to fit the purpose. Even though Suresh never went to a university, he incorporated his father's advice and his innate talents for language and a photographic-like memory to met the tasks at hand.

This task though ran counter to all of that.

His cell phone rang, after a brief conversation in Hindustani, Suresh tapped hard with his cane on the bullet proof dividing glass between him and the driver. The Iranian driver answered in very good English over the intercom, "Where to sir?"

"Head to Mahtenash Corporate. Call ahead to the switchboard for Mr. Yuri Gomach."

"Yes sir."

Suresh had finalized the details - 200 trained men, armed and loaded with explosives - were his to command. 500 million dollars was a conservative take on his “minor role” in this scenario. Suresh Mamghatti Husam was now in charge of blowing up the largest oil pipelines and refineries in the Middle East and Russia.

Coming Soon...

Part VI - Blame it on Rio or "Taken"

This is a bad work of fiction...no events, places or people exist as far as this blogger knows. Keep that in mind...