Casual 13 Ides

What a weekend this has proved to be. It encompassed three important dates. A rare occurrence.

The Ides Of March

Version 1
On Sunday the date will be March 15. According to Willie Shakes-his-spear that is the day that Brutus and friends stuck a fork in ol' Julius to see if he was done. He was.

I suspect they stabbed him at an annual wienie roast because of Caesar's gluttonous habits. They had just enough buns and franks for everyone to have just one. Well Julie decided that since he was the Caesar he merited more.

Wouldn't you know that Cleo showed up and there was nary a wienie for her. Brutus, not the brightest in the Senate, was still suffering from the beating Popeye had given him when he went to mount Olive. Thus he confronted Julius about how many franks he had consumed. Caesar said he'd et tu.

Brutus pulled out his Swiss Army knife and began to carve ol' Julius into little pieces that fell into the bowl of greens. Thus was born the Caesar's Salad.

Darned if it didn't turn out that wasn't the kind of wienie Cleo had a hankering for. Caesar had been julienned for no good reason after all. Well after the wine had been passed around, those Romans got to feeling Randy. I don't need to tell that Randy skedaddled out that forum as fast as his sandals could carry him.

Cleo took one look at all them men in their loose PJs and said to them, "Are those knives under your togas, or are you glad to see me?" Then Cleo cried out, "OH-GEE!" (which was a Swahili/Greek/Egyptese/Brooklyn slang for 'wow.') Well those Romans thought she said 'orgy' and began taking off their togas. One cried out that he was gladiator. Thus was born the orgy. So it came pass that Cleo got more than her fill of wienies.

Meanwhile her lover, Marc Antony, witnessed the scene and got royally pissed off. So he slightly changed the spelling of his named and immigrated to American where he hooked up with Jennifer Lopez.

Version 2
The soothsayer’s warning to Julius Caesar, “Beware the Ides of March,” has forever imbued that date with a sense of foreboding. But in Roman times the expression “Ides of March” did not necessarily evoke a dark mood—it was simply the standard way of saying “March 15.”

The term Ides comes from the earliest Roman calender, which is said to have been devised by Romulus, the mythical founder of Rome. Whether it was Romulus or not, the inventor of this calendar had a penchant for complexity. The Roman calendar organized its months around three days, each of which served as a reference point for counting the other days:

Kalends (1st day of the month)

Nones (the 7th day in March, May, July, and October; the 5th in the other months)

Ides (the 15th day in March, May, July, and October; the 13th in the other months)

The remaining, unnamed days of the month were identified by counting backwards from the Kalends, Nones, or the Ides. For example, March 3 would be V Nones—5 days before the Nones (the Roman method of counting days was inclusive; in other words, the Nones would be counted as one of the 5 days).

Friday the 13th
Facts Only
Friday the 13th Christian Origins

The fear of Friday the 13th stems from two separate fears -- the fear of the number 13 and the fear of Fridays. Both fears have deep roots in Western culture, most notably in Christian theology.

Thirteen is significant to Christians because it is the number of people who were present at the Last Supper (Jesus and his 12 apostles). Judas, the apostle w­ho betrayed Jesus, was the 13th member of the party to arrive.

­Christians have traditionally been wary of Fridays because Jesus was crucified on a Friday. Additionally, some theologians hold that Adam and Eve ate from the forbidden fruit on a Friday, and that the Great Flood began on a Friday. In the past, many Christians would never begin any new project or trip on a Friday, fearing they would be doomed from the start.

Sailors were particularly superstitious in this regard, often refusing to ship out on a Friday. According to unverified legend (very likely untrue), the British Navy commissioned a ship in the 1800s called H.M.S. Friday, in order to quell the superstition. The navy selected the crew on a Friday, launched the ship on a Friday and even selected a man named James Friday as the ship's captain. Then, one Friday morning, the ship set off on its maiden voyage... and disappeared forever. A similar, entirely factual story is the harrowing flight of Apollo 13.

Some historians suggest the Christian distrust of Fridays is actually linked to the early Catholic Church's overall suppression of pagan religions and women. In the Roman calendar, Friday was devoted to Venus, the goddess of love. When Norsemen adapted the calendar, they named the day after Frigg, or Freya, Norse goddesses connected to love and sex. Both of these strong female figures once posed a threat to male-dominated Christianity, the theory goes, so the Christian church vilified the day named after them.

This characterization may also have played a part in the fear of the number 13. It was said that Frigg would often join a coven of witches, normally a group of 12, bringing the total to 13. This idea may have originated with the Christian Church itself; it's impossible to verify the exact origins of most folklore. A similar Christian legend holds that 13 is unholy because it signifies the gathering of 12 witches and the devil.

The number 13 could also have been considered pagan because there are 13 months in the pagan lunar calendar. The lunar calendar also corresponds to the human menstrual cycle, connecting the number to femininity.

Casual Friday
The Most Sacred Of All
№ 1637

The Strange Story of Mr. Black and Ms Gray (31)

Part 31 of an original tale that delves into the unexplored realms of the human mind. Hired by her lover to find a raven haired beauty, Benjamin Bering must avoid the local police as well as the agents of a nonexistent government agency who are after him and the woman. There are just two problems. The woman is in a coma and her body has been stolen. (Part 1 can be found HERE.)

Things That Go Boom in the Night
Not wishing to encounter another one of Boston's finest, we slipped down the back stairs and out into the crisp air. A cold front had moved in while we'd been in Jimmy's apartment. Not unlike the spores of a dandelion cast into a breeze when gently blown from its stem, flakes of snow were floating aimlessly earthward.

As one we eyed the dumpster. Our tormentor was gone. I wondered if he'd crawled out of there on his own or if he'd been assisted. My guess was that O'Day had pulled him out of the trash. As far as we were concerned, his fate was of no interest.

Susan shivered and huddled close to me. I slipped my arm around her shoulder and said, "We really should start listening to the weather reports."

"You think?" she relied sarcastically.

"Let's go back upstairs and grab some coats from my place," I offered. "Besides, it'll be as good of an excuse as any to visit the old homestead again. "I nudged her with my elbow and joked, "How long has it been since you last visited my closet?"

She vented a mock laugh and replied, "About as long as it's been since you last cleaned the place."

A few steps from the door, I stiffened my arm and held Susan back. I had glanced at the door when we'd entered Jimmy's apartment noting that the yellow police tape was stretched across it. The tape had since been torn away and dropped onto the hallway floor. Someone had been there. There was a chance that someone might have still been inside my apartment. I turned to Susan and held a single finger against my lips.

With my hand on the door knob, I pointed to the floor indicating the point of light escaping from beneath the door. She acknowledged by pulling on my arm and whispering, "Do you think it's a good idea barging in there like this?"

I cast a glance over my shoulder and answered with but one terse word, "No."

When the door burst open the man standing there with his back to me showed no signs of surprise. There was a nervous glance to the corner of the room, but otherwise he remained frozen where he stood. With cautious steps I approached him, mindful of blocking any escape routes to the door.

"Who are you and what are doing in my apartment?" I demanded. I grabbed his shoulder and forced him to face me. I wasn't prepared for the sight that widened my eyes. My face turned ghostly white and I yelped, "Michelle! You?"

Susan stood in shock by the door for a few seconds before she was able to shout, "My God, Michelle! How did you get here?" Tears of anger were visible in her eyes all the while she was raving, "Who's side are you on anyway?"

His features were stoic but once again he glanced to that same corner of the room. I turned my head to follow his line of sight to see what might have been of interest to him. Resting on the keyboard was an object wrapped in newspaper and bound with a rubber band.

"So that's it!" I snapped and poked a finger against his chest. "Planting more evidence to further incriminate me?"

It happened so fast that I didn't know what had hit me. His movements were fluid and lightning quick as he grabbed my finger, bent it, pulled on my arm and bodily flipped me over his back. Flat on my back I strained to look backwards as the man bolted for the door, Susan the only obstacle between him and the hallway.

Extending his arm he shoved her aside sending her against the door. She cried out in pain and slumped to the floor. Inexplicably the man stopped. Leaning forward he grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. "Sorry Miss," he said addressing her. Then he was gone, dashing headlong through the hallway and down the stairway.

"Wait! Come back here!" Susan bellowed and without thinking gave chase.

I struggled to my feet and called out for her, "No, Susan. It's not safe!"

By the time I reached the stairwell Susan was on her way back up the stairs. "He's gone. He jumped into the front seat of a black limousine and drove off!" she explained.

Although I heard her words they didn't register right away. Inasmuch as I was agitated by her actions, I snapped angrily at her, "Susan! What were you thinking?"

Crestfallen she looked down at her feet and uttered, "I thought you were hurt. It was a gut reaction."

I imagined myself playing handball against a curb stone, so low I felt at that moment. "I'm sorry. It's just that it could have been a trap to separate us, to lure you into the open." With forefinger and thumb under her chin I lifted her face and added, "If anything had happened to you..."

"Aw, how sweet," she cooed before planting a brief kiss upon my lips.

Susan then grew tense and vented, "I can't believe it. Michelle was driving the general's limo! She's working for him?"

"Maybe. Maybe not," I responded.

"What do mean, Ben? What are you ...?" It dawned on her and she offered, "The other Michelle ... the one on the disc?"

I nodded grimly, "I'd say that would be a safe bet." I extended my elbow and suggested, "Why don't we go back in and see what's in the package?"

Clinging to my arm she followed me over to my desk to retrieve the package the man had placed on the keyboard of my personal computer. It was small I noted, about the size of the early cell phones. I turned it over in my hand. Held in place by an elastic band was a folded piece of paper. After removing it I handed it to Susan and nodded for her to read it aloud.

Her eyebrows arched in bewilderment as she read what was typed upon it, "Use this only when needed. You will know when."

By the time she had enunciated the words again, I had removed the wrapping about the object letting the shredded paper drop onto the floor. "It looks like a remote of some kind," I said. "But for what?" I ran my finger just above but without touching two buttons, one red the other black, on the face of it. The only other discernible feature was the tiny raised dimple of a red LED light above the buttons.

Susan turned the note over and said to me, "That's all the note says, Ben." She then stooped over and began picking up the shredded pieces of paper in which the object had been wrapped. "Maybe there's some clue on this newspaper page," she suggested.

"Good idea," I responded, my thoughts elsewhere as I looked about the mess that been my home. Sooner or later I would have do something about the apartment. Trashed as it had been, the place was a fire hazard. I shook my head when I glanced up at the smoke detector on the wall. It had been over six months when the battery had died and in all that time I still hadn't replaced it. The indicator light was blinking...

I grabbed Susan's arm and all but drug her to the closet. I grabbed two coats from the rack and tossed one to her. She was trying to protest, but when she saw that 'don't ask - haul ass!' look in my eyes, she nodded and - we hauled ass.

We had just turned the corner on the stairs landing when the force of the blast rocked the entire building. Lying on the floor of the main entrance I could see the remnants of a cloud of smoke and dust settling on the carpeted stairs we had traversed only moments before. I looked around and found Susan leaning against the bank of the residents' mailboxes.

She nodded to signal to me that she was unhurt, even as I struggled to get to my feet. I took a deep breath. It was a big mistake. I began to cough, almost choking as I took in a lungful of the dust still suspended the air about us. Staggering to where Susan stood I motioned to the door.

"We have to get ... away ... from here," I managed to voice between fits of coughing.

Susan pushed on the door and we were greeted by a gust of the crisp air from the street. When she stepped outside I caught glimpse of my mailbox among the others lining the foyer wall. From its warped position and its crumpled edges next to the lock, I knew the flimsy aluminum door had recently been pried open. I fumbled for the contents of the box and then stumbled out into a winter wonderland of snow coated sidewalks and streets.

A few minutes later and two blocks away from the building, we stopped when we heard the first of the approaching sirens. Smoke was billowing from the second story window of what had been my apartment. The sidewalk and street outside of the building were a scene of chaos as many of the escaping residents were gathering there.

I held aloft the items I'd salvaged from the mailbox. There were three envelopes, probably bills, and a small package. I stuffed them into my coat pocket at the same moment another spell of coughing came over me. On my hand which had shielded my spewed breath and the sleeve which I had rubbed across my chin, were blotches of smeared fresh blood. I squeezed my lips together. I didn't want Susan to see the blood, and I especially didn't want to have to explain it.

Susan had said nothing since we'd fled the scene. When I did look in her direction she smiled weakly but returned to a trance of deep thought. She must have been wondering how she'd gotten tangled up in all that been happening as of late. I was with her on those thoughts. Perhaps like me, she too must have been wondering how it would all end.

I stopped beside a parking meter and patting it I said, "Hello, old friend. You're looking well." I glanced at a newspaper box to my right and spoke again, "And how are you?"

Susan was staring at me, no doubt thinking I'd lost my mind. "Are you alright, Ben?"

"Yeah," I replied. "Susan, meet a couple of buddies of mine. You might say we've been knocking around together for quite some time."

She frowned and shook her head. "You know, sometimes you're just plain weird."

I extended my elbow and grinned, "Thank you."

She slipped her hand onto my arm and placed her head against my shoulder. "So, where are we off to?" She glared before raising her other hand to my cheek and added as an after thought, "And Ben Bering, don't you dare say we're off to see the Wizard."

I laughed and pointed across the street, "We're off to see Rosie."


(To be continued in part 32 on Monday, 3/16/09, with Tsunami Tommy.)

№ 1636

You Say Blonde Like It's a Bad Thing

A blonde went to an eye doctor to have her eyes checked for glasses.

The doctor directed her to read various letters with the left eye while covering the right eye.

The blonde was so mixed up on which eye was which that the eye doctor, in disgust, took a paper lunch bag with a hole to see through, covered up the appropriate eye and asked her to read the letters. As he did so, he noticed the blonde had tears streaming down her face.

"Look," said the doctor, "there's no need to get emotional about getting glasses."

"I know," agreed the blonde, "But I kind of had my heart set on wire frames."

I overheard a U.S. Navy pilot trying to impress a blonde in a bar.

PILOT: Did you know the most difficult job in the US Military is being a Navy Pilot?
BLONDE: I guess it is really hard to make the boats fly!

There was a blonde who found herself sitting next to a Lawyer on an airplane. The lawyer just kept bugging the blonde wanting her to play a game of intelligence. Finally, the lawyer offered her 10 to 1 odds, and said every time the blonde could not answer one of his questions, she owed him $5.00, but every time he could not answer hers, he'd give her $50.00. The lawyer figured he could not lose, and the blonde reluctantly accepted.

The lawyer first asked, "What is the distance between the Earth and the nearest star?"

Without saying a word the blonde handed him $5.00. then the blonde asked, "What goes up a hill with 3 legs and comes back down the hill with 4 legs?"

Well, the lawyer looked puzzled. He took several hours, looking up everything he could on his laptop and even placing numerous air-to-ground phone calls trying to find the answer. Finally, angry and frustrated, he gave up and paid the blonde $50.00

The blonde put the $50 into her purse without comment, but the lawyer insisted, "What is the answer to your question?"

Without saying a word, the blonde handed him $5.

A redneck blonde went to the school to register her boys. The office worker asked her, "How many children do you have?"

"Ten," she replied.

"And what are their names?" he asked.

"Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, and Bob."

"They're ALL named Bob?" he asked. "What if you want them to come in from playing outside?"

"Oh, that's easy," she explained, "I just call 'Bob,' and they all come running inside."

"And if you want them to come to the table for dinner?"

"I just say, 'Bob, come eat your dinner,' and they do." She answered.

"But what if you want just ONE of them to do something?" he asked.

"Oh, that's easy," she said. "I just use their last name."

There was a brunette standing along side a busy road chanting "88, 88, 88, 88..." until a blonde came up to her and said, "that looks like fun, can I try?"
The brunette said sure so the blonde chanted, "88, 88, 88, 88.."
"Well," said the brunette, "that is fun. But what is even more fun is if you say it in the middle of the street".
The blonde said "OK" and stood in the middle of the street. "88, 88, 88, 88-" BAM! she was run over by a car, completely flattened.
Along the side of the road, the brunette began to chant, "89, 89, 89, 89..."

A blonde goes into a worldwide message center to send a message to her mother in Poland. When the man tells her that it will cost her $300, she exclaims," I don't have that much money. I'll do anything to get a message to my mother!"
To that the man asks, "Anything?"
And the blonde says, "Yes, anything!"
With that the man says, "Follow me."
He walks into the next room and tells her, "Come in and close the door."
She does this and then he says, "Get on your knees."
She does. He then says, "Take down my zipper."
She does. Then he says, "Go ahead, take it out."
With that, she takes it out and holds it with both hands. And then the man says somewhat impatiently, "Well, go ahead!"
She then brings her mouth closer to it, and while holding it very closely to her lips, she says," Hello, Mom?"

A blonde who is wearing a dress is walking home from school. She comes across a boy sitting up in a tree.
The boy says to do a cartwheel and the girl says no. Then the boy says "I'll give you a cookie."
So the blonde does a cartwheel. When she gets home, her mom asks where she got the cookie from.
The blonde tells her mother about the boy in the tree and the cartwheel.
The mother twills her daughter not to do that anymore. The boy is just trying to see her underwear.
The next day the blonde is wearing a dress again and the boy asks her to do a cartwheel again.
The blonde says no and the boy says "I'll give you a cookie." So the blonde does the cartwheel again.
When the blonde gets home, the mom says "Did you do a cartwheel again."
The blonde says "Yes"
The mom says "Honey I told you not to do that, the boy is just trying to see your underwear."
Then the blonde says "But mom I tricked him,today I didn't wear any underwear!"

Two bowling teams, one of all blondes and one of all brunettes, charter a double-decker bus for a weekend for a bowling tournament in Atlantic City.

The brunette team rides in the bottom of the bus, and the blonde team rides on the top level. The brunette team down below is whooping it up, having a great time, when one of them realizes she doesn't hear anything from the blondes upstairs.

She decides to go up and investigate. When the brunette reaches the top, she finds all the blondes frozen in fear, staring straight ahead at the road and clutching the seats in front of them. They all had white knuckles.
The brunette says, "What's goin' on up here? We're having a great time downstairs!"

One of the blondes looks up and says to her, "Yeah, but you've got a driver!"

№ 1635

Time Doldrums

I've lost sleep at times over the years, but it is usually as a result of self indulgences. It could be because of some late night movie or reruns of the X-Files. Of course, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention the late nights on the Internet. I don't have any trouble recovering from losses of sleep for those examples. I chose to do so.

Every Spring, there is the annual "spring ahead" event when our clocks are turned ahead 1 hour for the time change from EST (Eastern Standard Time) to EDT (Eastern Daylight Time - or Daylight Savings Time.

Ever year this occurs and every year I get, for a lack of a better word, the doldrums from the time change. It takes a week, sometimes two weeks for my body and mind to adjust. (The "fall back" change has no such affect on me.) I

It's probably just a psychological reaction to the fact that an hour was purloined from my normal routines. It's like traveling across the country and passing into different time zones.

I could ask Mr.Peabody and his boy Sherman to fire up the Wayback Machine and take me back one hour ... then I could eat that sausage and pepperoni pizza again! Of course, one hour later it would be repeating on me again.

Of course, I could go to bed an hour early on the night of the switch! That would make too much sense, wouldn't it?

Besides movies, TV shows and the Internet, I also lose sleep for a lot of other reasons. Those reasons are more profound than resetting clocks.

I've lost sleep over the loss of sleep - lying awake and wondering why I couldn't get to sleep and staying awake until I'd found the answer.

Was my fly unzipped all day?

Are they coming to arrest me because they found out that I tore the labels off my mattress and pillows?

I've tossed and turned over this one. Was it really good for her too?

Does the light in the refrigerator stay on when the door is shut?

I've lain awake wondering that if all the Reese's Pieces were put back together, what would the assembled Reese look like? (Yikes! Not Mason Reese!)

I wondered why I cared 'Who Shot J.R.' when I never watched that damned program!

Are Dolly Parton's really real?

When I was a kid brushing my teeth with Pepsodent - I wondered where the yellow went. I still do.

Have you stayed up all night thinking about this one? If today is the first day of the rest of your life, what's that make tomorrow?

Here's a sleep killer: What does Jessica Rabbit see in Roger?

Why do they call them M&Ms when in the bag there are also some W's, E's and 3's?

Tonight, Ill be staring at the ceiling and wonder why I posted this.

№ 1634

The Strange Story of Mr. Black and Ms Gray (30)

Part 30 of an original tale that delves into the unexplored realms of the human mind. Hired by her lover to find a raven haired beauty, Benjamin Bering must avoid the local police as well as the agents of a nonexistent government agency who are after him and the woman. There are just two problems. The woman is in a coma and her body has been stolen. (Part 1 can be found HERE.)

My Butterfly Collection
"Damn it!" Susan yelped. "Why must everyone leave me hanging?"

She cast a cold glance in my direction. I skirted the barb left understood in her words. "I'd say that the five women spared had those butterfly tattoos. Think about it, you and Michelle have them and no one has tried to ... do away with either of you."

She nodded and muttered, "For now. They must need us. What happens when we are no longer of any use to them?"

"Aw, don't go there, Susan," I said. I moved to place my arm around her but she moved away and positioned herself in the chair in front of Jimmy's computer.

"Ben, please don't try to patronize me. I don't wish to be coddled like a helpless baby," she barked. She stared at the blank computer screen for a moment and turned to face me, "You know, for as long as I can remember it seems like I was being manipulated. It was as if my decisions weren't really mine. Doors that I never knocked upon were opened for me. I never even applied at Northeastern University, yet I was awarded a full scholarship there."

"You have to give yourself some credit. You earned what came your way, and you deserved the recognition given you. Someone saw potential in you," I offered in an attempt to raise her spirits.

"What, as a sex slave?" she gushed. "Potential? Did they see in me the potential to be a subject in their perverted experiments in mind control? Did they see me on campus one day and decide that I would be perfect to fuck strange men while hooked up to their gadgetry?" She was on the verge of tears, tears brought about by the weighty facts that had been thrust upon her.

"Yes, you were a victim," I responded. "We both were. The two of us were surely somebody's puppets. I don't know, but maybe someone is still pulling our strings!" I paused to let my cliched words sink in before continuing, "We need to be strong and work together to sever those strings."

She managed a weak smile, "You're right, of course." Her smile faded and stretched into a somber line of doubt, "But there is something else, and it's eating at my insides even now!"

"What is that?" I asked kneeling next to the chair in which she was seated.

"What if my attraction to you came about because of ... and only because of those experiments?" She turned away to avoid looking at me and said almost in a whisper, "Wouldn't that mean that I had no part and no say when I found myself falling in love with you?"

I placed my fingers under her chin to turn her head but she resisted and tried to stand. Although she tried to free herself I pulled her against me and tightened my grasp about her waist. "Susan," I said softly, "I don't know about the physical attraction part of your concerns. Frankly, I don't care about that." When she turned to face me our noses brushed as she looked into my eyes. Our lips were barely touching as I continued, "Those machines and those experiments were not controlling my heart."

She relaxed and succumbed to my embrace, "You mean ...?"

I nodded but she didn't give me a chance to respond. Our lips met forcibly and her tongue prompted me to allow my lips to part. Our kiss was long, passionate and hungry. She pulled away and glanced in the direction of the bed across the room and my eyes followed suit.

I pushed her back a bit and said, "As I was trying to say before I was so pleasantly interrupted, "I've fallen in love with you too."

She released a deep sigh and said, "It's probably not the right time..."

I declared on cue, "And it's definitely not the right place ..."

We spoke in chorused union, "Why not?"

Susan's hand inadvertently came in contact with the computer keyboard and lights on the CPU began blinking and a start up whir could be heard from within the unit. Lines of data were scrolling by on the screen at a dizzying pace that no human eye could possibly follow.

Initially we were not aware of the electronic activity, so wrapped up were we in the passion and wanton desires that had overcome us. In heated frenzy we had in mere moments divested one another of our uppermost garments. Naked to the waist we were locked in embrace, primal instincts driving us.

The sudden movement of its carriage startled us when the printer sprang to life, the herky-jerky vibrations shaking the device and the table on which it rested. In the next moment there was a series of resonating screeches as the laser jet fired line after line upon the sheets of paper as they were being fed through the printer.

I tried to ignore the disturbance, turning my attention back to the woman in my arms. It was Susan who broke our embrace. The spell had been broken once again. She shrugged her shoulders and moved across the room leaving me to follow in her wake.

She picked up one the ejected sheets and studied if for a moment. Her eyebrows arched and she conveyed to me, "It's an alphabetized list of names and they are all appear to be women!"

I was peering at the screen of the terminal paying particular attention to the command line at the 'C' prompt. The data must have been in cue waiting for the 'print' command to be entered. I thought of Jimmy and realized that the list must have been what he was working on ... before he was killed.

"Twenty pages ... thirty-five names on each. Good grief! That's seven hundred names, Ben!" Susan noted.

"Seven hundred, eh?" I muttered. "Wait until you hear the name of the file that just printed."

"Don't keep me in suspense," she voiced. "What is it?"

My eyebrows were raised when I replied, "My Butterfly Collection!"

An audible gasp escaped her lips. I too was in awe of the number and the ramifications of what the numbers must have represented. Was it possible that there were seven hundred women out there somewhere who had been subjected to those experiments? Were there seven hundred women, who in that very intimate private part of their bodies were also tagged with tattoos of butterflies?

Susan's face was flushed with anger. "My Butterfly Collection? The audacity!" she exclaimed. She motioned with her hand to indicate the apartment and to whom it belonged before asking, "Do you think that was Jimmy's list?"

"I can't say for certain, but I don't think so. More likely than not ... I'd say he hacked it from somewhere." I looked away and suggested, "He may have been detected and that's why he was ... killed."

I studied the computer equipment on the desk and then tilted the CPU tower. I removed the small packet of index cards hidden there and powered down the equipment. I was about to place the cards into the pocket of my shirt when I remembered it was lying on the floor next to the bed ... next to Susan's top.

I leaned against the desk and watched her moving about. I was mesmerized by each jiggle and bounce of her breasts. At that moment I wanted nothing more than to scoop her into my arms and to carry her over to that bed.

She must have felt my intense interest in her, for she turned and faced me. "Just what are you staring at, Ben Bering?" she posed to admonish me. She then made her way with deliberate but sensual strides to our discarded clothing on the floor. Tossing my shirt to me she playfully stuck out her tongue and said, "For a reporter, you sure can get easily distracted."

She was right of course, but I decided to add to her playful banter. "You can be one annoying little tease, you know that? I have a mind to turn you over my knee ..." I paused as she was donning her top before continuing, "...but then, you'd probably like it."

She approached me and on tiptoe touched her lips against mine. "You're so cute when you're horny." She backed out my reach and grew serious, "So, where do we go from here, Ben?"

I tucked my shirt in my pants and said, "For now, let's keep that list to ourselves. I can think of no reason for anyone else to know about it." I patted the index cards as I dropped them into my shirt pocket, "These are Jimmy's passwords, file names and contacts. There just might be some clues and answers hidden in that computer. That job will be too time consuming. We can dig around in those files later."

She nodded in agreement. "That brings us back to Michelle, doesn't it? You must know that I have to know about a certain discrepancy. You know, that extra skin or lack thereof?"

I struggled with an uncomfortable grin, "Yes, that too. There's also the matter of her notes in the cabinet. I believe I've solved that one."

"Me too," said Susan. "The notes are a clue to the location of her body and Michael's mind. Yes?"

"Possibly," I replied, "Not to burst your bubble, but I'm more inclined to think that they are a clue to the identity of ... Mr. X."

(To be continued in part 31 on Friday, 3/13/09, with Things That Go Boom in the Night.)

№ 1633

Old Horsetail Snake

It's a post I have dreaded that I might have to write some day, and knew that I would.

Gene Maudlin(1930-2009)

Gene, aka Old Horsetail Snake , left this world as he had planned - on his own terms. He will be sorely missed.

Hoss, as he was affectionately known, was one of the first bloggers to visit and to comment on my site back in the early months of 2005. In turn I became an avid follower of his, not missing a single post that graced his site, right up to his last on the 24th of February.

I learned a lot from him, verifying that old adage that you're never too old to learn. I learned that it's all right to be funny (even silly), sarcastic and serious and still be true to myself. Following his example, I made many blog friends - and we all know, you can never have too many of them.

A good portion of my blogroll is made up of those who appeared on his. I figured that any blog he liked to read, just had to be a blog worth reading. I was right. The same was true of those who left comments on his postings, for surely they too were good bloggers. Right again.

Hoss often wrote of his humorous plans to make his "pile." He may not have made a pile of cash, but in those four years of blogging he sure made a pile of friends. His legacy is the pile of smiles and laughs he gave to that pile of friends.

Hoss, if they have Wi-Fi up there and you're reading this: you made your pile, my friend.

I'll never look at butt-crack cartoons and jokes the same again without being reminded of Hoss' "war" against that particular form of southern exposure.

He'd have posted the one at the right had he found it. How apropos, a proctologist donning mittens to examine Frosty!

One of my favorite features of his posts were his often funny, if not accurate "My favorite word of the day." Like this one:

My favorite word today is sanity. N., keep hoping. Def.: Statistics say that one of four persons is suffering from some sort of mental illness. Think of your three best friends. If they're okay, it's you.

When a fellow humor blogger leaves a comment on one of your posts that it is a funny one, it feels good. When a fellow humor blogger, especially one of Hoss' stature, honors one of your posts with an award, it is very gratifying. He gave me a "Perfect Post Award" for July '07, for this post. Who am I to question what Hoss thought was funny?

Hoss was well noted as being a champion of the lowly dung beetle.

I couldn't bear the thought of paying tribute to him without putting up a dung beetle cartoon. I'm sure he would have liked this one.

(This cartoon was borrowed from Kenju,another of Hoss' early blogging friends.)

While Gene feared reintarnation, coming back as a hillbilly, he was a staunch believer in reincarnation. If anyone can come back, it would he that defies the odds and accomplishes the feat.

For more tributes to this wonderful and funny man read the comments of other blogging friends at the following two links:

Peter Holtie and
Lois Lane

Rest in peace, Gene.

№ 1632

Captain Caption America

They say a picture is worth a thousand words ...

or a few lines of nonsensical captions.

Melon-choly Baby
While in the produce department of a local supermarket, I spotted two luscious melons.

I tried to snap a picture. Unfortunately, my view of them was blocked by these two Crenshaws.

She promptly put them into her shopping cart and crossed off "ostrich eggs" from her shopping list.

She lay awake that night wondering how the cashier at the checkout register knew she was a blonde.

Why the man behind her was staring at the cucumber display is anyone's guess.


Down Under
A breathtaking view of some twin peaks.

This photo was taken seconds before she stepped on the cellphone camera and the photographer's head.

As she danced wildly to the uptempo music, my attention was focused on a single thread that was slowly and inexplicably unraveling her knit top.


Hot Wheels
The latest innovation in driving safety: reusable airbags!

A commercial BMW hoped would boost sales of their cars, but it failed when potential male buyers learned the car came without the woman.


Sunbathers Must Wear Suits
"The new Brazilian bikinis are not as comfortable as they are cracked up to be," say those women daring enough to wear them.

Then they added, "But you do get meet a lot of cute guys!"

Thought For The Day:
There is more money being spent on breast implants and Viagra today than on Alzheimer's research. This means that by 2040, there should be a large elderly population with perky boobs and huge erections and absolutely no recollection of what to do with them.

Now, a Word From the Sponsor
Tired of those bland, weak pilsner beers out there.

Tell your bartender you want Panther Pee.

You'll see why we call this new beer the finest Pissner on the market.

If you're going to piss it down the toilet, why drink the real thing?
№ 1631

The Strange Story of Mr. Black and Ms Gray (29)

Part 29 of an original tale that delves into the unexplored realms of the human mind. Hired by her lover to find a raven haired beauty, Benjamin Bering must avoid the local police as well as the agents of a nonexistent government agency who are after him and the woman. There are just two problems. The woman is in a coma and her body has been stolen. (Part 1 can be found HERE.)

To Sir With Lust
A pall of stunned silence permeated the room and it could have been cut with a knife. The cold ruthlessness of Brock's words resonated with the memories of that terrible war so long ago.

Susan was sitting next to me in horrified silence. It was left up to me to finally break the awkward silence. "Executed? Why were they executed?"

"Every morning some of the men from our unit would go out on patrol. Every afternoon they would return with a dozen or so women from some village," Brock began, tapping into long suppressed memories. "I had forgotten this until now, but I noticed that every morning they would refresh their ammunition before setting out on patrol. I couldn't say for certain, but I thought they must have kidnapped those women and ... and wiped out everyone else."

"I'll bet the annihilated villages were officially reported as collateral damage?" I muttered half in sarcastic anger.

He nodded, "I believe that was the case. Our mission was highly classified, and as of six moths ago it has never been declassified. My own service records list that tour of duty as Classified Special Ops. Jimmy said that his records showed the same thing."

"What was your mission, anyway?" Susan blurted out.

He glanced at her and shrugged, "No one in our unit, except for General Graves of course, was allowed anywhere near an area where they had set up a series of interconnected tents and shacks and those were circled by a ring of several tall towers. I once caught a glimpse inside one of those shacks. It was filled with all sorts of electronic equipment, the purpose of it all I have no idea to this day.

The women were herded into one of those tents. You know, there was something strange about those women too. They looked like they were sleep walking. Jimmy thought they'd been hypnotized. Once they were inside those tents no one was allowed to enter or leave until almost six hours later."

Susan and I were looking at each other. We both must have sensed the correlation of those tents to the labs we'd been seeing on those discs. It had become evident that Brock's story at that point was just a glimpse behind the scenes of Operation Penetration. It was all too clear to me that under the guise of a classified military operation, the activity in those tents was the infancy of the same type of research in which we had become embroiled - four decades later.

"Tell us, Sergeant," Susan said, "what happened next, after they came out of those tents?"

"It was strange," he began, "remember when I said the women were sleep walking ..."

"Yes. Go on, please," she conveyed to him in response.

"Well, when they came out of those tents they were ... normal, wide awake and alert. They were smiling and they started mingling with the soldiers and the civilians as if nothing had happened." He fumbled with his collar and turned his head as if relieving tension in his neck. "You tell me something. They were working on some kind of mind control, weren't they?"

I nodded and tried to avoid eye contact and replied, "Something like that."

His eyes lit up as if he'd had an epiphanous awakening to the bigger picture. "All those Feds, the general, and King's kid ... " his words trailed off for a moment as he was trying to digest his own thoughts. "Then there was Jimmy's murder and that kid we found ... Your boss beaten half to death ... And that missing Gray woman ..." He then grew quiet and was studying the two of us with more than casual interest.

I spread my arms wide and then drew them together until my cupped hands met at the fingertips, the demonstrative gesture suggesting that those events were all part of the same ball of wax. If that articulation had not made my point clear I said, "They are all related, Brock, directly related."

He shook his head and asked, "They're doing the same thing they did back in Nam, aren't they? They're messing with people's heads!"

My countenance solemn, I nodded. Despite our alliance, I was still uncomfortable with giving O'Day too many facts, especially any with detailed information. "Brock, when you said the women mingled with the soldiers and the civilians, how so?"

Glancing at Susan he seemed to be embarrassed and hesitated before answering, "I didn't mention that part because there's a lady present." Susan shrugged as if to indicate that she was open to his answer. "General Graves gave us orders to have our way with the women. He said it was our reward for the diligence we'd shown in performing our duties."

"All in the name of your country and its flag? How patriotic!" Susan vented.

"We were serving our country," he grimaced. "We were young men away from home, some for the first time in our lives. We were in a strange and hostile environment. None of us had seen a woman in months. Those women were willing. It's not like it was rape."

Before Susan could continue grilling him I broke in, "How long was that activity a part of your mission?"

"Oh, I'd say five, maybe six months," he replied. "I remember that the general first made the women available to us in the summer of '67. It was somewhere near the end of the following January that we were informed that were going to cease operations."

I was rubbing my chin and nodding my head, "January 30, 1968? That was about the same time of the Tet Offensive."

"Yeah, and it was desperate times. We were ordered to destroy the base and anything that might have been a clue to what we were doing there. We were ordered to leave no evidence of our activity. All the while that damned song kept playing on the P.A. system."

Susan looked at me and said, "Not another song?" She turned her attention to O'Day and asked, "Out of curiosity, what song was that?"

"We assumed it was the general's favorite song - To Sir With Love," he shrugged. "Most of us would always ad lib the lyrics as "To Sir With Lust."

I was sure he could read the disgust in my voice when I asked, "All those women ... they were some of the evidence that had to be destroyed, weren't they?"

As long as I had known Brock O'Day, I had never known him to show emotion. In fact I once thought he was without a compassionate fiber in his entire body. Yet, I could have sworn I had detected the barest trace of a tear forming in his eye as he responded to my pointed remark.

"Jimmy and I were ordered to inspect the women, up close and personal you might say. Five of them remained at the camp while the other thirty were marched off into the jungle with some of the soldiers. The soldiers came back an hour later ... alone."

"Oh my God!" Susan murmured.

My stomach was churning while I was formulating the question, one which I had wished Susan had not been present to hear. "What was so special about the five who were spared? How were they different from those sent to their deaths?"

"The five had ..." His words were interrupted by the squawk of the police radio attached to his belt. Through the intermittent static he listened while the dispatcher reported a robbery in process and an officer down at a nearby bank about five blocks from our location. "I'm on it!" he proclaimed into the radio's mike on his collar. He darted for the door and called out to us, "We'll continue this talk later."

Visibly shaken Susan moaned, "The five had ... what?"

(To be continued in part 30 on Monday, 3/9, with My Butterfly Collection.)

№ 1630

Information Highway Robbery

The safest way to double your money -
fold it and put it back in your pocket.
I think those eTrades.com ads and their spokes-baby are creepy.
From 1972 to 1992, I worked in that battle zone known as the stock market. During those two decades there were several fluctuations that saw the Dow Jones Industrials index "crash" and then like the phoenix from the ashes rise again to new heights.

When I left that line of work, the Dow Jones average was sitting in the vicinity of 6000. In a span of about 15 years since there was a meteoric rise in the value of the equity markets which saw the market indicators double. Of course, that was before our country's (and the world's) economy collapsed into present day free fall. In a word, we were in the midst of a recession.

While I was employed by the Boston Stock Exchange in various departments and positions, I was aware that there were three major areas of our economy that were experiencing great growth.

Those entities, the Stock Market, the banks and Real Estate, were grossly overpriced. One day there would have to be a major correction in their values.

There were some expert financial analysts who suggested that possibility, but few embraced it wholly. Alas, no one listened to them or took their predictions as viable or serious. For too long when Allan Greenspan spoke, the world listened. Thus when he took a view contrary to those indications, the fate of our economy was sealed.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °Why did God create stock analysts?
To make weather forecasters look good.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °The most successful financier was Noah:
He floated stock while everything around him went into liquidation.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °The most successful female financier was the Pharaoh's daughter:
She went to the Nile Bank and floated a prophet.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °
Two women were walking through the woods when a frog called out to them and said: "Help me, ladies! I am a stockbroker who, through an evil witch's curse, has been transformed into a frog. If one of you will kiss me, I'll be returned to my former state!"

One woman took out her purse, grabbed the frog, and stuffed it inside her handbag.
The other woman, aghast, screamed, "Didn't you hear him? If you kiss him, he'll turn into a stockbroker!"

The second woman replied, "Sure, but these days a talking frog is worth more than a stockbroker!"

Stock Market Investment tips for 2009
Get in on the ground floor and make some BIG bucks. Watch for these consolidations in 2009.

1.) Hale Business Systems, Mary Kay Cosmetics, Fuller Brush, and W.R.Grace Co. will merge and become: Hale, Mary, Fuller, Grace.

2.) Polygram Records, Warner Bros., and Zesta Crackers join forces and become: Poly Warner Cracker.

3.) 3M will merge with Goodyear and issue forth as: MMMGood.

4. Zippo Manufacturing, Audi Motors, Dofasco, and Dakota Mining will merge and become: ZipAudiDoDa.

5. FedEx is expected to join its major competitor, UPS, and become: FedUP.

6. Fairchild Electronics and Honeywell Computers will become:
Fairwell Honeychild.

7. Grey Poupon and Docker Pants are expected to become: Poupon Pants.

8. Knotts Berry Farm and the National Organization of Women will
become: Knott NOW!

9. Victoria's Secret and Smith & Wesson will merge under the new
name: Titty Titty Bang Bang

You Need Insurance
A stockbroker and an engineer were fishing in the Caribbean. The stockbroker said, "I'm here because my house burned down, and everything I owned was destroyed by the fire. The insurance company paid for everything."

"That's quite a coincidence," said the engineer. "I'm here because my house and all my belongings were destroyed by a flood, and my insurance company also paid for everything."

The stockbroker looked somewhat confused. "How do you start a flood?" he asked.

Top ten reasons investing is like sex:
1. Some like it long, some like it short.

2. You can study the market as much as you like, but it all comes down to luck.

3. Those who talk about it the most, have the least experience.

4. One simple mistake could lead to 18 unprofitable years.

5. Some prefer to sit back and watch it grow.

6. Terms include swing trading, asset turnover, naked call, after hours, insider trading, silent partner, blind entries, 30-day wash rule, straddle, triangles, descending tops, ascending bottoms, pump and dump, partial surrender, stop order, position limit, voluntary liquidation, and explicit interest.

7. Low confidence can keep you out of the market.

8. Everyone tends to focus on performance.

9. Some do it alone, others do it with a group, and some hire professionals, and the best reason ...

10. Some positions are better than others and the best position is always up for debate!

And remember, past performance is not necessarily indicative of future results.

№ 1629

The Rest of the Story

For over 40 years we have been hearing on the radio

The Rest of the Story
Sadly, we have come to the end of the story.
° ° ° ° °
Waking up Monday morning and drawing back the curtains my eyes were beset by a sea of white. That sea was a foot deep.

It was not unlike trying to open a site on the Internet and seeing:
"The page cannot be displayed..."
You know it will happen but you still are not prepared for it.


Our local weathermen [sic] meteorologists predicted a foot or more snow for our area. They hit the nail on the head!

We weren't alone, however. Nearly the entire Eastern Seaboard from Georgia to Maine was coated with snow.

Winter: the Age of Shivery and Shovelry

Cats are smarter than dogs. You'll never get eight cats to pull a sled through the snow.

It sure was cold in Washington, DC yesterday.
All the politicians were walking around with their hands in their OWN pockets! (Even Barney Frank.)

№ 1628

Pied Piper of Pennsylvania Ave

He may not have actually said it, but every time Obama opens his mouth I hear:

"Allow me to amend my previously amended statement."

(So that he can amend it again?)

I admit that I'm impressed with his skills of oratory, but lately I've noticed the rhetoric start to seep through the cracks in his speeches. He can talk the talk, but sooner or later he has to walk the walk.

Already I am seeing news programs assessing the first barometer that grades our Presidents - their first 100 days! Excuse me while I remove my shoes to do a little calculation, but it seems to me that he has another 60 days or so to go. How can I be expected to give the man a chance to either succeed or fail, when the press doesn't see fit to afford him that time schedule?

At this point in time I am not willing to use the word "Mister" as an antecedent to the title "President." I'm hard pressed as it is to use those two words in the same sentence. Also I have taken the liberty to no longer use the name "Barack," henceforth I will refer to our President by the name that appears on his birth certificate - Barry.

You know, when we perform a good deed it's good to be rewarded, at least with a pat on the back. Then why is it that there's a chance that we're going to be penalized instead?

Great strides and sacrifices have been made to conserve energy. More efficient engines are being fitted into newer automobiles, (Most trucks, buses and trains remain exempt. If this makes sense to anyone out there, please enlighten me.) and more stringent emission controls have been put in place.

There are hybrid vehicles, electric cars, and hydrogen cars, etc., being produced. The attempt to exploit corn to produce ethanol has proven to be one of the biggest jokes to be perpetrated on us in a long time. It's 3 times more expensive to produce one gallon of ethanol than it is to refine gas from oil. If that wasn't enough of a folly, the corn was being diverted from the grocery store shelves, which in turn increased the price of all products using and containing corn.

Imagine that - It would cost more for the ethanol fuel which would allow us to drive to the store to pay more for our Corn Flakes!

Ah yes, those aforementioned rewards vs penalties:

As our vehicles become more and more fuel efficient, the idea is that we'll be able to travel farther on less fuel. There it is my friend, the rub - the dilemma!

If we were buying less gasoline, doesn't it follow that we would also be paying less tax on the gasoline? You bet your sweet bippie! Not to worry, peasants citizens! Several states, Oregon the latest to jump on board, have addressed that problem already. Their solution? It's really quite obvious; you tax the higher number!

You want to spend less for gas and be able to go further on a gallon? How dare you interrupt the flow of cash into their coffers! They'll straighten you out in a flash - they'll tax your mileage instead! That's your reward for being a good soldier and being energy efficient. Ironically it's your penalty too.

Meanwhile back in Washington, the Pied Piper of Pennsylvania Ave., a.k.a., Barry, is going to learn, if he hasn't already about taxation of the mileage instead of the gas itself!

Pen in left hand and a bill in front of him, he signs it into law. Since he enacted it first, it is naturally his idea. He has finally came through with one of the "changes" he had promised us.

We will see more change as time goes on - more change and less folding money in our pockets. Hey, he promised change!


The previous paragraphs are sardonic I know. This post serves as a preview and if on the 100th day things remain the same as they are now he will not have earned enough respect to be called "mister." We're watching, Barry! Just call me the eternal "skeptical pessimist."

(For the record, I took the same stance when the former President took over. He never did earn the right to be called "mister." The best he ever got was "Dubya.")

№ 1627

The Strange Story of Mr. Black and Ms Gray (28)

Part 28 of an original tale that delves into the unexplored realms of the human mind. Hired by her lover to find a raven haired beauty, Benjamin Bering must avoid the local police as well as the agents of a nonexistent government agency who are after him and the woman. There are just two problems. The woman is in a coma and her body has been stolen. (Part 1 can be found HERE.)

Just Who Is the Enemy?
Through half closed eyes I saw the door swing open behind the vengeful cop and a pair of black shoes come into view. Unaware of this he pulled back his fist even as he continued his tirade, "You know what else, newspaperman? Bringing you two in just might get me a promotion."

The butt of a pistol slammed into the back of his head. He slumped face first onto the floor next to me and didn't move.

"It's scum like you that gives even the dirty cops a bad name!" Sergeant Brock O'Day's voiced boomed over the fallen officer. He kicked the man's revolver across the room. He bent over and touched his finger against the carotid in the man's neck and announced with a sense of disappointment, "He'll live, but he's going to have one hell of a headache when he comes to."

"You sure have a flair for the dramatic," I uttered. He helped me into a sitting position. I shifted to my right so that I could see past him and called out to the other victim of the unconscious officer's brutality, "Susan! Are you okay?"

"I will be," she moaned. "Get me out of these handcuffs so I can put some clothes on!"

Brock grabbed the key ring from the officer's belt and moved in her direction. Trying to keep his eyes averted from her nude body, he picked up her pants and blouse and placed them over her. He unlocked the cuffs and walked back to the other side of the room. He knelt by the subdued cop and proceeded to handcuff his hands behind his back.

"Promotion? Ha!" he said followed by a string of four letter words. "If you're not kicked off the force, you'll be lucky if you're not issuing parking citations!"

By that time Susan was dressed and I had joined her across the room. "I know he's getting what he deserves," I said to O'Day, "but you're cuffing a fellow officer?"

His mouth stretched into a broad grin as he replied, "He doesn't know what hit him or by whom. He won't find out unless either of you or both want to file charges against him."

I shook my head, "Not with the Boston Police force looking to arrest me on murder charges!"

Susan walked over to the prone figure and said, "We didn't see anything, Sergeant. And you didn't see this." She swung her leg back and brought it forward with all the strength she could muster into the cop's ribcage. Satisfaction showed on her face and looking down upon him she growled, "Take that you filthy pig!"

"Good show, miss!" O'Day proclaimed. He looked over at me and said, "I just had a brilliant idea. Ben, would you care to help me carry out the garbage?"

I chuckled and replied, "I think I know where you're going with this. I like it."

After rolling him onto his back, the sergeant slipped his hands under the man's arms and I picked up his feet. Susan must have realized what we were up to because she had covered her mouth in attempt to stifle a fit of laughter. She followed us down the back stairs and held the back door open as we carried the cop onto to the landing. We began swinging his body back and forth in order to pitch him over the railing and into the waiting trash dumpster.

Susan called out, "Wait. Don't you think we should gag him first?" She didn't wait for our answer but commenced to stretch her torn thong over his head. She giggled as she strategically positioned the crotch over his mouth and pulled it tight. She stepped back and watched as he went sailing into the dumpster.

"You know," said Brock, "I hope I'm down at the precinct when he tries to explain how he ended up in that same dumpster again and cuffed with his own hardware."

Susan was having trouble to control her giggling, "What about explaining the gag - a woman's thong?"


Once we were back in Jimmy's apartment he stood by the door and addressed me, "What's up, anyway? It was your dime."

"Lately I've developed this interest in Lepidopterology and I thought maybe you could help me out with it," I said to him.

"Lepidop ... what?" he muttered.

"Butterflies, Brock," I responded. There was a confused look on his face so I dug a little deeper, "Small brightly colored butterflies."

If he sensed at all where I was going he didn't let on but was still wearing a mask of confusion. "What in the hell is all this babbling ... about butterflies?"

"It seems that there has been a sudden appearance of a certain rare species in these parts. They tend to hide in warm and dark places. They are not native to New England, and I've learned that they are indigenous to only a certain area of Southeast Asia, Vietnam in particular." The puzzled look on his face appeared genuine enough and since I'd already inserted the knife I saw that I was going to have to twist the handle. "Apparently those little winged insects were revered as fertility symbols by the native peoples. They even tattooed their women on a certain private part of their anatomy with likenesses of them."

His face paled and his jaw lowered. "How in the hell did you find out about that?" he asked. His head bobbed with revelation, "I should have known something was up when Old Gravedigger showed up in town."

"Old Gravedigger?" I queried.

"General Julius Albright Graves," he answered. "He was in command of the Special Forces Unit Jimmy and I were assigned to when we were first shipped over there. We'd barely had time to even work up a sweat from the heat and humidity of the jungles when the general hand-picked us and ten other men for a highly classified mission he called Operation Penetration."

"A quaint double entendre if ever there was one," I noted.

He ignored my quip and continued, "We never knew the exact nature of our mission. Each of us had specific jobs to do and we seldom knew what jobs were given the others. Individually we were all given direct orders not discuss those jobs with anyone, not even with the other men in our unit. That was left to a second team, a group of civilians, one of whom who seemed to be in charge of the whole shebang.

General Graves, like most high ranking officers, was not exactly thrilled to be taking orders from a civilian. It didn't help that the man he was to take orders from was British either. I once overheard them in a heated exchange and Graves told King that if he took care of the research side of things and he took care of all things military, they'd get along just fine."

"King? And he was from England?" I asked.

"Yeah, that's right. Winthrop Bishop King, Esquire, a snooty stuck on himself Limey," he replied. He moved over to a desk in the corner of the room. "Jimmy had a picture of him somewhere. Ah, here it is."

He handed the framed photograph to me. It was a snapshot of four men standing next to a jeep. I recognized General Graves, Jimmy and Brock. The fourth must have been Winthrop Bishop King. I froze as I studied the man's image. "It can't be ..." I uttered.

Brock scratched his head, a querulous look on his features, "You recognize him? How could you? King would have to be well into his eighties by now, and that's if he's even still alive."

"If I didn't know this photograph was over forty years old, I'd swear that this man is Bishop King, the owner of the Globe newspaper."

"What? Give me that!" he snapped and grabbed the object from my hand. He positioned the photo closer to a lamp on the desk. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" he exclaimed. He looked up and said further, "I've seen pictures of the owner of your newspaper in the social pages, Ben, but I never made the connection. I mean, I haven't looked at this picture in several years and it was way back in the sixties when I last saw this man. I'd forgotten what he even looked like."

"It's possible he had a son," Susan offered.

"Yes it is possible, Susan. More likely than not, he did," I responded to her observation. "Not much is known about the owner and chairman of the paper. You might say that he's a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside of an enigma. He is British, he is very rich and he's a very private person." I looked at O'Day and added, "Brock, if he is indeed the son of the man in this picture, then it appears that he too has an affinity for butterflies."

"Bloody hell!" he vocalized. "I thought I'd put that mess in Vietnam behind me for good. For ten years I had nightmares about our last week over there!" He grew quiet and he stared at Susan for a few minutes before turning to me. "You've actually seen the butterfly tattoos, haven't you?"

My silence and Susan's attempt to hide the blush on her face was an unspoken affirmation to his question. Trying to draw the attention away from her I stated, "What do they signify, Brock?" I cleared my throat, "I made up that crap about fertility symbols so I could broach the subject."

"Ben, my best guess would be that the tattoos were some sort of tag, almost like a brand that ranchers put on their cattle." He heard Susan gasp at the thought and directed his next words to her, "Miss ... Susan, I'm sorry you have to hear this, but once I did hear the general refer to those Vietnamese women as USDA, Grade A."

She shook her head and cried, "What kind of monsters were you? I thought our troops were over there to keep Communism out of South Vietnam." Her hands were in fists at her waist and she was glaring in disgust at him. "Didn't you ever ask yourself, 'Just who is the enemy?'"

Probably because he felt some pangs of guilt, he turned away and uttered, "It might be too much to ask of you, but I think Jimmy and I should be given a little slack."

"Brock, I'm not going to play the pacifist and argue the virtues of moral obligations versus taking direct orders, but I fail to see why you feel you should be given any slack," I declared. "What did the other soldiers do that you and Jimmy didn't?"

He was looking at his hands as if inspecting them for cleanliness but finding them soiled instead, "Jimmy and I had neither a part in it, nor did we witness those women being executed."

(To be continued in part 29 on Friday, 3/6/09, with "To Sir With Lust".)

№ 1626

A Skimpy Post

Remember those "Scooby Doo Where Are You?" Cartoons ...

I always thought that Scooby and Shaggy were on a different page than the others ...

Here's proof positive.

They were distracted by something - something off screen.

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