With Mitt Romney the Republican torch carrier, who gets your vote?

Well, it looks like Romney is going to face off with Obama. Now what? Are we ready to dance, as we did when going from Clinton to Bush, taking two steps back for every step we took forward, if we go from Obama to Romney?

Are we ready for another Republican in the White House and more Republicans in the Senate and in the House or, as citizens of the middle class, do we round up the wagons and make our stand right here and right now? By just a concentrated voting effort, we can change the world, you know. We can stop the evil empire from ever taking control again. As the most powerful segment in the world, the middle class, we have more power, more influence, and more money than all the billionaires combined. Fortunately, for us, we do have a few billionaires on our side, Bill Gates, Warren Buffet, Oprah Winfrey, and Mark Zuckerberg, just to name a few of the more outspoken ones. Some of the others are secret Democrats hiding in the closet for obvious reasons.

“Bear with me for a moment, but I need your complete attention. I want you to turn off the TV, put down your beer and cheese doodles, and get up out of your reclining chairs. Repeat after me. We’re not going to take it anymore. We’re sick and tired of being used and abuse. We’re not going to elect another lying and thieving Republican to office, even if we have to reelect Obama. Okay, now go back to what you were doing.”

An out of touch, super rich, Mormon running against a college professor of the law, good or bad, that’s our choice. My bet is on the articulate, intelligent, and in tune with the people, stately teacher, only, God help us, if Romney wins. I can see the headlines now.

‘CZAR ROMNEY WINS THE PRESIDENCY OF THE UNITED STATES. LONG LIVE THE KING!’

Look on the bright side. If Romney wins, by the sake of merely electing him president, every man will be an honorary Mormon. Cool. Just imagine the benefits of that for a moment. You’ll be able to tell your wife with a straight face, by presidential decree, that it’s a new American law that you must take another wife or two. Finally, you can ask that woman at the office, your girlfriend, to marry you and that other woman, your mistress, that you met on your business trip to marry you, too. Let me know how that works out for you with your wife, after you get out of the hospital.

After having George Bush in office for eight long, miserable years, after having his father there for twelve long, suffering years, eight years as Vice-President and four more years as President, the country has been ravaged by twenty years of Republicans, specifically Bush’s. Finally, the Bush era is over, thank God, that is, until slutty Jenna Bush runs for office, wins and opens a brothel in the White House. Conversely, if her twin sister, Barbara, ran for office, I may consider voting for her. Passing over his son, even though he graduated from Yale and received his MBA from Harvard (wink, wink), George W gives more proof to the axiom that an educated man is not necessarily a smart man. Barbara is the one who inherited her grandfather’s and grandmother’s brains.

Financially suffering for years, I’m not ready for another Republican in the White House. Are you? Yet, no matter who they are running against, the Republicans could nominate a monkey and they’d win the presidency, by fixing the outcome of the election, as they’ve already done twice before with Bush.

After Papa Bush kept his son, Neil Bush, out of jail by settling out of court and paying a mere $50,000 settlement in President Reagan’s savings and loan scandal. After fixing the S & L crisis for Neil, fixing a presidential race is easy. Neil Bush? Who’s Neil Bush? George H had three idiot sons, George W, Jeb, and Neil. With George the governor of Texas and Jeb the governor of Florida, we didn’t hear much about Neil, especially after he disgraced his Daddy by getting both hands caught in the cookie jar.

“Daddy! Help! I’m stuck. I can’t get my hands out of the cookie jar.”

“Drop the cookies and take one hand out at a time.”

“But Daddy…”

“Do it!”

We’ve already seen how Papa Bush can fix a presidential election can with “chads” not counted in Florida, when Bush stole the election from Al Gore. We’ve already witnessed how Papa Bush can fix a presidential election again, when Bush ran against John Kerry and votes in Ohio of the poor black and white Americans weren’t counted. We’re still paying for the backroom, midnight, dirty deals the Republican legislators helped George Bush rubber stamp, when the Republicans controlled the House, the Senate, and the White House. Unlike looking for non-existent weapons of mass destruction, we don’t need to bomb someone unnecessarily to dig for answers why our economy derailed. Simply, it was because of that 8-year imbalance of power, when the Republicans controlled everything, that the economy failed, the stock market crashed, the rich got richer, and the middle class suffered. Under the eight year, double-fisted, greedy rule of Bush and Cheney, I would have rather voted for Charles Manson and the Devil, if only given that choice.

How we’re all suffering now has nothing to do with what Obama did or didn’t do in his first, unfinished term in office. With the Republican House Tea Party blocking his progress and voting against his legislation, with the Republican members of the Senate standing steadfast as one and unwilling to work with a Democratic president, Obama was doomed from the start. Yet, preceding Obama taking office, the writing was already on the wall and the economy was already crumbling, when George Bush finally finished his second term a much richer man than when he took his first oath of office. God only knows where we’d all be with Czar Romney calling the shots for his wealthy friends for four or eight years. Being the positive person that I am, always looking on the bright side, and looking for that cloud that has a silver lining, I wonder if Romney will bring back the Osmonds and give them a reality TV show. I always liked them, kind of, not really, okay, not at all. Yet, I bet a lot of you guys would like to see Marie Osmond strutting her stuff, while topless or naked.

Of course, after we scraped off all her makeup and removed her hair extensions, we’d have to put a bag over her head, a double bag, in case the first bag broke. She’s not a very pretty woman without all that makeup. She does have big boobs, though. I wonder if they’re real. Hmm, I wonder if Jennifer Lopez is a Mormon. I bet you’d like to see her on reality TV naked. Nah, she doesn’t look like a Mormon, whatever a Mormon looks like.

Have you forgotten that Bush junior won his first presidential election with the help of his brother, Jeb, the then governor of Florida, along with the behind the scenes, clandestine plots of skullduggery by his father, Papa Bush. Even though he’s wicked old, as old as Warren Buffet, do not underestimate Papa Bush or Warren Buffet for that matter. George H is a brilliant and still very powerful man, especially twelve years ago, when he wasn’t as old then as he obviously is now. Needing to do something different to win the second presidential election, thinking out of the box or more aptly, out of the machine, under the guise of not wanting what happened in Florida to happen in Ohio, the voting machines were replaced with new, albeit rigged, Diebold voting machines.

“Nice machines but… Who’s bright idea was that? Who authorized that? How dare they? Being that I’m a registered voter, I didn’t get the memo, did you?”

How could we all be so stupid? How could the Republicans get away with rigging another election? When we were all too busy looking for and counting chads, when we were all too busy watching reality TV, drinking beer, and eating cheese doodles, the Republicans were a step ahead of us in going through their open bag of dirty tricks. How did they get away with putting voting machines in place with algorithms of how they collect and count votes deemed top secret from anyone in our government, but the owners of the company? Well, now we know. Bush’s cousin, John Ellis, a Fox analyst, called the election before anyone, solely based on the inside information he received from George H, George W, Jeb, and Walden O’Dell, the principal owner of the Diebold Company, a big fund raiser in Bush’s presidential campaign. Can’t you hear them all laughing at us, while having cocktails at the club?

“Where’s the outrage? Bad enough they fixed the first presidential election, but they rigged the second one, too. Now that it’s public knowledge, now that the parties who pulled this off not only admitted that they fixed the election but also bragged about how they fixed the election with their phony voting machines, why didn’t someone go to jail over this scandal? I can’t kick a stuck ATM machine, a broken slot machine, and/or a jammed vending machine to get my paid purchase down, without being arrested, but these guys can legally install rigged voting machines in Ohio.”

Back in November of 2004, with just a flip of a switch, if a voter in a poor, mostly Democratic district in Ohio, deemed the election battleground, at the time, incorrectly marked the ballot, instead of the machine rejecting the ballot, as it would do in a white, mostly affluent Republican district, it accepted it, but didn’t count it.

“Huh? Wait, hold on, are you kidding me? That’s not fair. That’s not legal, is it?”

Ergo, those poor black and white Americans, who, no doubt, would have voted for Democratic presidential candidate, John Kerry, were not counted. Shades of what happened to Al Gore in Florida in 2000, when they incorrectly deemed 57,000 black voters as ex-felons and denied them their right to vote. Had those voters voted and their votes counted, Gore would have won the election. Even after the election was over and a recount was requested and granted, once the recount was obvious that Gore would win, the five Republican Supreme Court Justices declared that recounting the votes would do irreparable damage to Bush’s integrity and credibility. Rehnquist, O’Connor, Thomas, Kennedy, and Scalia stopped the recount and declared Bush the winner.

“I pledge allegiance to my flag and Oh, my God! How can they just take the vote away from every American, who voted for Kerry, and ignore the majority to declare Bush, obviously the loser, the winner?”

This is not supposed to happen in America. This kind of dirty politics happens in countries that are ruled by dictators. It’s mind bogglingly astonishing that something like this can happen here, in the greatest (gag) and most Democratic country (I just threw up a little in my mouth) in the world and in this century.

“God bless America because I won’t!”

Answer me this one, simple question because I’m totally baffled. Please forgive my ignorance, but I just don’t understand. Why would anyone who’s not a millionaire or a billionaire vote Republican? A writer with two university degrees, one in business and another in English, I’m very educated, enlightened, and modest, if I say so myself, but I can’t answer that one simple question. Honestly, I don’t know why a middle class, unemployed or underemployed American with no or insufficient healthcare coverage and financially suffering under the Republicans, who have ruined this country, would vote Republican again. It puzzles me.

The entire platform of the lockstep Republican Party is “No new taxes.” That’s it. What about all the other stuff, jobs, healthcare, safer neighborhoods, and better education? Granted, no new taxes sounds good on the surface, I mean, who wants new taxes? Right? Only, no new taxes means, no new taxes for them but not for us, of course. No new taxes simply means, no new taxes for millionaires and billionaires, but not for the middleclass average American. If anything, no new taxes for them means more new taxes for you and for me.

The other obvious gem in their political platform is that they want a smaller government, not necessarily a bad thing, who wouldn’t want a smaller government? Right? That is, until we scratch the surface that we see why the Republicans want a smaller government. As if they are deregulating the government, as a whole, in the way they did with banks, insurance companies, airlines, and energy companies, a smaller government is a government with less watchdog agencies. The Republican Party wants a smaller government not to make things any better and easier for us, the middle class, the Republicans want a smaller government, so they can do whatever they want behind closed meetings to enrich themselves, while making the lives of the middle class even more desperately poor and deplorably horrible. They don’t want us to know that they’re lying, cheating, and stealing.

“Please, Sir, I want some more,” wrote Charles Dickens about his character, Oliver Twist. Has nothing changed since 1838? When will those in power give us just a little more, so that we can survive with dignity? Never is the answer to that question. We’re lucky to have what little we have.

I can state unequivocally what Republicans stand for in just one phrase, no new taxes, smaller government, and big business over the little people. So, why then, would the average, middle class American vote for someone who doesn’t have their best interest at heart? Moreover, knowing that Romney can’t possibly beat Obama, unless they rig the election again, the Republican Party, as a whole, are playing the race card subliminally under the surface and using that to sway the vote in their favor. Why?

Surely, such educated, rich, powerful, and enlightened men and women aren’t prejudice against black people but, by stoking the fires of race, white against black, they know that most of America is prejudice. To make their point of not having a black man in the White House, that is, unless he’s Republican, as was Herman Cain, if the Republican members of the House and Senate could all dress up in white hooded robes and legally “lynch the nigga, Obama, and rape his wife,” they would. It’s been done many times in this country before, long after the Civil War, hasn’t it? In the words of Harper Lee, who wrote, To Kill A Mockingbird, “you bet your ass it has,” and he wrote about it.

In essence, when Republicans take the oath of office, an oath not to represent us, they take the oath among themselves for no new taxes and for the rich to get richer. Expressly, what they mean by no new taxes is the eradication of the capital gains tax and any other tax that they deem detrimental to their greed. The 15% capital gains tax imposed on those super-rich, who earn the bulk of their income on investments, take a bite out of their vast fortunes. If they could spin the clock back to the time before taxes, the era of Rockefeller, Vanderbilt, and Carnegie, they would. Then, that no new tax platform would hence change to no taxes for us, but plenty of taxes for you. Oh, wait, it’s already like that now.

Now, a fifteen percent capital gains tax may not sound like a lot of money, but 15% of a billion dollars is a not so paltry one hundred and fifty million dollars. Impossible to wrap your brain around one hundred and fifty million dollars, forget about having a billion dollars, imagine if you had 15% of just one hundred and fifty million dollars, that’s twenty-two million five hundred thousand dollars. Wow! Now we know why the rich Republicans want the capital gains tax eradicated and, being that he’s so taxed under the current 15% capital gains tax code, Romney is their chosen candidate to do it.

“Oh, yeah, we’ll blame it on Romney, when the law to eliminate the capital gains tax passes. So long as we elect him President, he’ll take one for the team.”

“Greed is good,” said Michael Douglas, when he played Gordon Gecko in Wall Street. Forget Michael Douglas, imagine Mitt Romney, Speaker of the House, John Boehner, or any billionaire Wall Street investor playing that role.

It’s not enough that the super rich only pay a paltry 15% on their investment income, when the rest of us pay 35% on our regular 40 hour a week, pre-taxed paycheck incomes, but they don’t want to pay anything on their investment incomes. Now, unless you’re a millionaire or a billionaire, you’d see the unfairness of their greed. I ask you my simple question again. Why would anyone, who’s not a millionaire or a billionaire, vote for the Republican platform? Honestly, I have no idea.

Why don’t the super rich, those rich, old, white men, who support the Republican Party, want to pay the 15% capital investment tax? Because, they claim, their investments create jobs and taxing them 15% would take away jobs. Jobs? Seriously? What jobs? Who even has a job? Where are the damn jobs? We haven’t had jobs in this country since 2006. The Chinese and the Indians have all our jobs.

Now, let’s follow this logic and extrapolate upon it. If the Republicans haven’t created jobs with 85% of the money they still have, why would they have created more jobs with the 15% we taxed them? How dare they try to sell that load of crap to anyone with a brain in their head? How can I believe that Republicans care about creating jobs, when they sent all of our jobs out of the country to Canada and Mexico and overseas to China, Taiwan, Brazil, Japan, India, Sri Lanka, and God knows where else? Whether Democrat or Republican, the super rich have been receiving tax breaks for decades, tax breaks that aren’t available to you and me. Their argument that taxation suppresses economic growth and jobs doesn’t hold water, when we’ve been giving tax credits to the very rich for decades and there are still no jobs?

So where are all of these phantom jobs that their tax break income investments supposedly created? Has anyone received a job from giving a rich politician, whether Republican or Democrat, a tax break? I don’t see any hands, especially after we gave these mega-millionaires lots of tax breaks over the years to supposedly create more jobs. If reducing taxes on millionaires, billionaires, and big businesses create jobs, then why are these companies still laying off people and why are you out of work? Does it make sense to you because it doesn’t make any sense to me. I don’t get it. I do get that the rich are getting richer and the disparity between the rich and the middle class is greater.

I didn’t get a job? Did you get a job? Let’s have a show of hands. Forget about the Republicans for a second, how many of you have gotten a job from the super rich politicians not paying their fair share of taxes to create more jobs? Anyone? Did anyone get a job? I don’t see any hands.

When they proclaim that the unemployment rate is 8%, even though we all know that the unemployment rate is double that rate and the underemployment rate is quadruple that, is anyone in this country working? Is anyone, other than that top tier 1% being treated fairly and paid enough to live on without having both spouses working? Come to think of it, Mrs. Romney, other than caring for her beautiful mansion and raising her children, with the help of a maid, a cook, and a nanny, has never worked a day in her life.

How many of you must have your wife work outside the house at a job for you to survive, while still having to cook, clean, and care for the children, without the aid of a maid, a cook, and nanny?

“Gees, look at all those hands.”

Now, how many of you are working at a job that’s part-time, underpaid, and doesn’t have any benefits?

“Wow! Look at all those hands. There must be twenty-five million hands raised. Holy cow.”

Just so that there’s no misunderstanding, lemme make sure you understood my question. Raise your hand if you work part-time, but want to work full-time, and don’t receive a vacation, sick time, paid holidays, and help with your health insurance? Gees, I see a lot of hands now that I mentioned part-time, underpaid jobs without benefits that I didn’t see before, when asking if anyone got a job created by Republican tax breaks and was working full-time in a job that has benefits.

When I mentioned non-existent jobs created by the super rich needing, yet, another tax break to create more make believe jobs, no one raised their hand. No one that I know has gotten a job created by giving super rich politicians another tax break. Tired of believing Republicans telling us that they’ll create more high paying jobs, if we give them another tax break, jobs that they didn’t create and jobs we’ll never get, none of us can afford to continue to allow the super rich to not pay their fair share of taxes because of a lame promise of a phantom job.

Unfortunately, no new taxes doesn’t mean no new taxes for everyone. No new taxes means no new taxes for the wealthy, that 1/2 of 1%, who own 90% of everything and who can afford to pay their fair share, but who continue to tax the middle class, a segment of the population that can no longer afford to pay any more than what we’re already paying. Sadly, the average American cannot afford to hire a lobbyist to buttonhole Congressmen and Congresswomen for their support on our behalf. We don’t have the money to send members of Congress on free, lavish world trips, wine and dine them, and/or reward them with expensive gifts.

No new taxes means lowering the corporate tax rate, the rate that huge corporations pay to do business in our country. As it is now, with all their deductions, the average corporation pays a measly 4-8% or less in taxes. What percent of your income did you pay last year? Unless you’re a millionaire or a billionaire, I bet you paid a higher tax percentage than most Fortune 100 and Fortune 500 companies.

Is that fair that someone like you, who earns $30,000 to $100,000 a year and must give a third of your income to the IRS and to the state, when someone earning one hundred or one thousand times more than you do pays a fraction of what you pay in taxes? Is that fair? Warren Buffett doesn’t think our tax code is fair, when his secretary pays a higher tax percentage than he does. Warren Buffet believes that the tax code needs to be changed to make taxation fairer for all, instead of just one small segment of the population.

Seriously, how many of you middle class folks, which is now the lower class bumping against poverty level, earned a penny on your stock portfolio investments? Other than your fee laden 401Ks, if you even have one, which is now worth a fraction of what it was worth, before Wall Street crashed the stock market, how many of you have a stock portfolio? How many of you even have a job? How many of you have a job but are grossly underemployed and hugely underpaid? Do any of you have overseas tax shelters? Tell me and be honest now, when was the last time you visited the Cayman Islands? How many of you have a secret Swiss bank account?

Now do you actually believe that the Republicans are thinking of you, when they push for no new taxes and a smaller government? Do the Republicans have your best interests at heart, when they push their legislation for the Keystone oil pipeline to pipe oil from Canada to Texas, a pipeline that will surely pollute drinking water from Canada to Texas? Does any politician, whether Republican or Democrat, pass any legislation that benefits you first over them? Are the Republicans so very altruistic that they propose saving this country from debt for the financial sake of our children and grandchildren?

Let’s not forget that Republican President Nixon, good, old, tricky Dickie, not only was he the one who came up with the bright idea of HMO’s and preventative medicine but also he was the one who put hundreds of billions of dollars in the pockets of pharmaceutical companies by doctors prescribing unnecessary medication to everyone. How many pills do you take each day? How many pills did your parents take every day? Gees, that’s odd that your parents never took a pill and lived to a ripe old age, when you’re paying hundreds of dollars a month in medication that you don’t need and can’t afford, while still not feeling well.

Nixon was the one who romanced the Chinese to not only loan us all that money in the first place but also to open their doors to us doing business in China. First and foremost, we are in debt because of the Republicans unnecessarily increasing the military budget, starting wars, and spending all of our money and resources on wars that we cannot possibly win. Then, if that wasn’t enough, they sent all of our manufacturing jobs overseas.

“End of story. Period. Amen. The End. That’s all folks! I have no more to write. I’m done.”

Then, just as I thought that I’m done writing this story, I hear a voice in the distance, a voice of an idiot, and a voice peppered with annoying laughter. I hear, (God help me and God help us all), President Bush’s voice, as if it’s a mosquito buzzing my ear.

“Mission accomplished!”

“Say what? Don’t you dare! Mission accomplished? What the Hell are you talking about, fool?”

Then, I remembered. Mission accomplished my ass! How many of you have lost a son or a daughter, after George Bush donned a flight suit and stood aboard the aircraft carrier, the USS Abraham Lincoln, to announce, mission accomplished and the end of the Iraq War? Thousands more of our sons and daughters died after his infamous, idiotic speech? Forget about him, in the eyes of the world, how embarrassing was that for all of us? Weapons of mass destruction, my ass. Bush and Cheney should have been arrested, charged with treason, and hanged in the way they hung Saddam Hussein, for getting us into such a war in the first place. How could we have such two incompetent fools and greedy pigs, Bush and Cheney, running and ruining this country for eight tortuous years?

“Assholes! May they burn in Hell for what they did to all of us.”

The Republicans want a smaller government because they don’t want anyone looking over their shoulders, while they accumulate more wealth, a political word for legally stealing money off the backs of us. A black man will go to jail, may even be put to death, for stealing a loaf of bread, food to feed his family, especially if he steals the food with a gun. Yet, politicians steal millions with a smile and billions with a handshake, behind closed doors and after midnight sessions of Congress, while the rest of us sleep in our beds, wondering how we can pay our credit cards, afford to buy food for our tables, and gas for our cars.

“Aren’t you angry? No? Then, you ought to be angry and outraged that we’ve been duped, yet, again.”

Put your magazine, newspaper, and book down. Put away your cell phone. Turn off your radio. Turn off your TV. Turn off your computer. Why? All of the media, whether print, electronic, and/or cable is control by super rich Republicans in the likes of Rupert Murdock, Michael Eisner, Sumner Redstone, and Ted Turner.

When the Republican’s, under Presidents Reagan, Bush, and little Bush deregulated our communications system, they took away our guaranteed right of freedom of speech and morphed that to somehow include multi-billion dollar corporations. They filled the FCC with their people. Colin Powell’s son, Michael, was given the chairmanship of the FCC. Why? Because they can control him to get what they wanted. Under his rule and under the guise of free enterprise, the FCC allowed billionaires to build mega communication empires and monopolies. With everything that you read, watch, and hear crafted and spun to a perfect sound bite, much worse than any Russian television program under Communist rule, American media is so controlled to make you believe that Republicans are good and Democrats are bad. Romney is good and Obama is bad. George Orwell’s 1984 Big Brother is here and they are all Republican.

So, unless you don’t want to pay capital gains tax, unless you have a huge stock portfolio, unless you have a tax shelter in the Cayman Islands, and a secret Swiss bank account, why would you vote Republican? If you’re like me, a member of the decimated middle class, you shouldn’t vote Republican. You’d be crazy to vote for any Republican running for any political race, even dog catcher. Every Republican has already sworn an oath, a pledge, not to you, but to themselves and to their party. American Tax Reform President, Grover Norquist, who the Hell is this guy? Anyway, Norquist has sworn nearly every member of the House and Senate that they will not vote for any legislation that raises taxes. If they break their pledge, they break with the party and the Republican Party, as a whole, will abandon them and not give them any political support at reelection. Norquist claims that deficit reduction has nothing to do with raising taxes for the rich. They actually believe that, but the real question is, do you believe that? I don’t and you shouldn’t.

“Huh? Are you kidding me? Deficit reduction has nothing to do with raising taxes for the rich is akin to me trying to pay down my credit card debt without increasing my income. It doesn’t make any sense. Hello? Obviously, they think we are stupid and we are stupid, if at reelection time we don’t kick every Republican out of office, who took an oath not to represent us but to represent their party and their party’s platform of no new taxes and smaller government.”

What the Republicans mean by a smaller government is a government devoid of watchdog agencies for banks, insurance companies, pharmaceutical companies, media companies, and an end to the environmental protection nonsense that they erroneously claim cost Americans jobs in exchange for us having clean air and clear water.

“Huh? Wait, hold on, backup.”

Seriously? The Republicans don’t want us to have clean air and clear water? Yeah, they do, but not at the expense of big business and, supposedly, at the expense at creating non-existent jobs. Every time a Republican President, Republican member of the House or member of Congressman takes power, the first thing they do is to unravel all of the clean air and clean water bills that the Democrats put in place that protect us from pollution. Pollution may not be good for us, but it’s good for the bottom line of big business. The Republican’s argument is that the Environmental Protection Agency suppresses job creation. EPA is bad.

“What a crock of shit!”

Even though the Republican party, as a whole, knows better, it’s bad enough, as a lockstep group that they claim there’s no such thing as global warming, when we all know there is and every scientist will tell you that global warming is here to stay. So, why don’t the Republicans want us to have clean air and clear water? Because adding government imposed regulations, restrictions, and fines to clean the air and water adds unnecessary expense to factories by not allowing them to foul our air and dump hazardous materials in the water that we drink. Simply clean air and water measures cost businesses money, money that they pass off to us anyway, in their costs of doing business. Only, the key element is this. For American businesses to remain competitive in a global marketplace, especially against governments, who don’t impose sanctions, restrictions, and fines for fouling the air and polluting the water, eliminating pollution gives them an unfair potential profit disadvantage in the world marketplace. It’s all about money and they can’t make as much money here with our so called “big government”, as they can worldwide with their free and easy “smaller” governments, which is why our manufacturing jobs have disappeared overseas.

What happened to all of our laws to protect us from losing American jobs to foreign governments? What happened to all the tariffs and import fees that should have been imposed on China and other countries to stop the flood of cheap goods that have ruined our economy? We all know who’s watching out for the interest of big business, but who is watching out for our interests and our jobs? Not our political representatives. They’re the ones that busted the unions, our only equal opportunity employment protector and preserver. They’re the ones who sent our jobs overseas. Politicians, whether Republican or Democrat, are looking out for their own best interests first. Padding their nest for retirement, filling their campaign war chests, the average American is the last on a long list of patrons that they must pay.

If the Republicans had their way, all of our beaches would be polluted by offshore drilling and all of our fish would have a soft, green glow to them.

“Mommy, look at the pretty green fish.”

“Don’t eat that!”

If the Republicans had their way, there’d be no minimum wage, no unemployment benefits, no Social Security, no Medicaid, no Medicare, no welfare, no food stamps, and no “entitlements” is what they call anything given to anyone for free, especially to those, who have worked their entire life in betterment of our country. That’s sadly funny, when politicians both Democrat and Republican are the biggest entitlement takers from legitimate legislation proposed but weighted down with pork barrel projects, benefits given to them that aren’t available to us, and subsidies earmarked for their cronies and given to rich farmers, who not only don’t need them but also don’t want them.

Let me ask you some more simple questions. Why are there no jobs? Why are you out of work? Why are you unemployed? Why are you underemployed? Why don’t you have any job benefits? Why can’t you afford health insurance for you and your family? Why can’t you afford food and gas for your car? Why can’t you make ends meet? Why do you have no savings? Why is your unsecured credit card debt so high? Why was your house foreclosed? Why were you thrown out on the street and your car repossessed? Why are you homeless? Why can’t our elected officials fix the economy?

President Obama could have fixed the economy had his hands not been tied behind his back by an uncooperative Republican controlled House of Representatives. Instead of calling it what it really is, corruption, “they” put a spin word on it and call it partisan politics. How the Republican got control of the house, a majority vote, from a minority bunch of rich voters, is beyond me. Surely, Big Bubba down in Georgia, Clem in West Virginia, and Roy from Tennessee didn’t vote Republican, did they? Who knows, maybe they were duped in the way so many others have been deceived by Republican rhetoric promising jobs that they never deliver. Instead of fixing the economy, instead of putting Americans back to work, and instead of making things here rather than importing them from China, the Republicans wave a flag and give us a war we can’t win, while hoping we don’t notice were much worse off than our parents.

So, back to the original question of why are you’re out of work and why are there no jobs? Simple. Because there’s no money in putting people back to work. Big business doesn’t make any money giving you, an American looking for a fair wage of a full-time job with benefits. They make more money keeping you out of work and forcing their present staff to work harder and faster for less compensation without benefits, while shipping the good jobs, the ones with overtime, overseas to be done at a fraction of the rate. They don’t pay a Chinese worker a premium wage for working 20 hours over his 40 hour work week. Chinese workers don’t complain, rather, when they can’t take the long hours and hard work anymore, they just kill themselves.

“What? You want a raise? You just had a raise three years ago, when they raised the minimum wage. Hey, if you don’t like this job, leave. Go! Get out! There’s another one hundred people waiting outside to do your job and who’d be happy to earn minimum wage without complaining, you slacker.”

On the other hand, of course, there’s money in forcing whoever is left working to do one and a half jobs, two jobs even, while paying them less money and giving them little or no benefits. Why would big business want to create anymore jobs and anymore payroll expense, when they are doing just fine the way it is now. They’re doing better than fine. They’re making money hand over fist, without hiring you, by slashing their employment costs and shipping all of our high paying with overtime manufacturing jobs overseas to China, India, even Brazil? The party is over for us, but the good times are still rolling for the rich.

Jeffrey Immelt, the CEO of General Electric, was appointed by President Obama as head of the administration’s highly touted job council. Huh? I didn’t even know we had a job council. Wait. Who? Are you kidding me? Jeffrey Immelt? What a joke? He’s the guy who said, “I don’t care that people in America are unemployed. That’s not my problem.”

What? Not his problem? As head of the Job Council, aren’t Americans out of work his problem and his job to fix?

“I see the bigger picture,” he said on 60 Minutes. “I think globally, instead of national. I have a huge labor force in China, India, and Brazil, people who will work longer hours for a fraction of the wages, without even expecting any benefits, much less money than I’d have to pay lazy, American employees. Why build a new, restriction laden factory in the United States, when I can pollute the air and foul the water in China, India, and Brazil?”

This is a man arrogant and self-righteous enough to say this in front of an unemployed and underemployed American audience on national television. Maybe with all the cheese doodle crunching you were doing, you didn’t hear that he called you lazy and we are, as well as stupid. We’re all stupid for allowing the Republicans to steal our country away from us. Why are we fighting terrorists and terrorism, when our real enemies are those politicians we elected to represent us?

Yet, this is the man, Jeffrey Immelt, who runs General Electric, one of the biggest, most profitable, and one of the biggest polluting corporations in the world, is the man who heads our job council. What a joke? Is it any wonder why you’re not working? Now we all know why we don’t have a job and will never had a job. The only jobs he’s counseled are the ones going overseas to China, India, and Brazil. Forget the Republicans, we have no one, not even President Obama, helping the average American to get back to work and earn a livable wage. With plenty willing to make our lives worse, we have no one making our lives better but ourselves.

“We give and give and they take and take.”

Here’s another question. Why was Papa Bush a one term president and his idiot son at the helm for eight years? Without doubt, in all respects, Papa Bush is a much better man than his dim witted, three stooges sons.

“Read my lips, no new taxes,” said President Papa Bush in 1988 at the Republican National Convention, but then, as his way to lower the national debt, guess what he did? You’re not going to believe this, but he broke with his own party and raised taxes. “Yeah, I know, no shit. Wow!”

Not only did he raise taxes but with the Reagan tax bill, he signed into law the largest tax bill in the history of America. Additionally, to take care of his billionaire friends, as an assuage to sooth their anger, after raising their taxes, instead of fixing a broken economy, he started a war, the Gulf War. When his own party couldn’t control him, in the way that they could marionette and manipulate his son, they kicked Papa Bush out of office by not giving him their political support for reelection. Yet, don’t count Papa Bush out, just yet. Even though he’s old, he’s still powerful. Once the head of the CIA, the only organization more powerful than the Mafia, he knows some people, if you know what I mean. Along with Mike Tyson, he’s one man that I don’t want to be on his bad side.

Born in Milton, Massachusetts, an oil man, not from Texas, but from Brookline, Massachusetts, Papa Bush has always been in bed with the Saudis. For those who are Republican loyalists, especially Bush friends, here’s a well kept secret and something that you may not know. Did you know that Papa Bush and junior, little Bush, started an oil company, Arbusto Energy Oil, with members of Al-Qaida? Did you know that? It’s true. How about that? They were actually business partners with Osama Bin Laden’s older brother, Salem Bin Laden. Seriously. I kid you not.

“Honest to God. I swear on the Bible. Hey, I’m just another hack writer, too good to be fiction, I’m not smart enough to make up this shit. Besides, chagrined to admit it, being that I’m a fiction writer, the facts are always better than fiction.”

Do you remember the clip they showed on the news over and again of President Bush reading to children on 9/11, while sitting in second grade classroom at Emma E. Booker elementary school, after terrorist planes hit the Twin Towers? How nice was that, but did you ever wonder what Andrew Card, President Bush’s Chief of Staff, said when he leaned down to whisper in his ear? Bush already knew that the first plane had already hit the Twin Towers. Reports confirm that Andrew Card tells the President that a second plane has hit the Twin Towers. Only, as a writer, I imagined what Andrew Card told the President was that Osama Bin Laden’s family have left their multi-million dollar condo in Charlestown, Massachusetts and are safe in a secret location in another country.

“What? Are you kidding me? Fuck me! Fuck us all! We’ve been had. After Bin Laden and Al-Qaeda destroyed the Twin Towers and murdered thousands of our citizens, under the protection of our government, Osama Bin Laden’s family has left the country! Left the country? What about all of those families of those police, firemen, and EMT’s that were killed on 9/11? If they knew enough to remove Bin Laden’s family from Charlestown, Massachusetts, why weren’t our first responders given safe passage and told not to go near the Twin Towers that day?”

Now, my accusation is not that President Bush knew that the Twin Towers was Bin Laden’s target, maybe he did or maybe he didn’t. Yet, after all the lies the politicians have told us over our lifetimes, I’m suspicious of what they knew and what they didn’t know. What is more telling is, after the Twin Towers were attacked, why did he give Bin Laden’s family safe passage from the United States? Don’t you think that’s as strange, as it is telling? A family that lived in Charlestown, Massachusetts for years, a family that could have been interrogated and used as a bargaining chip with Al-Qaeda were allowed to go free. Why were they not only allowed to leave but also escorted out and so protected by our government?

Think about it. Why couldn’t the United States of America’s CIA, NSA, and FBI find one man, Osama Bin Laden? Easy. They didn’t want to find him.

“Osama Bin Laden, come out, come out, wherever you are? Hey, I looked everywhere and I can find him,” said our Generals, the CIA, the NSA, and the FBI. “Gees, I dunno, maybe he’s in one of those caves in the mountains of Afghanistan. I know, let’s trying bombing the shit out of the mountains to flush him out. If nothing else, maybe after all the smoke clears, we’ll find some precious gemstones.”

Can’t find him? Did you look under his bed? What about the closet? Did you check that? Have you looked in Pakistan? Maybe he’s in a hole, in the way that they found Saddam Hussein. Or maybe he’s hiding, kind of, not really, not at all, absolutely in plain sight and right in front of your eyes. Gees, how about that? There really was no reason to spend billions of dollars to bomb Afghanistan’s mountain ranges, after all, when they could just telephoned his compound in Pakistan.

“Hello? Yes, this is Osama Bin Laden’s residence,” answered his wife, Amal al-Sadah.

“If it’s Al-Qaeda, tell them that I’ll call them back on a different cell phone. Unless that’s pizza delivery asking for directions, tell whoever it is that I’m not here,” said Osama.

“It’s the United States Delta squad,” said Amal looking over at her husband. “They want to know if you’ll be home later tonight.”

“Hang up the phone, Amal! Hang up the phone.”

Why did the Delta Forces that snuck into Pakistan, kind of, after crashing one multi-million dollar helicopter, supposedly, as we have no concrete proof, shoot and kill Bin Laden, instead of taking him prisoner? Surely, these guys, most of them Navy Seals, are some of the scariest dudes on the planet. I wouldn’t fuck with any of them, unless I had Mike Tyson on one side of me, ultimate fighter, Dan Severn, on the other side of me, and I was armed with an AK-47 and a few hand grenades. Yet, if the Delta Forces were in Osama Bin Laden’s compound, while Osama Bin Laden was watching Rosanne reruns, drinking beer, and eating cheese doodles, while waiting for his pizza to be delivered, couldn’t they have easily overpowered him, captured him, shot him with a drugged dart, a taser, or a stun gun and taken him alive instead of killing him? Weren’t these guys expert in hand-to-hand combat?

As the top man of Al-Qaeda, didn’t our government think that Bin Laden had valuable information that they could have used to defeat terrorists and terrorism? Or did they already have all the information that they needed (rolling my eyes)? Or maybe they didn’t want Bin Laden testifying in open court.

“Please translate what Bin Laden just said.”

“He said that the United States paid him to destroy the Twin Towers. I mean, he had no idea that Saudi nationals had planned on flying airplanes in the Twin Towers and the Pentagon.”

Just as Bin Laden played the Saudis, from where he received the bulk of his money, perhaps, he was playing Al-Qaeda, too, in the way that he played the United States. Then, after making an ass out of the United States, after they supposedly shot him, why did they secretly and unceremoniously dump him overboard in the ocean? What the Hell was that all about? Are they really expecting all of us to believe that shit?

“C’mon, are you kidding me? I wasn’t born yesterday. I’m more apt to believe the swampland that I bought in Florida is oceanfront investment property. I’m more apt to believe a Mother Goose nursery rhyme than any of the shit my government tells me. I’m more apt to believe a Grimm fairytale. By sticking a top secret, made in China, sticker on the file, all my government does is lie and cover up their lies. I’m getting ready to pack up all my possessions and move to Montana and lock myself away in a hardcore, anti-government compound with an arsenal of automatic weapons. Oh, yeah, trust me, if Al-Qaeda ever dares come to Montana, Texas, South Central LA, most of Chicago, and all of New York for that matter, they won’t be leaving alive.”

Now, just humor me for a moment and bear with me. If you all turn to the glossary page of terms in the official Mafia, La Cosa Nostra, hired hit man handbook of murder and mayhem and lookup, “Sleeping with the fishes,” sleeping with the fishes means dumping someone in the sea or the ocean, and weighing down their body, so that they’ll never be found again. The question remains, without having an actual body to examine and identify, who or what was dumped from the aircraft carrier, the USS Carl Vinson, we’ll never know. Maybe it was Bin Laden or maybe it was a sack of potatoes but, just as I’m willing to believe that Marilyn, Elvis, and Michael are still alive and living life large in Boca Raton, Florida, I’m willing to bet that it wasn’t Osama Bin Laden, who’s sleeping with the fishes. I only wished they had dumped Cheney.

Lastly, you’re not going to believe this. Better than any scripted, Oscar winning movie and better than any bestselling novel, coincidentally, and freakishly, the bulk of that same Navy Seal covert unit, the ones that captured and killed Osama Bin Laden, were killed in a rocket attack on their helicopter in Afghanistan. No way! Wow! Go figure. What are the odds of that? Against protocol, instead of using three helicopters, in the way they usually do, when approaching a target on a mission, they were all in the same one helicopter. How neat is that? Tragically they died nearly immediately after, before they could be questioned on Entertainment Tonight and before they could sell their memoirs to Hollywood for a made for TV movie.

Now, I’m not one to cast dispersions and make rash judgments, but just as I suspect every politician is a thief and a criminal that should be charged, convicted, and imprisoned, I don’t suspect every priest of abusing children, okay, I do suspect every priest of abusing children, but this whole Osama Bin Laden thing smells too much like a CIA covert operation to me. What do you think, Papa Bush? A man behind the scenes, just as Cheney was really our president and not Bush, and with all of these secret societies positioned around the country, think tanks for the privileged, that are listed as private foundations, just who is pulling the strings in our country? Who has the power? Surely not Obama? He’s just another puppet and if he gets too cocky, they’ll eliminate him in the way that Kennedy and his brother were assassinated. We all know better than that and for those of you who don’t, you should know better than that. The middle class the most powerful segment in the United States, possibly in the world, is powerless.

“After America was sold to the highest bidders, God no longer blesses America. Especially when visiting abroad, I’m embarrassed to be deemed an American.”

For those of you who don’t know, by invitation only, there’s always been a secret society of old, white, rich men, men from old money, who are running things around here, no matter who sits behind the Eagle emblem and in front of the United States flag of America in the Oval Office. These men hate everyone who is not just like them, no Jews, no niggers, no Asians, and no middle class, uneducated, ignorantly naive, and uncouth slobs. Entrenched in nearly every major city in the country, who allowed all of these assholes to take behind the scenes power in the first place? Do you really believe that the President of the United States is the most powerful person in the country and in the world? Think again. The most powerful people are a collection of old, white, rich men, who own everything and everyone. With just a phone call, they get whatever they want, and whenever they need it.

Now, I know some Mafia types. Being from Boston, specifically from the North End, the Italian part of Boston, and having grown up in a protected neighborhood, my family was all Mafia.

“Hey, it goes with the territory, capiche?”

Because I lived in a protected neighborhood, there was no crime. None. Zilch. My aunt and uncle were bookies. All my cousins were two-bit criminals practicing their craft in neighborhoods, other than the North End of Boston. My cousin, Frankie, lived in Arizona with his family for 25 years in the Witness Protection Program, after Whitey Bulger, (Google him, if you don’t know who he is) put a hit on him and “The Rifleman” Flemmi, shot my cousin in the shoulder, after killing his friend, while they sat in a parked Cadillac. My Uncle Julio, who worked for a funeral home, used to fly dead bodies to Maine and bury them there, so that they could replace their body in their coffin with someone they murdered. My Uncle Mario made all his money during prohibition, when he carried cases of booze from Canada to America about his boat. Anyway, in the official Cosa Nostra handbook of hits, here on page 211, it reads and I quote, “Leave no witnesses.”

“Read my lips,” said George H. Bush.

“Fuck you, George!”

“Mission accomplished,” said George W. Bush.

“Fuck you, George!”

Let me ask you this? Why wasn’t President Bush impeached from office, when they didn’t find any weapons of mass destruction in Iraq? C’mon, this is an easy question. I haven’t gotten to the hard questions, yet. I’ll give you a hint. President Clinton was impeached for lying to us, after receiving a blowjob from Monica Lewinski, a newsflash that was played over and again on Republican controlled media outlets not for weeks and months but for years. Now, why wasn’t President Bush impeached for lying to us, after fucking us all up the ass by starting an unnecessary, costly war that took the lives of so many of our young men and woman? Why was that not played over and again, in the way that Clinton’s blowjob was? At least Clinton kissed Monica. Did Bush kiss any of you, other than kissing you good-bye, of course, when he left Washington a much richer man than when he arrived.

Don’t you just love seeing George Bush out in the open and smiling and waving to everyone. Secretly, he’s giving us all the finger, behind our backs. I just love seeing George and Laura Bush sitting front row center with Nolan Ryan and his wife, Ruth, at a Texas Rangers game, when most of us can’t even afford a bleachers ticket, never mind a lower box seats. Then, there’s the issue of parking your car for $100.00. Looking so much like the monkey that he is, seeing my ex-president with that dopey grin on his face makes me feel warm all over, as if I just peed myself.

“Shit, I just peed myself.”

You baseball fans all know that George W was once part owner of the Texas Rangers. A team that was purchased for eighty-nine million was sold for two hundred fifty million dollars. Now, inflation raises everything, including the purchase price of baseball teams, but unless the team was the New York Yankees that are worth an estimated ten billion dollars, the Rangers sold at a huge profit. Why was that?

I’ll tell you why. Because Tom Hicks, the man who bought the Texas Rangers from Bush and his friends, as part of his package deal was allowed to buy more than 120 radio stations. Now having control over such a media market was something that was illegally prohibited, just a few short months before, that is, until the Republicans stacked not only the FCC but also the Supreme Court. No one was watching the chicken coop but thieving Republicans. This deal made any deal that Tricky Dick Nixon ever did. Oh, and by the way, how much in capital gains taxes do you think George W paid, when he sold his baseball team. Guess again. Just remove any numbers, but leave the zero. Because his private sale was protected under the conflict of interest laws, when assuming the office of the presidency, special laws not available to average Americans, George was able to reap the benefits of that Republican sponsored law.

So my question still stands. Why wasn’t Bush impeached for starting a war with Iraq? Why wasn’t Bush put in jail for fraud and tax evasion? You don’t know? I’ll tell you why.

“Are you ready? Shock and awe! Yep, that’s it. Shock and awe. The Republican war mongers wanted to draw our attention away from the real issues of the economy by giving us a fireworks display in Iraq. Definitely, I may have been shocked by the extent my government goes to cover their lies, but I’m definitely not in awe of them.”

As if we’re all watching a live video game, by diverting our attention away from being broke and unemployed or underemployed, by dropping bombs and killing people, Republicans prefer to start wars than to fix the economy. There’s a lot of money in starting wars but no money in fixing the economy. Now with the drain on the economy from the war that they started with Afghanistan and with Iraq, with Bush no longer in office, and our economy much worse than when Bush took office eight years before, they blame our bad economy on President Obama, when he merely inherited their mess. How’s that for spin? Nice if they could pull that one off, but blaming Obama for starting a war they couldn’t win and robbing the U. S. Treasury to bailout their rich friends doesn’t make any sense to me. Does it to you? Go figure the truth, if you can find the truth with the Republicans controlling the media, in the way they spin their lies.

Still, I haven’t answered the question, why Bush wasn’t impeached, when we didn’t find any weapons of mass destruction. Wasn’t that the load of shit he sold us, as his reason to go to war? I’ll tell you why he wasn’t impeached. Because (picture Superman standing atop of the Statue of Liberty, while wearing a Wall Street type suit and carrying a briefcase, instead of wearing tights and a red cape,) in the name of peace, democracy, and the war effort, a lot of Bush’s friends made a lot of money bombing the shit out of Afghanistan and Iraq. That’s why.

Vice President Cheney, who was the real man-behind-the scenes, was Papa Bush’s pick to be the stealth president of the United States. The once head of Halliburton, the company that provides supplies, from soup to nuts, to our military for our deceptive war effort, as well as for our oil drilling companies, think British Petroleum and the pollution of our Gulf waters, made millions of dollars for himself and billions of dollars for his company. Are you starting to see how we’ve all been duped? Are you starting to see how the rich get richer and how the rest of us pay for their good times with long term unemployment and underemployment?

Do you remember Angelo Mozilo? He was always by George, Jr. side shaking his hand and patting him in the back in the way that Bebe Rebozo was with Nixon. Don’t get me started with Nixon. My blood pressure will climb.

Anyway, Angelo Mozilo, Chairman of the Board and Chief Executive officer of Countrywide Bank, to avoid trial on civil fraud, settled with the SEC for a paltry $67.5 million dollars, after he squirreled away hundreds of millions more, think the Cayman Islands and secret Swiss bank accounts. Get this, he was allowed to “legally” keep $444 million dollars of his fraudulently accumulated money that he stole from honest, hard working people, after his company was slapped on the hand and charged with minority discrimination and fined the biggest fine in the history of fines, $335 million dollars. Bank of America, who now owns Countrywide Bank will pay the fine.

“What? Huh? Bank of America? Why? Why is Bank of America being so nice to pay such a big fine?”

Oh, don’t worry, BoA will make it all back by charging you exorbitant fees for breathing in their bank branches, while expecting and begrudging you any customer service. Actually the $335 million dollar fine is chump change for what these big banks have earned and will continue to earn by ruining our economy and destroying the lives of millions of Americans with their exorbitant fees. Answer me this. Why isn’t Angelo Mozilo in jail? Because Angelo, a good, personal friend of President Bush, made sure that he took care of all his Republican politicians and some Democrats, too, with big, low interest loans. How about that? Angelo safeguarded his exit by financing all his Washington pals. Let me ask you this, did any of you receive a big, fat, low interest loan from Angelo Mozilo’s Country Wide Bank? No? Gees, that’s weird. Don’t feel bad because I didn’t get one either.

Secretary of the Treasury, Henry Paulson, under federal financial disclosure law, had to sell all his stock in Lehman Brothers, when he took office. Did you know that? Don’t you feel bad for the man? Only, please don’t feel bad for Paulson. By a law that was created for politicians like him, he was allowed, get this, to cash in all of his stock, all $450 million dollars of it…are you ready? Without paying a dime in taxes. Nothing. Not a cent. Now, timing is everything, when dumping, I mean, selling stock. Instead of Paulson telling the truth, he sat before the Senate and told them that Lehman Brothers was a financially sound company. Had he told the truth, his stock shares would have been worthless. Here he is the Secretary of the United States Treasury and he paid nothing in taxes. Just for comparison sake, now, of course, I realize that you made much less than $450 million dollars, but how much did you pay in taxes?

Now how many of you unemployed or underemployed had to hit up your IRA or 401K, if you even have one, to make ends meet, to pay your rent, save your home, and keep your car? How much did you have to pay in penalties for early withdrawal? How much did you have to pay in taxes? Now, compare that amount to how much Paulson paid for cashing in his stock and how much Bush paid for selling his baseball team. How fair is that? Men who could have easily paid, whatever the tax was for selling their stock and baseball team, the government comes after you, the unemployed or underemployed to stick it to you. That’s your price for freedom.

If one of us hit the lottery for $450 million dollars and took the cash payout, we’d realize about $180 million dollars. One hundred eighty million dollars sounds like a lot of money, especially, when gambling a dollar in hopes of winning the lottery, but Paulson received all $450 million of his dollars tax free? Why? I don’t get it. That’s just not right. That’s not fair. That’s the way that it is. If you’re not pissed, you should be. If you voted Republican and aren’t a millionaire or a billionaire, then there’s something seriously mentally wrong with you.

“God fucking bless America!”

Oh, we’re not done with Paulson, yet, not by a long shot. Paulson, under Bush’s watch and counsel, opened the doors of the United States Treasury and passed out billions of dollars to banks, insurance companies, and the auto industry without accounting for who got how much. He should be in jail, too. He’s the guy who sat in front of a senate finance subcommittee investigating the financial fraud in the stock market collapse and swore that Lehman Brothers made good investments with their credit default swaps, derivatives, and hedge funds. A few weeks later, Lehman Brothers filed for bankruptcy protection. Gees, what a coincidence.

“Sorry for being so stupid, but if a financial institution is making good investments with their credit default swaps, derivatives, and hedge funds, why would they have the need to file for bankruptcy protection? That just makes no sense to me. Does it to you? Yet, seemingly, somehow, it made sense to those in power of our government, the same men who didn’t put Bush, Cheney, Mozilo, Paulson, and hundreds of others in jail.”

None of it makes any sense, unless, of course, those credit default swaps were not worth the paper they were written on and derivatives were just another gambling bet in a hedge fund that was more a Ponzi scheme than it was a financial investment. Then, even while Lehman Brothers, AGI, Wachovia, Chase, Wells Fargo, General Motors, Chrysler, Freddie Mac, Sallie Mae, et al, were filing for bankruptcy protection, the brokers and their managers, the people who caused the markets to collapse, instead of being arrested, charged, convicted, and put in jail were given multimillion dollar bonuses and golden parachutes, from the bailout money showered upon them by Paulson, when leaving their failed companies. This is worth writing again for you to read. Secretary Paulson opened the doors of the United States Treasury and passed out billions of dollars to banks and insurance companies, without accounting for who got how much. Why wasn’t he arrested? Why was he allowed to walk away scot free, after bailing out all of his powerful Republican friends?

Now, if a man held up a bank, there’d be a manhunt for him by the local police and the FBI, especially if that man was a black man. Yet, Secretary Paulson, an old, white man, stole all the money that we all paid to the IRS in taxes to give to the biggest, wealthiest, and most profitable businesses in the world. I don’t get it. Why isn’t he in jail, at least investigated? Why wasn’t the money they handed out accounted for, at the very least? Instead, he’s sitting at home drinking fine, French wine and stuffing his face with imported cheese cake.

Wouldn’t you just love to never have to worry about money or about working again? Wouldn’t you love to have stocks worth $450 million dollars and, knowing your company would soon be going out of business, called illegal insider trading information, allowed to cash in those stocks tax free? Wouldn’t you love to be sitting at home drinking fine French wine and stuffing your face with cheesecake? When all of you lost your jobs because of Secretary Paulson’s handling of the economy and aiding in Wall Street crashing, when he was the one in charge of Lehman Brothers, did any of you receive a bailout? Did anyone give you money because you lost your job, your home, your car, your marriage, and your life?

“Then, why aren’t you as fucking angry as I am?”

Please, don’t vote Republican. Our only hope is with Obama and the Democrats. Better yet, we all should strive to eradicate a two party system and adopt one party, the American party, a party that will help everyone equally, whether rich or poor. If I can stop one person for voting for Mitt Romney, than this essay was a success.

“Ding! Dong!”

“Wait, pardon me. Hold on a second. There’s someone at my front door.”

“Oh, my God! Are you kidding me? No way! It’s Publishers Clearing House. I just won ten million dollars!”

“Tell us, what’s the first thing you’re going to do with your ten million dollars? Are you going to quit your job, buy a house, a new car, a vacation home, a boat, take a world trip, hire a cabana boy and a housekeeper to take care of your every sexual whim or all of those?”

“Actually, none of those. I mean, I may do some of those or all of those eventually, especially hiring a cabana boy and a housekeeper to take care of my every sexual whim. Yet, the first thing I’m going to do, that is, after I collect my money and return from the Cayman Islands and Geneva, is to turn Republican. I may be outraged over how the Republicans, and all politicians, have ruined this country, but I’m not stupid. If I can’t beat them, I’ll join them. Hey, I want to keep as much of this ten million dollars, as I can, without having to waste it on paying taxes.”

Okay, especially after reading this essay, I know what you’re all thinking. You’re thinking that the Publishers Clearing House contest was fixed by the Republicans trying to bribe me, just so that I wouldn’t go public with this essay. Right? Wrong. Me winning the Publishers Clearing House contest was just a coincidence. I swear. Honest. Really. You have to believe me. Would I lie to you? Have I ever lied to you?

Now, if only I can find the delete button to delete this story, before submitting it to Literotica.

“Oh, shit! Too late.”

THE END

A man picks up a woman in a bar who turns out to be a vampire.

Because I live alone and, usually, am so sexually frustratingly lonely, the period from Thanksgiving through to the New Year’s holidays are always more problematic for me. To be honest, torturously depressing and aggravatingly annoying are more the descriptive words for how I feel during those six weeks. I avoid the bustling crowds, shopping malls, and supermarkets by buying whatever I can ahead of time and freezing it. Instead of having to put up with long lines of people, who are just as impatient and frazzled as I am, I’d rather run out to a convenience store for whatever I need.

Having grown up in an orphanage, I never believed in Santa Claus. The way that I figured it was, if there was a Santa Claus, he would have gotten me out of that Hell hole by finding someone to adopt me, but he didn’t and no one did. Having never known my parents, I’ve spent my whole life looking for love and only finding sex. Now, unfortunately, unable to tell the difference between good sex and true love, nonetheless, having sex with an endless procession of women has served me well.

Never having received any toys for Christmas as a child, other than the few trinkets that they gave us at the orphanage, and never having had children of my own, as an adult, I’ve grown to hate kids. I hate hearing Christmas music. I hate the cold, the ice, and the wind. I hate snow. I swear, if I hear Jose Feliciano sing Feliz Navidad, one more time, I’ll kill someone. And don’t get me started on Burl Ives singing Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer.

Not having anyone special in my life, because I’m so depressed anyway, I usually drink more during that time. Other than to watch sports on television, what else is there to do but to drink? Actually, now that I think more about it, I don’t need a reason to drink. I’m a drunk and drinking is what I do from the time that I wake up to the time that I go to bed. Nonetheless, unless I get lucky with some woman, having no one to celebrate the Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year holidays with, I usually hang out at the bar and celebrate the holidays with my drinking buddies.

Being that we’re just drinking buddies, we don’t buy one another gifts, per se, we buy one another drinks. Even though we’re all in the same boat, alone and lonely, we still manage to have a good time talking, laughing, and drinking. Only, as soon as I entered the place, Christmas music hit me in the face like a cold shower. Then, when Jose Feliciano came on the radio and started singing, Feliz Navidad, I was about to yell to Dave, the bartender, to turn that shit off and put on the football game, when I noticed her. There sitting alone at the end of the bar was an unfamiliar face, a beautiful face, if ever I saw one. Someone new, it’s always exciting to find fresh meat to hopefully hit on and to make a love connection. Only…

I didn’t know she was a vampire. C’mon, seriously, how was I to know she’s a vampire? I didn’t even know that vampires existed. Even if vampires exist, which I know now that they exist, I’d never think that a vampire looked anything like her. Besides, what are the odds of a vampire coming to my small town and hanging out at my drinking hole? Except for the cape that she wasn’t wearing, the huge fangs she didn’t have, and the pallor of her skin, she was tanned, what does a vampire even look like? Other than on TV or in the movies, I’ve never seen one to know.

She looked like a normal, albeit beautiful woman to me. In hindsight, except for the tattoo on her leg, her arm, and her shoulder, and except for the big colorful tattoo above her butt crack, she looked like the typical woman hanging around a bar, while waiting for an interested and interesting man to buy her a drink. Yet, a lot of women are tattooed today, albeit admittedly not with tattoos of the Devil. Moreover, most tattooed women aren’t vampires.

To be honest, as if she was a shining star, mesmerized by the pretty sight of her, I didn’t even notice her tattoos, that is, until I started talking to her and until I thought I was going to get lucky. Before I even had a drink and before I was even tipsy, then when every women suddenly becomes the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, she was the most beautiful woman I ever saw in my life. Once I noticed her tattoos, I used them as a lead in and asked her about them to make conversation.

I figured for her to have so many tattoos that tattoos were important to her. Maybe she’s a tattoo artist. I never had sex with an artist before, a tattoo artist or any artist at all. Oh, yeah, in the way that I’d love to tattoo her, if you know what I mean, I’d let her tattoo me.

“Merry Christmas,” I said. “Nice tats.”

“Merry Christmas to you, too. Thank you,” she said looking down at the tattoo on her arm, before looking up at me, while I looked at the exposed cleavage of her abundant breasts. “I just love this song. I love Jose Feliciano.”

“Me too,” I said cracking a smile to lie through my teeth. “I love Christmas music. The only way today could be any more perfect is if Santa was to make an appearance and if it started snowing.”

“Yeah, Santa’s a cool dude,” she said. “I love kids, but I could never have any.”

“I don’t have any kids either,” I said. “I was an orphan.”

Yet, as soon as I told her that I was an orphan, I wondered why I said that. Perhaps, because she admitted that she loved kids and confessed that she couldn’t have any. Yet, what does being an orphan have to do with not having kids. Whatever was the connection, it eluded me.

“Me, too. I was an orphan, too,” she said with a sad smile.

Bingo! That’s a real connection. I was in now. She sized me up with a curious look, before giving me a go ahead smile. Merry Christmas to me. Oh, boy, this could be my lucky day.

“I’m Henry, Hank,” I said offering her my hand, when I really wanted to skip all the introductions and just offer her my cock.

“Susan,” she said shaking my hand and pumping it, in the way that I imagined her pumping my cock.

I couldn’t help but stare at her jiggling breasts, while she shook my hand. Oh, my God. It wasn’t much of a stretch for me to imagine her bouncing those boobs, while sitting on my cock, and me fondling those boobs, while she sucked my cock.

Accustomed to the crusty, barnacle like, any port in a storm, used and abused, kind of women, who generally hang around the bar looking for free drinks, while hoping to get lucky, she had a soft and smooth hand, as soft and as smooth as I imagined was the rest of her shapely body. Thinking better of asking her why she was alone, figuring she had a fight with her boyfriend or husband to be here drinking alone on Christmas Day, of all days, I didn’t want to go down that sad story road. Instead, hoping to keep a positive tone, I made my question more general and asked one that included me in her answer.

“Are you alone on Christmas, too?”

“Yep,” she said suddenly loosing herself in her drink with a look of sadness.

Ah, a sad woman, my kind of women. Maybe she was dumped. Maybe she was pushed out in the street and needs a place to stay. Maybe she’ll want to use me as her old to new relationship rebound lover. I can be that for her. Rebound sex is always good. Maybe she’ll think of me as her therapist, albeit her sexual therapist.

There’s nothing like injecting a bit of holiday joy and Yule time spirit in a depressed woman on Christmas, if you know what I mean. Ho! Ho! Ho! With all of those tattoos, I wondered if she had pieced nipples, too. Being that her tongue was pierced, I wondered if her clit was pierced, too. Imagining her tits bouncing up and down and side to side, so much like Santa’s belly, when laughing, I couldn’t help myself from imagining hanging ornaments on her nipples, before banging her, while singing Jingle Bells. Oh, yeah, Merry fucking Christmas to me. Suddenly, filled with the holiday spirit, I’m liking Christmas.

“Hey, Dave! Turn up the volume on the radio. We can barely hear Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer. I love Burl Ives,” I said. “Would you like some company?”

“Sure, why not,” she said giving me a thoughtful look, along with a sexy smile. “It’s always nice to make a new friend.”

Friend? Is that how she thinks of me, as a new friend, instead of as a potential fuck buddy? Yet, with that sexy look she flashed me, there was more to her choice of word, when she said the word friend, instead of lover. Wanting to be her sweaty Christmastime lover, I couldn’t help myself from imagining that I’d be more than her friend. I bellied up to the bar to sit on the stool next to her.

“What are you drinking?”

“Beer,” she said.

Now normally, being a big beer drinker myself, had she been drinking beer from the bottle, I immediately would have known she was drinking beer but, judging her by her colorful tattoos, she was, no doubt, a lady of class and distinction and was drinking her beer from a glass. In the way that the light overhead lit up her face and her body, especially her abundant cleavage and partially exposed breasts, as if the bar light were high beamed headlights on those big tits, she could have been drinking a champagne cocktail for all that I paid attention to her drink in deference to her breasts.

“Two beers,” I said waving up two fingers, while being a bit disconcerted by the theme of her tattoos. “Are all your tattoos of the Devil?” I asked, while imagining her having tattoos of Satan on her tits, her ass, and her pussy.

Hoping she’d show me those tattoos that I imagined were hidden beneath her clothes, I was still thinking about her ornament adorned breasts bouncing up and down and side to side, while fucking me. Now there’s one Christmas bush that I’d love to light up and decorate with white frosting, if you know what I mean.

“Yeah, I have a thing for the Fallen Angel,” she said with a wise girl smile.

Fallen Angel? A coincidental, perfect description of her, she was my Fallen Angel. Truth be told I didn’t care if she had tattoos or not. Truth be told, never suspecting she was a vampire, I didn’t care if she was the Devil reincarnated. She was hot and I was attracted to her. I have a thing for wise girls and was even more attracted to her, after she flashed me that sexy smile. Then, when she turned to face me and uncrossed and crossed her legs, while flashing me her bright, white panties in her feeble attempt to pull down her short skirt, she had the devil not only on the outside of her body but also inside of her, too.

A big fan of a woman who purposely flashes me her bright, white panties, while making it appear accidental, this woman was so naughty that she was bad, but a good bad. Saving me from having to act like a gentleman, I love women who have been around the block a few times. The best sex I ever had was with a women who had just been released from prison. She fucked me, as if she was a sailor on shore leave, after being away at sea for too long. It’s not my fault that I’m attracted to bleached blondes with big tits, but who isn’t? No wonder why he’s so jolly, even blonde, old Mrs. Claus is busty.

Besides, she didn’t reveal that she was a vampire to me, until months later, when she was leaving me for someone else. Pegging her correctly, I thought she was just a gold digging whore and I was right. Fortunately, but for a place for her to put her head, not having much more than fool’s gold and a few sparkling nuggets, it was a good thing that I didn’t have all that much gold for her to dig.

I mean, I knew she was the type of woman who’d do anything for money, even pretend to love me. Being that it was obvious that she was, I knew she was a whore, but I didn’t care. Actually, I preferred her being a whore than being a good Christian woman, not that a good Christian woman can’t be a whore and vice versa. There are a lot of women who don’t let their sexual appetites interfere with their love of God and the Bible.

My kind of woman, holding a Bible in one hand and a cock in the other, look at all those parochial school girls who grow up to be sluts. While pretending that their still innocent virgins and nonconsensual and reluctant victims, many of those sexy, little bitches still save their parochial school uniforms to wear to the swingers’ Halloween party. Many of those parochial school women still fall to their knees not only to pray but also to suck cock. Oh, yeah, a true believer in faith in that all of my prayers will, one day, be answered by getting lucky tonight, I love women of all religions.

Now that I think more about it, a lot of the whores that I met, strippers, porn stars, and prostitutes are the nicest of women, whether they fall to their knees to pray or fall to their knees to suck my cock, I don’t care which, so long as they always and eventually do the latter, after they’re done doing the former. My only complaint with the woman, not that she was a gold digging whore, but that she was a vampire. With vampires being right up there with werewolves, zombies, and monsters, I never knew that vampires really existed, until that day she left me.

I didn’t know she had another agenda and that being to drink all my blood, after she took all my money. Truth be told, I thought she just wanted my money and not my blood, too. Truth be told, glad to be alive albeit broke, now that I know she wanted to suck me dry by sucking all my blood after stealing all my money, I’m glad to be rid of her. Now that I think more about it, in hindsight, I should have known she was a vampire from that time when I cut my thumb and she sucked the blood right out of my finger longer and harder than need be.

After she sucked me dry, I didn’t even need a bandage. Yet, in the way she sucked my finger, watching her take my thumb in her mouth and suck it, really suck it with her eyes rolling back in her head, if she was that enthusiastic about sucking my thumb, I figured she’d be even more enthusiastic sucking my cock. Boy was I right. For a gold digging, vampire, whore of a woman, she was the greatest cocksucker I ever met. Wow could she suck cock.

From that first night, Christmas night, that I took her home, she was, bar none, the best lay that I ever had. Only, in hindsight, if I didn’t know from the amazing sex we had, I should have known from the music she selected to play from my iTunes. Only Women Bleed, by Alice Cooper, If You Want Blood You Got It, by AC/DC, Hot Blooded, by Foreigner, Sabbath Bloody Sabbath, by Black Sabbath, Flesh and Blood, by Johnny Cash, and (gulp) Drain the Blood by The Rural Alberta Advantage, every song had blood in the title. Still, even then, I was more interested in her hot body than in her weird song selection.

Even after we had sex, when we were holding one another and learning more about one another, too enamored with her big tits, I still didn’t make the connection that she was a vampire. We discussed everything from politics to religion. Then, when I asked her what her favorite books and movies were, while playing with her big tits and fingering her erect nipples, I was too focused on watching her fondling my cock than listening to what she was saying.

“My favorite books are Blood Diamonds, In Cold Blood, and Book of Blood. My favorite movies are There Will Be Blood, Blood Done Sign My Name, and First Blood.”

Now that I know she’s a vampire, it makes sense. Blood, blood, blood, everything was about blood. I should have known she was a vampire, but in the sexy way she looked and how much she loved sex, how could I know she was a vampire? Even if she told me that she was a vampire, in the way she sucked my cock, I truly wouldn’t care. Truth be told, I didn’t stand a chance against her. I was doomed right from that first, deep, wet kiss.

As soon as I closed the door to my apartment, she attacked me, not with bites but with kisses. Never have I kissed a woman who was so willing, so ready, and so passionate. Never has a woman returned my kisses in the way that Susan kissed me. As if she had died and returned to life, never have I felt such purely grateful, erotic, sexual emotion. There was no question about her wanting sex. There was no question about her wanting me. The only question was, a question that I didn’t even know to ask at the time, that is, if I’d survive having sex with her.

“Are you a vampire?” That’s the only question that I should have asked her.

Wow, sex with a vampire, who knew what a wild ride that would be? What a way to go? After having sex with a vampire, if I was to die, while having sex with Susan, I’d die a happy man. I’d die with a smile on my face.

Accustomed to taking home a drunken broad and accustomed to having a wrestling match with her, before having my wicked way with her and then just receiving a lousy blowjob, I didn’t have to do that with Susan. Never slapping my hand away, never pushing me back and threatening to yell rape, she welcomed my advances as much as she did my gropes and touches. As soon as we were alone in my apartment, she allowed me to touch her anywhere and everywhere.

I kissed her while feeling her big breasts through her low cut blouse and bra. I kissed her, while sticking my hand down her top and fondling her big tits and fingering her hard nipples. I kissed her, while reaching beneath her skirt and feeling her panty clad ass and pussy. I kissed her, while pushing her panty aside and fingering her pussy.

She kissed me, while feeling my cock through my pants. She kissed me, while unzipping me and reaching her hand inside. She kissed me, while pulling out my cock and stroking me. The only time she stopped kissing me was when she fell to her knees to take me in her mouth to suck my cock.

“Oh, my God!”

Normally, I’d have to ply my impromptu pickup dates with more alcohol to get them drunk and in the mood for them to kiss me, while I groped them. Normally, I’d have to wait until the drunken women passed out, before removing their clothes. Normally, the women would have to be sleeping, before I could strip them naked and have sex with their unconscious bodies. Only, this time, Susan was the one who stripped herself naked.

“Wow!”

From the time she was naked, it was all her show. Then, she stripped me naked, too. As if she was a wild animal, as if she was a testosterone charged man, never have I had a woman strip off my clothes, after stripping off her clothes. Then, once I was naked, she kissed and kissed me, while reaching down to fondle me with her hand. She was just as excited by my nakedness as I was excited by her nakedness.

“Wow!”

Then, once I had an erection, which was nearly immediate, she fell to her knees and took me in her mouth. Oh, my God, right from the first suck, I knew this was going to be a blowjob of a lifetime. Never have I been with a woman so skilled at cock sucking.

“Suck me, Susan. Suck my cock. Blow me, baby. Oh, yeah, that’s it. Oh, my God! Wow!”

As if she had a mouthful of tongues, a powerful propeller, I could feel her tongue swirl around my cock. As if her tongue was supercharged and battery powered, she excited me with her cock sucking skills. She possessed so much control over her tongue that forget about tying cherry stems, she could tie my shoelaces with her tongue. The feel of her mouth was like nothing I have ever experienced before. Warm, wet, and electric, she was a cock sucking machine.

“Don’t cum yet,” she said removing my cock from her mouth and standing to meet my lips. “I’ll suck you again later, after you please me first,” she said sticking her tongue in my ear.

Now, most times, I’d want to get off first, before pleasing a woman, before pushing her out the door. Yet, this time, with Susan, knowing that she’d give me the blowjob of my life, wanting to sexually satisfy her, I wanted to please her first. I wanted to lick her pussy. I wanted to make love to her. I wanted to fuck her.

She pushed me back on the bed, mounted me, and sat on my face, as if my head was a horse, my face her personal saddle, and my tongue her saddle horn. Never have I wanted to lick a woman, as much as I wanted to lick her. Only, as soon as my tongue made contact with her pussy, she grabbed me by my hair moved my head around, as if it was a kitchen blender. I didn’t know my neck could do the things that it was doing without my head falling off.

Generally, grabbing a woman by her hair is something that I’ve always done and love doing, while forcing my cock in her mouth and down her throat. What’s good for the goose was certainly fun for the gander and never have I ate the pussy of a woman where she had an orgasm so fast. What usually takes twenty long, agonizing, and jaw numbing minutes took mere seconds.

“Don’t stop. Yeah, right there. Don’t stop! Oh, yeah, baby, I’m cumming. I’m cumming. I’m cumming,” she said nearly as soon as I started licking her.

Damn, she moved my tongue around her pussy so fast that I had a friction burn on my lips. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think my tongue was smoking.

“Wow!”

Without taking the time to have an afterglow, a cigarette, or even a drink, I could have at least used some water, before she moved from my head, got off my face, and got on my cock. This woman was sexually possessed. If the Devil is a woman, then I just had sex with the Devil. If what I just experienced was Hell on Earth, then I plan on being bad the rest of my life because that kind of Hell is my kind of Heaven.

“Wow!”

I felt her hand reach down and direct my engorged prick in her warm, soft pussy. Once inside, she rode me, as if I was an interactive amusement ride. Always one to take charge, never have I been with a woman who so knew what she wanted and what she wanted was for me to give her orgasms, lots and lots of orgasms. I tried to roll her over and mount her, but she’d have none of that. With her tits flying high, she was humping me, jumping up and down on me, and fucking me at supersonic speed.

“Hold on, baby,” she said. “Mommy’s gonna take you for a ride.”

I tried holding back as long as I could, I tried thinking of the Red Sox, the Yankees, the Phillies, and the Tigers not making the World Series, and but all to no avail. As soon as I thought of Laura Bush sitting front row center with Ruth Ryan during a Texas Rangers game, as soon as I imagined myself having sex with the both of them, I exploded all the lust that I had for Susan in her pussy within a minute or two.

“Oh, my God. I tried holding back longer, Susan, as long as I could, but I’ve never been fucked by anyone so hard and so fast.”

“Shh, lover. You were wonderful lover,” she said giving me a long, wet kiss. “Most of the men I’ve had sex with over the years only last a few seconds. You lasted a few minutes. Thank you. I had three orgasms.”

“Three orgasms? You did?” I looked at her, as if she was drunk, crazy, or drunk and crazy, but when she nodded her head to show me a satisfied smile, I knew she enjoyed the sexual ride as much as I did.

“Who’s the man? Who’s the man?”

Never have I satisfied a woman so completely in such a short time. Wow! Only, after that, every night, sometimes multiple times a day, she wanted sex, sex, and more sex. Just as I never came across a vampire before, never have I come across a nymphomaniac either. I’d sooner believe that she was a nympho before believing than she was a vampire. To be honest, tired of sex and tired of her, too tired to even have a drink, I was tired. After having so much sex, sex, and sex, no longer having the time to have a drink, I just wanted to sleep.

Even then with her sucking the blood out of my thumb, the hot sex, and the blood laden titles of all the songs she played, the books she read, and the movies she watched, I still didn’t know she was a vampire, until that day she was leaving me for my best friend, Dwayne. That two timing, back stabbing bastard stole my woman right behind my back. Actually, he stole her in front of my face, when he asked her if she’d rather be with him than with me. The next day, she walked over to me with suitcase in hand. She didn’t have much to pack, other than my money.

“It’s been fun, Hank, but I have to go. I’ll never forget you,” she said. “You’re a special man.”

When she leaned into me, I thought she was going to kiss me good-bye, so I got ready by reaching around her to grab a handful of her ass in one hand and an abundant breast in the other. Ready now to be kissed, I closed my eyes and puckered up my lips. Then, when she ducked her head down towards my neck, I figured she was going to snuggle in for a hug in the way she does, when we spoon and sleep together. A hug, I thought, is that it? All that I’d get is a hug, after all that I did for her by giving her a place to live and food to eat and after all the superhuman sex we had every day, multiple times a day?

In the way that my dog sometimes nibbles at my earlobe, she shocked me, when she bit my neck. At first it tickled. Stupidly, I thought she was making up to me and wanted to make out with me. Stupidly, I thought she wanted to get back together. Stupidly, I thought she was horny and wanted to have sex. Then, when she bit down harder, my neck hurt. I tried to push her away but she was too strong for me. Within a few seconds, she drank enough of my blood to make me woozy and I had to sit down. Even then, after she bit me, I still didn’t believe that she was a vampire, that is, until I saw her bloody fangs and her blood red eyes. Wow, that was scary.

Now, a month later, after being bitten by a vampire, I don’t feel any different. I feel fine. I feel the same as I’ve always felt before she bit my neck and drank my blood. I mean, I don’t want to bite anyone, in the way that she bit me. I don’t think she turned me into a vampire in the way that I’ve seen others turned into a vampire by just one bite in the movies and on television.

Maybe some folks are immune to being turned into a vampire when bitten. Maybe she was just feeding on me and not trying to turn me into a vampire. Perhaps, with all the excess alcohol that I’ve consumed throughout my life, I may be one of those people who are immune to being turned into a vampire. With the alcoholic content of my blood, I imagine that I must have a lot of iron running through my veins that may prevent me from becoming a vampire.

To be honest, I don’t care to know why she didn’t turn me into a vampire. I don’t want to push my luck and find out if I’m immune or not immune to becoming a vampire. I hope to God that I never meet another vampire. I mean, what are the odds of being bitten by a vampire again? That day was the last day that I saw Susan, when she pulled away seated next to my friend, Dwayne, in his Ford pickup truck.

“Good-bye, Susan,” I said waving my condolences to my vampire lover. “Good-bye my beautiful, vampire. Sorry, Dwayne,” I said, once they rounded the corner and were out of earshot.

Good luck to him. Not much of the drinker that I am, I’m sure that Dwayne is not immune from becoming a vampire. After she turns him into a vampire, I just hope he doesn’t blame me. I hope he doesn’t return to town to bite me. He was the one who stole my girlfriend, after all. If it’s anyone’s fault that Susan turns him into a vampire, it’s his.

Besides, for sure, she’s better off with Dwayne than with me. He’s a big beef eater. He loves bloody rare meat. He loves barbeque and with barely any iron in his blood, he doesn’t drink. I’m sure with all that bloody red beef surging through his veins, without all the alcohol to interfere, he’d make her a much better victim. Just as I didn’t know she was a vampire, poor Dwayne doesn’t know she’s a vampire.

Reminiscing on Christmas, a lonely black man remembers better times in his life.

Michael’s favorite thing to do, while masturbating, was to remember a few select white women from his past. Recalling the white women that he had sexual relations with always made him excited. Where some men may have one or two favorite females to remember naked, having fucked, sucked, and licked himself and his partner to orgasmic pleasure through the alphabet several dozen times, Michael had hundreds of women to recall. Even having sex with the rarer lettered names, such as, Olga, Olive, Olivia, Uma, Ursula, Veronica, Victoria, Yvonne, Yolanda, Zelda, and Zoe, Michael had hundreds of favorite women from which to choose to remember, that is, all except for a woman whose name began with the letter X. The only letter of the alphabet that eluded him, he never met and had sex with a woman who’s name began with the letter X.

“If only I could find and have sex with a woman with a name that began with X, my life would be complete,” he said with a laugh. “I’d die a happy man.”

Now, with the passing of years, no longer sexually active, in the way he once was, what he was once able to recall in great detail of all the women that he had sexual intercourse with, pleasured with cunnilingus, and received fellatio from faded. Instead of remembering the women in whole, he was left with naked flashes and incomplete and infrequent snippets of sexual activity that included a breast here, a naked ass there, or remembrances of a shaved, trimmed, or bushy pussy. With their names no longer matching their faces, playing out as just one big sexual orgy of naked body parts that more resembled a modern art painting than his sexual reality, his memories merged, morphed, and compacted together as if one. Entwined, in the way that their naked bodies once did, with his long, black arms and strong, muscular legs wrapped around some beautiful, blonde, busty, white woman, there were so many women in his sexual past that he could no longer remember their names.

“Doesn’t seem worth banging them, if I can’t remember them,” he said unable to recall what he needed to remember to get him off, while masturbating. “Oreo, Oreo, Oreo,” he repeated the word over and again, while stroking himself to maintain his erection long enough to cum.

A term used to slam those uppity niggers, who tried to live in a white man’s world, to others, Oreo was the hard shelled cookie with the soft, white, creamy center. Indeed, Oreo best described what he remembered of his dalliances and the word he now used to jog his memory to remember. If he was to pick a name, one word, to best describe him, when having sex with a white woman, Oreo was his word.

When thinking about his interracial sexual affairs, surrounding her so completely with his big, black, beautiful body, the handsome, African American Knight that finally gets the beautiful, blonde Princess, it pained him that he could no longer put their names with their faces. Their names, their names, what were their names? Now that he was older, if only he could remember their names, reliving his sexual realities that he had back then, as his renewed sexual fantasies now, would make his masturbation sessions so much more heated and so much more pleasurable.

Still, when he finally remembered some women, when he was able to put their names with their faces, the thing that turned him on, when having sex with them, akin to the cookie, Oreo, was the shocking, albeit exciting, color contrast of their skins. In the way of white piano keys, against a shiny, black Grand piano, in the way of a black tuxedo, with top hat and tails, against the shocking contrast of the required starched, white shirt, the women were all so white and he was so very black. As if they were snow, white Lilies, with their blonde hair and blue eyes, they were always so pale, nearly translucent, and he was as black as the shoe polish he used to shine customers’ shoes, when he was a shoeshine boy in his youth. Shoes, played an important part in his life, especially women’s shoes. High heels were in his blood and he ended up owning a retail chain of more than a hundred shoe stores that were found in the better neighborhoods of Massachusetts, Connecticut, New York, and New Jersey.

Never satisfied having sex with just one woman or several women in the course of a year, he couldn’t stop having sex with different women. If he could have had sex with a different beautiful, blonde, busty, white woman every day of his life, he would have and in the way that he went through women, he nearly did. Forever trying to replicate those beautiful, blonde, busty, white women that he never had a chance to meet and to bed, always looking to find his Marilyn Monroe, Mamie Van Doran, Jayne Mansfield, Brigitte Bardot, Zsa Zsa Gabor, Morgan Fairchild, Elizabeth Montgomery, Farah Fawcett, Cheryl Ladd, Christie Brinkley, Cybill Sheperd, and Loni Anderson, there was always a new blonde starlet or model to take her place.

Truth be told, the accidental and/or intentional up skirts of bikini panties or naked pussies and the fortunate and exciting down blouse views of bras, breasts, areolas, and nipples, from helping customers try on his shoes, were how he met his ex-wives and how he met most of the women with whom he had sexual affairs. Having bedded so many women, too many women to remember, he required a system to keep track of the women he bedded. He kept track of the women he bedded with their names and the date of their sexual encounter by the shoes that he gave them; the better quality the woman, the better quality the shoes that he gave her.

His generosity of free shoes was all recorded in his inventory that he erroneously marked as shrinkage, a description that should have been noted more descriptively as engorgement. By the price of the shoes they bought, all the customers he served, whether at his store or in bed at a hotel, had money. Just as the women didn’t want their white, rich, boring and inattentive husbands to know that they had sex with a big, beautiful and exciting black man, Michael didn’t want his wife, at the time, to know about all the extramarital affairs he was having. With both parties wanting to keep their sexual affairs discreet, as if a boy locked in a candy store, Michael was given free rein to sample all the merchandise without ever needing to buy any of it, that is, other than when he met and married his two ex-wives.

No longer able to blame his memory loss on his drinking, his forgetfulness troubled him. Michael wasn’t much of a drinker now as he was in his younger days. A proud, black man, that some have called an uppity nigger, even though he once did more than his share of drinking, as did most everyone else in their youth, and even though he could imbibe now, as he wasn’t an alcoholic, he hasn’t had a drink in years. Yet, as much as he drank back then, a direct result of his drinking, Michael had a talent for sniffing out blonde, available, and willing pussy. Even though he took some guff from the black women in the neighborhood, who heard the rumors for his preference to race, he preferred white women to black women.

His taste for alcohol coincided with his lust for beautiful, blonde, busty, white women. Drinking and carousing, one was never without the other. Now that he was older, no longer able to enjoy a long, wild night of drinking and fucking, he couldn’t drink and/or carouse in the way he used to do. Now, that he was older, all that he had to fuel his passion, when his hand was stroking his cock, were his fading memories of all the beautiful women he bedded. With his cheating days behind him, so wasn’t his drunken binges. To be honest, except for the occasional setback, he doesn’t miss those days of excess white wine and naked, white roses.

Busy with his business and with raising a family, he lost his taste for the buzz received when drinking too much and the guilt that burdened him, when cheating. Deciding to be an attentive husband and a better father, before deciding to go cold turkey with booze and women, he limited himself to having one drink after work to relax from his day, that is, before he stopped drinking completely, around the same time that he stopped his philandering. Sober and faithful for some years, but now drinking again, more than he had a taste for alcohol, he had the need for the numbness that the alcohol provided. Having come full circle, only more than the satisfaction of being a faithful husband, he had the need for the excitement he felt by being serviced by an anonymous beautiful, blonde, busty, white woman.

“Say, what’s your name, baby?”

A good looking man, so long as he bought the drinks and paid for the room, when not peeking beneath the skirts and peering down the blouses of women he serviced in his shoe store, he didn’t need much more of an introduction at a private club than that to go from standing upright in a bar to lying down naked in bed.

As if a baby given a bottle, when sucking on big, white breasts with pink nipples, instead of nursing on coffee colored breasts with black nipples, just as the excitement of having sex with an anonymous, white women gave him, the alcohol calmed him. Whenever he was high and sexually aroused, the pensive relaxation he had from drinking conflicted with the excess excitement he received from having sex. Yet, the two tied so tightly together that they not only kept him balanced but also gave him the insight he needed to see the ramifications of his life more clearly. His diversion of being high and sexually excited, that preferred, albeit temporary altered state was his place on the mountaintop. Being high and sexually excited was where he needed to be to forget the past and to help him heal in the future.

With all the folderol happening in the political arena, much of it instigated by the press looking for a story, the opposing political party needing him to lose, and lawyers wanting to make a fast buck, he couldn’t help but compare his prior life to the recent political setbacks of Herman Cain. If one woman coming forward wasn’t enough, two more came forward with charges of unwanted sexual harassment and now a fourth claiming that she had a 13 year sexual relationship with the presidential candidate. Where there’s smoke there’s fire and, of course, he believed the charges of the women. If he compared himself to Herman Cain, then he knew that Herman was guilty of cheating on his wife, in the way that he had cheated on his ex-wives. Just as he always had, Herman had a thing for beautiful, blonde, busty, white women. Only, Herman’s mistake was running for public office. Herman’s mistake was running for the presidency of the United States. Herman’s mistake was being a black man in a white world.

Call it sexual harassment, but Herman’s mistake was in thinking that a black man can have sex with white women without being put on trial. Even when denying everything, calling everyone a liar, and playing the happily married for 43-years card, in the end, he was just another black man being discriminated against. Not willing to tow the line, Herman’s mistakes were his arrogance in flaunting his sexual escapades in everyone’s face and in not thinking that his prior dalliances weren’t fodder for public digestion and inspection, once throwing his hat in the political ring and running for public office. All the press needed was to find the smoke to see the fire, before destroying his hopes of becoming the next President of the United States ablaze.

If this was the good, old days, those vigilante white men, who now hide their KKK robes in the closet, instead of wearing them at night, would have already lynched Herman. Under the penalties of a horrible death, if this was the good, old days, Herman never would have dared date a white woman. If this was the good, old days, Herman’s body would have been found in the woods, after being dragged down the road behind a pickup truck with a Confederate flag on its back window. With racism changing with the times, instead of being crucified on some back, country road, he was crucified on national TV. Some things never change and racism is alive and well in America.

Michael wondered how many blonde, beautiful, busty, white woman would step out of the shadows to embarrass him, if he was ever to run for political office. An entire stage full, certainly, with all the white women he’s had the pleasure to satisfy, no doubt, he had many more Caucasian skeletons in his closet than did Mr. Cain. He’s had sex with a few hundred white women, while he was married and pretending to be a faithful, loving husband.

With one drink leading to another and another, one drink was no longer enough to quiet his mind from thinking of yesterday and from remembering his memories with sadness, instead of with contentment. With the holidays always the worst times of the year for him, instead of the best times, one drink wasn’t enough to numb the pain of being so alone and lonely on Thanksgiving and now on Christmas. After all his family and friends abandoned him to his bad self, he couldn’t help but wonder if his drinking and carousing, as well as his subsequent loneliness, had anything to do with him being a black man trying to live and blend in a white society. When one drink was enough and sometimes too much for so long, suddenly, one drink was never enough.

Maybe he was an alcoholic. He didn’t know. Maybe he was addicted to sex. He didn’t know that either. All he knew was he enjoyed drinking and having sex with white women. Just as he couldn’t remember if he just liked to drink or if he had to drink, he didn’t know why he was so attracted to beautiful, blonde, busty, white women. Yet, then, again, who wouldn’t be attracted to beautiful, blonde, busty, white women?

Getting caught up in the power that he felt he had over beautiful Caucasian women, maybe fucking white women was his way to get back at white men. He didn’t know and it pained him to think about his sexual relationships with white women in that way. Yet, indeed and without doubt, it excited him to see a head of golden hair cascading around his lap, while receiving a blowjob and before filling her mouth with his semen. As simple as that, wanting and needing to control an inferior woman to make him feel superior, was it that simple? Unable to discern one condition from the other, the need to drink and the lust for sex, and unable to stop either one, what did it matter? The catalyst to his nefarious affairs was his drinking and the fact of that matter was that he was drinking again. No doubt, it would only be a matter of time before he found some blonde, beautiful, busty white woman to fulfill his sexual needs.

He remembered that his attraction to white women started when OJ Simpson, his idol, made public his preference to Caucasian women known by dating dozens, before marrying one. Just as it was with many black athletes, OJ only dated white women, before marrying Nicole Brown. She was so blonde. She was so beautiful. She was so busty.

It was then that he noticed more black men dating white women, especially blonde, white, beautiful, busty women, than there were black women dating white men. Why? He didn’t know. Then, when Tiger Woods married Elin Nordegren, he wondered again why it was that black men so loved white, blonde women? Just as Adam couldn’t refuse Eve and resist the temptation of eating the forbidden apple in the Garden of Eden, Michael wondered if beautiful, blonde, busty, white women were his forbidden fruit? Consciously or subconsciously following in their footsteps, as evidence to his truth, he recalled some of the famous interracial relationships.

Famed boxer Jack Johnson married three white women. Sammy Davis, Jr. had a long relationship with May Britt. Seal married Heidi Klum and actor Cuba Gooding, Jr. has been happily married to a white woman, since 1994. Then, there’s Sidney Poitier married to the same white woman for 35 years. Hell, even the President’s father, Barrack Obama, Sr., married a white woman, when he married Ann Dunham in 1948. Even though it’s more accepted today than it was forty years ago, there’s just something so dangerously exciting about a black man having sex with a white woman, an excitement that he doesn’t feel when having sex with a black woman.

Without the sex to combat the alcohol to balance out his mood and with the alcohol acting as a depressant, as if it was a fog slowly settling in around him, the liquor invited a sadness that altered his disposition, before a deep melancholy took hold of him. Even though that first drink relaxed him and the second drink made him feel good, one, even two drinks were never enough to make him forget, and there was so much he needed to forget. Already depressed, the alcohol caused him even more depression, yet, even without having sex with white women, there was still a method to his madness.

Instead of creating a bitterness that would eventually burn into self-destructive rage and self-destructive behavior, working in the way that years of therapy would but, in conjunction with his depression to limit it, the alcohol served as a magic elixir that gave him the insight to help him understand why his life had turned out the way it had. Now, finally, acknowledging all the things he did wrong in his failed relationships with his ex-wives, his children, his family, and his friends, the lost promise of what could have been happier days now plagued him with remorse and sorrow. Too late to fix all that was wrong with his life, already too tragically and irreversibly ruined, it wasn’t until years after his relationships had ended that he accepted the full responsibility for their failures.

“It was all my fault and I’m sorry,” he said for no one to hear. “I’m so sorry,” he said for no one to care. “Please forgive me,” he said hanging his head in shame and being so seriously sincere.

He looked around his small room, as if the room was his prison cell, but he wasn’t incarcerated. He wasn’t even held against his will. He was free to come and go as he pleased, but with nowhere he wanted to be, he remained sequestered. With no one to go anywhere with anyway and tired of going everywhere alone, he may as well remain isolated in his room. As if ostracized and abandoned by all of society, with sadness and sorrow his best friends, he preferred reveling in his self-pity.

But for one, dim light that lit up the photograph album he balanced in his lap, as if holding all the memories of his life in his shaking hands, his room was as dark as his mood. He didn’t need the light to see all that was wrong with him and with his life. With the sudden insight that illuminated his mind, he already knew what was wrong and it was nothing that he could fix, even with the brightest light. Besides, having grown to prefer the darkness to the light, the darkness was his only way to confront his demons. The dark is when the demons all came out to haunt his dreams and interrupt his sleep. The darkness is what he used to hide his pain.

As if a vampire needing to hide himself in the dark, turning on a brighter light was as if turning on the sun and, so troubled by the memories of yesterday, he couldn’t face the brightness of another day that reminded him of yesterday. Shinning a concentrated spotlight, this little light was all that he needed to illuminate his reality. Unfortunately, the little light made his mood even worse by adding a ghostly ambience, albeit an appropriate but spooky feel to the room. Encouraged by his imagination, no doubt, the light cast reflective glimmers in the shape of familiar, albeit imagined faces on his walls that added to his melancholy. The reflection of the little light that lit up his lap so brightly, also cast shadows on the wall that appeared to him as ghosts from the past to haunt him and to remind him of his misdeeds.

“Hello, hello, hello,” he said with sad, little smiles, as if greeting every face that he imagined seeing. “Hello, hello, hello. I see you’re all here,” he said acknowledging the imagined presence of friends and family. “Thank you for coming. It’s so nice to see you all again,” he said with a sincere smile.

He couldn’t help but feel a bit like Charles Dickens’ character, Ebanezer Scrooge, from Christmas past, in A Christmas Carol. Even though he thought they were all there, even though he knew he was alone and there was no one present and nothing there but shadows, as a way to confront his guilt and sadness head on, he acknowledged his shadowy faces by playing along with whatever images his subconscious placed before him. No doubt, they were there for a reason and he figured it was better to acknowledge them than to deny their presence by ignoring them.

Alone but for those that he imagined were present in his room, it was now that he finally understood the cliché, the quiet was deafening, because the sad silence of having no one there visiting him interfered with the focused concentration of his thoughts. Perhaps, the reason why he imagined that everyone he knew was there was because no one was and he missed them all so very much. Yet, strangely enough, as if they were all there now, he heard their voices.

There were always voices that he heard in his head and, as the years passed, it became so impossibly more difficult to place the voice with the face. Sometimes unable to distinguish if the voices were real or not, the voices that he heard from his past always haunted him in the present. Who are all these people that once sounded and looked so familiar? Alone with his bad self and bothered by his troubled mind, he couldn’t even concentrate enough to open the photograph album he held in his hands and focus long enough to look at some old pictures. For sure, he needed another sip of his drink to quell his nerves and stop his hands from shaking.

Hearing himself swallowing, the warm liquor heated his chest and momentarily stopped his shaking and quaking. It was so quiet that he could hear his heart beating in his chest. It was so quiet that he could hear all the voices of all the people he forgot about then and suddenly remembered now, as if they were all truly here in the room with him. In a raucous roar with them all talking at the same time, as if they were surely all there in the room with him, when he closed his eyes, as if merely turning off the light, he hushed their voices and they disappeared. Then, sadly alone again, it was so quiet again that, for the first time, he felt so lost and so lonely by the stark realization that he had no one that cared enough about him to call him or to see how he was doing on Christmas that he opened his eyes again. Living and sharing his life with ghosts from the past was much better than living his life alone.

Worse, devoid of bitterness and self-pity, he had no one to blame but himself. Those people that he thought he didn’t need then, he needed now. Those people he wished were gone from his life then, he wished they were here now. No doubt having something to do with his drinking and philandering that he did so long ago in his past, hoping that it wasn’t because he was a black man in a white man’s world, for the life of him, he couldn’t remember why he was mad at them or why they were mad at him. Not wanting to be alone, never wanting to be alone, all that he knew was that he was alone now and he missed them.

Holding his scotch in one hand, as if afraid to let go, afraid his drink would leave him, disappear in thin air, as did everything and everyone else who left him, he was so timidly fearful of misplacing his drink in the way he constantly misplaced his car keys and his eyeglasses. Was he losing his mind? Is this how Alzheimer’s feels, lucid one second and lost within yourself the next?

He took a long sip of his drink and finished the contents of the glass, before pouring himself another and, hoping to take the edge off, he poured himself a double this time. Maybe it would help, if he got good and drunk. Maybe it would help, if he forced himself not to remember. Maybe it would help, if he suddenly had amnesia or really did have Alzheimer’s disease. If having Alzheimer’s would make him forget all of those faces and not hear all those voices that haunted him every day and every night in his dreams, then he’d welcomed the disease.

No doubt, the alcohol relaxed him from the madness of his days of despair and from the lunacy of a life that plagued and now haunted him from his first relationship to his last. After having dated so many white women, more white women than he could even remember, before marrying two of them, he didn’t know why he had the need to continue to have so many affairs, even after being married to two, beautiful, blonde, busty, white women. He wondered where all of those women that he so desired enough to cheat on his wives with then were now. Knowing full well that they wouldn’t, he wondered if they looked as good now as they did then, when he had sex with them so many years ago. Glad that he never ran into any of them again, especially when with one of his wives, it was better remembering how they used to look than ruining his fantasy of yesterday with the reality of how they look today.

With two children from each marriage that gave him seven grandchildren, he should have a houseful of children opening Christmas presents, but he didn’t. With many more friends than family, he should have his family making him breakfast and his friends stopping by for a cup of coffee or for a drink to wish him a Merry Christmas, but he didn’t have that either. Sadly, he had no one there to celebrate the holiday with him. Just not the same celebrating the holiday alone, the one day that he should be surrounded by family and friends, he was alone on Christmas day, of all days.

“Merry Christmas to me,” he said raising his glass in toast of no one.

With a home fully decorated for the holidays that always had a big holiday wreath on an open door for friends and for family, and with a huge collection of Christmas cards that were prominently displayed throughout the house downstairs every year, his house was devoid of holiday decorations now. Maybe because he stopped sending them, no one even thought enough of him to send him a Christmas card. He shouldn’t be all alone for Christmas now, as he was for Thanksgiving, but he was. He couldn’t even remember what he ate that holiday or if he ate at all. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had a Christmas tree. With no one there to celebrate the holiday with him, just as there was no reason for him to cook a big Thanksgivings Day dinner then, there was no reason to have a Christmas tree now. He tried decorating a tree the first year he was alone but, as if the ornaments were haunted, too, with every ornament saving a special, sad memory, decorating the tree was more a lesson in torture than it was in pleasure.

Now that he’s experienced too many of holidays alone, special occasions weren’t the same without family and friends. Sadly, now, holidays are just another day, when alone and lonely. For sure, after all he did to help his friends in bad times, if not surrounded by relatives for one reason or another, he should at least be surrounded by friends. Only, the closeness of friends and the relationships of friendships loses much in the translation, when he stopped going out to visit them and when he stopped inviting them to his home. Having taken everyone for granted, when his life was going so well, along with the personal visits, eventually the telephone calls and the e-mails stopped, too. Having taken the time to learn how to Twitter but, without having anyone to Twitter, no one Twittered him. Other than to call someone when there was an emergency, he didn’t even know why he had a cell phone.

As if his account had been terminated, no one visited his Facebook page in years. No one wrote anything on his wall. When others boasted of all the Facebook friends they had, he had none. Angry with hurt, he pulled his Facebook page and closed his account. Unfortunately, that action spited no one but himself. Now, with his cyber link to humanity closed, he only felt more isolated. With him feeling so abandoned, but for the memories of the good times that he had and the laughter he once shared, as a sad albeit realistic end, with all the food and booze he put out, he wished he had all that money he wasted for their entertainment.

“Where’d everyone go? Why is it so damn quiet? Why am I so lonely and so alone? What did I do that was so wrong to make everyone hate me and abandon me? Hello?” He looked around the room. “Hello? Is there anyone here? Hello? I need someone to talk to and someone to give me a hug. I need a friend to tell me that everything will be alright,” he thought to himself without verbalizing any of it this time.

He divorced his wives, alienated his children, and lost contact with his relatives and friends. Always, the end of one relationship started another. Always, as if someone had died, the end of one relationship took him time to grieve over the death of it. Only, the new relationship was never as large and as loving as the old one lost. Always, the end of one relationship cut ties to those mutual friends he shared with his ex-wife. Always, he had to make new friends, until he was just too damn tired to care and to take the time to develop what warranted as a friendship. No longer could he give the effort to start all over again with new people in his life, people who would, one day, no doubt, abandon him, too.

Now, he just didn’t care, he told himself, when he thought that he did. Everything he built brick by brick, when he was younger, with everything he needed put in place that gave him a happy home and a rich life, somehow was dismantled and destroyed brick by brick, as he grew older. A side effect of living life large, blindsided by the jealousy of others less fortunate, he was too deterred with living his life to see that his life, as he knew it, was ending. While riding the high of the drug alcohol and excited by the sex, he never saw the loneliness coming, until it was too late and already there.

When he was younger, he never thought he’d be alone when he was older, as he was so alone now. When he was younger, he figured his life would be the same when he was older, only better, in the way that Jimmy’s Stewart’s life was, when he played George Bailey opposite Donna Reed’s character, Mary Hatch, in It’s a Wonderful Life. Surrounded by old, close, and trusted friends, imagining he’d live the good life retired, he figured he’d have his wife by his side and his children regularly visiting with his grandchildren, too.

Unfortunately, he never stoked the fires to maintain the heat of his relationships. Regrettably, instead of alcohol and sex, he now knew too late that family and friends are what kept him entertained and busy, that is, when he had family and friends in his life, who cared enough about him to do that. Even though he should have, he never saw this lonely day coming, but it did and here it was. Now, with the promise of living a good life gone, Michael faced the reality of living the rest of his days alone and lonely. He wrestled with the reality of becoming the mean and miserable man his father had become, when Michael finally had enough of him and abandoned him, too, in the way that everyone has abandoned him now.

Unable to feel the sad depression that made a whiskey bottle his father’s only friend, he finally understood what it must have been like for his Dad and he wished he could have helped him then, in the way that he wished someone would reach out and help him now. What comes around goes around. Realizing now that the money he had then bought many of his friendships and cemented his family relationships, he was depressed, despondent, and disillusioned that the love of money superseded the love of people.

“Merry Christmas to me,” he said again holding up his drink in toast of no one but himself, while thinking that he was turning into his father.

If not friends, at least he still had money but he’d trade whatever money he had to have his family and friends back in his life. Now with no one there but voices and shadows of faces to interrupt his thoughts, never having the time before and/or taking the time now to look at it, he remembered putting this personal photograph album that he now held aside. Vaguely, he remembered briefly scanning the pages, when he first received the album, so long ago. How many years ago, he didn’t even know. He truly had forgotten he even had it, until now, when he discovered it in the back of the closet, while looking for something else, he remembered.

Too busy living life, he was having better days to not need the warmth of the memories hidden within. For sure, these memories weren’t as important to him then, as they were now. Now, the photograph album was his last lifeline, the thread that grounded him, and the support that saved him from the lunacy of feeling forgotten. The pictures were his evidence, his documented and detailed proof that he had once lived life large, instead of hiding himself in this room.

Contained within, a permanent record of his life, these were his official, private moments frozen in time with the mere click of a camera lens. After everyone and everything else was gone, he was grateful for these photos. Yet, with a feeling of dread, as if it was Pandora’s box, afraid to open it, afraid of what memories he’d unleash and what emotions he’d surely feel, he paused before opening the book. As if tracing the features of one of his children with his finger, as if pushing back a strand of their blonde, silky hair, as he watched them sleep so innocently, he slowly ran his fingers over the soft, leather cover, before opening the page that he truly didn’t remember turning until now.

“Someone surely went through a lot of trouble to amass all of these photos in honor of me,” he said looking up at all the faces that he imagined were there from the shadows that his little light cast upon his walls. “Someone truly loved me to go through all of this trouble,” he said nodding his head. His eyes welled up with water remembering all of those people, wives, girlfriends, lovers, friends, family, his children, and his grandchildren, who once loved him, as he’ll always love them.

Now, but for the memories he had from these photographs, the people behind them were all gone. He had no one to blame for the loss of them but himself. Other than to blame time, he had no excuse. When his life was too busy with work, too busy drinking and cheating, he never had enough time for those who truly loved him. Then, just when he pulled himself out of the mad, daily rush, just when he took a moment to relax and took a breath to reflect, he watched the seconds slowly tick by, tick, tick, tick, tick. Constantly, continually, he heard the tick, tick, ticking of time, his time. What he thought ticked by so slowly in his youth, now, in a blink of an eye, ten years, twenty years, thirty years passed and all the things he thought he did yesterday and all the things he said he’d do tomorrow were things he did forty years ago and things that he now would never have enough time to do.

Where did the time go? Either too busy or too drunk, he wasn’t present during all that time, was he? With no second chance to go back and correct his mistakes, his time was now nearly over. With no certainty of the future, all he has left of his time on Earth was the past and his memories associated with this photograph album.

For a man who thought he was living life large with a loving wife, a beautiful home, and two new cars, it came to a crashing end, when he had one too many affairs. Then, when he divorced his first wife to marry his second wife, he thought his life was perfect again with a loving wife, a beautiful house, and two new cars. Four children and seven grandchildren should guarantee him a place in someone’s heart. Yet, just as there was no one here on his birthday, on Thanksgiving, and now on Christmas day, there was no one here to testify that he was loved and needed. If he was anything, he was forgotten and despised. If he was anything, he was sorry for all the wrongs he had done. As he harbored no hate for anyone, it hurt his heart for him to think that his friends and family hated him.

Sadly, he didn’t appreciate the effort of those who made the photo album, until now. Unbelievably, he didn’t appreciate these photographs and these forgotten memories until now. As if he was a dying man from lack of food and water, these memories of his life past was the food and the water that he needed to nourish him and return him to life. Reveling in the past, a time before he dirtied his air with drunkenness and sexual affairs, surrounded by people who truly loved him, the past had clean air for him to breathe. Putting aside all the bad and despicable things he had done and forgetting, for a moment, all the people he had hurt, he needed to relive the memories that were within this album to remember and to continue living his life.

Thinking the book came from the back of his closet, where this photo album came from, he really didn’t know. He couldn’t remember. Magically, as if from out of nowhere, this album just appeared and was there sitting on his lap, when he needed it the most. Certainly, as he’d never even do this for himself, it was, no doubt, a gift from someone, but who? His wife? Which one? His children? Which ones? He didn’t know. Sadly, he should know who loved him enough to give him this thoughtful of a gift, but he couldn’t remember.

With all of the material things he had accumulated in life, the money, the houses, the furniture, the jewels, the watches, the cars, the clothes, the toys, and all the things that he thought he cherished and needed, now for him to be left with nothing but this photograph album was a sad joke that someone played on him. It was as if, by looking through the photographs, he graphically needed to see what was of real importance to him in his life. As if saved in a time capsule, he realized now that he didn’t need anything other than these pictures that were captured on film. He didn’t need anything other than the memories that were associated with these photos and contained within this album. With many of them dead and forgotten, as he would be one day soon, too, if only he had the people behind the pictures still in his daily existence, his life would be complete.

“I get it. I finally get it,” he said to himself, as if the sudden clarity of thought was an epiphany and his eureka. “I understand that I wasted my life on meaningless things and lost out on all the truly important things in life.”

He knew now that there was nothing more important to him than this photograph album. He knew now that there was nothing that was manufactured in America, handmade in Italy, engineered in Germany, and/or mass produced in China that meant more to him than what he now held in his hands. It was the memories behind these photographs that mattered to him more than money, more than mere things, and more than anything else. Only, too late, he had already missed out on so much, too much of his life. Seemingly, he had everything before and truly, he had nothing now, but for this photograph album.

He opened the cover and the first picture was a black and white photograph of his mother and father holding him as a baby. If only he somehow knew then all that he knew now, he would have made the changes to his life that would have guaranteed him not being so alone today. If only he heeded this photograph, as a symbol of how he should have lived his life with true love, instead of by random sex, he would have been a happier man. Yet, not having learned the lesson from his father, like father like son, his father was a drinker and a philanderer, too, and ended up alone, just as he is now. If only he could have a second chance to live his life over again, as the ghost of Christmas past gave Scrooge a second chance to amend all that he did wrong, he surely wouldn’t be sitting here now looking at a mere photograph album. He’d be living life large and, no doubt, happier surrounded by his family and friends.

Even though he had seen it a hundred times before, as if seeing it for the first time, he looked at the photo of his long deceased parents holding him as a baby. In the way that he should have looked at and felt about his children, he saw the look of love and pride that his parents had for him. Instead, taking up too much of his time, babies bothered him. Interrupting his sleep, when he had work the next day, babies, as was much of his relationships, were too often a bothersome and tiresome nuisance. Overwhelmed with sadness of how he could totally screw up his life after only 65 years, he could feel the tears welling up in his eyes for all the good times that he lost for the sake of work and for the sake of making money to buy more things. Having forsaken the really important people in his life, his family, his friends, and especially his children, he now suffered the decisions, sacrifices, choices, and mistakes he made.

So very long ago, a time right after the world war, everything has come a long way since that little Brownie box camera. Flipping another page was as if he had skipped over years of his life, he paused to fill in the gaps between the pictures with his memories that he still remembered but that were never captured on film. Not much more than 4 years old, the next photo showed him wearing his General Eisenhower, five star general’s cap, his all-time favorite hat to wear. Another photo, when he was not much older than the previous one, showed him sitting in Santa’s lap. A time of innocence lost, he wished he still believed in Santa Claus. He wished, just by being good, he could get back all that he now wanted and needed in the way he had lost all that he wanted and needed by being bad.

Maybe because it was so very important to him then, but in the way that children today ask for video games, their own cell phone, and a personal computer, he remembered telling Santa that he wanted a cowboy hat and guns. He was gratified to know that he got his wish, when he turned the page and the next photo showed him attired in his cowboy hat and six shooters. Only, he couldn’t remember if he was supposed to be Gene Autry, “Back in the saddle again,” or Roy Rogers, “Happy Trails to you,” or the Lone Ranger, “Hi Ho, Silver!”

No matter, he remembered all the fun he had playing cowboys and Indians. When he bought his sons, Robert and William, six shooters, he remembered all the flack he took from his ex-wives, when both told him that the toy guns would make them turn out violent. Disproving that fallacy, never having fired a real gun, even with guns being his favorite toy, he grew up never owning a real gun and never turning violent. Even though his sons shared his love for toy guns, they didn’t turn out to be violent gun crazed killers either.

Then, there were the uniform photos, Cub Scouts, Little League, Boy Scouts, Explorer, Pony League baseball, inner-city basketball, Pop Warner football, and collegiate hockey. He harbored dreams of being a baseball, basketball, football, and hockey player but, instead, was satisfied to get a good job right out of college working as a top salesman in a shoe store. Eventually, he ended up buying the shoe store and opening up more than one hundred shoe stores. From player, to dreamer, to sports fan, he never thought he’d lose interest in watching a ballgame but, along the way with so much else in his life going so terribly wrong, he did.

Then, there were all those prom photos. A time before his need to have sex with blonde, beautiful, busty, white women, he dated a bevy of bodacious, black beauties. Only, just as he couldn’t remember now, he couldn’t remember then. Who were all those women? Not even remembering their names, he remembered more what they did in the back seat of a ’59 Chevy Biscayne, a ’61 Pontiac Tempest, a ’63 Chevrolet Impala SS, red with white seats Boy, except for being careful not to get the woman pregnant, those were the real days of free sex, fast cars, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll.

Perhaps, because of the advent of the birth control pill, unlike the women of today who will freely give it up without a fight and suck his cock, without even so much as exchanging their last names, it was different back then. Whether it was verbal and/or physical, it was always a challenging contest, a welcomed and exciting battle, and sometimes a furious fight that he fought to win the coveted goods of some of the women who were unwilling to give up their virginity, so easily and so quickly. He remembered how some women didn’t want him to touch them between their legs, but would allow him to grope their breasts, while kissing them. Others allowed him to unbutton their blouses, remove their breasts from their bras, and even suck their nipples, but wouldn’t allow him to do much more else than that.

It wasn’t long before he discovered which women would go all the way. It wasn’t long before he discovered not only which women would give him blowjobs but also which women would swallow, a big deal back in his day. At a time when he still lived at home with his parents and couldn’t afford to get a room because he spent whatever money he had attending college, blowjobs were much easier to receive in the backseat of a Camaro or a Mustang than twisting his body and turning his long legs in a comfortable enough position to have intercourse.

Albeit hushed and whispered about back then and not broadcasted, as they do today with posting nude pictures online and with every celebrity making her sex tape public, he never had as many blowjobs as he received in the backseat of a car, after a prom or during a drive-in movie, as he did back then, during the promiscuous sixties. Even the nice girls back then, the ones who never cussed, were quick to unzip him and stroke him, before taking him in their mouths to suck him. Even cumming in their mouths and them swallowing wasn’t the problem that it became, once they had a ring on their finger and once they were married to him with children.

He turned another page to see the photo of his first wife, Susan. Seeing her pretty face again made him as happy as it made him sad. He touched the photo, as if he was touching her cheek. Wow. She was so young. She was so beautiful. She was such a nice woman, good wife, and great mother. If only she had sex with him more, if only she swallowed, he never would have cheated on her with his second wife, Christine.

Ready to be married, wanting to claim Susan as his own, so that no one else would take her, he was just a goofy, skinny, kid pretending to be a man, while dressed in a tuxedo. They had their first baby within a year, Robert, and then three years later, they had Julie. As if it was an out of focus collage of color and faces without memories, he looked at the photos of his children, his family, and his friends through different stages of their lives until, with him now out of the picture, the photos abruptly stopped, as if he had died. As if pulled out of their lives, denied his rights as a husband, father, and friend, he was always working, drinking, and carousing. Never taking the time off to be there for his kids’ birthday parties, dances, and sporting events, believing work and making money was more important than family and friends, he now realized how important those memories were and how much he had missed.

He turned the page to another woman, his sexual dream woman, Christine, and another life of forgotten memories. Wildly sexual, she was everything that Susan wasn’t in bed and everything that he thought he wanted, at the time. Blonde and buxom, he thought living life large was having sex every day, but when the sex stopped, so didn’t his attraction to Christine. Not possessing any commonsense, not having the intelligence, quick wit, and fun personality that his first wife, Susan, had, he realized too late that the only attractions he had to Christine were her big tits, her blowjobs, and nothing else.

Sitting on the couch alone with Christine and not even talking to one another, their marriage had a sad, restless, and frustrating emptiness that he remembered and still now felt. More interested in her hair, her nails, and her clothes, she wasn’t much companionship, unless she was in bed sucking his cock, while he fondled her big breasts and fingered her erect nipples. If he could do it all over again, he’d trade a thousand days with Christine for one day with Susan. Yet, Christine not only gave him hot sex, some of the best sex he ever had, she gave him beautiful children, their daughter Emma and their son William.

He perused the photos of Emma and William as children without feeling the pride and joy he felt looking at the photos of Robert and Julie, and as his parents did, so long ago, while holding him and looking at him as a baby. Somehow, except for the sex, he felt more connected to his first wife and to his first children, than he did to his second marriage and to the children that he had with Christine. It was then that he realized that because he didn’t love their mother, Christine, in the way that he obviously loved and still loved his first wife, Susan, he cheated Emma and William out of all the good memories that he shared with Robert and Julie.

If he thought he had cheated Robert and Julie out of memories because he was working, drinking, and carousing, the memories he shared with Emma and William were even less. That epiphany of disconnected emotions made him sad and angry. He never should have cheated on Susan. She was his first love and his true love. With all the sexual attention he received from Christine, he never should have cheated on her either. Yet, that realization of love lost, especially in his relationships with Susan and Christine, already feeling bad that he didn’t pay his children from his first marriage the attention they deserved, made him feel sorry that he didn’t pay his children from his second marriage the attention that he should have paid them and that they deserved, as well. Knowing now that he could never make that up to any of them, he’d apologize if he could.

“I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry,” he said holding his hand in his head, while weeping.

Then, there were all the photos of his friends at parties, dinners, baseball games, football games, basketball games, hockey games, concerts, graduations, and special events. Good times that should evoke a flood of memories, he looked at the photos, as if they were the photos of someone else. So many photos and so many friends that, even though he recognized many of their faces as vaguely familiar, he couldn’t remember their names. Now that he’s alone, where are they all now? Why is there no one with him now? What did he do to deserve being so alone and lonely? Why does everyone hate him? Is it because he’s a black man that had tried to live in a white world by marrying two blonde, beautiful, busty, white women and having four children and seven grandchildren of mixed race?

“Time for your medication, Mr. Cross,” said the nurse entering his room unannounced.

Young, tall, blonde, beautiful, and so very busty, that she’d make women question if her breasts were real or surgically altered, the Caucasian nurse walked in his private room, as if she owned the place and as if she was in control of everyone who visited his room. More acting like the lady of the house than just a mere nurse in a nursing home, she was met with a cold stare from his friends and relatives, and especially from his ex-wives, Susan and Christine. With his reputation preceding him, they suspected he had hand selected this nurse with special attention not only because she was a blonde, beautiful, busty, white woman but also, no doubt, for her willingness to accommodate his healthcare needs, along with his still very active sexual needs. Unlike him to seek out women that weren’t his age, was he now hoping to recapture his youth, by having an affair with a much younger woman? No doubt, already jealous with an obvious protective rage seething, both Susan and Christine suspected he was already having sexual relations with his nurse.

“Medication? I’m drinking my medication,” he said with a laugh. “Scotch. Cheers,” he said taking a big gulp.

“Scotch? Give me that,” she said grabbing the cup from his hand. “You’re not supposed to have alcohol with the medication you’re taking,” said the nurse sniffing it, before tasting it. “This isn’t scotch. It’s water,” she said with a relieved laugh.

“Yeah, well, with me having Alzheimer’s disease, what does it matter if I drink scotch or water? Having more fun pretending it’s scotch, in a few minutes I won’t remember what I drank or if I even had a drink. In a few minutes, I’ll be thirsty all over again,” said Michael with a sad laugh, “and won’t remember that I had too much to drink, until I pee the bed.”

“I see you have company,” said the nurse, as if she hadn’t noticed them all, until now. She smiled a rehearsed, plastic smile at everyone who crowded the small room. “Normally we don’t allow this many family and friends in a patient’s room, but with this being Christmas Day and his doctor already gone home to celebrate the holiday, I think we can make this the exception,” she said collecting her medication cart. “I’ll return, after your guests leave, Mr. Cross, to give you your medication,” she said fixing his bed and fluffing his pillow before leaving.

“Thank you for the photo album,” said Michael to all his family and friends who were there to celebrate Christmas with him. “This was the best Christmas gift you could have given me,” he said clutching the album to his chest and quietly sobbing.

“You’re welcome, Michael,” said his first, white, ex-wife, Susan, leaning down to give him a kiss and a hug.

“You’re welcome, Michael,” said his second, white, ex-wife, Christine, leaning down to give him a kiss and a hug, too.

With the nurse taking her sweet time to leave the room and turning her head back around to look at Susan and Christine again, before finally leaving, both of Michael’s ex-wives watched the nurse with jaundiced eyes leave Michael’s room.

“Who’s she?” Susan waited for Michael to answer her question.

“Who?” Michael looked at Susan with a vacant stare.

“That blonde, pretty woman who just left. The one with the big tits,” she said putting a hand on her hip and scowling at her ex-husband, as if they were still married and intimate with one another.

“She’s the nurse,” said Michael with a shrug. “I don’t remember her name. All that I know is she’s nice to me,” he said with a soft smile, as if having a flashback of how nice the nurse really was to him.

“Yes, of course, I know she’s your nurse, but I don’t remember her being your nurse. I would have remembered her being your nurse,” she said under her breath. “The last time we were all here for Thanksgiving, you had an older, shorter, and overweight nurse,” said Christine jumping in on Susan’s conversation with a shared flash of protective jealousy. “What’s her name?”

“Who?” Michael looked at Christine with eyes that would make anyone question, if he even knew who she was.

“Never mind,” said Christine.

“Get better, Dad,” said his children, Robert, Julie, Emma, and William nearly in chorus and leaning down to give him hugs.

“We love you, Grandpa,” said his seven grandchildren giving him hugs and kisses.

“Take care, Michael. Merry Christmas,” said the rest of his friends and family leaving the hospital room to give him the privacy and rest he so needed.

After Michael’s family and friends left, his nurse came into his private room and locked the door.

“Scoot over, Michael,” she said crawling in bed beside him. “You didn’t tell them about me, did you?”

“Tell who?”

“Your family, goofy. I’m sorry that I intruded but I just had to meet them, especially your ex-wives. The tall blonde is very pretty. Is that the one you told me about? The one that loved sucking your cock,” she said reaching down to grab Michael’s cock through the sheet. “Is that Christine?”

“Christine? Yeah. That’s Christine.”

“She has big tits like me,” said the nurse unbuttoning her uniform top and puffing out her chest. “Both your wives have big breasts.” She took his hand in hers and stuck his big hand inside her uniform. “Who’s tits do you like better, Michael, my tits or their tits?”

“I love your tits,” said Michael feeling her breasts through her bra. “You have big, firm breasts.”

“I know you love my tits,” said the nurse looking down at Michael’s hand, before looking up at him to give him a kiss. “But who am I?”

“Who are you?” Michael looked at her and laughed, but the nurse didn’t return his laugh. “Don’t you know who you are? Maybe you’re the one who should be in this hospital bed, instead of me.” He looked at her, as if seeing her for the first time.

“Very funny, Michael, but who am I? Seriously, what’s my name? Do you know? Do you know who I am? Who am I, Michael?”

“Don’t you know your name? Did you hit your head?”

“Michael. You don’t remember my name, do you?”

“Sorry, but I don’t remember,” said Michael suddenly looking sad and confused.

“I’m Xana, your nurse, silly. I’m the one who sucks your cock,” she said reaching her hand down to fondle him through the sheet, again. “I’m the one you’re taking home to care for you, when they release you next month. Do you remember me now, Michael? I’m your good, little cock sucker. Now that’s something you can’t forget, after putting a hand to the back of my head and cumming in my mouth.”

“Yes, I remember who you are now,” said Michael with a nervous little laugh.

“Good. Don’t forget, you must ask for me, before they discharge you. You must hire me to exclusively care for you.”

“Oh,” he said, while watching her hand fondle his growing erection through the sheet.

Then, Xana pushed the sheet aside and reached in his boxer shorts. She grabbed hold of his penis, pulled it out, and stroked him.

“How does that feel, Michael? Does that feel good? Do you like it, when I give you a hand job?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to suck you, Michael?”

“Yes, I’d like for you to suck me. I’d like that very much.”

“Ask me nicely, then.”

“Please suck my cock.”

“And what will you do for me?”

“I’ll hire you as my private nurse.”

“Would you like to cum in my mouth, Michael,” smiled Xana.

“Yes, I would…” he said pausing and suddenly forgetting her name again.

“Xana,” she said. “My name is Xana. I’d like to think you’d at least remember the name of the woman who regularly sucks your cock,” she said leaning down and taking him in her mouth. She was sucking him now, really sucking him.

“I know who you are, Xana,” he said lightly stroking her soft, blonde hair, in the way he ran his fingers across the top page of the photo album.

You’re the woman who wants my money, he thought to himself without verbalizing it. You’re the woman who’s daft enough to think that I’d give you any of my money. After wasting too much of my money on affairs and mistresses, my family has already arranged that I’m protected from women like you.

“I love sucking your cock, Michael. I really do,” she said making a gagging face and looking, as if she was about to vomit. Only, instead of enjoying it, Michael didn’t see that she was repulsed by sucking his cock. “You have such a big, hard prick, Michael. I just love sucking your cock. If you hire me to care for you in your home, I can suck your cock every day. Would you like that, Michael? Would you like me to suck your cock everyday?”

“Stop talking and just suck my cock, Xana. Suck it.”

“Merry Christmas, Michael.”

“Merry Christmas, Xena. Now shut up and suck me.”

“Okay,” she said taking his prick deeper in her mouth, while, no doubt, thinking that she had struck gold in sucking off this elderly, black man on Christmas Day.

Do you know what the most frightening thing on Earth is? Go ahead and guess. Think about it. I bet you don’t know what the most frightening thing on Earth is.

What is the most frightening thing on Earth? Is it something living or something dead? We all have something that terrifies us, what terrifies you?

God forbid, something happens to our children, an accident or an illness, is frightening. Our wives or girlfriends having a scare with breast cancer is horrifying. Our husbands or boyfriends having an accident at work or getting in a car accident is frightening. Our parents having a stroke, a heart attack, or getting cancer is frightening, too. Yet, assuming our children, our wives, our girlfriends, our husbands, our boyfriends, and our parents are all healthy, what is the most frightening thing on Earth?

A Grizzly bear is frightening, when coming upon one in the woods? They can rip your head off with just one swipe of their paw. As if appearing from out of nowhere, a Polar bear that materializes against the white background of ice and snow is frightening, too?

Other than being at Sea World, imagine being in the water with an Orca whale or a Great White shark? Either one of those can bite you in two with one bite. Attracting dozens of them, they can smell blood from two miles away.

What about birds? You wouldn’t think that a little bird would be frightening, but there are people who have a phobia of things that fly, such as a bat. For those who fear birds, big birds, how about an Eagle, a Vulture, or a Condor? Hawks have been known to carry off small pets. Any of those birds can tear the skin from your bones and actually pick you clean. Certainly, if you’re not already dead, that’s a horrible way to die. Fortunately for you, birds only eat dead things.

What about bugs? Are you afraid of bugs? Lots of people hate bugs. Imagine waking up and your floor is so thick with cockroaches that it appears that you have a black, moving rug. Your walls appear as if you have moving artwork and your ceiling is a sea of the giant pests. Now a roomful of cockroaches would be frightening to everyone, except for an entomologist or maybe to a Navy Seal. Having seen it all and done it all, those dudes are crazy.

How about a swarm of bees or millions of biting ants? With no place to run and no place to hide, that’s crazy frightening? How about a Black Widow or a Recluse spider? Unless you have some anti spider poisonous serum handy, you don’t want to be bitten by one of those, especially if your immune system is already compromised with another illness. For that matter, you don’t want to be bitten by any one of dozens of poisonous snakes that slither around the Earth. If snakes and spiders scare you, I suggest you stay away from the south west of the United States and all of Australia, especially the outback.

We haven’t even broached some of the more dangerous animals and reptiles, such as lions, tigers, hippos, crocodiles, and alligators. All of those things are deadly to humans. So, tell me, now that we have a list of scary things, what living thing scares you?

Now that we considered some of the most frightening living things on Earth, what about the dead? Without doubt, there are a lot of dead things that are frightening. What about a ghost? Do you believe in ghosts? Are you afraid of ghosts?

How about a ghoul or a goblin? Certainly, a ghost, ghoul, or a goblin would scare the bejesus out of me, especially if I were lying in bed in the dark. I can only imagine if I was staying overnight in an unfamiliar place, in someone’s house or if I was a guest at a hotel that appeared haunted. Now, that would be frightening suddenly feeling the presence of a ghost or seeing a ghoul or a goblin.

What about witches? Do you believe there are witches? If you don’t believe in witches, you should. There are lots of witches roaming the Earth. Are you afraid of witches, especially wicked witches? If you’re not afraid of wicked witches, then you should be. There’s no telling what a witch can do, especially a wicked witch. Some say Oprah is a witch, albeit a good witch, most times. We all already know that Sarah Palin, Hillary Clinton, and Michele Bachmann are witches.

Then there are all those vampires and werewolves to worry about. Have you ever seen a vampire and/or a werewolf? Except for your ex-wife or ex-husband, ex-boyfriend or ex-girlfriend, have you ever had your life’s blood sucked from your body by a vampire or a werewolf?

I know what frightens you. Everyone is afraid of the Devil. Right? Are you? The Devil can take on any form. The dangerous thing about the Fallen Angel is that you’d never know when you are being tested and tempted by Satan. You’d never know if it was the Devil or your mother-in-law.

So, tell me, what frightens you? Because, to me, are you ready? The most frightening thing on Earth is…

* * * * *

“It’s Halloween night. It’s dark and it’s spooky. All that’s needed to complete the eerie atmosphere and the frightful illusion of the Halloween holiday is a full moon and a witch on a broom,” said John, an unemployed accountant, to his friend Bob, an unemployed production worker.

“I hate Halloween. As if ever little sound is suddenly amplified, being out here in the dark gives me the heebie jeebies,” said Bob rubbing his crew cut, as if he had just emerged from the barbershop at boot camp. “I can’t help feel that I’m on reconnaissance patrol in Iraq, instead of walking the street of my neighborhood.”

“You’re right, Bob. Undeniably, there’s something in the air. Listen,” said John leaning his tall, lean body to the air to give his ear a listen. “Can you hear it?”

“Yes,” said Bob. “It’s spooky. What is it? ”

“Wait,” said John. “As if it’s a premonition of something about to happen, can you feel it? Look,” he said offering up his arm. “I have goose bumps.”

“Yeah, I can feel something alright,” said Bob rubbing his arms with fear. “What in the Hell is that?”

“Shh. Be quiet. Don’t make a sound,” said John. “They can hear you. They are listening. I can feel them listening. They always listen to whatever we say.”

“Oh, my God, now you’re really scaring me,” said Bob holding onto John’s arm. “Who can hear me? Where are they? What are they?”

“They are everywhere. They can see you. They watch us night and day. We’re always under surveillance. We’re always being watched. We can’t go anywhere without them seeing us and listening to us.”

“Oh, my God, John. Oh, my God. I just felt something crawling on me and it wasn’t of this Earth,” said Bob.

“Calm down, Bob. You’re afraid, but don’t be,” said John. “Everyone fears the wrong things in life. Everyone fears the dead, the unknown, and the things we can’t see.”

“I just hate creepy, crawling, dead things,” said Bob, “especially if those creepy, dead things are crawling on me,” he said rubbing his body all over, as if he had just walked through a giant spider web.

“My mother always said the dead can’t hurt you,” said John with calm assurance. “My mother always said not to fear the dead but to fear the living. She was right, you know,” he said looking over at his friend.

“Yeah, well, you’re mother is dead and if she suddenly appeared before me, trust me, I’d be afraid of her,” said Bob.

“The dead can no longer hurt you. It’s the living that can. And these things, the most frightening things on Earth, are not dead but are alive. All this time, we’ve been fearing the wrong things. We must learn to fear the living, Bob,” said John.

“Yeah, well, the dead can be pretty scary, too, especially if you can’t see them in the dark, John,” said Bob looking all around him.

“Everyone fears the shadows in the dark, the bumps in the night, and the howling in the distance. Yet, right there in front of us, right there in broad daylight, even captured on national television, magazines, and newspapers, there’s something lurking not only in the background but right in front of us that’s more horribly frightening than any monster you can possibly imagine.” said John.

“What is it? Is it Big Foot, the Abominable Snowman, Yeti? Or…is it (gulp) the missing link?”

“No, I can assure you, it’s nothing like that,” said John with smugness. “Even though we’ve yet to capture one to prove they even exist, Big Foot is not real but imagined.”

“What is it, then? Do you know what the most frightening thing on Earth is? Can you describe it to me?” Bob looked to his friend for answers.

“You can’t even imagine the horror that it is and can do,” said John, “that is, until it grabs you by the throat, turns you upside down, shakes out your pockets, and steals all of your money.”

“Money? It steals money? What the Hell is it that it knows enough to steal my money? Is it thieves?”

“Well, yes, they are thieves,” said John, “albeit legal criminals given our carte blanche to rob us blind.”

“Are they gang members?” Bob looked around him, as if expecting someone to jump from out of a bush.

“Gang members? Oh, you bet they are, without a doubt they are gang members,” said John with a sad laugh. “Thick as thieves, they all stick together with hundreds on one side and hundreds on the other side.”

“Is it the Mexican cartel?” Bob hung onto his friend’s arm.

“I only wish they were the Mexican cartel,” said John. “Unfortunately, this group of thieving and murdering criminals are much more violent, much more powerful, and much more lethal than mere drug lords and their posses. With machine guns in hand and bullets sprayed in every direction, at least, you’d see and hear the drug cartel coming. Unlike this group, you’d never see or hear them coming, until it’s too late.”

“Who are they? Tell me. I need to know to protect myself from them,” said Bob shaking with fear.

“Protect yourself? Don’t be silly. You can’t protect yourself from them,” said John. “Not only are they are too embedded and fully immersed in every day modern society but also they have the full power of the law on their side.”

“Is it the Mafia? La Costra Nostra? The Mob? Is that who you mean?”

“No, the Mafia fears them. Even the Mob is powerless against them.”

“For God sakes, just tell me who they are, so that I can hide, when they come for me and for my family,” said Bob quaking with apprehension.

“You can’t hide from them, Bob. You can’t run from them. As if an evil cult, they are more diabolical than the Devil,” said John.

“Oh, my God,” said Bob signing himself, while mumbling a prayer.

“They are more evil than wicked witches. They are even scarier than demons, ghouls, and ghosts. They are, without doubt and without exception, more frightening then werewolves and vampires,” said John looking at his friend with assurance, instead of with fear.

“Oh, my God. I’ll make my stand and fight them. I’m an American for God’s sakes,” said Bob sticking out his chest with pride. “I have a gun, several guns. I own an AK47. I’ll shoot them where they stand. I’ll blow off their frigging heads. Once a Marine, always a Marine. Semper Fi! I used to be and still am a Marine in heart, in mind, and in spirit,” said Bob standing his ground, as if making his stand on his street. “Hoorah!”

“Calm down, Bob. You can’t fight them. With the pen being more powerful than any gun you have, they are more powerful than a mama Grizzly bear protecting her children, more deadlier than a Great White shark smelling blood, and more relentlessly inescapable than a pack of hungry Gray wolves that haven’t eaten in two days and are tracking you, as if you’re their next meal. Without a doubt, they are the most frightening things walking on the Earth,” said John.

“Oh, my God! Who are they? Just tell me who they are. Do you know? Where are they? Just tell me where they are. What are they? Just tell me what they are,” said Bob showing signs of bravery.

“They gather in every city, mostly the capitols is where they feed. Their main cave, the place where you’ll find the most of them is right here in Washington, D. C.,” said John.

“Oh, my God. Oh, my God,” said Bob making the sign of the cross again and again. “They’re in Washington? Are they terrorists? Al Qaeda?”

“Even though Moslems would think that this American group are the true terrorists of the world, they are not terrorists or Al Qaeda,” said John.

“What are they? Are they human?”

“Human? No, they aren’t human. Humans have feelings. They don’t. Even if you kill one of them, even if you kill the leader, another leader is voted in to take his or her place,” said John.

“Are they animals? They must be animals, wild animals, natural born killers, just like my Rat terrier is a natural born killer,” said Bob.

“Oh, you bet they are killers,” said John. “They go right for the jugular, especially when they smell money.”

“What are they? Who are they? Tell me, John. I need to know,” said Bob.

“Come closer, so that everyone doesn’t hear and I’ll tell you who and what they are,” said John. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” said Bob stepping in closer to his friend.

“They are politicians,” said John. “Yes, our elected representatives are the most frightening things on the Earth. They are the most diabolical and the most evil people that you hope never to meet in person.”

“Politicians? Really? But, my senator gave me a pen, albeit with his name on it, and my representative gave me a coffee mug, albeit with her name on it, too,” said Bob.

“They can’t buy my loyalty with a pen or/and a coffee mug. I need more than that, Bob. I need a job,” said John.

“Me, too,” said Bob. “I asked my senator and my representative to help me with a job and that’s when they smiled at me, shook my hand, gave me a pen and a coffee mug, and directed me to the unemployment office. I stood in line with hundreds of others, who were just like me, out of work, out of money, and out of hope,” said Bob.

“See? I told you. Unfeeling, not caring, they are, as a group, scarier than demons, ghouls, and ghosts,” said John. “Without doubt, they are more frightening than werewolves and vampires, especially when pulling one of their all night sessions, where they give one another raises, just before they go on vacation, while the rest of us suffer without a job, without money, without a home, and without hope.”

“Yeah, they gave themselves raises twice this year. You’d think when the rest of us are struggling, when so many of us are out of work, that they wouldn’t rub their raises in our faces like that,” said Bob shaking his head with sadness. “You’d think they’d have more sensitivity to the plight of the middleclass.”

“Let me ask you this,” said John. “When was the last time you had a raise, Bob?”

“A raise? Gees, I can’t remember,” said Bob scratching his head. “It’s been a long time, years, when I was working, that is, since I had a raise,” said Bob with sadness.

“When was the last time you had a vacation?” John looked at his friend with understanding.

“A vacation? Ha! What’s that? Even when I was working, I couldn’t afford to lose the overtime by taking so much as a day off from work, again, that is, when I had a job, never mind a vacation,” said Bob with even more sadness.

“When was the last time you worked out in your private gym, had lunch in your member only restaurant, and played golf for free at the tee time that was most convenient for you? With the best healthcare in place, healthcare not even offered to us, if we could afford it, when was the last time a doctor came to your office to call on you, instead of you having to wait for an appointment and wait in his or her waiting room?”

“Wow, I never thought about those we elect to office in that way, but now I do,” said Bob.

“We all wish we had it as good as our (ahem) public servants, but we don’t. We’re all struggling, unnecessarily, I might add, at the hands of those we elected in good faith to represent our best interests and from those who have squeezed us tight enough to suck the life’s blood from out of the middleclass,” said John with growing frustration.

“Those assholes,” said Bob echoing John’s frustration.

“Yet, once we placed our hope and our trust in our elected officials, once they made it to Washington, and once they made their introductions and connections, we lost them to the betterment of themselves and to their party, instead of to the betterment of the people. The personal betterment of the politician first, party politics second, and people that sent them to Washington last. At our expense, they all must pay the piper to play the game of partisan politics,” said John with growing anger, “a game we never get to play.”

“Cocksuckers,” said Bob echoing John’s anger.

“Once they increased their staff budgets, once they opened their hands to bribery, their pockets to influence, and their campaign chests to favor special groups, they no longer represent the middleclass. Once twisted by the power, by serving on this committee and that committee, is when they put their agenda ahead of our agenda. Now a part of their own political machine, they don’t need us, the middleclass voter, anymore. Self-serving, insulated and self-contained, the only time we see them is when they want money for their campaign,” said John with insightfulness.

“No good dirty bastards and bitches,” said Bob.

“A fate worse than death, trust me, I’d rather confront the Devil, a witch, a demon, a ghoul, a ghost, a goblin, a werewolf, and/or a vampire than to run into my elected officials,” said John. “I’d rather listen to the broadcast warning system, testing signal for 24 hours a day, seven days a week, than to have to listen to our elected officials make another meaningless speech written by their speechwriter and not by them. We’re all tired hearing them double talking from out of both sides of their mouths, while waffling on this position and that position, depending upon which way the wind is blowing.”

“What do they do in Washington, anyway?” Bob looked to his friend for the answer.

“What do they do? I’ll tell you what the they do. They do nothing. Other than to help their friends and relatives to jobs and other than to steal from us, they do absolutely nothing for us. Just as we’re out of luck, out of money, and out of hope, they are out of touch, out of our reach, and out for themselves,” said John with more frustration and more anger.

“Dirty motherfuckers,” said Bob.

“While pointing the finger of blame at everyone else for their inability to do the job they were elected to do, what they do is to cause us more pain and more misery than any creature that prowls the Earth,” said John. “Be afraid of politicians, especially when it’s close to Halloween, close to reelection, and close to the time when they are all campaigning, having fund raisers, and enriching their campaign war chests.”

“Assholes,” said Bob. “No good dirty assholes.”

“Speaking of campaign war chests, did you know that even when not reelected our public servants are allowed to keep whatever monies they collected for their campaign as (ahem) expenses?”

“Seriously?”

“Guess who put that law in place during one of their midnight sessions, when we were sleeping and/or working and too damn tired to care?”

“No good sons of bitches and daughters of bastards,” said Bob raising a fist of frustration in the air.

“Did you know that many of these politicians have collected millions of dollars? We, many of us, who aren’t even paid for our untaken sick days and/or vacation time, that is, those of us that have jobs, our elected officials are allowed to walk away with their mega banks.”

“Tell me about it,” said Bob. “I had vacation time and sick days coming to me, when my company went out of business and laid me off from my job, just before the owner of the company bought himself and his wife brand new Cadillacs and took a vacation to the Cayman Islands.”

“Then, there are those greedy monsters, those super politicians, those politicians on steroids, sworn and determined to wreck havoc on the middleclass in favor of their rich friends and well heeled lobbyists,” said John with even more anger. “They receive all expense paid free vacations, I mean, sorry, junket trips for research, of course, in the way we receive a free pen at the bank. These politicians are the worst of all the professional politicians. They are called Republicans.”

“I hate Republicans more than I hate the New York Yankees and now the Texas Rangers,” said Bob. “Wait, free trips? When I can’t even afford the transit fare to take a train into the city, why do my elected representatives receive all expense paid free trips for them and their wives? Are you kidding me? I thought we elected them to work in Washington and not to run off to Bali?”

“Let me ask you this,” said John. “Other than a cough and a cold or a bad batch of STDs, when’s the last time anyone gave you anything for free? When was the last time anyone gave you an all expense paid, free trip? Being a politician is like winning the lottery daily. Being a politician is like being a rock star without needing to sing. By making laws that are for everyone but them, being a politician is having your cake and eating it, too.”

“Oh, my God, now that you mention it, I got a bad case of the clap, when I got with Cynthia from the old neighborhood,” said Bob scratching himself.

“Yet, I don’t care so much about what all our elected officials have and what they are given. Good for them, if they can receive free stuff by always leaving out their hand and grabbing whatever they can get. What pisses me off is what the rest of us don’t have and all that we’re begrudged,” said John. “Truth be told, politicians don’t want any of us to have anything. In the way that Bush Jr. and his billionaire pal, the United States Treasurer, Paulson, opened the Treasury doors for all their buddies and passed out billions of dollars without even recording who received how much, they want to hoard all of our money for themselves and for their cronies.”

“Yeah, I couldn’t believe it, when they did that, even though everyone was clamoring not to bail out the banks,” said Bob. “The fact that Bush and Paulson passed out all that money and didn’t even account for any of it is criminal. Why weren’t they arrested? Why aren’t they in jail?”

“Now the Republicans point the finger at Obama because of the deficit, when they gave all our money away to banks and insurance companies, as if bonuses for putting us in a recession. The Republicans are the ones who got us into another war we can’t win. The Republicans are the one who spent trillions of our tax dollars to benefit other countries, instead of spending that money here at home to give us all jobs,” said John.

“I wish I had a job,” said Bob. “It’s been years, since I brought home a weekly paycheck.”

“It’s not Obama’s fault. Bush was in office for 8 years wreaking his havoc, taking care of himself, and enriching his friends. Bush was the one who started the war with Iraq because of weapons of mass destruction he never found. Bush was the one who passed out all the undocumented TARP money, while Obama was the one who was trying to control what was going out the door,” said John.

“Unbelievable,” said Bob.

“Moreover, his father, Bush Sr., was in office for 12 years, 8 years as Vice President and 4 years as President. We, the middleclass, have suffered for 20 years under the Bush regime. It’s no surprise we’re in a recession with those two greedy bastards at the helm. When our graves were already dug by twenty years of Bushes, how is our plight Obama’s fault? How can we expect Obama to fix in 3 years, all that it took the Bushes and a Republican House and Senate to do in 20 years?”

“If you ask me,” said Bob, “I think Obama is doing a good job.”

“Trust me, what I’m saying will make a lot of Republican loyalist angry, especially when they are so quick to point their fingers at Obama for all the jobs he promised but didn’t deliver. Yet, let me ask you this, Bob,” said John.

“Ask me what?”

“What happened to all those jobs the Republicans promised us for decades by us not taxing big business, oil, insurance, and pharmaceutical companies, those companies who can more than afford to pay their fair share? Where are those newly created jobs that they’ve been promising us for 40 years, if we don’t raise taxes on big business? They said if we taxes big business that would surely stop job growth? Truth be told, we didn’t raise taxes on big business and truth be told they didn’t create any new jobs. We’re still waiting for those jobs to be created and it’s been 40 years of Republican lies,” said John.

“The check is in the mail and I won’t cum in your mouth, it just goes to show that we can’t trust the Republicans,” said Bob.

“What big business did, instead of creating jobs was to tighten their belts and increase their profits by laying off American employees and hiring and training foreign employees to replace them at a fraction of the American wages. Along with hundreds of other top companies, there’s no secret that General Electric is guilty of doing just that, closing their plants in the United States and moving them to Brazil, India, and other countries all over the world.”

“Jobs my ass,” said Bob picking up on John’s insightfulness and angry tone. “The only thing the Republican tax breaks created were mega million dollar bonuses for their top management, at the expense of the rest of us. The only other thing that the Republican tax breaks create are lucrative lobbying jobs for politicians, when we finally vote them out of office and pry their greedy hands away from the money trough. Anyone who isn’t earning more than $250,000 a year and votes a Republican in office is a moron and deserves what happens to them.”

“Herman Cain, a Republican running for President, wants to eliminate all deductions and loopholes in the present tax laws. It sounds like a good idea on the surface, that is, until you scratch the surface and dig deeper to see who will profit from his new tax laws and who will suffer from them,” said John. “He wants a flat 9% income tax for all individuals, even though the middleclass pays, on average, less than 8% now. He wants to raise the sales tax to 9%, even though we all pay much less in sales tax now with some states paying no sales tax. Then, he wants to tax corporate America a flat 9%, even though many corporations pay more than that now.”

“What’s wrong with this guy? Is he crazy? Is he drunk?” Bob shook his fist with a sudden rage.

“Guess who will be subsidizing his tax plan? The middleclass,” said John answering his own question. “Guess who will be paying more taxes, instead of less? The middleclass. Guess who will be paying less in taxes? Let’s just say that under his tax plan the rich will get richer and the poor will be poorer.”

“That’s just not fair,” said Bob.

“It sounds good. It sounds fair, but after closer examination, the middleclass will pay even more in taxes than what we pay now, while the big corporations will pay less.”

“Bastards, dirty bastards,” said Bob. “Bitches, dirty bitches.”

“Yet, with big business backing him to create spin ads that the average middleclass worker will misconstrue, misinterpret, and misunderstand, they’ll think that Herman Cain is on their side and working for them, the average man and woman, when he’s not. Sadly and unfortunately, with the middleclass looking for someone to champion their causes and to help their plight, they are willing to cast their hope to anyone, Democrat or Republican, it doesn’t matter, so long as they can get a job. Unfortunately, Cain’s proposal is a crazy enough idea to get him elected. Can you see a Cain/Perry ticket or a Perry/Cain ticket?”

“As long as I live, John,” said Bob, “I’ll never understand the success of the Republican party at the detriment of the middleclass. Who votes for all these Republicans, when all they do is to screw us over time and again? Are we all that stupid? Or too busy watching football and drinking beer and just don’t care? You’d think the middleclass voter would learn by now that the Republican party only cares about the wealthy and about big business.”

“When asked about those that don’t have a job and are unable to find work, Herman Cain said, and I quote, Don’t blame the banks. The banks have nothing to do with this failed economy.”

“What? Huh? Come again? Did he just say that the banks have nothing to do with this failed economy? Are you kidding me?” Bob looked at his friend with shocked disbelief.

“Then, why did we bailout the banks, Mr. Cain? After their Ponzi scheme of hedge funds and derivatives failed, why did the banks evict people from their homes and foreclose on all those houses? The banks were the ones who gave bad mortgages to people that never should have been approved,” said John.

“It was all just a scam,” said Bob.

“Countrywide Bank and Angelo Mozilo, another one of Bush’s buddies, was responsible for 20% of all the questionable mortgages given. Countrywide Bank gave low interest and no interest loans to every politician who closed their eyes to what they were doing, while they earned huge profits and ruin the country. Why wasn’t Mr. Mozilo arrested and thrown in jail? Why weren’t Bush and Paulson and every Senator who took bribes to close their eyes thrown in jail? They all knew what Countrywide was doing was just building a house of cards,” said John.

“Without doubt, it was the banks that started the huge downhill collapse of the stock markets,” said Bob was just as angry as John.

“Those out of work should just get off their lazy asses and get a job, said Cain, as he climbed in his brand new, gas guzzling SUV,” said John.

“Get a job? What job? There are no jobs,” said Bob. “If I was there, when he made that remark, I would have bitch slapped him. Those who have lost their homes, their jobs, and their 401Ks should all bitch slap him. They all should send Herman Cain a bitch slapping message by not voting him in office. He doesn’t care about you. Do you understand? None of the Republicans care about you, mister average Joe and miss average Jane.”

“Tell me this, with the contempt that Cain has already shown for the middleclass, why would any struggling member of the middleclass vote his ass to Washington? Trust me, he’s not good citizen Cain. He’s already shown his cards,” said John. “He’s already played his hand. He’s already told us that he doesn’t care about the unemployed, the underemployed, and the middleclass as a whole. Game over. Let’s send him packing back to his pizza business.”

“Well, I’ll tell you this. I’ll never vote for Cain or for any Republican,” said Bob. “Matter of fact, I’ll only give my vote to someone who gives me a job.”

“With their quick rich schemes, derivatives, hedge fund scams, and forever increasing bank fees, the banks and the insurance companies were the ones who started the economic collapse of housing and mutual fund markets, namely 401Ks,” said John. “When all of us were struggling, when all of us were unemployed, when all of us were losing our homes, the banks and the insurance companies, besides the oil companies, were the only businesses making money. Yet, they were all there with their hands out wanting TARP money, while the rest of us couldn’t even receive an unemployment extension.”

“Tell me about the unemployment extension. I’m still waiting and hoping they approve another unemployment extension,” said Bob.

“Obviously, screw the middleclass, Herman Cain is nothing but another non-caring, arrogant, and out of touch Republican hoping to line his pockets by championing the big business agenda,” said John.

“I guess he’s looking for a few free all expense paid trips, too,” said Bob.

“Actually, what he’s looking to do is to retire on our dime, while denying the rest of us the mere pittance of Social Security which, by the way, they haven’t even so much as given a cost of living raise in two years, until just recently. Even though rent, food, and gas prices have gone through the roof in two years, the government claims that the cost of living hasn’t increased enough to give those collecting Social Security a raise. If it was up the Republicans, they’d stop giving people Social Security, which they refer to as entitlements. By the way, did you know that a United States Senator only must serve one term of office, just six years, to receive a full pension and lifetime health insurance?”

“Assholes,” said Bob.

“Alas America is filled with duped Americans who think that party or the other party is the answer to their salvation. Instead of having two parties working one against the other for their benefit and in defiance to our benefit, we need to have one party, the American Party,” said John. “We need a political party that finally serves the masses and the majority, instead of enriching the minority and instead of one that helps themselves to all that we should be getting. Maybe the movement against Wall Street will create a party that the Tea Party should have been by creating a party that represents the poor and struggling middleclass, the 99% of the country, instead of big business, that filthy rich 1% of the country.”

“Yeah, I saw them on the news. It’s spreading worldwide. I hope they take over every city in America,” said Bob.

“The biggest oxymoron is when a politician calls him or herself a public servant,” said John.

“Public servants my ass. Public thieves is more an appropriate term,” said Bob.

“Grabbing whatever isn’t nailed down for themselves, their families, and as payback to their cronies back home, who helped them get elected and/or reelected in the first place, count your fingers, when shaking hands with one of these thieving bastards and bitches,” said John. “If public servitude wasn’t so profitable, why do so many averagely wealthy Americans leave office much richer than they were when they served the public?”

“Yeah, the Clintons were desperate for money, until they left the White House and then suddenly between the books they wrote and hawked and the public appearances they were paid to do, they were mega rich,” said Bob.

“Do you want to know the real definition of a public servant? They are police officers, prison guards, firemen and firewomen, EMT’s, teachers, nurses, social workers, and all the supporting staff that keeps us safe and protected,” said John answering his own question again. “For a politician to call him or herself a public servant is an insult to all of those Americans who truly are public servants. How dare they? If they should be called anything, they should be called criminals, felons, guilty as charged, and incarcerated convicts.”

“You got that right, John,” said Bob.

“Starting with the greatest actor playing his greatest acting role in the history of acting, when President Ronnie opened our borders to Mexico with the Free Trade Act, our factories fled south of the border to proudly proclaim made in Mexico, instead of made in America. His cronies gave him a standing ovation when he sealed the deal and a great sendoff, when he died,” said John.

“Yeah, I never liked Ronald Reagan. He stumbled through his speeches in the same way that Bush did,” said Bob.

“Anyway, that Republican biased big business legislation was the beginning of the end of our good paying manufacturing jobs and the decimation of the middleclass,” said John. “Because of our strict human rights laws, unions, and high hourly price of labor and benefits, as if returning back to the days of the wild west, companies couldn’t wait to do business in Mexico to avoid American corporate tax laws. Pulling his strings, telling him what to say and do, President Ron was nothing more than a puppet for a few old, rich, Caucasian men.”

“I remember the 70′s, when they told us all that computers would create more, better paying, high tech jobs,” said Bob. “Huh? Really? Seriously? And we all believed them. Tell me, 40 years later, where are those better paying, high tech jobs now? How many of us are working at better paying, high tech jobs?”

“C’mon, let’s see a show of hands,” said John looking out over an imaginary crowd of people. “How many of you have a better paying, high tech job? Gees, that’s funny. No one has their hands raised.”

“It just goes to show you that there are not jobs out there, even for people with skills that were once so in demand,” said Bob.

“Okay,” asked John rhetorically, “how many of you technical experts are unemployed because these big computer companies closed their operations in the United States and shipped your job overseas? Do you remember Digital, Honeywell, Burroughs, and Prime Computers? Gees, nearly everyone in the room has their hand raised. Hmm, I wonder, do you think that our elected officials, our public servants, (gulp) lied to us?”

“No, that can’t be. Say it’s not so,” said Bob with sarcasm.

“I’ll tell you where all of those better paying, high tech jobs are. They went overseas to Bangladesh. Just call Dell’s customer service. After waiting half an hour on the line listening to elevator Musak, you’ll talk to a representative with a thick accent, someone who’s never been in America, but who is quick to tell you that he or she wants to live in America,” said John.

“Yet, if you want to order something, actually buy something from the company, instead of asking about your warranty or report a problem with their product, they’ll put your call through right away and that’s the only time you’ll speak with an American,” said Bob.

“What does that tell you about this company, their customer service, and about you, the customer? Made in America. We want made in America products,” said John. “If we all stopped buying from companies that send our jobs overseas, we’d force these companies to hire misplaced American workers.”

“Screw the politicians. Screw waiting for Wall Street,” said Bob. “By making our stands against these greedy companies that manufacture in China instead of in America, we, the middleclass, will fix the economy in no time. We all will have jobs.”

“They lied when they told us that computers will make for more better paying jobs,” said John. “What computers did is to make corporate America more profits by reducing their labor costs by eliminating employees. What computers did was to make a few old, Caucasian men billionaires, Steve Jobs, Bill Gates, and Michael Dell, along with a few dozen others.”

“Computers didn’t make more jobs, it took away jobs. Instead of more bank tellers, we have ATM machines,” said Bob. “The related fees are for our (ahem) convenience, of course. We pump our own gas, instead of having a gas station attendant there to check our oil, wash our windshield, and put air in our tires. Instead of getting off our fat asses and walking the ten steps, we have drive through everything. When calling customer service, we get automated recording after recording, when all we want to do is to speak to a human.”

“With nothing changing and everything the same, the 80′s, the time of takeovers, was when we had to put up with the Wall Street players, in the role that Michael Douglas played, as Gordon Gekko in the movie, Wall Street,” said John.

“Hmm, it makes me wonder if Warren Buffet came up with the name of Geico for his insurance conglomerate from good, old, Gordon Gekko,” said Bob.

“We’re all a bunch of idiots,” said John. “We’ve all been duped. We deserve what we got, which is nothing but fleeced pockets.”

“And even though so many of us are unemployed, they’re still trying to fleece whatever we have left,” said Bob.

“The middleclass as a whole, the most powerful segment, is the weakest. Too tired to get involved, too dumb to take control of our own lives, we don’t realize how much we give up to those who we think have our best interests. If only we took charge of our own destinies, if only we all banded together, Washington, Wall Street, and the world would cater to our every whim and whimsy,” said John.

“You got that right,” said Bob.

“In the 70′s, while proudly waving the American flag, under President Nixon, when he put an unprecedented freeze on wages, during the oil embargo and the gas crisis, not wanting to (ahem) stunt job growth, we didn’t tax big business then either,” said John.

“Wow. No kidding,” said Bob. “God bless the United States of America. I pledge allegiance to the flag…”

“Oddly enough though, the top management of the biggest Fortune 500 companies still laid off tens of thousands of workers during the wage freeze, oil embargo, and gas crisis, yet, unbelievably, they all still received their fat bonuses, stock options, and golden parachutes. I guess they didn’t consider bonuses, stock options, and golden parachutes as wages that they could freeze,” said John.

“Gees, go figure,” said Bob.

“With out of control inflation, the rest of us had to make do working for the same frozen wages for years, before our government lifted the wage freeze, long after the oil embargo and gas crisis were over,” said John. “By that time, it was already too late. Most of us were behind the eight ball with huge credit card debt.”

“I had to declare bankruptcy twice to get rid of my credit card debt,” said Bob.

“Tell me this. Why does it take so long to drop the price of a gallon of gas and home heating oil by a penny, when it takes them only a few minutes to raise a gallon of gas and home heating oil by ten cents? How come gas prices never go down in the way they escalate?”

“It doesn’t seem fair, does it,” said Bob.

“Answer me this question,” said John. “The oil companies always blame supply and demand as the reason why their gas and home heating oil prices must increase. First they say because everyone is not buying enough gas and home heating oil is the reason why they must raise prices. Okay. That makes sense. Yet, then they say the reason why they must raise gas and home heating oil prices is because too many people are buying too much gas and home heating oil.”

“Huh? That’s not right,” said Bob. “It’s either one or the other. How can they have that both ways? With that twisted logic, when in the Hell does gas and home heating oil prices ever go down? Certainly not when Hell freezes over because then they’ll need even more gas and home heating oil.”

“Those corporate fat cats, now with increased profits from paying less wages, were the only ones reaping the benefits of our frozen wages during the wage freeze of the gas crisis and oil embargo,” said John. “That, my friend, President Nixon freezing wages, not to mention, him romancing China and him establishing HMO’s, was the beginning of why our economy is in the toilet and why the middleclass is now the new poor.”

“Even in death, Tricky Dicky has lived up to his name,” said Bob.

“Our Republican representatives, sorry, our Republican public servants, were determined to level the world markets and make America on par with third world countries, when it comes to hourly wages. That explains why the Republicans are always so against increasing the minimum wage and organizing labor unions.”

“Increasing the minimum wage is bad for business and will take away jobs? That doesn’t make any sense,” said Bob.

“Increasing the minimum wage will take away jobs? What jobs? Minimum wage jobs that the average person can’t afford to pay their rent, buy gas for their car, buy food, and pay for their prescription drugs, aren’t much of a job at all,” said John. “The truth of the matter is, increasing the minimum wage will decrease the huge profits that these companies now earn.”

“What a bunch of assholes,” said Bob.

“To make economic matters worse for the middleclass, the huge wave of financial fairness and disparity that started the process rolling so much like an out of control tsunami, instead of creating jobs with their huge profits, banks, insurance, and oil companies, et al, bought out one another,” said John. “To add salt to all of our wounds, whenever there was a buyout and/or a takeover, tens of thousands of people were let go and their jobs were added to the backs of those who stayed working for less money with less benefits. Instead of creating jobs, they eliminated jobs.”

“Ergo the recession,” said Bob, “and another recession on the way.”

“In the way of the Pyramids, albeit with the same type of slave labor, icons made of gleaming glass and welded steel instead of stone, blatant testimony to their greed, the old, rich, Caucasian men built giant monuments,” said John. “Twin Towers, Trump Towers, and Sears Towers and all the other towers around the country and the world, so much like modern day castles against their blue skies, the skyscrapers are a stark contrast of their prosperity to our poverty.”

“Visually, it just goes to show you who is making all the money, as the only companies able to afford to build such big skyscrapers are banks and insurance companies,” said Bob.

“With golden rainbows to brighten their futures, a terrible financial storm brewed for the rest of us. While they were showered with riches, there were dark clouds without a silver lining and torrential rain for the rest of us. For sure, we’d have a better chance of being struck by lightning than we would in landing a full-time job with benefits.”

“God bless America but on the backs of the middleclass. Trick or trick, all trick and no treat,” said Bob. “Screw the middleclass!”

“Now with part-time jobs and temporary jobs that pay a third of what we were earning and that are jobs without benefits, we’re not expected to complain. Instead, we’re expected to work two and three jobs, when we can’t even find the one,” said John. “We all should be marching on Washington and demanding our fair share. We earned it and they owe us. Instead we have some twenty-something investment banker and some forty-something Senator stealing it all.”

“Al Sharpton said that if a jobs bill is not passed by January, he’s not only going to march on Washington but also he’s going to camp out on the grounds of the National Monument,” said Bob.

“Do you remember Ross Perot? The little billionaire from Arkansas with the IBM crew cut,” said John.

“Yeah,” said Bob.

“A true champion of the middleclass, he’s the man we all should have voted to put in the White House, instead of electing Daddy Bush, the ex-CIA chief. Just as Ross knew what he wanted to help the middleclass, Daddy Bush knew what he wanted for himself. He wanted to make enough money to buy his son a baseball team, and he did, the Texas Rangers. Answer me this, forget about buying a baseball team, when was the last time you had enough spending money to take your family to a baseball game?”

“The last time I took my wife and two kids to a ballgame, it cost me more than I could afford. It cost me more than $500 for just average tickets. It cost me $50, just to park my truck,” said Bob.

“Ross Perot foresaw all that would happen thirty years before it happened. A true visionary, when the rest of we poor suckers were still working for frozen wages and giving all of our money to pay banks our unsecured credit card debt that somehow never went down, Ross had a plan that included increasing our manufacturing base and decreasing our reliance on imports,” said John. “Ross knew what big business was doing to keep the middleclass down, while working for less wages.”

“When you factor in the inflation, instead of earning more, not even keeping up with inflation, we’re all earning less,” said Bob, “that is, those that still have a job.”

“Instead of wanting to increase our exports from China, Ross said that we’re losing our manufacturing base,” said John. “Meanwhile, knowing the future in enhancing his wealth was in sending our jobs overseas, Daddy Bush spun his words to make Ross appear as crazy as his running mate, Vice Admiral James Stockdale. Yet, now that we elected Daddy Bush, tell me, what did Daddy Bush do for us and how did he fix the economy? He didn’t help us and he didn’t fix the economy.”

“I remember that he gave speeches. I remember he wouldn’t sign an unemployment extension and if it wasn’t for Senator Kennedy pushing Congress to sign another extension, I would have been homeless back then. Tell me this,” said Bob, “why is it every time a Bush is in office, I’m out of a job?”

“Read my lips. No new taxes,” said Daddy Bush, before signing into law the biggest tax package for the middleclass in the history of the United States, while reducing taxes for the richest corporations, oil companies, insurance companies, banks, and pharmaceutical companies,” said John.

“I couldn’t believe when he did that. Just in the way that Clinton lied about having sex with Monica Lewinski, Bush lied stone, cold face to all of us about not signing in new taxes,” said Bob.

“As a farewell gift to all of us, did you see Daddy Bush and then Bush Junior with the King of Arabia having a good time at all of our expenses. Don’t those photos want to make you drive your car at full speed into an Exxon gas pump. What the Hell? Are you kidding me? The Bushes were always in bed with the Arabs,” said John.

“Assholes,” said Bob.

“Now, because of the Bushes, as part and parcel of the Moslem world, their enemies are our enemies, which is why no one in the world likes America and Americans. Papa Bush and his son made more than a billion dollars in perpetual wars, defense contracts, and oil. While we waved the American flag and sent our sons and daughters to wars they started and wars that we couldn’t possibly win or end, the Bush team made lots of money. We can blame the Bushes for terrorist attacks. Apparently, everyone hates the Bushes but us, the middleclass,” said John.

“You’re right about that,” said Bob.

“Instead of fixing the economy, instead of making sure we all had jobs, benefits, healthcare, and retirement, the Bush father and son tag team started wars as their way to personally profit. Just as his son, Bush Junior, started the Iraq War, Daddy Bush, started the Gulf War,” said John. “Don’t you just love it when you see Pappa Bush or Little Bush sitting front row center at a Texas Rangers game with Nolan Ryan and his beautiful wife, Ruth, while the rest of us can’t even afford to watch a game on Direct TV because the sports channel package costs too much money?”

“I wish someone would pat me on the ass and give me a new contract and a big bonus at my job, when I was working at a job, but that would never happen. I wish I had fans watching me work, while cheering everything that I did,” said Bob.

“Don’t you just love it,” said John, “when the Texas Rangers are celebrating with a champagne shower?”

“I’d love to give Laura Bush and Ruth Ryan a golden shower, if you know what I mean. Payback is a bitch, bitches, I’d love to fuck the Bush twins up the ass in the way that their father and grandfather has fucked all of us up the asses,” said Bob.

“Now, let me ask you this. Why start a war, instead of fixing the economy? Why? I’ll tell you why,” said John answering his own question again. “Because there’s money in making war and no money in fixing the American economy. While making endless speeches and creating jobs bills that have no chance of being enacted into law, best the United States help to expand third world countries, fix their economies, and cultivate their vast, cheap labor pool than to give the people who live here and who were born here jobs.”

“The big war machine. Now that you mention it, I’m sick of seeing so many retired 50-year-old generals on CNN,” said Bob.

“Now, there were a lot of white, old, rich, Caucasian men greatly profiting from America declaring war, unfortunately, I wasn’t one of them,” said John. “Were you one of them? Let me think who it was that not only was in directly and indirectly in charge of our foreign policy and national defense but also who stood to make huge amounts of money in declaring war. Hmm, do you know?”

“No, but I have a feeling that you’re about to tell me,” said Bob with a laugh.

“Vice President Cheney and his company Haliburton were two of them making huge profits with no bid contracts. Think about that, no bid contracts. How did that bastard get away with a no bid contract? The weasel was watching the chicken coop and the wolf was watching over the herd sleeping sheep, while the rest of us were all fleeced.”

“I hate that white haired, pompous bastard Cheney,” said Bob waving his fist.

“While we’re waving American flags, sticking emblems on our SUV’s, and burying our sons and daughters, we’ve been fucked over so many times that we’re starting to enjoy it. Does anyone want to buy U. S. Savings Bonds? How about a bridge or swamp land, I mean, oceanfront property…in Detroit?”

“Yeah, that Cheney guy looks like the Devil incarnate,” said Bob.

“Speaking of Flint Michigan, did you know that, during the time of his failed run for the presidency that Ross Perot was one of the largest, if not the largest shareholder in General Motors? With his data processing company so entwined in GM, he wanted to be President of GM, before he ever had thoughts of becoming President of the United States. Instead of making him their president of General Motors, GM and their board of directors buy Ross out for 750 million dollars,” said John.

“No kidding. Gee, I didn’t know that,” said Bob.

“The top management at GM didn’t like Ross’s ideas,” said John. “Too business in the way of an IBM executive, GM executives preferred shooting from the hip, especially when it came to rewarding their top executives with huge and undeserved bonuses, stock options, and golden parachutes. Ross wanted to rock their good ship lollipop by making them accountable and by making them more profitable.”

“I wish someone would give me a big, fat bonus check for doing my job,” said Bob.

“While I’m on the subject, just wondering, Bob,” said John, “do you have a golden parachute?”

“A golden parachute? I don’t have any parachute. When I fall, I’ll hit the ground and die.”

“Instead of a parachute, instead of making a soft, safe landing, we all have slides that goes straight down to the bottom, as if an express elevator that broke a cable or a sinking ship, in the way of the Titanic that falls to rock bottom. Oh, yeah, trust me, your sunken vessel is the closest you’ll ever get to the good ship lollipop,” said John.

“I have a canoe,” said Bob, “but it has a hole in it.”

“If it was up to Ross, ala a Michael Moore clone in his spirit of outrage, inequality, and unfairness, he would have done away with big bonuses and stock options for those managers who didn’t do anything at GM, other than to collect fat paychecks and ruin a company that once had a huge disparity between Honda and Toyota,” said John. “The sad thing is that, 30-years ago, Ross Perot identified all that was wrong with GM. He identified those very things that caused them to finally go bankrupt and the same things that GM was reluctant to change and implement, even after our government gave GM a big, fat bailout check. Just in the way that he paid to help rescue POW’s in Viet Nam with his own money, truth be known, Ross Perot had our best interests at heart.”

“Wow, I didn’t know that either,” said Bob, “that he helped rescue the POW’s.

“Let me ask you this, Bob,” said John. “Did Papa Bush or Little Bush reach into their deep pockets to help free and rescue prisoners of war? Hell no! Why not? Because they didn’t want the war to end. If they could they’d start another war. If they could, they’d bomb France.”

“You got that right,” said Bob. “No one likes the French anyone.”

“Let me ask you this,” said John, “and all those people in America sitting there with tens of thousands of dollars in student loans, no job, no money, no food, no gas for your 12-year-old car, no medical insurance, no house, no hope, no future, and no unemployment extension, where’s your bailout? Did you get a bailout? Did anyone, but those who didn’t need a bailout, get a bailout. Let’s see a show of hands. How many of you got a bail out? How many of you were bailed out?”

“Gees, that’s odd. No one is raising their hand,” said Bob, while looking out into imaginary crowd.

“Of all those of you that really needed a bailout, as staunch supporters of our government, of democracy, of equality for everyone, and of the middleclass, did any one of you receive a bailout? Or did all the bailout money go to the ones that really didn’t need a bailout in the first place and that continue to steal our money with inflated charge card interest, imagined oil shortages, advertise drugs on television in the way they used to advertise cigarettes and hard liquor, and sell us inflated and price fixed insurance policies that we don’t want or need? Let me ask you this with a show of hands,” said John. “How many of you really need a bailout?”

“Gees, nearly everyone in the room has their hand raised. Wow. Go figure,” said Bob playing along with his friend’s rhetorical questions by looking out again at the imaginary crowd.

“Boy, oh boy, President Kennedy said it when he said, Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country,” said John.

“I nearly gave my life for my country,” said Bob, “when I was fighting their war.”

“Give me a break. Just give me a frigging break. Are you kidding me? What more can we all possibly do for our country that we haven’t done for our country already. We gave them our sons and daughters in wars that we can’t possibly win, all for the sake of oil and to make a few, Caucasian men billionaires,” said John. “We worked all our lives and now they begrudge us our 401Ks, our retirement benefits, and our Social Security. It’s time our country did something for us. It’s our turn. It’s time our country bailed us all out. It’s our turn and it’s time.”

“Yeah, it’s time our country did something for us,” said Bob pounding his fist in his hand.

“God Bless America. Of the approximately 313 million people in America, I am one of the 99% of the middleclass that doesn’t have a voice in Washington or a job. The other 1%, a little more than 3 million people, have it all and control everything,” said John. “The rest of us are all just mere pawns in their games of skullduggery and deception. If you ask me, they can’t wait for we pain-in-the-ass baby boomers to die.”

“Bastards. No good dirty bastards,” said Bob.

“Only, can you hear it? Can you feel it? The wind of change is blowing,” said John.

“I can hear it,” said Bob. I can feel it.”

“Now there is something bigger and more powerful than any group of politicians. There is something more frightening and feared by every Republican politician. The middleclass is the most frightening thing on the planet. The middleclass is the sleeping giant that has finally been shaken awake. We are the middleclass and we’re all angry. We’re not taking it anymore. We want our fair share. We’re tired of being robbed and cheated. We’ve had it with the lies and broken promises. We don’t want speeches and we don’t want infighting,” said John.

“We want jobs,” said Bob. “We want money. We want benefits. We want affordable homes and universal healthcare. We want the best schools for our children.”

“We want the hope for a brighter tomorrow,” said John.

Witches love full moons, especially during Halloween, when a wicked witch has her wicked way with a 40-year-old virgin.

Johnny sat at a bar minding his own business with his only friend, a cold beer, keeping him company. A regular, he came to Al’s place for a frosty, cold draft and some sports banter with the bartender every night after work. Never having more than two beers, a precision tool and die maker, holding the cold glass in his big, swollen hands felt good, after handling hot tools all day.

He had big, strong hands, hands like a professional baseball catcher, calloused and thick skinned. Every mark, every smashed knuckle and split fingernail, every scratch, cut, and scar, saved a work related story to tell. Other than sports, with not much of a social life, work was all that he talked about. Other than to watch a baseball or a football game on TV, watch the news, or read about the outside world in the newspaper, work is all he did.

Alone with his thoughts, without his friend, Mike, the regular bartender there to keep his lips moving and his thoughts off other things, mainly his job, he stared down at his glass in silence. Reminding him of a little lagoon, located off of a white sandy beach, that he saw in a magazine at the barber shop, he traced the line of condensation that ran down his glass to collect in a little pool of water on the bar. Never having been anywhere and done anything, he’s never even been on a plane.

Yet, he’s always dreamt of traveling and he’d travel somewhere, anywhere, if only he had someone to share the experience. Always alone, it would be no fun traveling alone, too, without having someone to share in his excitement. Having lived his whole life here, all he knows is this small town, his house, and his job at the machine shop.

It was Halloween night, the night he should be out trick or treating with his kids, but he didn’t have any children. The regular bartender, his friend, Mike, was home with his family, and left the bar to Joe, the fill-in bartender. Still living in the house his father built and left to him, when his parents died, his life has always been the mundane same. Somehow, with working overtime and double shifts, life has passed him by and now twenty years later, he was a middle-aged, tired, and depressed man. Somehow, fortunately or unfortunately, he skipped what so many others have done and aspire to do again, dating, marriage, children, cheating, divorce, second marriage, cheating, and divorce, before becoming tired of the merry-go-round of women and empty relationships and deciding to live alone with their bad selves.

His friends were attending a Swingers’ Halloween Masquerade Ball with their wives, but he didn’t have a wife. Even if he did have a wife, he’d never expose her to one of those disgusting sex orgies. Truth be told, never having had a special someone in his life, he didn’t even have a girlfriend. Truth be told, a 40-year-old virgin, even with the prostitute his friends hired to service him on his 40th birthday last month, he respectfully declined her offer of passionless sex. He’s never been with a woman in that way, naked, humping, and sweating and surely, he didn’t want his first experience to be with a prostitute. He didn’t understand how anyone could do that, have meaningless sex with a stranger, without being married and in love.

Knowing that he was a virgin, his swinging friends offered him their wives, but he politely declined their offer of empty sex, too. Even though their wives were desirable and more woman than he ever hoped to be with, not wanting them to know, he tried not to show that their offer of him bedding their wives disgusted him and, in his eyes, disgraced them. Wrong on so many different levels, against his morals, and not even tempted, he’d never have sex with the wife of another man. No matter how they tried to justify their swinging lifestyle to him, it was just wrong. It was just nasty.

How could they do that, offer their woman to him, another man? How could they share their woman with another? If he had a woman, he’d hurt any man, who disrespected him and/or his woman by flirting with her and trying to get with her. After his friends offered him a prostitute for his birthday and then offered him their wives, when he declined to have sex with the prostitute and politely declined their offer of having sex with their wives, he regretted telling his friends that he was a virgin. Information that was too personal, they’d somehow use that against him to judge him for the man they think he is. Now, because of how they perceived him, as if there was something wrong with someone abstaining from sex and maybe there was, he now kept his friends at arm’s distance.

A big man. A good man. A kind man. An honest man. A loyal and generous man, he’d never put the hurt to someone that didn’t deserve to be hurt. One never known to throw the first blow, he’s always the last man standing to throw the last one.

He never understood his friends’ need to share their wives’ intimate secrets with others. Shame on them. He’d never be able to kiss his wife’s lips again with the thoughts that she had sex with another man and had another man’s penis in her hand, her pussy, and in her mouth. How they could break their holy vows of matrimony by having sexual relations with others and still stay married was a mystery to him.

If he had a woman, what she did before she came into his life was her business, but after she came into his life and they committed to one another in marriage, she was his and no one else’s. ‘Til death do you part, a lifelong commitment, free sex never made any sense to him, when there’s so much more to life and to marriage than just random and passionless sex with a stranger. Besides, with all the diseases and STD’s out there, he never understood his friends’ need and desire to have sex with the planet’s population. Not one to lust over anyone’s women, he only wanted to have sex with one special lady, his very own.

Just as he missed the whole point of the swinging lifestyle, Johnny believed that they missed the whole point of love, marriage, morals, and respect. If they weren’t going to honor one another by being true to each other, he never understood why they married each another in the first place. If he had a wife, if he went through all the time, the effort, and the expense to romance her and then to take the vows of holy matrimony to love, to honor, to respect, and to cherish her, he’d stay faithful to that one woman for the rest of his life.

Yet, alone with his high and seemingly unrealistic morals and lonely without a good woman in his life to love and to cherish, just as Johnny wasn’t very lucky with women, he wasn’t such a good looking man. Actually, a monstrous man that looked like a cross between Rubeus Hagrid of Harry Potter fame, albeit a much bigger version, and Luca Brasi, Don Corleone’s hit man, in Mario Puzo’s, The Godfather 1, he was a scary looking man to those who didn’t know him. Hailing from a long line of ugly people, his Dad was even homelier that he was at his 40-year-old age. He’d be relieved, with the homely man his Dad was, to realize that even his Dad found someone to love with his plain looks, that is, had his Dad not married his fraternal twin sister.

Gross, shocking, and nasty, he couldn’t believe it, when his parents sat him down to tell him their deep, dark, incestuous secret. A forbidden love between brother and sister, no one knew that he was their love child. He never understood what may have happened in their lives that twisted them enough to not only fall in love with one another but also to marry and have a baby? Is there any wonder why, at 40-years-old, Johnny is still alone, lonely, and unmarried?

Doomed never to win a beauty contest, his Dad’s sister, his mother, was just as homely as he was, which explains his homely looking puss. With his Mom the one that should have been his aunt or his Dad the one that should have been his uncle, he started his life confused, unhappy, embarrassed, and always living with the horrible shame of their incestuous secret. Glad that they did, he sometimes wished they had never told him. Didn’t they think of the long-term repercussions? Didn’t they think of him, before they had a baby?

Tired of being rejected, when asking a woman out for a date, all the women he was attracted to were unable to get by his physical appearance to discover his hidden heart of gold and the good, kind, honest, loving, and loyal man that resided deep inside him. All the women he was attracted to, if interested in him at all, were only interested in him because he had a good job, a nice house, a new car, and, since he had never been married and didn’t have children, obviously, he had money. All the women he was attracted to weren’t attracted to him, at all. If they were anything at all, they were afraid of him.

Doing their best to take advantage of him by offering him sex, all the women he was attracted to weren’t very nice to him. Only, their tempting him with sex in exchange for him lavishing them with money, didn’t work with him. Not interested in sex, he was no one’s sucker for love. They didn’t know that he wouldn’t have sex with anyone, until he was married and on his Honeymoon. They didn’t see what a good man he was. Truth be known, they’d be the lucky ones to have someone as good as he was in their lives. Truth be told, loving him would make them a better person.

Able to see through their insincerity, rather than go through the heartache and the heartbreak of marrying a gold digger, he stopped trying to find his love match. Rather, perhaps because of his deep, dark secret, deciding to be alone and lonely than to live with someone who didn’t truly love him, long since deciding to live a solitary life, not even his close friends knew that he was a byproduct of incestuous love. Especially after the big production they made over him being a virgin, he’d never tell them that his Dad married his identical twin sister. Imagine their shock. Imagine their horror. What would they think then?

Knowing full well that if he told his friends about his accident of birth, they’d look at him as the monster that he wasn’t and, somehow, as if it was his fault. As a byproduct of incestuous love, they’d question his sanity and forever question his logic, whenever he imparted his advice. Besides, no one needed to know the secret that surrounded his birth. His personal life was none of anyone’s business.

Eager to embarrass themselves in front of the whole world, when everyone else was vying to go on Jerry Springer to proclaim that they were a product of a brother marrying a sister, he kept his secret to himself. A friendly, yet private man, his secrets were his to shoulder alone, unless some woman was willing to share them. Hard enough living with the ugly face he had than to compound his misery with the public inspection of his private life by telling everyone about his background and taking on the shame of incest, too, he stayed to himself.

Nonetheless, feeling so terribly lonely, he’d get a dog, if he could. He always wanted a dog, a dog that looked just like him, a big dog, a dog that had a big bark and that frightened people just be looking at them, but a dog that was a gentle giant. He had a fondness for oversized dogs, big German Shepherds and tall Rhodesian Ridgebacks, Irish Wolfhounds, Scottish Deerhounds, and Great Danes, but he worked long hours. Gone twelve hours a day, it wouldn’t be fair to the dog to be left alone for such a long period of time. Instead, with his passion for dogs, on his one day off, he volunteered his time at the animal shelter, something that he loved doing.

Rather than see them put to sleep, rather than know a healthy and happy dog that no one wanted was scheduled to die, he’d take them all home if he could. Instead of having them put the down, when the shelter ran out of room to house the dogs and the money to feed the animals, he donated enough of his own money to expand the shelter and pay for the food. He loved dogs, but hated cats. Sneaky and not as lovingly loyal and pack leader obedient, as a dog, he didn’t understand cat lovers, just as they didn’t understand his love of dogs.

Cats, especially black cats gave him the creeps and made him think of witches, ugly, wicked witches. If there was one thing that he hated more than black cats, it was ugly, wicked witches. Even though he knew that witches didn’t exist, even though he knew his fears were founded on a movie, he was scarred from watching the Wizard of Oz as a child. He still has nightmares of the Wicked Witch looking in her crystal ball, seeing Dorothy, and then ordering all those monkeys dressed in uniforms that were obviously put under a spell, chase after and kidnap poor, innocent, sweet, and loving, little Dorothy. Even though he knew it was just a movie, he couldn’t help but think that there really were wicked witches that could put a spell on someone.

Black cats, wicked witches, and Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, the things that went through his mind never ceased to amaze him. Maybe because unburdened by caring for anyone else but himself, unencumbered by a woman and children, he had a clear mind to think of other things, less important things. Maybe because it was Halloween night and maybe because he was alone with his thoughts, rather than spending time talking sports to his bartender friend, Mike, who was out, no doubt, taking his kids trick or treating, was why his mind turned to thinking about wicked witches. Only, he didn’t know that during a full moon on Halloween, thinking about wicked witches will summon them, beckon them from out of the darkness to expose themselves in the light of a full moon, and will make them appear.

He wished he had someplace fun to go to celebrate the Halloween holiday. He wished someone had invited him to a Halloween party, albeit not a swingers’ orgy to have sex, but to a regular Halloween party, where he could have dressed up in costume. Yet, all his friends were making their own good time at the Swingers’ Masquerade Ball having fun, having sex, and drinking. Alone and lonely, he’d love to meet one special woman to love and to spend the rest of his life with her.

Bored, alone, and lonely, Johnny looked out the big, dirty, bar window at the bright full moon that commanded the attention of the sky. Normally a dark, dank, drinking hole, a little place where the locals found comfort from their wives and solace from their children, the moonlight lit up the bar and his stool, as if he was an actor on stage of a one man Broadway play. As if hypnotized by the unseemly sight of it, the full moon mesmerized him and lulled him into a soft, reflective quietness he had never known.

Drawing energy from the full moon, he somehow felt recharged, reenergized, and reconnected from his disconnection to life and to those around him. Then, when looking away from the pulsating glow of the full moon, refreshed, as if awakened from a long sleep, invigorated, as if stretching after a one hour massage, and relaxed, as if spending a two week vacation on a quiet beach, he felt so centered. The feeling he had was surreal. Feeling so very relaxed, instead of being a precision tool and die maker sitting on his barstool with his elbows resting on the bar, he could have been a hippie hermit sitting on a mountaintop and contemplating the universe.

Especially on Halloween, much like black cats and flying brooms, full moons and wicked witches go together and seldom do you see one without the other. Just as vampires appear from out of nowhere to suck blood, wicked witches materialize whenever there is a full moon and whenever someone beckons them by thinking about them, just as Johnny had been thinking about the wicked witch in the Wizard of Oz. Only, most times, you can’t hear them, see them, smell them, or feel them, that is, until it’s too late. Most times, as if in a dream, a hypnotic fog, you don’t even know they were there and gone. Your only clue to the presence of a wicked witch is a lingering dream and the sight of a full moon.

Most can feel when there’s a full moon arising, but not know that there is a wicked witch looming? Eerily spooky, making your hair stand and your skin crawl, giving you the chills, the willies, and the heebie jeebies, wicked witches have the same adverse effect, as do vampires, ghosts, ghouls, demons, and goblins. Just as some can sense the presence of a wicked witch and the feeling of a ghost, for that matter, others are oblivious to them. What is an unnerving feeling to some is just another ordinary day to others. Yet, there are many strange and unexplained occurrences that happen when there’s a full moon.

Howling is one occurrence of a full moon, psychic phenomena is another, and unexplained animal behavior is still another. Typically over activeness and aggressiveness turn the most precious little, otherwise, tame pets wild. Making matters worse, during such an occasion of a full moon on Halloween, all sorts of unexplained phenomena happens. The most common occurrences are ghosts, spirits, demons, and apparitions. Hiding behind the veil of the unexpected, the unbelievable, and the occult, a full moon on Halloween is the perfect time for wicked witches to do their witchery with witchcraft.

Witches use the full moon on Halloween to their full advantage to appear and to seek their ultimate revenge on those who have wronged them. Some say that those unearthly things, ghosts, spirits, apparitions, goblins, demons, and witches, that are, otherwise, no longer of this Earth, derive a renewed energy that reinvigorates their long since dead spirits enough for them to return to wreak their evil havoc on the living population of our planet. Some say, once reinvigorated enough to live for a day, they need to find a warm, living, and receptive victim to take over and control their body for them to live longer.

It is that person that gives wicked witches the energy to continue living. It is that person that saves wicked witches from the inevitableness and finality of death. With not much time to find the one they need, just as a vampire needs to feed before the dawn of the new day, it is that victim that wicked witches need to find, before the full moon disappears and it’s too late.

It’s during this time that you best stay indoors. It’s during this time that you best not challenge fate by becoming a victim to a wicked witch, witchcraft, curses, and spells. May God have mercy on your doomed soul, if, by happenchance, you come in contact with a wicked witch. Too busy doing other things in our crazy, fucked up world, even God may not be able to save you from a wicked witch.

“Run! Save yourself. Run! Run!”

Only, just as it’s difficult to discern a wicked witch from a wicked woman, it’s difficult to determine the agenda of one from the other. Where wicked witches want to possess you, wicked women just want your money. Until the time that they reveal their intensions, it’s hard to tell one from the other.

Do you believe in witches? You will, if you come in contact with one. Have you ever seen a witch? Have you ever seen a wicked witch? You may never know if you had. Except for the stereotypical Hollywood witch, do you know what a witch looks like? Look in the mirror. Do you see that image staring back at you? They look just like you.

Sanctuaries for the practitioners of the lost black arts, there are stores in nearly every city that cater to witches and witchcraft by selling potions, lotions, amulets, and talismans. When you speak of spells, potions, curses, and omens, if you do and when you do, but I recommend you don’t, those who follow the black arts all know what you’re talking about without having to mention what never should be mentioned. Superstitions are the reality of witches and, when talking about witches and witchcraft, superstitions have a coincidental way of becoming your reality.

So, unless you are one of them, even those who speak openly about witchcraft, those who are immersed in witchery and deception, are not so open about admitting they are witches. Those who seemingly are free in talking about witchcraft, are never generous in sharing their secret knowledge of the occult and the unknown, even to one another. Best you avoid those who you think may be a witch. If you think they are, they probably are.

What comes natural to the Evil One, does not so to witches. Unlike the Devil, Satan, Beelzebub, Lucifer, Antichrist, Demon, the Evil One, the Fallen Angel, and the Dark Angel, witches must work at being evil. Just as a magician must practice his magic, a witch must practice witchcraft, the reason why they are called practitioners of the black art.

Every witch has a book of dark and forbidden secrets that has been passed down from great, great grandmother, to great grandmother, to grandmother, to mother, and to daughter. Every witch has a secret spell and a favorite curse. Protected from prying eyes, their books contain recipes of all their potions and lotions and the words to all their spells and curses.

A witch is not a witch without her magic book of spells and curses and her caldron of evil to mix it together to bring it to a boil in a thick soup. A witch is not a witch, unless she’s been reinforced, empowered, and fortified by generations of dark magic and diabolical evil. A witch is no longer a witch, unless she has been reinvigorated and reenergized with a new victim during the occurrence of a full moon. I dare say, a witch without her magic book of evil is just an old, unhappy woman. Why are so many witches old? Because, with so much to learn and memorize, it takes generations to master the nearly lost, dark art of witchcraft.

Look around you. Other than your mother-in-law, have you recently seen any old, unhappy women? Well, those women, no doubt, are witches who have lost their magic books of potions, lotions, spells, and curses. Best you be nice to them now because, if they happen upon their magic books later, they’ll be Hell to pay for those who were mean to them then.

Unbeknownst to the uniformed, witches are known to cast spells to make you have sex with them. I’m not sure why it is that sex plays such an important role within the lives of witches and in the art of witchcraft, but it does. Their ceremonies filled with nakedness and nude sacrifices, nudity and sex always followed Satan, evil, witches, and witchcraft.

Maybe, just because they can make people have sex against their will is why they do it. Maybe, forcing those to have sex is the ultimate form of control, degradation, and excitement. You’d think that if you were dead for hundreds of years there’d be something else that you’d want, crave, need, require, and desire more than a good screw, such as ice cream, dark chocolate, a cigarette, a cup of coffee, a big juicy steak, a hamburger with all the toppings, or a cold beer.

Have you ever had sex with a witch or a warlock, that is, other than your ex-wife, your ex-girlfriend, your ex-husband, or your ex-boyfriend? Maybe you have and never knew. Maybe you have and have suspected. Truth be told, if put under a spell, you’d never know for certain if you had sex with a witch or a warlock or not. Truth be told, many of us have had sex with witches and warlocks, but just don’t know it.

Sex is the most common occurrence when coming in contact with a witch. Call it a sexual fetish, call it wanting to be in control, call it debauchery, but witches receive not only sexual gratification making people do sexual things that they, as strangers, wouldn’t ordinarily do but also power in enlisting us and then forcing those of us to do their bidding. Only, most people who have had a witch come to them and who have had sex with them think that it is a sexy dream or a horrible nightmare. Because of the deep sleep and hallucination of the spell that they were put under, they don’t realize that it was real. They don’t realize that they had sex with a witch. If still alive, they don’t realize how close they came to death.

Trust me, if you’ve had sex with a witch, especially around the time of a full moon, especially on Halloween it is more of a bad nightmare than it is a sexy dream. Moreover, it’s a dastardly nightmare that can take a turn for the worse and one that can go from sexual pleasure to frightful terror and even murder in just an instant. Be wary. Be afraid. Be careful during a full moon, especially during Halloween night.

Typically, she comes to your bedroom while you’re sleeping in your bed. Always, she comes to you as someone else, possibly someone you know well or wish you knew better. As if you’re having a dream, a sexy dream of a beautiful, naked woman, she comes to you in another form, someone who you lust over and dream about, but cannot have. It may be a friend, a relative, a stranger, or a celebrity. You are aroused by the dream that she makes you have. Her spell makes you vulnerable, horny, and ready for her passion. Because you think it a dream, you think it’s someone else, someone you’ve been lusting over, but it is her.

Yet, when you are in her control, when you have submitted your will to her, when she has the power of suggestion over you and your free will in the palm of her hand, she appears, as would an apparition from out of a fog.

“Run! Flee! Too late!”

Gradually, she emerges from her world to your world. Gradually, she takes over your being, until she’s naked before you and alive inside of you. No longer are you dreaming. No longer are you safe.

From the dream that you just had of her and from the impressionable dream state that you are still in, she is here with you now in your room to reap the benefits of her selfish acts by forcing you to have sex with her. Oh, God help you for thinking that what happen to you is pleasurable. If one was to define the experience of having sex with a wicked witch, it would be frighteningly horrible.

“Lord have mercy on your soul.”

Once you are dreaming of this beautiful, naked woman, who in actuality is this dead, decrepit wicked witch, is when she appears. Even though you are now wide awake, under her spell, as if hypnotized, you are still dreaming, yet it feels so real. She strips you naked and instantly, you are aroused. Her intention is to make you pleasure her. Her intention is to use you to get her off at your expense. Her intension is to strip you naked not only of your clothes but also of your soul. Draining the life out of you, her intention is to use you to reinvigorate herself.

Aroused by her touch, she takes your cock in her hand as you sleep and slowly strokes you. Not knowing what is happening, but feeling pleasure, you stir from your sleep. It feels so good for her, for someone, for anyone to touch you in the way that she is touching you now, while you’re sleeping. No one, not your wife, not your girlfriend, not your mistress, not even your mother and/or mother-in-law fondles your cock while you’re sleeping, but she does. The wicked witch always fondles you, as you sleep.

Her hand wrapped around your now stiff prick works its magic on your libido. Her way of opening the door to your secrets, she’s already inside your head. Is it a dream? Is it real? You are unable to tell one from the other, yet, you don’t care because it feels so good for her to stroke your cock. Now in her power, you can no longer tell your dream state from reality.

She slowly lowers herself down to you and takes your erect penis in her mouth. Just as you feel the warm, softness of her hand, you feel the pressure of her lips and the wetness of her tongue more than you would in a dream. The passion she has for you that is directed through her blowjob is like nothing you have ever experienced. Never have you experienced sex like this before, even with that stripper you met at the bar, paid her three hundred dollars, and drove home…to talk.

This blowjob is way better than that blowjob you received from Mary Beth in the back seat of your car during prom night, and that was a great blowjob. A long time coming, literally and figuratively, this blowjob is way better than the blowjob your new bride gave you on your honeymoon. Unbelievably, this blowjob that you’re receiving now from the wicked witch is way better than the blowjob your mother-in-law gave you, when you were both drunk and horny, after the Patriots won the Super Bowl for the third time.

Surely, this is real, but just in case it’s a dream, you don’t want to wake up now. You’re receiving a wonderful blowjob, but even though it feels so real, it’s just a dream. Isn’t it? How can anything that feels this good be a dream. If you know what a spell was, you’d know it was a spell.

Already, no longer of free will, you are unable to resist her. You are unable to stop her from having her way with you. You are in her control. You do whatever she wants and whatever she needs you to do. You think you are dreaming, but it feels too real to be a dream. Your mind is reeling with pleasure, yet, you are so confused.

Are you sleeping or are you awake? Dreams aren’t suppose to feel like this, are they? Never would you have imagined a blowjob feeling this good, yet it does. Never would you have imagined a wicked witch coming into your bedroom and fondling your cock, before stroking you and then sucking you, but one did.

So what? What’s so bad about a beautiful, naked woman coming in your bedroom and making you have sex with her real or not, even if she is a wicked witch? It sounds pretty good, doesn’t it, especially since there are no such thing as witches? Besides, you’re getting a blowjob. At this point, who cares if it’s real or a dream?

Certainly, it feels real enough. What does it matter if it isn’t? So long as you cum, it doesn’t matter if you are dreaming about getting a blowjob or are really getting a blowjob. Being able to cum is all that matters and then you cum, in her mouth and again in her pussy.

Yet, there are things within the dream that are frightening. As if you are possessed by the Devil, and in reality you are, evil thoughts flash through your mind. She’s using you as her antenna to receive what she wants and what she needs to empower her evilness to a higher level. As if you’re her power source, her battery, she’s draining you of your energy and of your soul for the sake of her in the way that a vampire draws blood from its victims to feed. With such a high price to pay for the simple pleasure of sex, but it’s not all good.

You begin to awaken and wonder if you’re having a nightmare. You wonder if what you just experienced was imagined or real. Then, she puts you back under her spell and you fall back to sleep. Even after awakening, you are unsure if it was a dream or real. Nonetheless, you are either excited by the memory of having sex with a naked, beautiful woman or, when the nightmares start and the flashbacks occur, still in her control and under her spell, disturbed by the suspicion that you just had sex with a witch, a decrepit old woman, ala Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby, when she had sex with the Devil.

Which is it pleasure or terror? The fact remains that, unless you break her spell, she now has control over you, forever. She can now make you do whatever she wants you to do at her whim and whimsy. You are her puppet. Just another successful victim in her book of spells, your life and death are in her hands. You are afraid, but are unsure why you feel fear.

“Run! Flee! Just go!”

Yet no matter how fast you run and wherever you flee, she’ll find you again. The answers to all her questions and to your location are revealed to her through her crystal ball. Once a witch has you in her power, there’s no letting go. She has you forever, that is, until you die. Trust me, you’d wish you were dead rather than being in the control of a wicked witch.

Depending upon the person, some remember more than others. Much like hypnosis, some are more susceptible to her magic spells, while others, those who resist it, have images of more of those details that really happened. Yet, no one is ever sure and no one wants to believe that it really happened. Whether it’s good sex or bad sex, no one wants to think that they had sex with a witch.

Ask anyone and they all picture witches as old and disgusting looking women and they’d be right. Lifelong practitioners, forever witches in training, it takes a long time to become a witch. Yet, through spells, potions, lotions, and curses, witches have the ability to make you not see them for who they truly are but for who you want them to be. When you think you are in bed with your dream woman, you are then willing to do whatever it is she wants.

Those who have experienced intimacy with a wicked witch don’t talk about it. Shocked, embarrassed, and afraid, they keep what happened to themselves. If they were to share their thoughts and suspicions of what happened, others would think them crazy. Certainly, no one would believe them. Even they don’t believe what happened because they don’t know what happened, not totally. It was a dream or was it? It was a nightmare or was it? Maybe, it was all nothing more than just eating some bad sushi. Sure that was it.

Too horrific a thought to imagine that a wicked witch singled you out, it is easier for you to put it out of your mind and not think about such wickedness and evilness. It is too horrible a reality to confront that a wicked witch came into your bedroom while you slept and chose you to have sex with her. It is better if you believe that it was just a bad dream. Yes, that’s it. It was just a bad dream. You’ll feel better thinking that and believing that. You’ll feel better after you shower and wash her wetness from your stomach and thighs and the naked images of her from your mind.

Why? Why you? Why now? What does it all mean? Is it real or was it just a dream or a terrible nightmare? Surely, there’s no such thing as a witch, just as there is no such thing as a wicked witch.

Just as Johnny turned away from the brightness of the full moon to lose himself in the effervescent bubbles in his beer, a gust of wind kicked up outside to blow papers and twirl trash around in a whirlwind of activity. The wind was so strong that it shook and rattled the big bay window of the bar. He watched the papers and trash dancing outside, so much like spinning leaves that fell from the trees that held onto them, as if trying to preserve a coat of foliage against the chill of fall and the inevitableness of winter.

Then, the barroom door blew open with a crash and in walked a black cat, as if it owned the place. With Johnny and the bartender focusing on the black cat, as if appearing from out of thin air, a tall, sultry redhead wearing a slinky, low cut black dress, one that showed her abundant cleavage in the way of how Elvira always flashed her big breasts, strode in the bar in her knee high, black boots. Then, as if ass backwards, the lull after the storm, instead of the lull before the storm, the wind stopped, everything returned to normal, and it was quiet, except for the sound of her boots.

Tap, tap, tapping her boots made the sound similar to and one that evoked a memory of Edgar Allen Poe’s poem, The Raven, when rap, rap, rapping, the raven rapped on his chamber door. Instead of rap, rap, rapping, there was tap, tap, tapping with the witch walking closer to the bar, upon the barroom floor. With Johnny and the bartender watching her in stunned silence, the sound of her boot heels were the only noise in the room, tap, tap, tapping. Finally, she approached the bar with all the drama of an actress making her entrance on stage.

Had Johnny not been so taken by a woman in the bar, especially such a beautiful woman, when women never entered this establishment, he may have otherwise noticed and commented to the bartender, “Look what the wind blew in and look what the cat dragged in,” but thinking better of saying that, he didn’t. Still under the spell of the full moon and now under the spell of the wicked witch, he was awestruck. Love at first sight, he was in love. He was doomed.

“Sorry, Lady,” said Joe, the bartender. “No pets, especially cats, and especially black cats on Halloween, no less. I hate cats and I hate black cats even more,” said the bartender looking to Johnny, while, no doubt, knowing his aversion to cats, too, waited for him to voice his agreement in his hatred of cats, too.

“It’s okay, Joe. It’s just a cat,” said Johnny raising his hand to quell the bartender’s protest, but never removing his beady, brown eyes from her big, blue eyes and from the enormity of so much of her exposed breasts.

“May I just have one drink, a double shot of whiskey straight, before I leave with my cat? I’m parched,” she said in a voice that echoed from deep within her and sounded so tired and so unearthly.

“Okay, I’ll pour you just the one drink and because it’s Halloween and we don’t get many women in here, the drink is on the house. After you drink that, you must leave. We don’t take kindly to strangers around here and I don’t want any trouble,” said the bartender suddenly and obviously feeling the need to finger his baseball bat that stayed handily at the ready beneath the bar but had suddenly and inexplicably changed from wood to rubber.

Joe pulled out the bat to ponder the change in its composition, while she took the empty stool next to Johnny and eyed him out of the corner of her eye. Obviously not caring about his monstrous looks, using that to her advantage, no doubt, she knew that he was ripe for the taking. Before she swallowed her drink with one sip, she turned her head to him and gave him a sexy look that made him want to confess his love at first sight for her. “Hi,” she said, as if exhaling a cool breeze on a hot day.

“Hi. I’m Johnny,” he said putting out his oversized mitt to take her warm, small hand in his.

Not wanting to let go of her hand, he shook her hand, as if he was shaking up a can of oil for his milling machine, before feeling the soft, warm skin of her hand with his fingers. Then, he felt the connection. As if his hand melded into hers, as if his hand was forever handcuffed to her wrist, he belonged to her, in the way that Egor belonged to Dr. Frankenstein.

Not one to be sexually attracted to a woman, saving himself for that one special woman, this was a woman he could spend cold, lonely nights in bed fucking and licking, while she fucked and sucked him. Never imagining such wicked thoughts before, he now imagined his big hands all over her big tits, before he mounted her, spread her legs, and impaled his virgin cock in her warm, wet pussy. No longer thinking of his job or of sports or of where he was, he wanted this woman in the way that he never wanted any woman before.

“Rachel,” she said. “Please to meet a gentleman, who loves animals,” she said. “Thank you for standing up for my cat. Simon goes everywhere I go, isn’t that right, Simon?” She patted the cat that sat on the stool beside her, before stroking the cat in the way that he imagined her stroking him, yet without ever removing her big, blue eyes from Johnny.

“Meow,” said Simon, as if he understand and responded in the affirmative to her question.

“Oh, I just love cats,” said Johnny, the type of man who never lied and after having just met the woman was already lying now. The type of man who would never have sex with a woman he wasn’t married to, he was imagining having his sexual way with this woman now. Filled with sexual lust, there was just something about her that made him stare. He didn’t know she had bathe herself in a bath of pumpkin pie and lavender, before applying a lotion filled with pheromones that aroused him sexually.

“Let’s go,” she said looking to Simon, before looking to Johnny. “Shall we go to your place?”

“My place? You want to go home with me? Yes, of course, I’d love to take you home with me.”

An hour later, Mike, the regular bartender, arrived to relieve his fill-in bartender, Joe, of his shift.

“Where’s Johnny? He comes in every night for his two beer limit.”

“Johnny was here earlier and only had one beer, before he left with an elderly woman with a black cat.”

“Maybe she was his mother,” said Mike

“More like his grandmother,” said Joe. “She was wickedly old and ugly.”

Couple uses Halloween to scare one another.

“It’s Halloween night, fright night, Roger. Let’s do something scary,” said Anne to her boyfriend with a foreboding look.

“Scary? You can’t scare me, Anne. Been there, done that, I’ve seen it all and experienced it all. I’ve been a cop too long to be scared,” said Roger waving a hand of disinterest with his usual comportment of arrogant smugness, before giving her his customary little laugh.

“Ha! You don’t think you can be scared? You don’t think I can scare you? I can scare you,” said Anne nodding her blonde head.

“Besides, you know games aren’t my thing, never have been. Action is. Give me some action, Anne. Let’s have sex, baby,” he said wrapping an arm around Anne’s slender waist and following her curvy lines, before reaching around to cup her sweet ass with one hand and feel her ample breast with the other.

“No, I want to make you scream like a girl first,” she said with a laugh, while pushing him away.

“If what you want to do is scream, baby, I can make you scream,” he said in his best Barry White voice and, pulling her close again to give her a kiss, a grope and a feel. “Let’s get it on.”

“No,” said Anne pushing him away with two hands pressed hard against his muscular chest. “In honor of the Halloween holiday, I want to do something different, instead of just going to bed and having sex. We don’t go anywhere. We don’t do anything. All we do is screw.”

“That’s not true, Anne, and you know it. Most times you just blow me.”

“You’re a real comedian, Roger,” she said giving him the fisheye. “Just this once, I want to have some Halloween holiday fun. Just once, without you being so God almighty and acting as if you know it all, done it all, and been through it all, I’d like to scare the bejesus out of you,” she said with a laugh.

“I already told you, Anne. I don’t scare. Sorry,” said Roger with tiredness and giving her a deadpan stare, as if sizing up a suspect on the street. “When I can stand over a dead, bloodied body eating a jelly donut or a hot dog with everything on it without puking, I’ve already passed the not able to scare test. Too damn desensitized, I’m numb from the years of seeing really scary things.”

“Scary things? Ha! You haven’t seen scary stuff until you work as a social worker in the Department of Welfare and Human Services and a mother comes in with her three, small, sick children with no job, no money, no food, and no place to live,” said Anne with a satisfied smile. “Now that’s scary.”

“Okay, I’ll play your silly game,” said Roger making eye contact with his sexy girlfriend. “And you ain’t seen scary, until you come across a prostitute beaten to a bloodied pulp and dumped in a dumpster, multiple dumpsters,” said Roger raising the stakes. “Now that’s scary, that is, to anyone other than me. I’ve seen that kind of horror lots of times before.”

“That’s pretty scary but, unfortunately, I can beat that,” said Anne without the sensitivity and innocence she once had, when she took the job as social worker for the Department of Social Services, right out of college, ten years ago.

She looked at Roger with a faraway look once only reserved for soldiers coming home from war but now a look that included traumatized police officers, social workers, doctors, nurses, EMTs, and all the others who deal with accidents, illnesses, and death on a daily basis.

“Go ahead, give it your best shot, Anne. I’m ready,” said Roger. “Scare me.”

“You haven’t seen scary, until you visit a client’s home and see roaches everywhere, a rat in the crib eating a crying baby, and another toddler laying face down dead in dirty bathtub water. You haven’t seen scary, until you see a mother foaming at the mouth, her eyes rolled back in her head, and here dead from an overdosed of heroin. Seeing all of that is one thing, but trying to pick up the pieces to help her survivors is another, especially when the state is cutting our budget. Now, that’s some scary shit.”

“Okay, I admit, we’ve both been desensitized from seeing some scary shit, but the fact remains that you can’t scare me,” said Roger with a shrug, while remaining steadfastly persistent in his claim of not being able to be frightened.

“Oh, yeah?” Anne looked at her boyfriend with insight. “I can scare you. I can scare the shit right out of you. I can scare you senseless. I can make you cry, you’d be so scared.”

“Oh, yeah. Unlike you, Anne, I don’t take my work home with me. Unlike you, I don’t get emotionally involved with my victims and perpetrators in the way you do with your clients taking them in your home and giving them food and a place to sleep for the night. Unlike how you treat your job as a religious calling, my job is just a job and nothing more than a Lieutenant’s paycheck.”

“Liar. I’ve seen you worry over so victim. I’ve seen that look of concerned horror on your face more than once,” said Anne.

“Concerned horror? Yeah, sure, I admit that I’m physically and mentally drained, but when I come home, I close my front door and leave the world behind. I turn on the TV, flop on the couch with a beer, and file all the day’s activities away, until the next day, when I put on my badge and holster my gun. Sorry, Anne, but you can’t scare me.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it, Roger. I can scare you. You’re just as emotionally invested and physiologically connected as am I. Who are you trying to kid? I’ve seen the looks of sadness on your face over something that happened during your shift.”

“Okay, maybe I am a bit too connected to the victims. Who wouldn’t be? I have to be to find their killers, give them justice, and allow them eternal peace. Yet, that doesn’t mean that you can scare me. You can’t.”

“Oh, I can scare you, Mister, big, tough, He-Man of a police officer,” said Anne smiling her confidence. “A soft touch, an easy mark, you’d be so easy to scare. When it comes to being scared, you’re a pussy. You’re my bitch.”

“Bitch? I’m your bitch? I’m no one’s bitch,” said Roger with a laugh.

“Bitch,” said Anne laughing, too.

“Well, if this is what it takes to have sex with you, if I must play this silly children’s game first, before we fuck and before you suck, then give it your best shot. Go ahead and scare me, baby. Scare me,” said Roger sitting down on the couch, folding his arms across his chest, and acting as if he was about to listen to another perpetrator’s claim of innocence. “Go ahead. C’mon, I dare you. Scare me.”

“Okay. So, Mister tough guy, you don’t think that I can scare you. I’ll scare you, alright,” said Anne leaving the room and returning with a Ouija board. “Oh, yeah, big guy, get ready to be scared.”

She put a fat, white candle down, set the game on the coffee table and opened the box, before sitting on the floor Indian style with her legs crossed.

“Oh, no. No Ouija boards. I hate those things,” said Roger leaning back in his seat and waving his hands, as if trying to stop traffic.

“Look at you, Mister you can’t scare me. You’re already frightened over a silly child’s game,” said Anne with a laugh. “It’s just a Ouija board, Roger.”

“Kid’s game my ass. That thing is evil. That thing is nothing but a porthole to the Devil,” said Roger. “You never know what wicked creature you’ll unleash with that thing by teasing the occult. I’ll have no part of something that I can’t shoot and kill. I’ll have no part of something that I don’t even know exists, when it’s in the room and standing right behind me.”

“Okay, then, let’s forget about the Ouija game,” said Anne reluctantly closing the box and moving the game to the side with a look of obvious misgivings. “I can scare you with just words,” she said with less confidence, while sitting on the floor again, crossing her legs, and exposing her pink, bikini panties, when she pulled her long skirt up past her knees to sit, before fluffing it down.

“You’re wearing your pink panties?”

“Yeah. So?” Perhaps because of the sexual high heat of Roger’s stare, she smoothed her dress down against her thighs.

“I love your pink panties. They’re my favorite panties. They make your ass look so perfect and your mound irresistible that I want to spank your ass and bite your pussy.”

“Focus Roger, focus. Get your mind off my pink panties, off my perfect ass, and off my irresistible mound, so that I can scare you with my words.”

“Words? Fat chance. You’d have to hold a gun to my head to scare me with just words. Unless your words include terrorist attack, or that my favorite bar is closed, or that my beloved Mustang was stolen, or that you’ll no longer have sex with me, you can’t scare me with mere words,” said Roger with a laugh.

“I know just what to say to you that will scare you senseless,” said Anne, now with confident assuredness.

“You do, huh? Go for it, then. I’m ready to be frightened,” said Roger waving his hands over his head. “Woo! Spooky! It’s Halloween. I’m so afraid of the dark. Trick or treat, go ahead and scare me silly. Make my day. Scare me, baby, scare me.”

Anne stood to light the candle and to turn off the overhead living room light, before sitting down again, this time more lady like, so as not to flash her panties and distract Roger’s attention. With the candle flame casting big, scary shadows against the darkened living room walls, the room immediate took on the ambience of a fortune teller’s reading room. Especially with it being Halloween, anyone else but these two would have already been a little scared. Anyone else but these two would never agree to play such a game to be scared on Halloween night.

“Okay, this is your last chance to say no to being scared,” said Anne with a laugh.

“Bring it,” said Roger. “You can’t scare me.”

“Are you ready?”

“I’m ready. Go ahead and scare me,” said Roger with seriousness and now looking, as if for the first time that he wanted to be scared, “I can’t wait to be scared.”

“Oh, I’ll scare you alright, crybaby.”

“Crybaby? That’s it. Go ahead and scare me. I dare you to scare me. I double dare you. I can’t wait to be scared. Only, I can’t be scared. You can’t scare me. I was, still am, and always will be a Marine and Marines don’t scare,” he said with a laugh, while pointing a finger at her, as if he was Jack Nicholson playing Colonel Nathan R. Jessep in the movie, A Few Good Men. “Nothing scares me. I don’t scare.”

“Okay, here we go,” said Anne looking at her boyfriend sitting there so self-assured and smugly superior in his inability to be scared. “Here we go,” she said rubbing her hands together, as if she already had goose bumps and was trying to keep warm. “You’re a cop. You have instincts based on experience but have you ever had a hunch something was true and it was?”

“A hunch? Sure, lots of times. I have hunches every day, multiple times a day, just like the hunch that I’m having now that this Halloween fright night is not going to be scary but boring,” he said with a laugh.

“Boring, huh? Close your eyes and think about those times you had hunches, while trying to solve a crime. Now, pick one, the best one, and hold that thought while you remember it and ponder it. Think back to that time and to those circumstances that gave you that hunch.”

“Okay, I have a specific hunch in mind.”

“Isn’t it a weirdly unsettling feeling, from seemingly out of nowhere, to have had that hunch and for that hunch to be right?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Now, go ahead and answer the question.”

“What question?”

“Shh! The question that I haven’t asked you yet because you interrupted me.”

“Sorry.”

“Have you ever had a feeling that something was about to happen and it did?”

“Yeah, of course. All the time. So?”

“Weird, huh? Instead of just unconsciously going with your intuition, think about it. What happened just before to make you feel that something was about to happen then? Why do you think you felt that whatever it was that happened would happen? Think back to the circumstances, before you felt that feeling that something was about to happen. What happened then that made you feel that something was going to happen later?”

“I dunno, much like a hunch, it was just a feeling, a sense of things to come and to happen, no doubt, from experience being on the job for so long.”

“Do you believe in reincarnation?”

“Reincarnation? What the Hell does reincarnation have to do with hunches and/or with you trying to scare me?”

“Just answer the question, Roger. Do you believe in reincarnation?”

“Life after death? No, of course not.”

“Then, you don’t think you lived before in a past life?”

“Me living a past life? No, of course not. This, right here, right now, is my only life and I plan to grab it with all the gusto I have.”

“Take a moment to think about it, ponder it, and consider it. Maybe you were reincarnated and don’t even know. Maybe you lived before and that’s why you have hunches and feelings of things that happen, before they happen, because you’ve already experienced them.”

“That’s all bullshit. It’s just a hunch and a feeling,” said Roger with a self satisfied smile, before giving his girlfriend a look, as if she was just another suspect lying to him. “So, is this your idea of scaring me? Newsflash, I’m not scared.”

“If only for just a moment, Roger, imagine that you were reincarnated and lived before.”

“Okay. Why?”

“Don’t question it, Roger, just consider it. Compared to infinite space and eons of time, we are only here but for a mere second. As I truly believe that everyone has been reincarnated, in living through our life’s journey, what you can sort out now about what happened to you in your past will help you with what will happen later in your future. Only you know the answers, Roger. Only you can solve your life’s mystery.”

“Yeah, well, maybe your scare tactic would work on someone who wanted to solve their life’s mystery and on someone who believed they were reincarnated but I don’t,” said Roger. “You’re still not scaring me, Anne.”

“Have you ever had a nightmare so real you thought it was?”

“Nightmare? Yeah, sure, lots of times. I have lots of nightmares. This, right now, with your trying to scare me and us not in bed humping and sweating, is my worst nightmare.”

“Other than the nightmare you seem to be having now, can you describe one of your nightmares to me one?”

“Okay but, to be honest, my nightmares are more sexual fantasies than nightmares. They all involve you dancing around a stripper’s pole and stripping naked in front of me and my friends, before we gangbang you.”

“C’mon, Roger, be serious.”

“Okay, sorry, but I was being serious,” said Roger with a dirty laugh.

“Let me tell you something, Buster, I’m not that kind of girl,” said Anne getting up on her high horse. “I’m no one’s whore, you dig? The only time I’ll be stripping naked and pulling a train is in your perverted dreams,” said Anne pointing a stiff index finger and rolling her eyes. “I’m from Detroit. I’m no one’s fool and no one’s sucker.”

“Gees, Anne. Calm down. I was only making a joke.”

“Now, I’ll ask you again. Have you ever had a nightmare so real you thought it was?”

“Yes. Now that you mention it, I had a nightmare that I was shot and died.”

“Really? Wow. No kidding.”

Anne looked at her boyfriend with shocked horror.

“Yeah, I did.”

“Did you awaken in cold sweats?”

“Yes. Glad to be alive. Happy that it was just a nightmare, I got up and peed, grabbed a beer and stayed up to zone out in front of the TV to watch sports, before watching the sex channel. I watched this beautiful, tall, busty blonde, who looked a lot like you, now that I remember her. She danced around a pole, stripped naked and then–”

“Roger!”

“What?”

“Getting back to your nightmare, were you able to go back to sleep?”

“Sleep? No, I told you already. I got up and peed, grabbed a beer and watched sports and then porn. I finally fell asleep on the couch.”

“Don’t you think it weirdly coincidental that you awakened at the exact moment to stay up to watch TV?”

“Coincidence? What’s coincidental about that? I just had a nightmare and couldn’t get back to sleep, is all.”

“Tell me this, then. Were you afraid that there was someone or something there in the room with you?”

“Afraid? I always have my gun within reach,” he said with a laugh. “Now that you mention it, not so much afraid, but I sensed there was someone or something there. Yeah, it was a little eerie and that unsettling feeling put me on edge enough to get up and look out the window.”

“Sensing that there was someone there, you sensed it correct and your senses, much like animal instincts, were right.”

“Okay, but you haven’t told me something I don’t already know and you’re still not scaring me,” said Roger with a big cheesy grin.

“Have you ever considered that what you experienced wasn’t a nightmare, but something real that happened to you long ago and in another life?”

“You mean I died from a gunshot wound in another life?” Roger looked at his longtime girlfriend, as if seeing her in a different light and seeing her for the first time. “I never considered that, but now you have me wondering. Yeah, maybe, sure, that could have been. We don’t know about stuff like that and may never know about stuff like that.”

“What if you did die from a gunshot wound in a prior life? Doomed to relive the horror through your nightmares, consider that thought. Maybe, your brain saved some clues for you to identify who you were before, to allow you to make the connection to who you are now. Maybe being the detective that you are, your brain saved clues to who murdered you. Maybe you were born again to avenge yourself by finding your killer.”

“Maybe you were my murderer,” said Roger with a cheesy smile.

“The only way I’d kill you is with sex, Roger,” said Anne.

“I’d died a happy man,” said Roger with a wide smile. “Let’s go to bed now with you trying to kill me with sex.”

“Roger, c’mon. I’m trying to scare you.”

“Okay. Go ahead and scare me.”

“Maybe you were a woman in a past life.”

“Definitely,” said Roger with a laugh. “I think I was a woman in a past life. I’ve always had a thing for women. Now that I think about it, I’ve always been lesbian.”

“That’s funny, Roger, only if you were lesbian, I’d think you’d eat my pussy more often.”

“Yeah, well, if I was a woman in another life, I hope I was a woman with big tits. I like big tits.”

“Anyone’s big tits?” Anne shot him a hard look.

“Correction, I love your big tits, Anne. You have a great set of knockers.”

“So, you’re only with me because I have big breasts?”

“No, of course not. Don’t be silly. You give great blowjobs, too.”

“Asshole,” said Anne throwing a pillow and hitting him in the head.

“By the way, I’m still not scared.”

“Don’t worry. You will be,” she said.

“I need for you to take this seriously to work, Roger. I need for you to relax, take a breath, and replay everything that happened to you in your nightmare. If you can recreate what happened in your conscious mind, your hidden memories of a past life may take you on a journey you never imagined possible. It may reveal a past life to you that you never knew you lived. Scary, huh?”

“Scary? No. Disconcerting a little, I admit. Yes.”

“Then, let’s continue. Have you ever had a weird dream you didn’t understand?”

“Sure, lots of them.”

“Was it a reoccurring dream?”

“Yes, I’ve had this reoccurring dream that I’m sitting in the living room with you on Halloween night and instead of us having sex, we’re wasting our precious time together with you trying to fruitlessly scare me.”

“Roger!”

“Okay, sorry. Please continue frightening me,” said Roger with a laugh. “I’m starting to be so afraid.”

“Have you ever had a nightmare you didn’t understand?”

“You mean, like now?”

“Funny.”

“Was it a reoccurring nightmare?”

“Let’s hope not,” said Roger. “Once is enough for me.”

“Roger, c’mon, please?”

“Okay, okay.”

“Maybe, these are more clues that go hand and hand with your dreams and nightmares. Take some time, even if you have to write nonsensical things on a pad. Close your eyes, relax, and, with pen in hand, allow your pen to wander across the page. Let your subconscious show you what it’s thinking. Allow your subconscious to tell you what your soul wants.”

“Okay, I can do that.”

“Do some free writing and free drawing because you never know what that will stir up to the surface from your sub-conscious. Then, take some time to analyze what you dreamed or experienced in your nightmare by what you drew and/or wrote on the paper. What you discover now just may save your life later.”

“Quick. Give me a pen and paper. You’ve stirred something up in my sub-conscious that I need to explore.”

Anne handed Roger a pen and a pad and Roger busied himself sketching and writing, while Anne watched and patiently waited.

“Let me see what you wrote. Let me see what you drew.”

Roger showed her the pad.

“By delving deep in my sub-conscious psyche, I allowed my hand to wander with my mind to reveal what my soul wants and my heart desires.”

“Tits, ass, and pussy. You wrote, tits, ass and pussy,” said Anne holding up the pad and giving him a look, as if he was a bad boy in class. “Tits! You drew tits? All you drew on the paper are tits. That’s all that you have on your mind are tits?”

“No, not just anyone’s tits. Your tits. And I don’t only think of your tits. I think about your ass and your pussy, too. Only, I didn’t know how to draw an ass and pussy, as well as I know how to draw tits. Perhaps, if you could strip naked and pose for me I could–”

“You’re hopeless, Roger.”

“You say that as if there’s something wrong with that. I’m horny, Anne. I need to have sex with you. I need to make love to you. I need–”

“May I continue?”

“Please do, but make it fast. I really, really want to have sex with you.”

“Listen to your inner self because your subconscious thoughts are always trying to tell you something. They know something that your consciousness may not know. Don’t forget that your brain records and stores everything you have ever experienced, every sound, every sight, every smell, every touch, and every taste. Everything you need to know about you is there locked away ready for you to uncover it, rediscover it, and decipher it. It’s up to you to find the key and unlock the secrets of your past lives.”

“So, reincarnation is all that you’re trying to unsuccessfully scare me with? Is this all you have?”

“No, there’s more and it would have been more frightening, had you not asked me to put away the Ouija board,” said Anne with disconcertion. “If you’re having these reoccurring dreams and these disturbing nightmares, then you may be one of the lost souls that have something more to accomplish, before they are allowed to end their journey with the finality of restful days and eternal peace. You need to find out what it is that you need to do, before it’s too late and you can never unravel enough of it to discover it. Obviously, for you to be so disturbed by dreams and nightmares, your brain is trying to tell you something important that you need to know.”

“Blah, blah. This trying to scare me is not working, Anne. Let’s have sex.”

“If you want sex, you have to allow me to finish scaring you or trying to scare you,” said Anne with diminished hopefulness.

“Okay,” said Roger with resignation.

“Have you ever had a psychic experience foretelling of coming events?”

“Strangely enough for me, but yes.”

“Think back. What was the circumstances surrounding that psychic experience?”

“It only happens when I’m alone. It gives me the heebie jeebies when I do.”

“When you talk about it now, do you still get the chills that you got then?”

“A little.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Dunno,” said Roger with a uncaring shrug.

“Yeah, you were scared, but what else?”

“I really wasn’t scared,” said Roger making a face. “Unsettled more describes how I felt.”

“You can’t explain it, can you?”

“No one can,” said Roger with confidence.

“A coincidence just doesn’t cut it, does it? These are even more clues leading you to the answers that only you possess.”

“Whatever you say, Anne, just so that we can finish this silly game of trying to scare me, so that we can have sex. With all the overtime I’ve been clocking, it’s been more than a week, since we had sex. I need sex.”

“Don’t make the mistake of glossing over it. You must sit and analyze every psychic experience you ever had because what you learn now may help you later.”

“Okay. I’ll start a journal, as soon as I go home,” said Roger rolling his eyes and sighing.

“Did you ever hear the expression that there is a reason for everything?”

“Of course.”

“Well, there is a reason for everything and if you don’t explore the reasons behind your psychic experiences now, they may continue to haunt you later in future lives.”

“I’ll make a note of that on my calendar,” said Roger with a grin. “October 31st, explore the reasons behind my psychic experiences. Is that before or after we have sex?”

“Roger! Be serious,” said Anne staring at her boyfriend for his patient obedience. “Have you ever had a psychic feeling of foreboding danger?”

“I wouldn’t be much of a cop, if I didn’t.”

“Did you listen to the psychic feeling?”

“You call it psychic feelings and I call it my built-in street radar.”

“Were you able to avoid the danger or did you walk right into it, even after suspecting that it was there waiting for you?”

“Duh? I called for backup. The men in blue were there within minutes.”

“How do you feel about that now? If that psychic feeling happened again, would you be more apt to heed it?”

“Always. I’m a cop. You call them psychic feelings and I call them hunches. Making assessments based on my feelings and my police experience is what I do to survive, when out on the street, and how I solve cases, when I’m sitting behind my desk.”

“If you have had these feelings, chances are that you were violated, assaulted, harmed or even murdered in another life. Chances are you knew your killer and chances are you are doomed to repeat what happened to you then, again in this life and in future lives, until, that is, you can figure out what you need to know.”

“I guess that makes sense, more to you, than to me,” he said under his breath.

“Be careful. Take care. Know who your friends are.”

“I do. My fellow cops are my brothers,” said Roger with confidence. “I’d trust any of them with my life and do every day.”

“What is a revelation? Do you know?” Anne looked at him with love.

“Revelation? That’s coincidental that you mention that. That’s so funny. I just had a religious revelation?”

“You did?”

“Yeah, I suddenly saw you with your legs in the air and with you screaming, Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!”

“You’re a funny guy, Roger, but I’m not talking about sex. I’m not talking about religion, the Book of Revelations, nor the Revelations to John. I’m not even talking about communication of knowledge to many by a divine or supernatural agency or am I?” Anne paused for effect.

“You lost me,” said Roger with a disinterested shrug. “And, by the way, none of this is scaring me.”

“I’m not talking about the last book of the New Testament that contains visionary descriptions of Heaven and depicts conflicts between good and evil and of the end of the world or maybe I am,” said Anne persevering.

“Give me a clue. If not about religion, with all the religious connotations you’re making, what in the Hell are you talking about, then?”

“We all fight God’s battle of good versus evil. We’re all immersed in the struggle of God against the Devil. Whose side are you on and why? Think about it, just because, as a good Christian, you go to church every Sunday that does not make you a good person and a loyal soldier in the army of God. It’s those things that you do before and after church that make you either the envoy of the Devil or the soldier of God,” said Anne with the sudden look of a missionary or a cult member.

“Okay, now you’re scaring me with all this talk about God, Christianity, and religion. Not so much scaring me personally, but you’re making me nervous. Hoping you’re not going to make me a human sacrifice, you’re making me wonder if you’re one of those religious zealots, who will stab me in my sleep because you think I’m the devil,” said Roger with a laugh. “Don’t tell me that you’re born again.”

“Keep it up, Roger, and I’ll have my mother come for a visit.”

“Okay, okay, now you’re really scaring me,” he said with a laugh.

“Without having a defined and measured reason, supernatural is something that doesn’t exist in nature. A supernatural phenomenon is that which is not subject to the explanation according to what we know as elements of nature. Supernatural is neither physical nor material relating to supernatural forces, occurrences, and beings, and is something that can’t be explained by our laws of science.”

“You’re not telling me something that I don’t already know and you’re still not scaring me.”

“Our laws of science change with each new discovery from when Columbus proved Greek geographers wrong that the Earth wasn’t flat, to Galileo honing his theories that the earth revolved around the sun, and to Einstein and his theory of relativity that space is infinite and expanding, we can’t tell which are the natural laws of nature and which strange occurrences that beg explanation are supernatural.”

“Speaking of supernatural, I’m happy we’re no longer talking about reincarnation. Now, that we’re on to supernatural shit, at least that’s a bit scarier. I like Sci-Fi stuff.”

“It would have been scarier, had you allowed me to keep the Ouija board out, while talking about reincarnation and supernatural phenomena.”

“Yeah, well, I hate those stupid games. I don’t think they have anything to do with anything supernatural, just evilness.”

“Just because we can’t explain it doesn’t mean that it’s supernatural or evil. It may mean that we don’t have the knowledge to explain it, much like the lost tribes thought it magic the first time they saw a mirror or a Polaroid Instant camera or an airplane,” said Anne.

“That’s true.”

“So, tell me, what does supernatural mean to you? Do you believe in aliens? Do you think that there are other life forms that exist in space and in another galaxy millions of light years away?”

“Is this still part of you trying to scare me?”

“Yes.”

“Are we almost done because, before we get down, dirty, and naked, before we have sex, sex, sex, I’d like a turn in trying to scare you.”

“Yes, we’re almost done and, yes, you may have your turn at trying to scare me, even though you can’t scare me,” said Anne with a laugh.

“Do you think that aliens visited here many thousands of years ago and that is how we have the Bible?”

“Dunno,” said Roger with a shrug.

“Who wrote the Bible?”

“Dunno that either,” said Roger rolling his eyes and making a face.

“Do you believe in miracles or were they just unexplained acts of a race of superior and super intelligent aliens passing through space and time and stopping to visit our planet. Maybe they’re not aliens at all, but us returning to the past from the future.”

“Dunno about aliens, but, I’ve seen enough unexplained stuff to scratch my head over that I believe may be miracles,” said Roger.

“What happens when we die? What’s your opinion? Do you believe that if you’re good that you will go to Heaven and live in harmony and peace and if you were bad you go to Hell and roast in Hell’s fires?”

“I think when we die, we’re dead. Game over. We’re no better than plants, animals, or insects. To think that we’re going to live forever after we die is a sad and mean fairytale that the Catholic church wants us to believe for the sake of donations in their collection plate.”

“Do you really think that life and death is that simplistic? Do you believe that there is no Heaven and Hell and we all return to and become part of the energy that is the universe?”

“Dead is dead. If there is something after death than I’ll embrace that, as I did in embracing life. Yet, until the day that someone can return from the dead, I’m not buying any of that malarkey. Just as I don’t believe that Hell exists, I don’t believe that Heaven exists either.”

“So you believe that you just stop existing and there is nothingness, much like the feeling or lack of feeling you had before you were born.”

“Yeah, I do. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, we return from whence we came and, as an infinitesimal speck, we become part of the universe again.”

“What about reincarnation? Do you think as do the Indians that we come back as another life form? Think about that for a minute, about no longer existing and/or about coming back as another life form. That bug you just squished may have been one of your relatives. Isn’t that a scary feeling?”

“As I said before, I don’t believe in reincarnation and in past lives or in future lives. Stepping on my dead grandmother doesn’t scare me. She’s dead. Besides, my grandmother always said that if she had a choice, she return to live as a dog. She said dogs have it made. All they do is eat, sleep, and play.”

“A person who possess extra-sensory abilities, including clairvoyance, paranormal physic abilities, and precognition, and one who can sometimes communicate with spirits, who is responsive to psychic forces and who possesses above average ESP abilities and who can predict the future is considered psychic. Are you psychic?”

“Nope.”

“Do you know anyone who is psychic?”

“I know some who claim to be, people who helped us to solve old, closed cases,” he said with a shrug.

“Do you believe in psychic ability?”

“Each to their own, so long as they don’t try to force that shit down my throat. There may be some merit to it, enough that our own government explode that with psychics and their ability to see through walls thousands of miles away.”

“Maybe, you’re not psychic at all, but have lived a life before, which is why you have a keener sense, you call hunches, of what will happen before it happens. Maybe, what you are picking up is your prior life, a life that seems so weirdly familiar, as if you were experiencing déjà vu. Maybe, you are doomed to repeat your prior life again and again, until you accomplish the reason why you are here.”

“I haven’t lost any sleep thinking about such things. Truth be told, maybe I’m just a horny cop who just wants to have sex with his girlfriend.”

“Why are you here?”

“Why am I here? You don’t know why I’m here? Gees, maybe that’s my problem. I’m here because I thought we were going to have sex,” said Roger with a shit eating grin and reconsidered what he was going to say next, when Anne shot him an angry look. “Honestly, I don’t know now I’m here.”

“C’mon, Roger. You know what I mean. Why are you here on Earth?”

“I have no idea what you mean, Anne. I just wanna get you in bed naked and then I’ll show you why I’m here.”

“Roger.”

“Okay.”

“Consider that for a moment.”

“Consider what for a moment?”

“Why are you here? Why you? Why now? Why here?

“Dunno. Don’t care. Don’t want to know. Who cares?”

“Your fortune in life, the overall circumstances or condition in life including everything that happens to you is considered luck. Did you know that? Do you believe in luck?”

“I’ve been known to be lucky.”

“What is luck? Do you know?”

“Anne, can we just have sex?”

“Luck is an unknown and unpredictable phenomenon that causes an event to result one way rather than the other, good luck versus bad luck. Good luck leads to a favorable outcome, whereas bad luck leads conversely to an unfavorable outcome. Do you feel lucky? Are you lucky?

“No, not tonight I don’t think I’ll be lucky,” said Roger with a frown. “I thought I was going to get lucky, but–”

“Roger, just allow me to finish trying to scare you. Okay?”

“Boring me to death, is more like it.”

“Pardon?”

“I said, sure, I could use more scare tactics. I might like it.”

“So, you don’t feel lucky? Why? Nothing ever happens to you. You live a boring life. Your life is the same dull life every day with everything status quo. Well, I have news for you, you are one lucky person. Just as nothing good may happen to you, nothing bad has happened to you either and, in my book, that’d living a pretty lucky life and a charmed existence. It’s time to count your blessings.”

“My lucky day was when I found you, baby. I love you, Anne.”

“Oh, thank you, Roger. I love you, too, Roger.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Have you won anything lately? Winning doesn’t always mean winning the lottery and winning gobs of money. Maybe, had you taken that extra step, you would have been hit by a car. Boy, now that was lucky. Maybe had you touched the hand of someone on the train, you would have contracted a disease that would have led to your premature demise from a cold, to bronchitis, to pneumonia. Certainly, it was lucky that you didn’t shake his or her hand. ”

“That’s a scary thing. Wow, what do you know? I’m scared now. Okay. You just scared me. Let’s have sex. Can we just have–”

“Roger,” said Anne shooting him a look. “Maybe that brick perched precariously high overhead would have fallen on your head had you not been delayed by a meeting that ran late. Maybe that plane that you missed, yeah, the one that crashed, well, now you’d have to consider was that luck or was that something else, kismet, fate or circumstance? Does it sound that farfetched? Yeah, well that’s what the people who worked above the 88th floor in the Twin Towers thought on the fateful day on September 11, 2001, before the planes hit and the buildings crumbled and collapsed.”

“I lost a couple of close friends in that thing,” said Roger making the sign of the cross.

“I can’t imagine their horror. I can’t imagine how they felt knowing that they were going to die. Imagine being on the roof and a helicopter was helpless to rescue them because of the wind, the smoke, the fire, and the explosions. Imagine having your only alternative being to jump from the building to your certain death. I can’t imagine.”

“Well, you know, when it’s your time to go,” said Roger with a shrug.

“Speaking of ghosts, do you believe that sacred ground is haunted?”

“Ghosts? Who said anything about ghosts? I didn’t say anything about ghosts, but yeah, I do think when those Twin Towers fell, that place, the entire area, is haunted. Too many people never know what hit them. Gone in an instant, they didn’t even know they were dead..”

“Ah, so you believe in ghosts.”

“No, I didn’t say that–”

“What are ghosts? How do you become a ghost? Yes, of course, by dying, but not everyone becomes a ghost. So, what happened to those who were left behind that became ghosts? Was their portal to their spiritual escape closed?”

“Gees, Anne, it’s nearly ten o’clock and I have the first shift tomorrow. I was at least hoping for a blowjob.”

“Fate is your destiny of what event or events will inevitably happen in the future that decides your overall circumstances or conditions in life. Do you believe in fate and no matter what happens in your life to make us believe otherwise that your life is unalterably predetermined? Why? Or do you believe that you make your own destiny? Why?”

“I have no idea, but I’m sure you’ll tell me,” said Roger rolling his head back and rolling his eyes.

“Everything happens for a reason, you know. You can’t do anything without changing the natural order of things and should you change the past that will affect the future. And if you are able to see the future, you may be able to change the present, in effect changing the past. The reverberation through space and time of change affecting fate is a complex puzzle of what ifs, indeed. Think about it.”

“God help me. I’m too horny to think about anything other than sex.”

“Pardon?”

“I said, I’m thinking about all that you said it and can’t wait what you’ll say next,” said Roger looking at his watch.

“Do you remember when you dated your girlfriend who is now your wife or husband and the love of your life?”

“I thought you told me never to bring up my ex-wife’s name around you.”

“Roger!”

“Okay, okay.”

“You thought it was love at first sight or was it not fate? Was it fate that you should meet like that at the park or the bar or the dance? Or had you experienced all of this and all of her or him in another place and time before and so long ago. Maybe you are souls that drift through time and space and here you are now again to live again and experience one another for the third or fourth time, until you get it right. You’re one of the lucky ones, at least you know why you are here…again.”

“Oh, yeah, I still rue the day I ever met that gold digging bitch.”

“Have you ever had your fortune told? Do you believe in astrological horoscopes? Have you ever partaken in a séance? Have you ever used a Ouija board? Do you believe in ghosts? Do you feel a departed loved one is with you, now? Don’t you just hate that creepy feeling that you get playing on the Ouija board, especially after having a few drinks? Scary, isn’t it?”

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. Can we have sex now?”

“No, not yet, Roger. I’m almost done.”

“Okay,” said Roger looking at his watch again.

“It’s dark, it’s late, there’s a full moon outside, are you afraid? Well, you ought to be because through the porthole in that innocuous game called Ouija you just inadvertently unleashed an evil spirit back into the world who is going to give your guardian angels one Hell of a time from allowing him or her not to invade your soul. Look out! He’s standing right behind you.”

“Now, I understand now why you wanted to use the Ouija board as a prop so much, just as I hope you understand why I was so against it.”

“Have you ever looked at a stranger from behind and they turned to meet your stare knowing you were staring at them? Have you ever seen a stranger you knew could be your closest friend if given the introduction and the chance? Have you ever seen a stranger you knew could be your worst enemy if given the opportunity?”

“I’m starting to think that I have a girlfriend that could be my worst–”

“Roger. Stop please. C’mon, I’m nearly done.”

“Okay.”

“Have you had a feeling of déjà vu? Have you ever had an out of body experience? Do you believe in life after death? Do you believe in reincarnation? Do we come back to earth after death in another form? If you do believe that we return to earth after death in another form, what other form do you think we return as?”

“Yes, no, no, no, dunno, honestly, I have no idea. Gees, are we back on the reincarnation thing again?”

“Do you believe in Heaven and/or Hell? What is a guardian angel? Do you have one? Do you have more than one? Do you know who they are?”

“Gees, Anne, if I didn’t believe in Heaven and Hell five minutes ago, I still don’t believe it now. Moreover, if I don’t believe in Heaven, I certainly don’t believe in Angels and/or Guardian Angels. Even though I’m starting to think that this is Hell and you’re the Devil, Hell is beginning to look good to me right about now.”

“What is a soul? Do you have one? Do you have more than one? What is that quiet voice deep inside who is forever talking to us that we call a conscience? Why does it make us feel guilty?”

“Anne, really. Now, you’re scaring me that you may have lost your mind.”

“Do you believe in the struggle of good against evil, the struggle of God and his bright light against the Devil and all of his empty promises? Who do you believe will win? God or the Devil? You or the Devil? Why?”

“I don’t know nor do I care, Anne. I just want to get laid.”

“I’m done,” said Anne taking a sip of her wine and collapsing on the floor.

“You’re done? You’re kidding? You’re done already? Wow, that was really interesting, I mean, frightening. I was really, really scared.”

“Yes, I’m finished and you’re not scared. Unbelievable. You’re such a testosterone filled, big, tough guy.”

“Gees, Anne, I was scared. I was really scared. Now, it’s my turn to scare you. Okay?”

“You can’t scare me, Roger,” said Anne taking another sip of wine.

Roger took his cell phone out of his pocket.

“Hello, Jack? Can you come over to Anne’s house and bring Steve and Mike with you. Five minutes? Great. I’ll see you soon.”

“What are you doing? Why did you call your partner and Steve and Mike. I don’t want Mike in my house. He gives the creeps and Steven is always trying to cop cheap feels of my ass and tits.”

“I know,” said Roger. “Don’t worry. It will be okay. Stand up.”

“Stand up? Why?”

“It’s my turn to torture, I mean, to scare you.”

“You don’t have to scare me. After you called your friends to come over, I’m already scared,” said Anne.

“Just trust me and stand up.”

As soon as Anne stood, Roger grabbed up her dress from her hem and pulled it high over her head, along with her arms. Then, he bunched it together and tied it in a knot.

“Roger! What the Hell are you doing?”

“I’m scaring you.”

“Untie me this instant.”

“No.”

“Roger! I mean it. Untie me now!”

Still terribly horny, Roger had his wicked way with his girlfriend. He felt her tits through her bra and teased out her nipples to erection with his fingertips.

“I just love your big tits,” said Roger feeling Anne’s C cup breasts through her bra.

“Roger, stop groping me. I don’t like being groped.”

He moved around behind her to look at her pink panty clad ass.

“I just love how your ass looks in this panties,” he said taking his big hand and giving her ass a hard slap.

“Ow! Roger, what the fuck! That hurt. That really hurt.”

Then, he kneeled down in front of her to bite her pussy mound.

“I just want to devour your pussy, whenever I see how these panties serves up your pussy mound.”

“Ow, Roger. I can’t believe you bit my pussy.”

“Sorry, I can’t control myself, whenever you wear these pink panties.”

Then, there was a knock on the door and Roger left the room to answer Anne’s front door.

“Roger! Who’s there? Wait! Don’t leave me like this. Untie me. Roger! Roger!”

“Come in, guys. Come in. Anne honey, Jack, Steve, and Mike are here.”

“Roger, you fucking asshole, untie me. Oh, my God, you’re such a dirty bastard. How could you do this to me?”

“Untie you? Why would I untie you? Why don’t I just lift up your bra, instead. Anne’s been trying to scare me for an hour with words. I kept telling her that I was horny. Only, now, I’m over the edge. Would you guys like to see Anne’s tits?”

“Roger, no! Don’t you dare lift my bra,” said Anne cringing away from his touch. “I swear to God if–”

“Look at the size of her tits,” said Roger groping one of Anne’s breasts and then the other. “She has fabulous tits, doesn’t she? Let’s see a show of hands. Who wants to see Anne’s tits?”

“Roger no, enough is enough. Okay? You’re scaring me now. Why don’t you tell your friends to leave and we’ll go in the bedroom, just you and me and I’ll–”

With a swipe of his finger, Roger lifted Anne’s bra.

“Oh, my God, Roger. You’re such an asshole. I’m so embarrassed. How could you do this to me? How could you expose my breasts to everyone? Have you no decency and no respect for me? What the Hell is wrong with you?”

“If you think you’re embarrassed now, wait until I show the guys your pussy,” he said.

“Don’t you dare, Roger, I mean it. I swear to God, if you pull down my–”

“Too late,” said Roger pulling down her panty.

“Oh, my God, Roger. I can’t believe you stripped me naked. You assshole.”

“Who wants to feel Anne’s tits, finger her nipples, and pleasure her pussy?”

“Oh, my God, Roger, no! This is rape. Enough okay? You scared the shit out of me. I’m afraid. You had your fun. You stripped me naked and showed my naked body to your friends. Now, tell them to get the fuck out of here. Show over. Everyone go home.”

“We were hoping to gangbang you, Anne. Wouldn’t you like to fuck and suck four men?”

“I swear to God, Roger, if you touch me, we’re over as a–”

“Are you afraid?”

“Yes.”

“Are you scared?”

“No.”

“No? How can you be afraid and not scared?”

“Because I’m excited. I’m so sexually aroused.”

“Excited? Aroused? Why are you excited and aroused?”

“I’m so wet knowing that your three friends are seeing me naked. Duh? I’m excited that you stripped me naked in front of your friends. I’m excited to be so exposed. Are you going to gangbang me, now? I can’t wait to be fucked by four men. Who wants to fuck me up the ass?”

“Gangbang you? Anal sex? No, I’m not going to gangbang you, Anne. I was only trying to scare you. There’s no one here, Anne, really there isn’t” said Roger untying his girlfriend. “Just me. We’re here alone. No one saw you naked.”

“There’s no one here? Are you serious?”

Roger fluffed down Anne’s skirt.

“See? We’re alone. I was only trying to–”

“Fuck! I thought I was going to be fucked by four men. I thought I was going to be raped and brutalized. I thought you had arranged a gangbang for me. I was so excited. I was so aroused. I was so wet thinking that I was going to suck cock, cock, cock, and cock.”

“C’mon, Anne, you’re scaring me now.”

“Aha! Finally, I scared you, asshole. Now, let’s have sex.”

To my new muse and the reason why I wrote this story. I dedicate this story to Susan.

A man finally realizes the love that he’s always had for his wife.

Rather than dwelling on how she is now, as if frozen in time and no longer aging, returning to the time when and the place where we first met, I remember her how she used to be. Total opposites, she was always so damn positive and I was always so damn negative. In her calming voice with her reassuring force, my safe harbor in my raging storm of drinking, cheating, and lying, I was always so out of control difficult. She was my rope, my safety net, and my anchor pulling me back from going overboard.

Without her, I’d be long since dead and buried. Without her, I never would have turned out to be the man that I am today. Without her, I wouldn’t have had the good life that I had. I don’t know what I’m going to do without her.

Why she stayed with me, I’ll never know. Actually, I do know and I always knew. Even in my darkest hour and at my lowest point, she saw something in me that brought me back from my self-destructive behavior to make me want to be a better man for her and my children.

“You’re the one, Tommy. I’ve been waiting for you all my life,” she said talking to me in that sweet, melodious voice, before giving me that soft, sensual smile that softened my impenetrable resolve not to fall in love with her.

Every time she flashed me that smile, I’d want to take her in my arms and kiss her. Every time she smiled at me like that, I’d want to get down on one knee, ask her to marry me, and promise her that I’d forsake all others and be true to her. Every time she smiled, I’d want to make love to her. That smile confessed that she knew things that I didn’t know but should have known. That smile was all the evidence I needed to know that she loved me.

Later in life, her soft smile would make me do anything, go out in a raging snowstorm to buy baby formula, accompany her to family functions that I didn’t want to go to, and wake up the pharmacist to get her medicine, when she had suddenly taken ill again. Her soft smile, forever constant, was the one thing that transcended all the years we’ve known one another and saved the one memory that returned me to the day we first met. I’ll never forget the first time she flashed me that smile, when we were at the county fair and then again, when alone in her barn.

“I’m the one? What do you mean by that, Becky? How do you know I’m the one you’ve been waiting for all your life?”

Too soon in our relationship, if there was to be a relationship, to understand how she could feel that I’m the one for her, when I didn’t see her as the one for me. I just wanted to get laid. When I still had a long line of women that I wanted to bed, it was unsettling for me to hear a woman I barely knew say that I was the one.

She turned my head right away alright, but I thought she was crazy. Perhaps wanting to get away from her life on the farm and use me to move to the big city, I thought she was just trying to entrap me with sex and hold me down with love. Only, contently happy living on her farm, the big city was the last place she wanted to go. Unable to see what she saw in me myself, when looking in the mirror, I couldn’t see how I’d be anyone’s prize, especially back then.

“I just know,” she said with confident assurance, as if she was privy to a spiritual revelation.

“I don’t know how you can say I’m the one, when we’ve only had the one date, Becky,” I said. Wanting to believe her, thinking about being her man and being with her, then thinking of all the good times I’d be missing out on, if I settled down now, instead of waiting to tie the knot later, I was reticently resistant.

How did she know that I was the one? How could she possibly know that I was the one so soon? Now that we’ve been together for so very long, I know she knew that I was the one because with her being my one and only, I believe that I was her one and only, too.

Different than all the other women I knew, she haunted me with her damn smile. Smiling at me like that, even in my dreams, I thought about her all the time, when not with her and even when with someone else. Even when thinking about and talking to other women on the phone, I’d be mindlessly doodling Becky’s name. Disconcertingly upsetting, what’s that all about, I didn’t know? Yet, knowing now what I should have known then, I always loved her, right from that first time we were together.

Different than how she normally looked, when she wasn’t smiling, the first time I saw that smile directed at me, was as if it were a magical light bulb that lit up her face and warmed my heart. When she smiled at me like that, I felt lighter on my feet when walking with her and happiest when talking to her. Whether in the sunlight that glistened the highlights of her blonde hair from pale yellow to bright blonde and to every golden shade in between, or in the moonlight that teased me with her shapely shadow, her soft, sensual smile was a light that only shined upon me. When looking deep in her big, blue eyes, every time I looked at her, I remember thinking how pretty she was. Sort of like staring at and being mesmerized by the flames in a fireplace and seeing beauty with every flash of color and flicker of flame, or seeing something different, when looking at the changing colors of the ocean or watching white, puffy clouds changing shape in the sky, as they rolled by, I couldn’t take my eyes from her.

Doing my best to prove her wrong, she left me scratching my head. I’m the one? How could I be the one? How could she know I’m the one, especially when I didn’t believe she was the one? I couldn’t believe she thought that I was the one. If only she knew me for the real, cheating, lying, and drunken bastard that I am, she’d know that, if I was anything, I was the wrong one. Back then, for sure, I was no one’s special someone but Becky somehow knew that I was her one and only.

Prettier than any woman I had been with before and thought about being with now, unlike anyone I ever met before, she wasn’t regular pretty. She wasn’t made up pretty, in the way that some women suddenly get ugly early in the morning, before putting on their face, or late at night, when taking off their makeup. She wore that same pretty, hauntingly familiar face all the time, before dazzling me with her smile.

Born beautiful, she didn’t need any of that store bought junk to make herself pretty. Her pretty face, with her eyes not too close together or too far apart, her small nose, and her full lips, were already permanently there in place, as if sculpted by a sculptor. Differently beautiful, every time I looked at her, as if seeing her in a different light, was as if looking at her for the first time. There was always something new about her that I hadn’t noticed before or a new expression that I hadn’t seen. Spending a lifetime doing double takes, whenever she got dressed for a function, a party or a wedding, or walked down the stairs in a new, sexy nightgown, she always had a way to keep me interested and mesmerized. The fool that I was, even after being married to her for a while, I thought it was lust, but now I know it was love.

Even if I was mad at her for one stupid reason or another, every time I looked at her, she excited me and I forgot why in the Hell I was mad at her. Every time I touched her hand and felt her fingers against mine, she moved me to want to make love to her. Having that look of a model in a catalogue or an actress on TV, weirdly interesting and sexually arousing, she looked different every time I saw her and in every picture she took. Whether it was the outfit she wore, the way she wore her hair up or down, the makeup she applied, or how she posed, she made me feel that I was with a different woman every time, even though it was still her on the inside.

More than that, knowing she’d be there waiting for me in a clean house with a hot meal, her smile made me work two jobs to support us through the tough times. Working for her and for the kids, it was a good feeling to know that I was working for something and for someone. When I think about it, we had our share of tough times, but so long as I made it through them with her by my side, our hard times weren’t so bad. The best thing about living life was that I was living life with her.

Reliving our past by how our future turned out to be with us now not able to do all that we used to do when we were younger, now that I compare the hard times we shared in the past to the hard times that we’ve been through today with all of our health and financial issues, those perceived hard times were some of the best times in our lives. Without doubt, I’d exchange some of our perceived good times today for some of those bad times we had yesterday. Only, the first time she said that I’ve been waiting for you all my life, a place where she was already, a place where she needed me to be, and a place where I wouldn’t be for a long while, I wasn’t there yet.

With love and lust in the air, she filled with love and I filled with lust, our first date was a trip to the county fair on a hot, summer day. Then, later with the faraway sounds of calliope music and the distant, bright lights of the fair that gave stark contrast to the absolute darkness of the night, as if it were a blazing inferno in a dark forest, we returned to her Daddy’s barn on the pretense of checking on the cows. By then, as if she knew me in another life, as if we had already made love and were married with children, it was obvious to me that she already had a soft spot in her heart for me that I didn’t yet have for her.

Being with her then, just by the way she looked at me, told me she loved me. Feeling guilty, she made me feel that I was deceiving her by lying to her, when I told her that I loved her, too, when I didn’t, even though, in hindsight, I did. Yet, I didn’t feel bad enough about lying to her not to take advantage of her sexually. Back then, unable to love anyone, when I didn’t even love myself, I couldn’t love her then in the way she loved me and in the way that I love her now. Too preoccupied by other women, too wild to give way to a rope lassoed around my neck, I needed to roam, run free, and go hog wild.

With my sexual desire for her interfering with my love and romance, unable to see the real woman standing before me that she was, oblivious to the good woman she was inside, I only saw her in bits and pieces, tits, ass, pussy, hands, and mouth. Back then, with me being so immaturely young, my heart was a black hole and as empty as my head. With all the self-centeredness that I had for myself, I had no room in my heart to love her or anyone.

Thinking with my cock and my horny hands, instead of with my brain and my heart, I just wanted to have sex with her. I just wanted to strip her naked, while touching her and feeling her everywhere, before pushing her down to her knees and filling her beautiful mouth with my swollen cock. With my lust for her blocking me from feeling the love I had for her, instead of sailing down a smooth highway, we started out on a rocky road.

“Blow me, Becky. Suck my cock. I need to cum in your sweet, pretty mouth.” Treating her in the same way that I treated all my other slutty women, I didn’t realize she was my special one.

I just wanted to get laid. Oh, yeah, considered a bad boy, a four F kind of guy, find them, feel them, fuck them, and forget about them was my motto back then, that is, until I met Becky and until she branded me with her smile and tied a leash, albeit a long, loose noose, around my neck. Yet, it was still some time before she hogtied me down with an ultimatum to marry and live with her on her Daddy’s farm.

“If you don’t settle down with me, Tommy, we’re done and it’s over. You decide right now if you want me and our baby or your wild life.”

Not much of a choice, thinking about all the women, the sex, the drinking, the drugs, and the days filled with good times without responsibility, I was considering returning back to my old ways, that is, before she called my life wild. As if that one word was a splash of cold water to my face, before giving me a dose of electrical shock therapy, it was then that I realized she was serious. The immature dope that I was, if I didn’t stay with her, if I didn’t repent, reconcile, and make my claim on her and my baby now, I’d lose them for good.

In an instant, I realized all that I already had with her was what I was looking for with someone else, another who wasn’t even as pretty or as good, pure, and honest inside. Fortunately, I realized the better life that I could have with Becky, instead of the worse life I could have with someone else, someone who was just as wild as I was then. It was then that I realized that Becky and our baby were the best pieces of my perceived pie and the biggest pieces of the puzzle missing from my life. If I didn’t make my claim now, not having them in my life, I’d stood to lose everything I could have wanted. My choice was an easy one to make.

Struggling to resist the truths she already somehow knew from that first date she was with me and from the unflappable insights she possessed, as if she were clairvoyant, when I think back, because of my immaturity, we had so little time and I wasted too much of the time that we could have had together. It took me too long to grow up to be the man that I am today and the man that she saw and needed me to be, when I was still just a horny boy. Even though the sex was good, the best sex I ever had, now that I’m older, I realize that the sex was the smallest part of what we shared. Lucky to have found one another so early in our lives, we were lucky to have shared something special, something deeper, something more meaningful, comfortable, and pleasurable, and something that so few people ever experience, and something that I never had and never will have with anyone else again.

More wanting to do things with my friends, never was I comfortable enough just sitting with a woman and talking, as I eventually grew to be with her. She was comfortable staying home and doing nothing, that is, if you call cooking, cleaning, taking care of our baby, and making a better life for us doing nothing. I always needed to go out and to do something, that is, if you call wasting my time and my money by hanging out and drinking with the guys doing something. What I thought was doing something then was more like doing nothing now.

With our relationship evolving to be more of a love bond than a sexual one, quickly growing to be my best friend, I told her things that I never told anyone else, not even my best buddies that I’ve known all my life. Compared to her, every other woman was an empty shell and just a vessel for my cum. I never clicked with another woman in the way that I clicked with Becky. A Thanksgiving Day seven course meal with the sex being the cherries jubilee, the other women in my life were just fast food that gave me indigestion, instead of love.

Yet, compared to everything else she gave me, the sex wasn’t even the cherry on the sundae. The sex, the holding, the talking, and the cuddling was more the glue that connected us, when we suddenly found ourselves unraveling, pulling apart, and coming undone over something stupid. In hindsight, as if we just wanted to and needed to fight to clear the air and to have makeup sex, now that I have the time to look back with renewed insight, our disagreements were always over something stupid that got blown out of proportion.

With the sexual pleasure placating the pain we both felt from growing up poor and in dysfunctional households, the sex was sometimes what we needed to reinforce that there was a reason for all that we suffered through to be together now as man and woman, husband and wife, and lifelong lovers and partners. If it wasn’t for her insisting that we were meant to be, I would have made a mistake by being with someone else, no doubt. If she hadn’t forced fate by telling me that I was the one and telling me that she loved me from our very first date, I never would have known that then, as I truly believe that now.

Our good times sitting on the front porch and having a cup of coffee, playing whist, or a game of Scrabble and talking dwarfed whatever pleasure we had from having sex. The content happiness from the warmth that I felt being with her throughout the day far exceeded the pleasure I received from the few minutes of humping and sweating we did late at night or early in the morning. Sometimes and more as I grew older, I looked more forward to those quiet times with us talking, holding hands, and hugging, than I looked forward to us having sex. We never could watch television or a movie together without remembering something that made us start talking and laughing over the things we saw, heard, or did. Talking about everything and laughing over nothing, I never had that comfortable closeness with anyone but her.

It was the conversation that helped grow us closer by knowing more about one another than if we were brother and sister growing up in the same house. It was our words said in private to one another that cemented our relationship in an unbreakable bond of unified trust. We shared our secrets and fears with one another. As if the words were the bricks and the sex the mortar, we had built a strong foundation. Writing this now, I didn’t have to tell her that then, she knew all of that already. I was the one always playing catch up to what she already knew. Compared to her, I was the one who didn’t know anything. She was the oracle and I was the fool.

Even though she had beautiful breasts, the most beautiful breasts I’ve ever seen, felt, and sucked, I grew to look more forward to holding her hand and playing with her fingers, while walking and talking, than holding her breast and fingering her nipple, while making love. As if making a permanent connection with our lips, putting an arm around her waist and kissing her meant more to me than putting a cock in her mouth or pussy and fucking her. Now that I think more about it, I couldn’t treat the woman I loved and the mother of my children as a whore, in the way that I did with the other women that I was with before her. Different from all the other women I’ve been with, we never fucked. We always made love.

Maybe the fear of falling in love is why I resisted her. Having such strong, strange feelings was new to me. Never depending on a woman before, always feeling superior to them, and now looking to Becky to fulfill most of my sexual, emotional, and spiritual needs, wants, and desires that I never knew I needed filled, made me feel less of a man in the beginning. I just wanted to have sex without having the accountability for everything else, the commitment of being with just one women, the complexity that comes with a relationship, and the responsibility for the happiness of someone else that went along with love.

Having to expose myself so openly, more terrifying than facing a linebacker on the open football field or fighting a professional heavyweight boxer in the ring, she frightened me, when she told me she loved me. As if she drove an icicle through my brain and another through my heart, having a sudden and detached aloofness that comes with severed emotions, feelings I couldn’t give in to and share with her or with anyone else at the time, she froze me into inaction. Loved me? How could she love me, when we just had the one date? She doesn’t even know me.

Obviously, I can see now that it was all meant to be and I was too tempted by and preoccupied with others to see that the one I loved was standing right there in front of me. Thinking that love had to be more complicated than that, thinking that I’d have to scour the countryside, search the planet, and be with and make mistakes with dozens, before I found the right one, we were lucky to find one another right away. Had I known then what I know now, things between us, especially in the beginning would have been differently better.

As if my shoes were cemented to the floor, too stubborn to take them off and follow her in my bare feet, I couldn’t walk the path that she wanted me to walk. Too self-centered in my thought and too stingingly selfish with my emotions, I needed to take a different route, before meeting up with her on the other side of the hill, where the fork had me go one way and she in another. I’m glad that I finally decided not to turn away from her again and to accept her hand and walk with her finally, because I wouldn’t have become the man that I am today without having had her in my life. Without doubt, my life would have been shitty without her in it. It breaks my heart to think of me without her and immobilizes my brain to think of her with another man.

Had I made that decision early on to embrace her and to believe all that she said as the truth, for sure, I wouldn’t have hurt her in the way that I did by rejecting her and disrespecting her by not wanting her. Only, afraid to admit it, spinning around with other women, wanting to play the field first, before settling down with one woman, I did want her. I always wanted her. When not with her, even when with another, always comparing her to other women and with every other woman falling short, I always thought of her and how better not only the sex was but also how better my life could be with Becky in it.

Our intimate times together were always soft, special, loving, and memorable moments and not rushed and desperate, as all my other sexual encounters had been. Calm and soothing, without any head games, name calling, cussing, or unkind words, best of friends, we talked as if we had known one another since forever. Compared to the other women, the sloppy rushed sex I had, after getting drunk, paled in comparison to just kissing Becky. Thinking about them now, I couldn’t even recite their names or remember what any of them looked like. Compared to Becky, they were faceless, anonymous women and our brief unions together meant nothing.

In the beginning, when it was more about sex for me, intimate times with Becky was more about love for her. As if my feelings for her were just bulbs planted in a garden, Becky patiently waited for my love to bloom and blossom. As if awakening from a drunken stupor or a drug induced sleep, love was something that came later for me than it did for her. While kissing her and having sex with her, when I thought that there was nothing that could possibly make our times together better, it was then that I finally fell in love with her.

As a bonus or a surprise firework display that lit up our private skies when making love, intimate times with Becky was akin to unwrapping a package at Christmas. Wrapped in pretty paper with ribbons and bows, her gift of love came inscribed personally to me. Always a surprise, never was our love making the same, and/or routinely boring. Our times together were as different as they were exciting the first time.

Still, in the case of love, especially in the beginning, she was way ahead of me in that regard. She looked at me with love and I looked at her with lust. Thinking that I was way ahead of her because I thought I was taking advantage of her, but heading in the wrong direction, I was already running a race that I couldn’t possibly win. As if she had already run this race with me before, carrying me along with her, with me in one arm and our baby in the other, she knew where to go and which turn to take, so that we could win the race together and as a family. While I struggled with drugs and alcohol, got lost with other women along the way, and disappeared forcing her to fend for herself as a single mother, she was planning our wedding, while thinking about our future together.

She never faltered in her love for me, in her belief in me, and in her desire to stay with me. When I think about the past now, she was always out front and way ahead of me, while I lagged behind interested more in looking at and being distracted by the scenery than in concentrating on the prize. Where I had to experience other women to realize how special Becky was, she didn’t have to experience other men to know that I was the one she wanted forever.

Now that I’ve lived my life with her, she was, by far, the biggest prize of all and the best thing that could have happened to me in my life. Yet, in the beginning, just as I wanted to bed her, she wanted to marry me. As if she was Medusa and could turn me into stone from wanting and desiring other women, I avoided looking her in the eyes for fear that I’d fall in love with her. Focusing more on her shapely figure than on her pretty face, every time she looked at me, I could tell she loved me and, as if I was doomed to be with her, her look frightened me. Too young for marriage and children, what I thought was my doomsday with her then was my salvation now.

I remember focusing my attention more on her breasts than on her face. Even though she had a beautiful face, I feared that if I looked at her, really looked at her, she’d find me out for the fraud that I am. I feared she’d see that I didn’t love her, when somehow she knew I did. She knew more about me than I knew about myself. She knew that I wasn’t a fraud, but just needed a bit of prodding and guidance to find my way.

For me, especially in the beginning it was all sexual and we had sex nearly every day. Feeling safer by the sexuality of her without the commitment, if I stared long and hard enough, if I focused more on what she looked like on the surface, instead of what she was saying and who she was inside, I could see the impressions her nipples made through her blouse and bra. Because her breasts were so big, at least a C cup, her breasts pushed open her blouse and I could see her sexy bra.

I remember riding the merry-go-round, the Ferris wheel, the rollercoaster, and sitting on the park bench talking and laughing, while eating our ice cream cones. The horny guy that I was, I made sure that I sat on the left side of her, so that I could have a constant view of her lacy bra and the top portion of her breast, between her stretched open button holes of her blouse. Every time I looked at her, instead of seeing the beauty within, I saw the outside package, while imagining her tits. More enamored with the surface of her, her blonde hair, blue eyes, and big tits, I was so immature. Every time she looked at me, she saw her husband and the father of her children, no doubt. Every time I looked at her, I thought about her naked and on her knees. Polar opposites in what each of us wanted and expected from one another, trying to bring us together in the beginning took a lot of tears, questions, and conversations. Finally, it was with the realization that I truly was in love with her that we were both finally on the same page.

Oh, I was in love alright, but not with her and not with who she was. More interested in bedding a beautiful blonde, I didn’t even know who she was. Too busy drinking, having a good time with my friends, and preoccupied with sports, I never took the time to find that out, until much later. I wasted too much time and money with foolishness, time and money that I could have shared with her.

If I loved her at all in the beginning, I loved her form, her fashion, and her image. I loved what she looked like in a pair of tight jeans. I more loved the outside package. I loved her sparkling blue eyes and her full ruby lips. Especially in the beginning, not giving a care to if she was happy and how I could make her happier, I wondered more about what she looked like naked than how I could be a better man.

Putting a face to the image, more beautiful than Kim Basinger, she resembled her more than anyone I knew. She was a real beauty and I was smitten with her, but I didn’t love her then, in the way that I do now and always will forever. Needing some maturing to be the man she saw that I was, could be, and finally turned out to be, I was stupid. I wasted too much time trying to get others to have sex with me, when Becky was there waiting for me to be her one and only man.

When I think about it, who wouldn’t love someone who looked like Kim Basinger? Only, I was too young for love, didn’t even know what real love was. Bedding a variety of women, getting high and drunk, while pounding my chest and bragging to all my friends, I was clueless. When most men never find their one and only, I had found Becky or, more appropriately, she had found me from the beginning.

Back then, her smile didn’t have that magical hold on me that it would have later in life. Back then, I only translated her smile as beauty, something tangible, instead of the person she was within, something intangible and something I couldn’t see but depended upon so much later. Yet, later in life, glowing brighter with time and experiences, there were so many joyous emotions behind her flashing me that smile. It took me years to see the real woman behind the smile. She could have been anyone for all that it mattered, but one in a million, few women looked as good and was as good as she was, inside and out.

Yet, that was then and this is now. Now I get it. Now I know that not only was she beautiful on the surface but also she was beautiful on the inside, too. Truly, it wouldn’t have mattered what she looked like, so long as I could put a translation to that smile and her smile spoke to me without words.

“You’re the one,” she said with eyes that made me want to believe her but also that made me question her sanity. “I knew you were the one the first time I saw you and positive you were the one the first time I kissed you,” she said with that little smile that made me want to kiss her and, for the sake of sex, tell her that I loved her, too, when I didn’t then in the way that I did later and still do now.

“I’m the one? What one? Which one? How can I be the one, when I’m no one? You don’t even know me.”

“I know who you are, Tommy. I see you differently than you see yourself. Trust me, we were meant to be together.”

How could she know that I’m the one, when I didn’t even like myself all that much? No doubt, she saw something different looking at me than I saw when looking at myself in the mirror. By what divine providence does she have that she could see so far into her future, my future, and/or our futures together to know that I’m the one? How dare she tell me that I’m the one. She has no right to tell me that I’m the one. Truth be told, I didn’t believe her. Truth be told, I didn’t deserve her.

I remember kissing her, when she told me all that in the moonlight and under the starry sky that peeked through the dilapidated roof of the barn. With her first kiss forcing me take another and closer look at her, she crumbled my resistance with each kiss. I remember thinking, she’s been waiting for me all my life.

“Wow!”

She thinks I’m the one and knew that from the first time she saw me. Kissing her again and again, I reached around behind her and rested my hand on the top of her firm, round ass. If only I knew then what I know now, thinking that I was taking my time, when I was rushing things, I figured I’d feel her ass with our next kiss

“Wow!”

I’m getting lucky tonight, I thought. Ready to push Becky back in the soft hay and have my wicked way with her, I was ready to feel and touch her everywhere through her clothes, before stripping her naked, while kissing and kissing her. Much like all the rest of the women I had my way with, I figured our time together would be easy, when it was the most difficult, albeit most enjoyable time that I ever had with a woman in my life. As if being mixed in a blender and no longer able to separate the ingredients, even though I tried to pull us apart by remaining distant and difficult, we made an indelible memory that first night together.

Then, over the years and through all the tears, I nearly ruined that memory. Oh, I was the one alright. Truth be told, I was the one who ruined our first kiss. I was the one who made our first time together unbearably uncomfortable and almost our last time together. I was the one who took advantage of her by forcing myself on her, or so I thought.

In hindsight, she was the one who showed me the way by allowing me to be with her, so that she could teach me what true love was. Otherwise, I never would have known. Truth be told, had Becky not loved me, I would have wandered through life alone and lonely. Even if I was to get with another woman, a woman lesser in every way than Becky, just going through the motions with disconnected emotions, while pretending that I was in love with her, I’d be thinking about Becky, no doubt. If it wasn’t for Becky knowing all that she did about me from the start, we never would have been together now.

As if there was something missing from my life, as if I had forgotten my wallet or lost my dog, there was always a nagging feeling of something not right, whenever I wasn’t with Becky and especially before we were married, when I was cheating on her with someone else. Reluctant to solely be with her, I always thought about her. Fighting her superiority in her knowing we were supposed to be together, not wanting to be so dependent upon her and always resisting her self-assured notion that I was the one, I did my best to disprove that idea by proving to her what a real bastard I was. Still, no matter how much I hurt her, as if she knew I’d soon become the man she needed me to be, she always forgave me.

“Kiss me, Becky,” I said grabbing her breast with one hand and wrapping my other arm around her waist.

Ready to stick my tongue down her throat, ready to show her the man that I was by the lover I had become by bedding other women and, yet, another woman, I pulled her to me with a hand to her ass and my fingertip reaching between her legs from behind. Only, when I leaned down to her and closed my eyes for my kiss, she slapped me hard across the face.

“Don’t be disrespecting me like I’m some slut you picked up drunk from a bar and fucked in a back alley, Thomas,” she said pushing back on my shoulders and knocking me over a bale of hay.

“Sorry, Becky,” I said getting up and rubbing my face, as stunned as I was embarrassed.

Making me feel, as if I was a child, she always called me Thomas when she was riled up like that. All the other times she called me Tommy, never Tom, except for those times that she fell ill. Then, she called me Tom, as if that was all the energy she had left to utter.

Never having been slapped by a woman, it was as if she threw a bucket of cold water at me. Her way of giving me a cold shower, no doubt, she awakened me from out of my horny state. Having never been rejected before, I looked at her, as if seeing her for the first time. Who is this woman? So soft and so feminine, yet so strong and so powerful. I never knew she had it in her to talk to me in that way and to knock some sense in my head with just one slap.

“If you want me, you must treat me with respect,” she said staring me down, before unbuttoning her blouse.

When she slapped me, I figured I had blown my chance to be with her. Then, when she started unbuttoning her blouse, I felt such sexual excitement for her that I’ve never felt for any woman before. The thought of her rejection mixed with her sudden obvious consent overwhelmed me with lust and desire for her. I watched her undressing with my eyes bugging out of my head.

“I’m sorry, Becky,” I said not believing what I was seeing.

I couldn’t believe she was unbuttoning her blouse. I couldn’t believe all that she was exposing. I couldn’t believe I was seeing her cleavage, her bra, and then the entirety of her bra clad breasts. I’m gonna get lucky tonight, I thought. Always having to struggle in a wrestling match and grope at a woman to get her naked, I couldn’t believe she was voluntarily removing her clothes.

“You’ve only just fucked sluts, Thomas. You must learn how to make love to your woman and not disrespect your woman by forcing yourself on her. Love is a beautiful thing, when both want it and are ready for it,” she said removing her blouse and hanging it over the horse stall.

Love? With this just our first date, how could she be talking about love already? I didn’t want love. I only wanted sex. Yet, willing to say and do anything to have sex with Becky, I was too excited by watching her undress.

“Okay,” I said, the only word I could think to say. I was stunned that she was standing there in her sexy bra, without having had to wrestle with her and pin her down to undress her.

After she removed her blouse, she unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans. Watching her undress that first time was just as exciting as watching her undress for bed thirty years later. As if lit up with a black light, as if they were magical, florescent panties, I remember clearly seeing the top of her white bikini panties in the moonlight, as she slowly lowered her tight jeans and stepped out of them. Oh, my God, she had such a fabulous body, the best body I’ve ever seen.

Standing there in her bra and panties was the first time she allowed me to touch her, actually feel her soft, supple skin. My favorite place to hold her was just around her waist and just above her hips. More groping her, I was so clumsy in touching her, but she was a good teacher. She helped me by taking me by the hand and showing me where and how to touch her, so that she could enjoy the experience, as much as I did. Then, we kissed and kissed and kissed. Never has just a kiss excited me as much. Never have I been as sexually aroused by any other woman, as I was with Becky.

From the first time we were together, she allowed me to stick my hand in her bra, fondle her breast, and feel her nipple, before allowing me to feel and squeeze her ass through her panty. Normally, with the other women I had been with, even with all the wild women I’ve known, I’d have to liquor them up and take them out a few times before hitting a homerun and making my way around the bases. Then, as if I was having a hands on sexual education course, she lowered my hand to her panty clad pussy.

Taking me by the finger, she had me trace her pussy slit and then pushing down harder on my finger, she had me finger her clit and rub her bean through her panty, as we kissed and kissed. Not allowing me to rush, slapping my hand away, when I tried going too far, too soon, she finally allowed me to part her panty and reach inside to feel her warm wetness. Feeling as if the first time with Becky was the first time I had sex with a woman, never have I had sex with a woman who was so willingly helpful. The difference being that we weren’t having sex. We were making love.

It wasn’t until I had her sufficiently heated up to where she needed to be that she reached down and fondled my cock through my jeans. Excruciatingly waiting for her to touch me, when she finally felt me, I thought I was going to shoot my load in my pants. By the time that I had reached this point with another woman, every other woman I had been with before would already have had my jeans unzipped, my cock out of my pants, and would have been sucking on it some by now. Only, mindful that I was already ready and waiting, she slowed down the action by taking our time and never have I had such an erotically pleasurable time making love to Becky than I did fucking the other women in my past.

It was more exciting feeling Becky’s tits and fingering her nipples through her clothes than it would have been had she been topless. She made me realize all the excitement I had missed by rushing the sex I had in the past. As if having sex with a prostitute, too many women I were with stripped naked, before I so much as touched them. It was differently better with Becky. Feeling her through her clothes first, while kissing her and not removing her bra and panty, until I respected her enough to wait until she was ready, proved that this is how to have the best sex. When Becky was aroused, she was wilder than any wildcat I had bedded. Wilder than Betty Jo and Bobby Jean, more wicked than Mandy, Amber, and Sue Ellen put together, never have I had such pleasurable and long lasting sex.

That night of the country fair was the first time we made love. As if the backdrop of carnival lights were our nightlight and the calliope music our romantic serenade, I’ll never forget our first time together. Of course, being that it was fated for us to be together, Becky became pregnant with Elizabeth. We were so young but if it wasn’t for Becky knowing that I was the one and that we were supposed to be together, I wouldn’t be standing here and talking about her today. Having just left her, I miss her already.

As my mechanism to help me through my sorrow, when I think I don’t love her anymore and when I question why I married her in the first place, I remember how she used to be. Then, I’m proud to have been her man. I’m proud to have found and spent years learning how to love the love of my life. Just as I’m glad she told me that I’m the one, I’m glad she showed me how to love her. She was the one, my one and only, my special woman and I was her special man.

Never have I loved anyone in the way that I loved her. Never will I love another. She knew before I did that we were meant to be together, but now I know better. Fortunately, I saw her light before it was too late and before it dimmed from her eyes for the last time. When I tried to awaken her that morning of her death was the first time in her life that she didn’t have that smile and didn’t greet me with a kiss and an I love you. With the death of her, her smile was seemingly gone forever, but not from my mind, from my heart, from my soul, and from my dreams. With the death of her, I thought it would be the death of me but now I know that I must continue to show her the man she spent years to make of me. Whenever I think of her and see her in my dreams, she’ll always be smiling that smile that made me fall in love with her.

As you all know, I buried Becky this morning on the hill on the other side of the barn, where we first kissed. The carnival is back in town and it was this time 30 years ago that we attended the county fair. Becky loved the county fair. In celebration of her life, I plan on attending the fair to ride the rollercoaster, the Ferris wheel, the merry-go-round, and even sit on the park bench to eat an ice cream and, I welcome you all to join me. Becky would have wanted me to do all that and she’ll be there in spirit by my side, while I’m doing all that. Celebrating her life, by paying tribute to her in her death, she’d be happy knowing that I did that for her and remembered her in that way.

In the course of our marriage, there’s been other women I’ve thought about and have been tempted by, but once I married Becky, I never crossed that line of mistrust and disrespect. Our marriage vows too sacred, some things are more important than a quick roll in the hay and a blowjob. Besides, just as she knew I was the one, she’d know if I cheated on her with another.

I met with the funeral director and gave him her picture. I wanted her to have that same soft smile she had I met her and when she met her maker. It’s funny how her smile never changed and was the last thing to go.

Thank you for all coming to this church memorial service.

I dedicate this story to my friend, who died on 9/11, may he rest in peace, to all those first responders that keep us safe, to all those in the military preserving our freedom, and especially to those 22 Navy Seals who recently died in Afghanistan.

Widow of 9/11 meets Angel, the guardian of the first responders’ Twin Towers Memorial.

Along with the rest of the world, it would be nearly ten years ago that Christine watched 9/11 unfold on television. A date she will never forget and will always remember for the rest of her life, today was the first day that she was able to get out from under her sadness and confront her sorrow. As if it all happened yesterday, forever unfolding in her mind in the way of a reoccurring bad dream, even when she was awake, the events of that God awful day were still fresh in her mind.

When asked during the countless interviews she gave, the face that the media had chosen because she was such a pretty, blonde haired and blue eyed, all American looking woman, Christine remembered she was sitting in front of the television eating oatmeal with blueberries, her favorite health food dish, when the first breaking newsflash interrupted her regular program. A plane had just hit Tower 1, the North Tower of the Twin Towers. She watched the tower explode in an inferno. Before she could wrap her brain around a plane hitting one of the Twin Towers, before she could realize how many people had just died, a second plane hit Tower 2, the South Tower. Horrified, she was stunned by all that she was seeing.

Even though she had oatmeal every day for years, somehow equating the smell, the feel, the texture, and the taste of oatmeal with the horrible memory of that fateful day, she never ate oatmeal again. With drips and drabs of fast breaking information being reported, the realization of it all didn’t hit her, until she saw a live feed from ground zero of people covered in ash and soot running for their lives. Knowing her husband was in the thick of it all, with the Twin Towers being his regular beat, she tried calling him but, with so many people on their cell phones, her calls wouldn’t go through. Frantic with fright and panicked by fear, not knowing what else to do, she watched the just officially announced terrorist attack unfold on television.

As if those two planes, American Airlines plane, flight #11, that crashed into the North Tower and United Airlines plane, flight #175, that crashed into the South Tower, were movie props trying to dissuade King Kong from clinging onto the Twin Towers, she watched in horror. As if what she was watching was some twisted, make believe, arcade video game of death, devastation, and destruction, not believing her eyes, she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Paralyzed with fear, she was stunned when the news reported that American Airlines, flight #77 had crashed in the Pentagon and it was rumored that United Airlines, flight 93, had been hijacked and shot down by our military, somewhere in Pennsylvania.

How many more planes were out there waiting to hit their targets? They didn’t know. How many more planes were waiting to take off to carry out their terrorist missions. They didn’t know. With no one knowing anything, until later, they decided to make the sanely safe decision to ground them all.

With her life teetering with the fate of her husband, in those next few, panic stricken hours, endless long days, and sleepless night that morphed together as one, hoping for the best, while expecting the worst, she didn’t know if Rob was dead or alive. Suddenly sensing him taking his last breath and feeling the connection they had in life end with the death of him, she knew her life, as she knew it, would never be the same. She knew he was already dead.

For two years afterward, in colorless, slow motion without sound, she relived the horror of that day every night in her nightmares. Unable to stop watching any of it, flipping channels from station to station to avoid commercials to record all of it in her mind’s eye, while traumatized by all that happened, she wished she hadn’t watched any of it. Glued to the television for days in the way that the rest of us were, not showering, eating, or sleeping, with the horror of her husband buried somewhere in that rubble, she had to numbly watch it all unfold with her own two eyes for her to believe what she was seeing. Disturbed from her sleep for so long afterward, feeling as if a giant monster grabbed her and swallowed her whole, she awakened to the dark, choking visions of the towers crumbling, the toxic cloud of ash pluming, and the dust billowing around her.

Then, from watching all those people that lined the roofs of both towers, survivors who thought they were safe from the fires and flames, after being so temporarily removed from the extreme heat and toxic fumes, and hoping for help to get down on the ground and receiving none, there were those nightmares, too. She dreamt she was atop one of the Twin Towers reaching out for her husband’s hand, as the helicopter that tried to save them couldn’t because of the thick smoke, the intense heat, and the downdraft, and had to fly off to save itself from crashing. At first, with the towers so tall, on fire and smoking, burning, exploding, and shaking, and with the video shot so far away and the leap so very high up, she thought it was bits of paper being blown from the roof that fell. She was horrified, when the television reporter told her that it was people jumping from the roof with some landing on and killing those people on the ground below.

Falling, falling, falling, and falling, that night she dreamt she fell one hundred and ten stories. Falling, falling, falling, and falling, never to see their loved ones again, she couldn’t even imagine the horror those people felt knowing they were going to die. Falling, falling, falling, and falling, strangers unified by the same fate of death, she imagined her body hitting the ground and her heart exploding in a million pieces, when they told her that her husband was dead.

“Dead? Dead! Dead…he can’t be dead.” Living, crying, grieving, and somehow surviving, most times, she wished she were dead, too.

If her nightmares weren’t her new reality, her reoccurring visions would be less horrific. Only, she awakened with the knowledge that her husband was in the midst of all that. Watching the towers crumble, watching them fall to the ground in a big cloud of ash, hearing New York rumble, and feeling the Earth shake was only overshadowed by the unforgettable sight of so many people running, the sound of so many people screaming, and the knowledge of so many people dying.

From car alarms to the wails of police, fire and ambulance sirens, the never ending array of unanswerable distress signals gave her an internal headache that never stopped, even when she covered her ears, and even after taking painkillers. As if all of New York was under siege and burning, fear paralyzed everyone except for all of those first responders, who continued doing their jobs nonstop to find and to attend to survivors. Unable to breathe, suffocating in her sleep, as if she too were buried alive, too, she awakened gasping for air with the realization that it wasn’t a dream and her husband was still dead and gone forever.

Having to relive the loss of him over and again in her nightmares, paralyzed with grief, she never felt such soulful pain and sorrowful sadness. Hurting everywhere, she felt as if she was the sole survivor of a horrible car accident. Feeling as if she was split in two with one side of her body still doing Earthly things and the other side numb and wishing she were dead, too, somehow, she survived. Somehow, she continued with her life without him.

Tired of playing the what if game, replaying the events of that morning over again in her head, she wished her husband had called in sick that day. She wished he had forgotten his lunch or his cell phone, in the way that he left her behind, and had to return home to give her one, last kiss and one, long hug goodbye that may have saved his life. If only he had lingered longer to make love to her, their love may have spared him then, in the way that it tore her apart now. If only he had a doctor or dentist appointment, fate may have intervened and saved him. If only they were on vacation, God may have sparred him, but he took his vacation to marry her. Now that he’s gone, there were so many things left unsaid and so many things that she needed to tell him. Hoping she did and knowing he’d know if she hadn’t, she couldn’t remember if she told him she loved him, when he left for work that fateful day.

Fearing the worst, while pretending that he wasn’t dead, she knew he was one of the first responders who responded. Even though she prayed that he’d come home safe to her, no one had to tell her that he’d never come home again. Wishing they’d spare her the hurt, an echo that endlessly replayed in her head, the words of his superior officers and the chaplain were painfully redundant when they told her the bad news in person.

“Dead? Dead! Dead…he can’t be dead. We were just married and were supposed to start a family. We were saving for a house. We had reservations for dinner. His parents were coming for Thanksgiving. We were looking forward to our first Christmas together as husband and wife. We still haven’t received our wedding pictures and opened some of our wedding gifts.”

She surrounded herself with those families she knew were in the same, sad situation as she was. As if having a 24 hour open house with her support team, the diversion they brought to her day eased her load by giving her temporary solace with the thoughts that life continues after death and that her sorrow wasn’t just about her but about others, too. Even though they were still searching and hoping for survivors, even though others manned their vigils hoping their loved ones somehow survived the crush of a fallen skyscraper and had somehow found a pocket of clean, breathable air to keep them alive, until they were dug out, a blessing in disguise was when they found her husband nearly right away.

Not even used to the idea that he was missing, knowing now that he was officially dead, their abrupt notification of his death ended her hope as a loving wife of him surviving and prematurely started her grief as a grieving widow. She didn’t need to officially hear that they found his body and that he was dead. They didn’t have to tell her that he was gone forever. When that first tower fell, her heart broke, and she knew Rob was already dead. As if their hearts were beating as one, as if they were identical twins forever tied together by the same egg, as if it was her last one, too, she felt him take his last breath and somehow heard him say, “Goodbye. I love you.”

With phone lines down and cell phone towers overloaded, she tried calling and calling him. Then, they announced on television and on the radio for everyone to remain off the phones and to keep them for emergency use only. Now, no longer able to call him, still trying to call him nonetheless and feeling guilty every time she tried, after the city’s warning that everyone stay off their phones, other than to go down there with the rest of humanity and maintain a vigil, she didn’t know what else to do.

Before they had notified her of his death, when he didn’t return her calls, with the dust cloud forever lingering and still blocking the sun, no longer hoping for the best, she figured God couldn’t receive her prayers to answer them. Maybe there were just too many prayers and she had to wait her turn for God to answer them. She called his friends, his co-workers, and the station, but all the first responders were forever gone with him, too.

As if a plague had descended upon the city, as if a dark cloud of evil covered the landscape, the days melded with the nights in the way of a nuclear winter. Raining ash for hours, days, and weeks, a slimy film covered everything and everyone needed a mask to breathe. Beyond hope, a time only for prayer, knowing now that he was already gone and gone for good, never to walk through their front door again, all she had left was her faith in her God, along with the memories of him.

Her best friend, Jennifer, stayed with her throughout the whole ordeal. At times, they even slept in the same bed and held one another, as if they were lovers. Yet, even though she was never alone and was always comforted by friends and/or accompanied by relatives, she felt so alone and lonely without her husband, her best friend.

It was on those first few nights, when she put her head on her pillow and tried to sleep, that the horror of him being gone pained her heart with sadness. It was on those first few cold nights, when he was no longer there to spoon her, to touch her, to hold her, and to tell her he loved her, that she died with him. It was on those first few mornings, when she awakened without having him there next to her and touched his cold pillow, that filled her with grief all over again. After she stopped taking sedatives, those first few days and nights turned into weeks and months, before she came to terms with the final realization that he was gone forever and never coming home.

Going through the motions of suddenly having to live her life alone, after thinking she had it all, reliving her nightmare without break, she had so few memories as a married couple to cherish, after Rob died. Looking so much like something dug up from a grave, covered with dust and ash that turned his dark blue uniform to chalky grey and his face a ghostly frozen image, she was numb when they found his still body. A man, who was once so full of life, laughter, thoughts, ideas, and conversation, she had a hard time understanding that he was dead. None of it made any sense to her.

“Dead? How could he be dead? He’s not dead. He’s dead.”

She’s never seen him so quietly motionless, so still and so peaceful. He looked like a coal miner taking a nap on the job. Even when he was sleeping, he tossed and turned and talked in his sleep, no doubt, from the stress of his job.

“Wake up! Wake up, Rob. You’re not dead. This is just my nightmare. Please, wake up.”

Nearly unrecognizable after being crushed by chunks of the building, his bones broken, his cute nose crushed by a rock, his teeth missing, and his face disproportionately swollen and badly bruised, maybe they made a mistake. Maybe this isn’t Rob, but someone else, someone else’s husband, someone else’s brother, someone else’s son, and someone else’s friend. When she identified his remains by the possessions he carried in his pockets and by the tattoo he had on his shoulder, she knew they made no mistake. She knew this was her Rob.

With the whole country treating him so much as the fallen hero that he was, prescribed sedatives to help her with her husband’s transition from life to death and her transition from loving wife to saddened widow, she was numb through the funeral. Too much to bear, she was numb at every ceremony and service she attended for all those brother police officers, Port Authority police officers, firefighters, and EMT’s they found. As if those first few months, after Rob’s death was a horrible nightmare that never ended, she made it through her days in a velvety haze of prescribed sedatives, survivor support groups, and psychological therapy.

Having socialized with the families of other first responders, the tragedy touched nearly every family she knew. There’d be no more barbeques, pool parties, birthday parties, and celebrations, not for a long while. There were just tears and fears that their worlds, as they all knew it, came to a crashing end with the fall of those twin towers. She was still numb when they invited her to the White House to posthumously receive her husband’s Medal of Valor. Now, officially, by the officious office of the President, Rob was a hero and she was a widow. Finally, after all the funerals, the interviews, and the hoopla, she was all alone with herself.

Unable to live in New York anymore. Afraid to leave her apartment for fear that a building would fall on her, too, once she received her settlement from the 9/11 Survivors’ Foundation, she moved to the safest city she could find, Hershey, Pennsylvania. It was a place she visited as a small child and always remembered it as being safe and fun. Returning to a time when she was the happiest and to a place of innocence, roller coasters, and chocolate sweets, even if it was a facade, she needed to recapture that feeling of safeness and security to survive.

Not knowing what it was, the first time she heard it in the distance, a long, low, loud sounding siren, it scared her out of her wits. Hershey, as did most of the surrounding communities had volunteer firefighters and the siren was the city’s way of summoning the volunteers, whenever there was a fire and/or other emergencies. Even after she knew what it was, as if dreaming it in her nightly nightmares, the sound of it was an eerie reminder of all the sounds she heard on 9/11, that fateful day, all the tragedies she imagined these first responders were rushing to, and all the dangers they faced when they got there.

Her neighbors told her there was a similar siren, one used by the nuclear power plant at Three Mile Island, if ever there was an emergency. Her neighbors told her that the Three Mile Island siren didn’t stop, as did the fire siren, when all the first responders were in place. Her neighbors told her that if she ever heard that siren, just to get in her car and flee. Only, after having already lived through one such horrible tragedy, having experienced the uncertainty and survived the panic once before, this time, she’d rather just stay put and not be part of the long, desperate horde of panicked people trying to flee the city at the same time. After losing her husband and her life, as she knew it, she’d rather just turn on the stereo, pour herself a glass of wine, and kiss her ass good-bye.

As soon as she bought her townhouse, feeling so alone and lonely, she adopted a dog, a miniature Toy Poodle and named her Kisses. Having dated Rob and having lived together since forever, but not married long enough to have had children, they were saving a down payment to buy a house. Barely beginning their first year of marriage before 9/11 left her a widow, her dog helped her through those bad days and lonely nights. Never without her dog, always afraid that someone or something would hurt her too, Kisses slept at the foot of her bed.

Still hurting after so many years, finally venturing out of her safe haven and fashioned cocoon, she was now strong enough to return to New York to visit the 9/11 Memorial. Leaving behind a lot of memories, she was strong enough to face them all now. New York was the place where she was born, lived, and worked, and the place where her husband had died. Not wanting to go there for the ten year anniversary, figuring she’d go now, before all of humanity descended upon New York to mourn the occasion by remembering their lives and celebrating the dead, she didn’t want to be part of the crushing crowd and the maddening mob. She wanted to avoid seeing old friends, those survivors who were still just as sad as she was, who’d make her relive the memories of better times, and who’d make her feel bad all over again for the misery she still felt now.

Other than staying with Jennifer, Christine wanted to be alone and had wandered the crowded sidewalks of New York for hours. Basically still the same, it was strange to see how little New York had changed in ten years, especially with the Twin Towers and the surrounding buildings leveled. Finally returning home, Jennifer opened the door for Christine visiting Manhattan for the first time, since moving from New York to Hershey, Pennsylvania and gave her a big hug.

“I was worried sick about you. I knew I should have come with you,” said Jennifer.

“I know and I’m sorry to have worried you,” said Christine.

“Where were you? You’ve been gone for hours,” Jennifer looked at her friend with the concern of a mother.

“Even though I had no intention of going there so soon and going there alone, as if drawn to it, I went to see the 9/11 Memorial,” she said looking at Jennifer and looking as if she was about to cry.

“I figured you would, but I would have thought you’d ask me to come along with you for moral support,” said Jennifer stroking Christine’s soft, blonde hair.

“Thank you but, except for Kisses, I needed to be alone,” said Christine pausing with sadness and allowing the images of the 9/11 memorial to fill her mind with as much sorrow as it did comfort. “When I saw the memorial it was so powerful, overwhelming actually, seeing something so big and beautiful emerge from all that ugly rubble and twisted metal. Somehow I felt better knowing a piece of Rob was there, if only in spirit. Just as I closed my eyes to feel him and to talk to him, I lost Kisses,” said Christine beginning to tear up and squatting down to give her chocolate, miniature Toy Poodle a big hug.

“You lost Kisses? Kisses got loose?”

“Yes,” said Christine, still hugging her dog.

“Oh, my God,” said Jennifer looking at her friend with worry, before scolding her. “You have a cell phone, why didn’t you call me? I would have helped you look for her.”

“Suddenly in panic mode, as if I were cursed and going through that horrible day all over again, I tried calling you but, I couldn’t get reception where I was at the Memorial pools. It was weird because I’ve always had good reception at the Twin Towers before, when I lived here. Even though all my bars were lit, my phone kept coming up that the call failed. As if something was interfering or someone was blocking them, my calls just wouldn’t go through.”

“What do you mean something or someone wouldn’t allow your call to go through?” Jennifer gave her friend a look of fright.

“Rob always said that I was on the cell phone too much. He said if he died before me, the only call he’d allow me to make is to Heaven to talk to him or to God,” she said with a laugh. “When I couldn’t make the call,” said Christine beginning to cry, “I figured it was Rob blocking my call, so I asked God for his help. I asked God to send Rob to Heaven.”

“Oh, my God, Christine,” said Jennifer hugging her friend again with both women crying.

“I asked God to help me find Kisses,” said Christine breaking the hug to wipe the tears from her eyes. “I asked God to send me an Angel to help me through this horrible day. As if there was a curse over my head, after visiting that terrible location, too much to bear, I couldn’t survive losing my dog at the same place where I lost my husband,” said Christine beginning to cry again.

“Come inside,” said Jennifer closing and locking the door behind her friend.

“I’ll never get used to that again,” said Christine wiping away her tears with a tissue, while watching her friend bolt all three locks on her apartment door.”

“Get used to what?”

“Locking your doors and windows and setting an alarm every time you leave or go to bed in your apartment,” said Christine with a secure smile. “I feel so safe and relaxed where I am that I don’t even lock my door, when I go out to walk Kisses.”

“They don’t have crime in Pennsylvania?” Jennifer looked at her friend and laughed.

“Of course they do, but not so much in Hershey and the surrounding communities that are far enough from the Susquehanna river. People don’t even litter in Hershey. It’s one of the cleanest cities in the nation. Maybe because of all the tourists that go to Hershey Park, our police department makes sure we’re all safe,” said Christine suddenly looking sad. “Only–”

“Only, what Christine?”

“After returning here and reliving the sights, the sounds, the smells, and suddenly wanting to attend a Yankee’s game, I miss New York. I love New York. I miss the different cultures and races mixed together in one giant city that everyone calls New York and so many call home. Where I live now is so damn quiet and I’m still finding it difficult to adjust to the relaxed lifestyle. More rural than urban, it’s so different in Hershey,” she said with a laugh.

“How so?”

“In Hershey, there are so many police around and on duty that they respond very quickly. In Hershey, the only black people I’ve seen are tourists, the kids that live in the orphanages, and workers at The Hotel Hershey that drive up from Harrisburg. The only Hispanic people I’ve seen are the pickers that the farmers hire to pick their crops. Hershey, a city of milk chocolate and dark chocolate, a city where giant Candy Kiss replicas hang from every light pole along Chocolate Avenue is a little too white for me,” she said with a laugh.

“Yeah, well, you’re lucky that your police force responds so quickly. Unless I was being raped and murdered, it routinely takes the police, usually one old, fat, gray haired and red faced cop, half an hour or more to respond to a 911 call,” said Jennifer with a sad laugh. “Even then, if I’m not dead or nearly dead, he has an attitude because my elevator was out and he had to climb up so many stairs,” said Jennifer with a laugh.

“It’s different in Hershey. The police respond in force with a full complement of police officers for the smallest infraction. Maybe because there’s something in the air from those Three Mile Island smoke stacks, but most of the crime is closer to Harrisburg. Because of drugs, they have a shooting or stabbing there every other day.”

“Yeah, well, I’m glad you live in La La Land, but some of us must live in the real world,” said Jennifer to her friend with a laugh, “and not in Disneyland, Disney World, or on Chocolate Avenue and in Hershey Park.”

“Oh, my God, Jen, I was so frightened,” said Christine sitting down and sinking in the soft comfort of the sofa. “I haven’t had that feeling of loss, not that I’m comparing the loss of my dog to the loss of my husband, since Rob died,” she said pushing her long, blonde hair back from her face.

“I know,” said Jennifer leaning down to give her friend another hug. “It was so brave of you to go there alone. Let me get you something to drink.” Jennifer handed her friend a glass of cold water and watched Christine slowly drink. “You must have died in this heat and humidity. August is always so bad here,” said Jennifer grabbing up her mahogany hair and tying it in a long ponytail.

“Hershey is hotter in July than in August, but you have more humidity in New York and your concrete buildings and sidewalks act as an oven to bake everything hotter longer. Where I live off the golf course is mostly surrounded by farms, open fields, and cornfields, along with a backdrop of Milton Hershey’s orphanages and the endless array of Hershey Medical Center buildings that dot the distant landscape,” she said with some new found pride.

“It sounds beautiful,” said Jennifer.

“It is. Between the farms, the big lawns, and the manicured townhouse communities, it’s all so very landscaped. Except for Central Park, what you don’t have in New York are all the mature trees that we have to shade us from the sun. You need to come for a visit,” said Christine pulling on her friend’s hand. “With the acres of landscaped grounds, sometimes feeling as if I’m walking the grounds of a sanatorium, it’s all so very serenely beautiful and peacefully relaxing. If I was to imagine Heaven, Hershey would be it.”

“I know I should take a vacation and relax, but with the economy the way that it is, I’m afraid to take a week off for fear they’ll let me go. Walking around, as if on eggshells, I’ve just been taking personal days as vacation days. I’m just glad you two are okay,” said Jennifer hugging her friend and rubbing Kisses’ head. “Tell me what happened. Start from the beginning,” said Jennifer.

“I was out of my mind, Jen. I thought she was hit by a car, a truck, or a bus. I thought she was lost in this huge city or stolen. I thought I lost her for good.”

“Oh, my God, I would have been out of my mind, too,” said Jennifer.

“I was,” said Christine picking up her dog, sitting her on her lap, and hugging her. “After Rob died and being so alone and lonely, I couldn’t bear to lose her too, not now with the tenth anniversary looming and all the news coverage they’ll, no doubt, endlessly show on television. Being alone without Rob is the reason why I got this dog, in the first place, nearly ten years ago, and it figures that a fellow police officer, one of New York’s finest, would find my dog, where Rob died at the World Trade South Tower,” she said with a soft smile.

“Wait. A police officer found Kisses? A New York cop?” Jennifer looked at her friend with an expression of foreboding.

“Yeah, can you believe that? Of all people,” she said with a laugh.

“Where exactly did he find her?”

“Right there at the South Memorial pool, where she ran away. She must have returned there looking for me, when I was off frantically looking for her. She’s such a smart, little dog,” said Christine rubbing Kisses’ head and giving her some love.

Jennifer looked at her friend, as if she had seen a ghost.

“What exactly did that police officer look like?” Biting her lip again, Jennifer looked at her friend with obvious trepidation and covered the reason for her question with a smile and another question, while waiting for Christine to speak. “Was he cute?”

“Very cute, handsome actually,” said Christine wide-eyed and smiling. “Tall and broad shouldered, he had yellowish-white hair and eyes that appeared to change color with his emotions. Actually, at first, a bit pale, nearly translucent actually, and lacking so much pigmentation in his resemblance of an alabaster statue, I thought he was Albino but, upon closer inspection, he had more color than that.”

“Interesting, yet strangely familiar,” mumbled Jennifer under her breath.

“Pardon?”

“Oh, nothing. He sounds interestingly different, I said,” said Jennifer covering her misspeak.

Maybe it was the reflection of the sun but, as if I was viewing the aurora borealis, a kaleidoscope of color, his eyes changed colors from piercing blue to brown to green to gray. With his uniform crisply ironed, his shoes shined, his brass badges and buttons brightly polished, and his fingernails neatly manicured, he looked like a model on a police recruiting poster. Actually, Angel was very nice.”

“Angel?” Jennifer turned pale with the mere mention of his name. “His name is Angel? You’re kidding?”

“Yeah, I mean, no. Why? His name is Angel. I like the name, Angel. He’s my dream Angel,” said Christine clutching her hands to her chest, batting her eyes, and smiling, as if she was a school girl in puppy love. “He’s so dreamy.”

“Tell me, where exactly did you first see this Angel…person again?” Jennifer looked at her friend with concerned shock.

“At the South Memorial pool. Standing there with his hands on his hips and looking so much like a blonde haired Superman, he looked as if he was guarding the place. The only thing missing from his stature to punctuate his name were wings,” she said with a laugh. “Yeah, if I were to imagine a Guardian Angel watching over that God forsaken place, perfectly cast for the role, for sure, especially by his name, he’d fit the stereotypical part of an Angel and guardian of the first responders.”

“Oh,” said Jennifer with her eyes bulging. She turned away from her friend to support her weight on the sink and allowed her head to fall. “We’ll never know God’s grand plan,” she said as if suddenly possessed by religion. “It just helps to believe that there’s a reason for everything and a reason for God to take Rob, when he did. The good die young,” she said bowing her head in prayer and signing herself. “The good die young.”

“Well, whoever he is, he was very nice and we even made a date,” said Christine with a big smile and with stars in her eyes.

“What?” Paled by her look of horror, Jennifer turned to confront her friend. “A date? You made a date with an, I mean, with…Angel? No way!”

“Why?” Christine looked at her friend. “Why not? Don’t you think I’ve been in mourning long enough? Don’t you think I’ve been alone long enough? Do you dare deny me some happiness?”

“Yes, of course, ten years is a long time to be alone and lonely, and I wish you eternal happiness, but you don’t know anything about this guy, Christine. Your Mister Right could be all wrong,” she said with obvious trepidation.

“How bad could he be? He’s a police officer. Besides, I have a good sense about him,” said Christine with softness. “Somehow so special, he’s different from all the other men I’ve met. As if I made him up myself, as if I envisioned my perfect man, he is that and so much more. And he’s so wicked good looking.”

“Wow, he’s sounds too good to be true,” said Jennifer under her breath.

“Knowing exactly what to say to make me feel better, he’s kind and he listens to all that I have to say. Even Rob didn’t always take the time to talk to me and show interest in who I am inside and how I’m feeling. Rob was always so stressed by his job and too busy working, sometimes to take the time for me,” said Christine with sadness. “In the short time I’ve known Angel, just a few hours really, he’s made me feel better. Suddenly, I have a renewed reason to live life anew. Somehow strangely feeling as if I met him in another life, I trust him.”

“I just can’t believe your first day back in New York and you pick up a cop?” Jennifer looked at her friend with her jaw fixed and her eyes narrowed.

“I didn’t pick him up, Jennifer. Kisses did,” she said with a laugh. “Actually, neither one of us picked up the other. It just happened, besides I can’t help myself. With Rob being a New York cop, I’ve always had a thing for cops,” said Christine with a dirty laugh.

“I still can’t believe you made a date with a cop, all of people, after all you’ve been through,” said Jennifer with a laugh, while shaking her head and making a sour face. “Why you’d want to hook up with another man, who has such a dangerous and stressful job is beyond me,” she said, as if trying to dissuade her friend from starting a relationship with Angel, no doubt.

“Well, truthfully, it’s not actually a date. I’m just prematurely hoping for a date. I’m hoping he’ll ask me to dinner and then, who knows what after that. He volunteered to show me the 9/11 Memorial is all. I think he’s on duty there. I think he guards the place,” said Christine with a bashful smile. “I think he likes me.”

“Cool,” said Jennifer biting her lip again with a look of concern on her face. “That place is so big, you’ll need someone to give you a guided tour. Maybe he can help you.”

“Help me? What do you mean, help me?”

“Help you to find whatever it is you’re looking to find at the memorial is all that I meant by that,” she Jen suddenly looking nervous and out of sorts.

“I dunno, I have a funny feeling about this guy, Jen. There’s just something about him. Eerily familiar, I think it may be more like kismet that we met. As if we were meant to be together, soul mates, love at first sight, I think he may be the one,” said Christine with a hand to her heart.

“Eerily familiar? Kismet? Meant to be together? Soul mates? Love at first sight? You think he may be the one? One What? Wait, hold on here, Christine.”

“What? I’m not allowed to fall in love again? I’m tired of playing the grieving widow, Jennifer. I need to move on without Rob. I’ve been so sad and so lonely. I need someone–”

“Of course you, do, Christine, but don’t go falling for the first guy who does something nice for you. Truth be told, I have a funny feeling, too, about you meeting Angel.”

“You do? What? Why?”

“I can’t say. I mean, I don’t want to say.”

“What do you mean?”

“No, I can’t tell you. You’ll think me crazy. You’ll think that I’m just jealous that you finally found a guy that you like enough to make a date.”

“Tell me, Jen. What is it? Why would I think you crazy?”

“I’ll tell you after your semi date with Angel. Okay? Maybe then, I won’t have to tell you. Maybe then you’ll know. Maybe he’ll tell you himself and I won’t have to tell you.”

“Tell me what? You’re freaking me out, Jen. You act as if you know this guy. Do you know Angel? Tell me what you know about him? Have you dated him? Is that why you’re being so–”

“No, I don’t know Angel. I’ve never dated him. I’ve never even had the pleasure of meeting him, but I’ve heard some strangely unnerving things about him that I’d rather you found out for yourself. I’d rather you make your own judgments about him. Okay? So tell me,” said Jennifer changing the subject. “How did Kisses get away?”

“Well,” said Christine giving her friend a questioning look, before continuing, “like everyone else who visits New York, I wanted to see the Twin Tower Memorial, but unlike the regular tourists, I had more of a personal reason to go.” Christine’s look of happiness, when thinking about Angel, turned to sadness, when thinking about her deceased husband, Rob.

“I know,” said Jen. “Other than to visit me, the 9/11 monument is the reason why you returned to New York.”

“It took me ten years to get up the courage to see where my husband died. I wanted to take a photo of his name etched in the memorial wall. Inscribed on bronze parapets that surround the South Memorial Pool, they have a whole section of first responder names of all those who were award the 9/11 Heroes Medal of Valor. Only, when I saw all those names, so very many names, hundreds of names, Jennifer, I started to cry. I couldn’t stop crying and I couldn’t stop shaking. Then, I remembered a bumper sticker of a car parked in front of me that read, 9/11, We Will Never Forget. Such an understatement, how I can ever besmirch Rob’s name by even thinking about being with another man is–”

“Don’t be silly, Christine. It’s been ten years. You need to get on with your life. If not with Angel, then with someone else. So, tell me, did you find his name?”

“Yeah, I did. At first, when I started reading the names that are arranged by agency, I recognized some of them, friends, co-workers, and people that Rob mentioned. Then, it all got to me. I couldn’t stop crying enough to even see the names through my tears.”

“Oh, you poor, poor thing,” said Jennifer squatting down to give her friend a hug.

“Then, as if taking me under his wing, so to speak, that was when Angel put his arm around my shoulder and gave me a comforting squeeze. As if whispering his words in my mind, without uttering them, his words were seemingly without sound, but I knew them, as if he had said them and as if they were my own thoughts. Mostly firefighters, Angel said that there are 418 names of police, fire, EMT’s, and Port Authority police officers, and he knew exactly where to find Rob’s name. So very weird, it was as if he had memorized them all and personally knew each and every one of those who died.”

“Apparently, Angel knows a lot about that monument and about those who died there that day,” said Jen with awestruck emotion.

“He does, Jen, he really does. Probably, from guarding the place for hours every day, he knows everything about the memorial”

“So, tell me, how did Kisses get loose?”

“Well, my car was right there, but it was too hot to leave her in the car, so I leashed her up and made sure she peed on a pole and a hydrant, before walking her over to the monument. Even though we stayed outside and never made it in to the museum, I didn’t want her desecrating sacred ground by peeing on it.”

“There are a lot of dogs in New York and, other than Central Park, there’s really no place to walk them,” said Jennifer, “which is why, even though I’d love to have one, I refuse to have a dog,” she said rubbing Kisses’ head. “I can’t imagine the horror you felt when kisses got away.”

“I was sick to my stomach, Jen, just sick to my stomach,” said Christine giving Kisses a kiss on her head. “Anyway, it all started after I had closed my eyes and said a prayer for Rob. Then, when I opened my eyes to set up my camera for some photos of the memorial, a big truck rumbled by and scared Kisses. Nearly dropping my camera, when I went to grab her, somehow she pulled out of her collar and bolted across the street and around the corner.”

“Oh, my God. Oh, my God,” said Jen. “I would have died. There’s so much traffic around there, everywhere in New York, and she’s so small. She was lucky she wasn’t hit by a car.”

“I know,” said Christine hugging her dog and kissing the top of her head again. “Accustomed to walking with me off leash, she ran as if she was running through a cornfield. Kisses, here Kisses. Where are you girl? Kisses! Kisses? By the time I ran around the corner, she was gone.”

“Calling out Kisses like that, I’m surprised you weren’t sexually accosted by one of our resident perverts that roam the streets looking for victims,” said Jen with a sad laugh. “If I yelled out kisses in this neighborhood, I’d have a line of horny men rushing to kiss me, while grabbing my ass and feeling my tits.”

“Anyway, too far to walk, I returned to my car and slowly drove around lower Manhattan, circling around the last place where I saw my dog. With every other street a one way, I stopped and got out of the car to call her, whenever I thought I saw her and whenever I found a place to park. Kisses! Kisses?”

“You must have been out of your mind with fright,” said Jennifer.

“I was, but I prayed. I asked God for his help and God gave me the strength to look for Kisses without falling apart. Up and down Vesey Street to the north, down and around the West Side Highway to the west, around Liberty Street to the south, and up Church Street to the east. Sixteen acres is a lot of ground to cover, especially in bumper to bumper traffic with a stop light or stop sign on nearly every corner. Around and around, after going around the block for the third time, I had just about given up hope of ever finding my dog, when I saw a New York City policeman standing by the South Memorial pool, exactly where I had been, and holding Kisses in his arms. An answer to my prayers, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.”

“You always had your faith,” said Jennifer. “I never believed in God and religion, in the way you do.”

“It was a miracle,” said Christine, squeezing Jennifer’s hand. “I parked my car at the first space I saw, a block away, and ran. Kisses! Kisses! Thank God! Thank God!”

“She’s a good dog,” he said in a soothingly calm voice, while rubbing her head, before handing her to me. “She’s a smart dog, too. Rob would have liked her.”

“He startled me, floored me, actually, when he mentioned Rob’s name. I looked up at him, as if looking at someone that I already knew, even though we had just met. Yet, never able to remember what he looked like before, that is, until you asked me if he was cute, I felt so calm standing there next to him.”

“That’s so weird how someone can make you forget your troubles and feel at peace,” said Jennifer with a soft smile. “I wish I could find someone like that.”

“When he asked me about Rob, I asked him if he knew my husband?”

“No Christine, he said, but I know where to find his name. I know all the names. Along with all the others who were lost that day, he’s the reason why I’m here,” he said escorting me to his name.

“Now that I think about it, I don’t remember introducing myself and telling him my name, he just knew it. I don’t remember him telling me his name either, I just knew it.”

“You’re giving me the chills,” said Jennifer.

“Pardon?”

“I said, finally meeting someone, you must be thrilled,” said Jennifer.

“With so many police officers in attendance, I figured maybe he saw me at one of the masses, remembered me from being interviewed on TV, saw my picture in the newspaper, or remembered me from one of the many ceremonies they had. Maybe he saw me at the White House being presented with Rob’s medal, I don’t know, but it was as if he knew me already and could see right through me to know who I am. It was surreal, Jen, and so very drawn to him, as if I was standing in the presence of someone good and powerful, he made me feel so happy and safe.”

“Christine, listen to me,” said Jennifer fidgeting with her fingers. “I must tell you something.”

“What?”

“Before you fall for this guy,” said Jennifer pausing to take her friend’s hands in hers, “there’s something you should know about him.”

“What? What do you know about him that I don’t know? You said you never met him. You said you never dated him. You said–”

“Angel is not who you think he is,” said Jennifer with a serious look.

“What do you mean Angel is not who I think he is? How do you know who he is or isn’t if you never met him?” Christine stared at her friend, while waiting for her to reply? “Who is he?”

“From the rumors that I’ve heard, Angel is, well, an Angel. He was sent here to protect those lost souls that haven’t yet found their way.”

“An Angel?” Christine looked at her friend, as if she had lost her mind or had been drinking. “What do you mean, Angel is an Angel? Don’t be ridiculous. There’s no such a thing as Angels…is there?” Hiding her shocked disbelief and wanting to believe her friend, she looked at Jennifer laughing and shaking her head, before looking at her in disbelief.

“Sorry, Christine, but he’s not of our world.”

“Stop it, Jennifer. You’re scaring me. Why are you doing this, after I finally meet someone?”

“I’m sorry, Christine.”

“If he’s an Angel, with all the telephone conversations we’ve had and e-mails we exchanged, why didn’t you tell me there was a Guardian Angel in New York watching over the Twin Tower Memorial. Huh? Answer me that.”

“I didn’t want to upset you with rumored nonsense, Christine. I never figured you have a celestial experience with an Angel. What kind of insensitive friend would I be–”

“If he was an Angel, Jen, how come an Angel sighting wasn’t reported in the way that they report UFOs? He’d be all over the news and the press. There’d be every priest, nun, religious devotee, zealot, and politician making pilgrimages to New York, just to meet with him with the hopes he’d deliver their messages to God or have something to impart to them from the lips of our Lord Almighty.”

“Fortunately or unfortunately, not everyone sees him, Christine. For some inexplicable reason you were chosen. You are among a select few who have even seen him and the sighting of him has been written off as those distraught family members who want to believe their loved ones made it to Heaven. Except for you, no one has even talked to him or so much as come near him.”

“I don’t believe you. Angel is as real as you are. Angel is human. Angel is a man and not an Angel.”

“You must believe me, Christine. You’re a vulnerable, grieving widow. As if a mirage or a vision, he disappears as quickly as he emerges. Until you described him to me, no one has been able to describe him. They forget what he looks like, as soon as they see him. Few even remember his name.”

“You’re wrong, Jennifer. Angel is a real man,” said Christine with tears beginning to well up in her eyes.

“I’m not wrong, Christine. I’m telling you what I know. Those who have seen him all say the same thing. They say that they saw an Angel with wings dressed as a police officer, which is how he got the name, Angel. Of course, those who haven’t seen him explain the sight of him away with just seeing things and those who have seen him want to believe that their fallen heroes have the eternal protection of a personal Guardian Angel.”

“Well, when I saw him, he didn’t have wings. He just looked like a man, albeit a beautiful man,” said Christine in a voice that was full of doubt and suspicion that her friend was just pulling her leg.

“I suspect he comes to you in the way you imagine what he looks like. I suspect, Angel is your idea of a dream man. I suspect he looks a little like Rob.”

“Now that you mention it, except for the blonde hair, he did look a little like Rob,” said Christine wrestling with all that Jennifer had told her. “Then, why didn’t I see his wings, when everyone said that he had wings.”

“Maybe because he talked to you, he hid his wings,” said Jennifer with a shrug of her shoulders. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t understand. Why me? Why now?”

“Maybe because you lost Kisses and asked for God’s help. Maybe because you prayed for God to send you an Angel to make it through your day. Maybe because you prayed to God to send Rob to Heaven. Maybe, before he died, Rob prayed to God for an Angel to protect you but, whatever the reason, by being so chosen and so protected, you’ve been blessed.”

Christine returned to the memorial to keep her date with Angel. Giving her a personal, guided tour, he took the time to show her the grounds and told her many personal things about all those who had died there that day, things that only their relatives would know. Every day that she was in New York visiting her friend, Jennifer, Christine returned to the 9/11 memorial alone to sit with Angel by the South Tower memorial fountain and in sight of her husband’s plaque.

For those who saw her sitting there alone, she looked so much like a grieving widow talking to herself and/or to her dead husband and she was but, with Angel acting as her moderator to communicate from the world of the living to the world of the dead. She talked to Rob through Angel. Angel gave her the comfort she so needed to finally get on with her life.

9/11, we will never forget.

Employer faced with laying people off in economic tough times, hires more people instead.

“What am I going to do? I just don’t know what I should do. What am I going to do?”

After spending many sleepless nights troubled by his floundering business, ironically, it was Valentine’s Day, 2010, when Edward Benedict had an inspired idea. From that one idea, he developed his financial strategy and future business plan to have ready and in place one year from today, Valentine’s Day, 2011. Even though his official first day to open for business was January 2nd, 2011, it was important that he’d have the grand opening on Valentine’s day. He’d use the preceding six weeks to advertise and market his grand opening. This story is about the period of time that preceded the grand opening.

After tossing and turning day after day and week after week, Edward had an epiphany. As a tsunami would withdraw the waters from shore, Edward’s epiphany erased all his indecision. The lull before the storm, once he had his idea and knew what he needed to do, the voices of his accountants and bankers were all quieted by his determination. Then, as if in a tidal wave of activity, he was a driven and motivated man to do all that he needed to do within a year.

“Yes, of course, that’s it. That’s what I’ll do.”

Edward Benedict was a small man, but for a man with a diminutive presence, he had big ideas, bigger dreams, and larger aspirations. For such a small man, barely 5’5″ tall and weighing 130 pounds, except for his size, everything else about him was big. With millions of square feet in area, he owned the biggest building in the city and one of the biggest buildings in the state.

Even his car, the only luxury he afforded himself, other than the splendor of his house, was a new 2 door, Rolls Royce Phantom coupe. He bought the car for the craftsmanship and the handmade workmanship, something that is dear to him. From a family of automotive aficionados, his Dad loved his 1963 Chrysler Imperial Crown coupe and his grandfather drove a 1929 Duesenberg.

A giant in his community, he was not only well respected but also beloved. A man with a caring heart bigger than Santa Claus’ generosity, he helped those in need, whenever he could. Anyone who entered Edward’s office with hat in hand left with a smile, a job, and/or money in their pocket. The richest man in the community and one of the richest men in the state, his pockets were as deep as his compassion was limitless for those less fortunate than him. For such a small man, his empathy for others was huge.

With him being so big inside, anyone who knew him, never thought of him as small. When asked to describe him, after they met him for the first time and listened to him talk about people in his community in need, about those who worked for him, and about his plans for his building, it’s funny how everyone described him as being bigger in size than he was in stature. With his reputation preceding him, after reading countless articles about him and his company, those who never met him imagined he was bigger. Someone you’d listen to, when he talked, he lit up the room with his presence.

For the sake of the promise he made to his father, he decided against taking the advice of his lawyer, accountant, banker, and other financial advisers. They didn’t understand the personal burden he shouldered. Just as they thought him a poor businessman for the indecisions he struggled with and for the financial decisions he made that were contrary to their advice, he more considered the human elements. His employees and the people who lived in the community equally were as important, if not more important, when making his business decisions, than the numbers his accountants crunched. When his financial people only considered balance sheets, cash flows, income statements, and budgets, Edward knew they couldn’t possibly understand his emotional motivation that tempered his values, when making his business decisions.

“Numbers, all they see are numbers, but I see the faces behind the numbers. I know what numbers can do for happiness or for ruination. If I just considered the numbers, I’d devastate the lives of so many people and change the landscape of this community for the worse for years. For what? For more money? I have enough money, more money than I need.”

Valentine’s day, a day of love not only meant the love that he had for his wife and for his children but also the love that he had for others, especially for his employees and those ties that his family business has had in the community for decades. Weighted down with obligation, feeling financially, morally, emotionally, and spiritually responsible for all those who worked for him, highly skilled craftspeople, who plied their laborious lost art, while unfairly competing in a world of high volume, computerized production, third world labor rates, and mass marketing, his workers were more family than employees.

In the way that he financially supported his workforce, with his yearly business losses escalating, even the IRS deemed his venture more of a hobby than a business. Edward keenly understood that the money his employees earned from the jobs he gave them, for the skills that no one else wanted, was the only money they had. Many of his employees were second and third generation family members, with many having worked for his father and grandfather, before him. How could he abandon them in bad times, when they worked so hard to give him and his family so many good times?

A community decimated by high unemployment, home foreclosures, and crime, a downward spiral of urban devastation, too many residents had already fled their city for the peace and safety of the suburbs. Yet, tied to their jobs, most of his workers lived where they worked. After many of them had worked loyally for him for so many years, he’d be humanitarianly irresponsible to just let them go to fend for themselves, especially at a time when there were no jobs.

For sure, it would be different and his decision easier, if there was another job they could get, but there wasn’t. In their one community alone, the unemployment rate pushed 20% and that’s what the state finally admitted that it was. Yet, when counting those residents who stopped collecting unemployment and who gave up looking for work, the real unemployment number approached 30%.

Where would they go and what would they do without the job he gave them? Working for him and for his father before him is the only job that many of them have had. Continuing his father’s legacy, his products had more become labors of love than competitive products in the world free trade marketplace. Committed to making the best product that he could, he was true to his art. Albeit, a lost art, mass production had ruined the appreciation to have something beautifully handmade and that was made in America, instead of cheaply manufactured overseas in China.

Finding himself in a similar but not as a life and death situation, as Steven Spielberg’s main character, Oskar Schindler, in the movie Schindler’s List, for the sake of his employees, he found himself writing a similar list. Spending day after day of worried indecision, he debated which of his employees to keep and which of his employees to let go, while stubbornly continuing to produce a product that so few wanted for the sake of giving his employees jobs and healthcare benefits. Grateful to his employees for providing his family with a good life, he was lucky in the regard that he was a wealthy man, but now it was his turn to return the favor.

The son of Benjamin Benedict, who owned the business before him, a legacy left it in his hands to safeguard, his father’s dying wish was that he continue the business and not sell it.

“You take care of it and it will take care of you,” his father enjoyed telling him, when referring to the success of their family business, after so many years of economic recessions and wars.

Only, too ingrained in making his handmade products and too engrossed in helping his employees live better lives, his father’s vision was narrowed by his community spirit and neighborhood involvement. Times were different today. Instead of a statewide and national market, it was a global market and his father never planned for the future technology that he’d need to compete in the global market of today. Edward had the vision and could clearly see that his company was sixty years out of step with progress, technology, and the rest of the world.

A dying dinosaur that bled red ink daily, now too late to reinvent his wheel, it would cost him a fortune to reinvest in the technology that he needed to remain competitive by making a product that the rest of the world wanted but that he’d abhor. High volume with a product line that consisted of more cheaply made items over lower volume and higher quality was the present and what he needed to have to compete in a global market in the future. Only, a real business dilemma, Edward would never forsake quality for volume.

A time when a handshake was your word and was as good as a binding contract, with his father truly believing in good Karma and bad Karma, that high moral philosophy that worked so well in the past was lost on too many of today’s businessmen, and now was the undoing of the son. Reaping what he sowed, truly a good hearted man, his father lived by the simple fundamental golden rule principle of do unto others and you would have others do unto you. He also truly believed in what goes around comes around and Edward believed in that, too.

“We don’t just make toys here, Edward,” said his father. “We make friends. We make families. We make people happy by giving them a job they are proud to have. We make productive workers by giving them the opportunity to ply the skills that few possess and so many appreciate. Don’t forget that,” he told his son. “What we do is not about money and the bottom line. It’s about people and giving back what we’ve been so fortunate to have.”

Only, with third world labor rates, the skills that few possessed were lost in progress and automation. The quality that so many appreciated gave way to mass production. Further, without money and without paying attention to the bottom line, he’d exhaust his personal resources just paying for wages and for the materials to make merchandise that didn’t sell.

After indirectly taking care of all those who lived in the community and directly taking care of all those who worked for him, Benjamin didn’t want his son abandoning his employees and the community where this factory stood for more than one hundred years. With the death of his father, Benjamin’s lifelong endeavor of helping those who were less fortunate had now become Edward’s reality. Now it was Edward’s responsibility that weighed so heavily upon his shoulders because of the dire economic circumstances of the economy that hit his community much worse than others.

Before mass production and production lines had become the way to mass produce everything, Edward’s grandfather, Horace, started the company, The House of Benedict, in the late 1800′s. The House of Benedict manufactured custom, handmade, wooden toys, cars, trucks, trains, planes, ships, even doll houses and doll house furniture. As Rolls Royce is to automobiles, the products of House of Benedict are those to the few who appreciated them and who could afford to buy them. Made laboriously one at a time, they accepted custom orders for those willing to pay the time and material price for pieces that had become works of art. One of a kind, no two pieces were exactly the same.

Decades later, going against technology, instead of embracing it, when all modern factories were automated and computerized and their inventory was scrutinized, counted, and cost accounted for, Benedict’s factory had a human production line of highly skilled workers. Finally taking the plunge and buying computers, now with 3D animated CAD CAM software, they could make anything that the customer wanted, so long as it was made of wood and not plastic. Trying to walk the fine line of production versus quality, even though the handmade quality was still there, it paled in comparison to how his grandfather and father made their products with love in mind, instead of profit. Their specialty, of course, was still custom wooden toys, costly, but still well worth the money.

Sadly, their business declined when plastic was cheaper to use than wood. Rather than buying his toys, people bought Legos or cheap imitations of his toys from China that sold for much less. The foreign mass produced toys that were licensed to large American toy companies and sold under their brand had routinely been recalled because of lead paint and other manufacturing defects that made their toys unsafe for children. Moreover, the inferior products that China made didn’t last much longer than the Christmas that they were given.

At the height of his father’s success, once the favorite and preferred toy, right up there with Lionel trains, Teddy Bears, Pogo sticks, and Duncan Yo-yos, and later Barbie dolls, no one wanted custom, handmade wooden toys anymore, when they could buy similar plastic toys for a fraction of the cost, first from Mexico, then from Taiwan, Japan, Sri Lanka, Bangladesh, and now from China. Now, the big seller was video games and competing against that was akin to bringing a straw to a gunfight.

Yet, compared to Benedict’s toys, most of the plastic toys made today were junk. Benedict’s toys were treasures that would last a lifetime. Benedict’s toys, especially the older ones, had become valuable collectors’ items traded and even sold at auction the world over. When the toy line fell short of production goals, beginning in the 1980′s, Edward started making furniture, chairs, tables, and hope chests mostly, copies of those toys, that decorated his doll houses, but made to full scale with the use of his CAD CAM software program.

Over the decades, the factory had become more than a business. With its huge tower with a clock face on all four sides that stopped working with the great New England Hurricane of 1938, the building was an icon in the community and everyone gave directions to and from places based on the central location of the House of Benedict. The building had slowly fallen into disrepair over the years. The property was so big, an eight story, brick building the size of an entire city block, it would take a huge amount of money to bring it back to the way it once was, the gem of Lowell Massachusetts but, hoping to do just that was Edward’s secret plan.

Edward couldn’t count the times he and his dad were offered money for his building and land, enough money so that he, his children, and their grandchildren would never have to work. Only, he couldn’t sell the property to someone who didn’t give a care about the workers, about the community and its residents, and about the long standing history behind the building. It was a factory that stopped toy production to assist in two World War efforts by making military barracks, housing materials, and furniture.

If he sold his prime, centrally located land to real estate developers that were eager to build luxury condos, he’d decimate an already impoverished community by putting so many people out of work for the sake of making more money, when he had more than enough money to last him ten lifetimes already. Even though the potential buyers promised they wouldn’t, they’d tear down his building. Once he sold them his building, they were free to do whatever they wanted. For sure, they’d level the lot and sell off all the building materials they could. The slate roof, the copper flashing, the interior woodwork, the antique doors, fixtures, hinges, doorknobs, lighting, and windows, even the old bricks and cobblestone that paved the courtyard and driveways, when all tallied the building materials were worth a small fortune and worth much more sold piecemeal than they were when selling the building as a whole and in as is rundown condition.

Every year, the offers increased and every year he’d turn them down. Often tempted, he patiently waited for the right offer and the right economic time to cash in and retire. Finally, it came, when an investor, along with his realty agent, tax accountant, and architect, asked Edward for a tour of his factory. They wanted to make an offer on his property. Instead of tearing down the building, they wanted to refurbish it and hire many of his employees and others from the people in the community to work for them. They, no doubt, believed that once he saw their plans, he’d sell.

“I wouldn’t even consider your offer, had you told me that you wanted to tear down the building,” said Edward happy they realized the true value, charm, and characters of his building. “The fact that you not only want to refurbish the structure but also rehire many of my employees and others who live here would be a boon to the community.”

Yet, because of the recession, because real estate prices had fallen dramatically, their offer was not even half of what his highest offer had been in previous years. Moreover, the people they’d hire were only for temporary, low paying jobs, jobs that more favored the younger, unskilled workers than the older, well paid craftspeople that he had in his employ.

“So, what do you think?” They showed him their business plan.

Edward read their prospectus and reviewed all their drawings. Excited at first about their offer to buy his land and his building, it was then that he realized that they didn’t share his vision.

“No thank you,” he said.

“No thank you? You’re crazy not to take my offer,” said the investor, suddenly losing his temper, along with his business decorum, to his frustration in not getting Edward to agree to sell. “No one else in their right mind would offer you what I’m offering to buy this dilapidated building and this useless parcel of land.”

In the look that Edward gave the man for insulting his building, as if he had insulted his grandfather for building his precious landmark, even if they doubled their offer, he wouldn’t sell.

“We can go two million dollars higher,” said the real estate broker, “but that’s our final offer.”

“In this economy and your accountant would assuredly agree,” said their tax accountant, “you must consider the positive tax benefits of taking a loss on a property, such as this, one that is in such disrepair. We wouldn’t be tearing it down to sell of the bits and pieces but, instead, we’d make the property better, mixing old with new, wood and brick with glass and steel.”

“I already have enough carryover losses,” said Edward with a laugh. “I don’t need anymore.”

“These are the plans,” said the architect rolling out rolls of paper that filled Edward’s huge conference room table.

Edward looked over the plans with a jaundiced eye.

“I don’t like your plans for my building,” said Edward, as if rejecting a college, while considering at a life plan for his son.

“This is what people want,” said the architect. “They love living in old factory buildings, once refurbished and made modern. We can even make a place for you and your wife, a penthouse suite.”

“I already have a home not far from here, thank you very much.”

“Here’s the prospectus, the brochure, and our card. Talk it over with your financial people and please reconsider our offer,” said the broker.

Before the meeting, Edward had carefully reviewed several exterior plans and several interior plans they had sent him by courier. Yet, all the plans were as devoid of character and imagination as the men were filled with greed. No doubt, they were hoping to but his building at a reduce rate to fatten their profit. The dollar signs they saw had nothing to do with his employees, the community, and/or with the people who lived here. After losing their jobs with Edward, many of his employees, the present residents who lived here, would assuredly be displaced for those who could afford to live here and buy the luxury apartments that would fill his building.

“Thank you, but no,” said Edward. “I just now decided that I have other plans for this building,” he said and he did have other plans.

Encouraged by the alternatives that confronted him, to sell his building, to continue his business, or to begin his new plan for the building. The first of a kind, he opted for the new plan.

“Other plans? May I ask what your plans are?” The realtor looked at him with a skeptical eye.

“Certainly, of course you may ask my plans for my building, so long as you don’t mind me not telling you my plans for my building,” he said with a smug laugh and showing them all to the door.

Tough times were coming for everyone and Edward Benedict could see the economy was going down the drain. Taken out of his hands, it would soon no longer be his decision, once the bank called his loans and rescinded his line of credit. If he was going to do anything other than retire, now was the time to do it.

He was good at seeing things, before they happened and before anyone else. That was his special talent. Just as he did with this stock market investments that fattened his portfolio, he had always been quicker than most to realize a financial opportunity. When economists were toting blue skies and brokers were declaring a bull market, moving his money from stocks to bonds, he foresaw the recession that put so many people out of their homes and out of a job. Selling high and buying low, he made a fortune, when the market bottomed and he bought back the stocks he sold at a hugely discounted price.

Now faced with a real dilemma, not wanting and willing to continue to be part of a money losing business venture, with his nervous bankers pressuring him to make a decision, sell the business or continue and eventually declare bankruptcy, he took another strategy. Instead of laying off people, he asked his staff to take a pay cut. Those who agreed to the pay cut kept their jobs and their benefits, stayed and worked, and those that didn’t accept the pay cut left and collected unemployment. Taking the decision out of his hands and putting it their hands, he felt better that he wasn’t upsetting the Karma that his grandfather and father had worked so hard to build and maintain.

His staff fell from more than one hundred employees to less than fifty. In the meantime, even though his toy and furniture production levels were the lowest they’ve been, since his grandfather started the business more than a century ago, even though he was still losing money daily by keeping his doors open, he decided to go against convention and against the advice of all his financial advisors and hire more employees. People thought he was crazy to hire more people, when he couldn’t afford the meager staff that he had now. It took a personal guarantee and a new business plan for him to get the bank to loan him the money that he needed to do what he wanted and needed to do.

Always one to take the opposite side of the road and the one less traveled, usually making the tough climb up the mountain, instead of coasting downhill, he enjoyed walking against the flow. Hoping to find a missed opportunity, he could see better when going where everyone had already been. When others looked to the ground, he looked to the sky and vice versa and, when others looked behind them, he looked straight ahead.

Unable to see the clearing with so many people doing the same things at the same time, he couldn’t see as well, when the mad mob panicked, as if cattle and headed off in the same direction. Holding his ground and standing still, it paid sometimes to wait for the confused crowd to pass. Then, once they were all gone and scattered out behind him, once he was standing there alone, and once he was able to think without all the clamor of others giving him their uninformed opinions, is when he knew what to do.

Benedict always had a devil of a time finding quality help, skilled help, and good help, people who wanted to work a full day for an honest pay. His grandfather built this huge factory, when land and materials were cheap and construction costs were cheaper. He could never afford to build such a magnificent building now. For sure, except for moving his factory to China, as everyone else did and was still doing, it would cost him more than one hundred million dollars to duplicate the splendor of this factory elsewhere.

Unless he was willing to abandon his beloved building and much-loved community and setup shop overseas, he’d never make his money back, if he had to build a new factory here. Yet, by using the bad economy to work with him instead of against him, using a bit of creativity, he thought of an alternative. When everyone else was selling big, old factories, hoping that someone would want to buy them at a reduced rate, remodel them, and turn them into high priced condos that average people, people who lived here all their lives, couldn’t afford, Edward didn’t want to dishonor his family by selling his legacy. In spite of the banks being so stingy with loans and greedy with their money, Edward wanted to remodel his factory.

With the new loans he received from the bank the money that he had available to him, mostly his own personal assets, money wasn’t his problem, but time was. In his sixties, when others retire, Edward was starting a new business. He had invested wisely over the years and this was his time to give back, so that he could reap later what he sowed now. He put a big sign out front.

HIRING, BUT AT HALF WAGES

The sign stayed there for several months, as there were no takers. No one wanted to work for half wages, especially when he struggled to find good help, who would work hard for full wages. Yet, after their unemployment exhausted, after they became frustrated looking for jobs that weren’t there and were desperate for work, Edward’s half wages looked better. Now with the biggest staff he’s ever had, more than 300 employees, it was time to put everyone back to work but, first, he called a meeting.

“I know nearly every person in this room. Just as you do, I live her, too. I can’t count the times I was offered huge amounts of money to sell this beautiful building,” he said and stopped when he heard more than a few chuckles. “You don’t see my building as beautiful, but I do. For sure, they don’t make buildings like this anymore. It’s just too expensive. This building was built to last longer than the one hundred and twenty-five years that it’s already lasted. It just needs a little help and a facelift to hit the next milestone of two hundred years.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Benedict,” said one of his workers. “Speaking for the others, as well as for myself, we find it difficult to share in your joy for your building and enthusiasm for your business, when we are all working for half wages.”

“Ah, I was about to get to that,” he said putting his thumbs in his vest pockets and looking out over the crowd, as if he was looking at the new Rolls Royce he had just purchased.

“I’m offering you all shares in my company. You don’t have to buy the shares. Along with your pay, I’m giving them to you, in exchange for the work you do for me. The harder, longer, and more you work, the more shares you earn. Honestly, you may not see the return for years, but without doubt, those who of you who worked for me before know to trust me at my word now. Those who believe in me today, will we wealthy people tomorrow.”

“And,” said a man in back, raising his hand as high as his voice to be acknowledged and heard, “how do you propose to make money in an economy that is flat by selling wooden toys, a product that no one wants?”

“Well, I’ve given it much thought and we’re still going to make our toys and furniture. We’re still going to maintain our quality standards. None of that will change. What will change is the name of the company.” He looked over the crowd of faces. Changing his company name was akin to asking them to change their own names. Everyone knew the House of Benedict. It was a landmark. “The House of Benedict is now the House of Valentine?”

“The House of Valentine? You mean, the holiday?” A woman standing in front looked at him, as if he had lost his mind.

“That’s precisely what I mean.”

“Why that name?” A person standing asked the question.

“I don’t understand,” said someone else.

Suddenly, trusting the man with a plan, knowing his reputation by all the good deeds his family had done for others over the years, there was an excitement in the crowd.

“Love is priceless. Love conquers all. The only thing that can fight hate is love,” he said watching how his audience reacted to his words. “Love lasts forever. People smile when you say, Happy Valentine’s Day because they realize the connation of that one phrase means love, romance, flowers, and candy.”

“What does love have to do with it,” said a comedian in the audience and saying it in the way that Tina Turner would.

“I’m glad you asked that,” he said. “There is one holiday, even when times are tough, especially when times are tough, that husbands and wives, boyfriends and girlfriends, and all those in love do not skimp and that’s Valentine’s Day. Love is priceless. Think about how many songs, poems, books, and movies there are about being in love, falling in love, and falling out of love. Life is all about love. No matter what terrible things happen in people’s lives, it’s the one holiday, other than Christmas and birthdays, that everyone celebrates.”

“I still don’t understand,” said someone else.

“I propose we turn this business and this building into everything Valentine’s Day. Just as I’m doing this from my heart for you, dear friends and valued employees, it’s time we shared our good will with others throughout the world. Just as there is a Disney World, just as there is a Santa’s Workshop and Village, this will be our claim to fame on the holiday of love and romance, Valentine’s Day. The House of Valentine,” he said pulling a sheet from an architect’s drawing of what his House of Valentine would look like. “The House of Valentine will put this city back on the map.”

“Wow! Is that this building? It’s beautiful,” said someone.

“The inside still looks like a workshop, but better and more modern,” said another.

“Nah, it’s more an indoor amusement park,” said another. “Look there’s rides.”

“No, it’s a shopping mall,” said someone else. “Don’t you see all the shops?”

“It’s all of those things and more,” said Edward. “It’s our workshop, an amusement park, a shopping mall, and so much more than that.”

The excitement in the crowd was as electric as it was when the University of Massachusetts opened a campus in their city. It was more than a ground floor opportunity. With the shares that they earned, every employee here would own a piece of the business. Do unto others…and what goes around…Edward stayed true to the good karma that his grandfather and father had worked so hard to develop and maintain.

Construction of the House of Valentine started immediately and everyone had a job. Those that didn’t work on the outside of the building worked on the inside of the building. Only, nothing was new, but everything was refurbished. Edward maintained the charm and the character of the building to museum like status by using what he had and making it all in new like condition, instead of replacing materials that were not only more cheaply made but more costly, he’d rather pay the labor to fix something than to buy a replacement.

His House of Valentine was completed a week before Christmas and his employees and their families were the first to experience it all for free. He charged five dollars admission for adults and one dollar for children. His admission price did little to reimburse him for his huge expenditure, but in time, now that he built it, once the word got out that there was a House of Valentine, more people will come. Besides, he didn’t just make money on the admission that he charged, he made money at every venue.

Between admission, playing arcade and video games, shopping in his shops, buying souvenirs, buying his products, and dining in his restaurants, the average family spent $150. Multiply that by the 30,000 families that visited him the first year, the majority visiting him from January to March, he grossed $4.5 million in revenue from his House of Valentine the first year, much more money than he made selling wooden toys. Based on his projections, foot traffic was projected to increase by 15% every year. With little to celebrate from January to the summer vacation time, perfect for February school vacation, it was somewhere to go, someplace to bring the kids, or someplace to celebrate Valentine’s Day. In the first year that it was open, he had more than fifty weddings in his function room.

When people first walked in, there was a tour of his workshop that visitors watched workers, many who had worked there for 30 and 40 years make custom, handmade toys and furniture. He had guided tours with tour guides that explained what workers did at each work station. For the first time, customers could see the craftsmanship that went into every product he made.

Walking through his House of Valentine, there was a full sized doll house that was recreated inside his building for the children to experience. Then, there was an interactive and animated arcade with everything Valentine from Saint Valentine to Cupid to hearts and flowers, along with pinball and video games and rides for the kids. Instead of a mere gift shop, Edward had a mall where visitors could buy all the products he made from furniture to toys. He owned all the shops and the shops were manned by his employees. He had a Valentine fine dining restaurant for lovers and another fast food restaurant for families.

Refusing to give up on his community, refusing to sell his beloved building, the lives of his employees and all who lived there was transformed by Edward Benedict’s House of Valentine.

Shooting at a hoop,
Drinking a cold pop,
Checking out the cars,
Staring at women,
Twenty-five-years-old,
With nothing to do,
And nowhere to go,
Nothing changes.

Sitting on a chair,
Drinking a cold beer,
Checking out the cars,
Staring at women,
Forty-five-years-old,
With nothing to do,
And nowhere to go,
Nothing changes.

Sitting on a bench,
Need to take a piss,
Feeding the pigeons,
Staring at women,
Sixty-five-years-old,
With nothing to do,
And nowhere to go,
Nothing changes.

Shitting in my bed,
Wishing I were dead,
I can’t drive at night,
Eighty-five-years-old,
Wish I weren’t here,
Anywhere but here,
Nothing is the same,
Everything changes.