This is my fourth book and major opus. It takes place 12 years after the events of American Refugee.  It is largely about the unlikely romance between an American rebel leader posing as a paramedic and a Russian spy posing courtesan, on the eve of a major revolution and civil war inside the United States. Taking place over ten years with a wide range of characters spread over 4 acts and 3 continents; this is also the story of a plot to steal the secrets of the Jews; or more specifically their ability to hold together social services and community without reliance on a state for nearly 2,000 years.

 

 

Fire on the Mountain

 

 

(How the great revolt began in four ACTS)

 

 

 

Adler S Walt

Dedicated to: Daria Andreavna Skorobogatova

& Yelizaveta Kotlyarova,

Elena Antolievna Komarova

& Valentina Stanovova

 

 

 

Set in a lower east side Bulgarian tavern;

 

On the eve of a doomed uprising in the heart of the American Empire, a newly immigrated Russian dancehall courtesan and a half-Hebrew paramedic share a tantalizing moment. Their forbidden passion occurs amid a full blown slave revolt in the United States of America orchestrated by clandestine forces. In a danger filled four acts, this novel traces the seven year revolution centered in Brooklyn and the hope or carnage caused of their affair.

 

In the newly liberated Brooklyn Soviet, there is great trouble brewing. Drones patrol the skies along the border and a new mile-high-wall has been built to prevent the traffic of people and contraband over the East River or Strong Island Sound into the United American States.  Home to three million “stateless citizens”; this wild coastal gangland and nearly lawless rebel Free State is dominated by Irish and Italian municipal unions, Postsoviet and Ayitian mobsters, Shi’a Islamists, Baha’i spies, Messianic Hebrew cults, Black Nationalist guerrillas, Gypsy Partizans and a highly organized Afro-Irish-Israeli underground network known only by its clandestine acronym: the Z.O.B.

 

This is the story of how the Great Revolt began and of the defiance of newly freed slaves in the face of an empire.

 

 

 

Prologue

 

 

Set in the Republic of Ayiti, 2020ce

 

“What in two fucks do you know about being in love my tovarish,” she once asked me.

 

At the time I gazed off into the night. One does not even fully comprehend the depth of incorrigible things a truly Russian woman knows how to say to an American man in eight different tenses of a lover spurned. She now says I am a terrorist! Or at best a baltering zealot.

A frank and unrepentant potential killer of other men. But you cannot always trust women. They often lie to protect the things they cherish. Their children. Also the future.

I was not always such a man.

 

No ideological calling or message from the unseen put me on this path. I don’t kill because of mere ideas. Or because of poetic visions rationalizing some means to a so-called “better world”. The terror we have unleashed was born of misdeeds perpetrated against me and mine as well as against you and yours. It is no abstraction to embrace violence when an aggressor tramples on your face. It comes quickly or it remains unthinkable. I have no time these days for pacifists and certainly not for cowardly sheep. Turning the other cheek to these people we are fighting will get you far, far worse than killed. I have bloodied my hands before as a savage avenger and certainly soon will do so again. But, I don’t kill alone like some deranged fanatic.

Oh no. We laid an elaborate plan and have subsequently received extensive support.

We are not patriots or “freedom fighters” in the traditional sense of what that means in Geneva. This is not our land, nor through the fog of war do I see freedom as our figurative or even literal ends. Our means however will certainly not absolve us in the text books of history whether we be the winners or the losers. Cloaks and daggers have long been used to abet our cause. But, the ripping of human flesh with sharp blades in close quarters and the bursting of bullets though our enemies black hearts will perhaps tarnish our family names and simultaneously bar us all from the gates of any reputable heaven. I have left men hanging in trees! But, I’m not one to believe in fairy tales. They will have to torture me for a very long time, and they will not get much for their troubles. Neither my motive nor my names are easy answers. And you probably won’t be able to pronounce it anyway.

 

I am not acting alone. If I am a so-called “terrorist” committing acts of semi-selective murder I am alongside many fellow blood soaked bandits. Our cause has a certain appeal to at least a Breuklyn few. And if she’s right about me not knowing how to love well, or at all, I absolutely do know how to struggle until the lights in my eyes go out.

 

We are called the zealots after all.

 

We are hunting vicious killers. We are grinding down these sly villains where they hide, cutting bits and pieces from this rapist ilk. We work thanklessly to remove a large array of very-very cruel, bad men from the earth. Vile parasites that suck our blood and steal our meager earnings and reduced us all to slavery. Along with their secondary officers, tertiary command of vicious enforcers, and basically anyone that gets in our way. And if we cut our way through enough of these people we will then begin to lay hands on the oligarchy.

 

Let it not be said that before we picked up our daggers and rifles we did not first spend a good many years trying all other means of more civilized change making. I loved my people, and more specifically my family, before I hated our nemesis and the cruel minority of oligarchs and war criminals that so hold humanity on a vast plantation under their iron heel, but also our common apathy.

 

Or called in Russian; Raspizdia.

One who doesn’t give a fuck about their fellow human beings?

No giving of fucks! Even really about their own sad selves?

 

Amid the thankless grind I see the face of a young woman following us where we go to commit murder. She follows just behind to save lives and heal. A physician who found herself trapped on this perhaps morally ambiguous road we travel as ruthless knock around highway men. Or so she claims. And every time I pull that trigger I fly further from the place I was boron and the good man that she once thought I was. Were it not for her, I’d have forgotten I still had one soul left with which to barter.

Our irregular military column of hearty partisans clears a rocky ridge. Forty men and one woman, all clad in dark grey or dark blue multi-forms, wrapped in tactical bandoleers carrying the tools of our respective trades—murder and healing. We men are here to kill. The solitary doctor amongst us with her implements touches the collateral of their war, but has sworn not to treat a soldier. On either side.

That morning we look for one bad man in particular.

It’s just before dawn when we finally catch up with his trail in the barrens of this dusty, dying and terrible place. The poplar trees sway heavily in the rustling morning wind, which offers our lonely column no real relief. We mill about gauging reactions, sipping gingerly on our water. A few lay down their battle rigs but keep their dusty irons always on the ready. We are hard men in rough grey khaki stained with sweat and grizzle but never tears. Some wear black or dark blue partisan caps. Others have checkered sand-gypsy scarves about their shoulders or brow. Most carry various calibers of former and Postsoviet rifles. Our doctor, she still wears a lab coat, a blue uniform, and wears a dark green military cap.

We march on.

 

The official name of our column is the Z.O.B.-Dublin Detachment also called the Fighting 99th. It is composed of Shtarkers[1], Shatahs, Fenians as well as a popery of the Ayitian peasants from across the southland. If you’re not familiar with these particular edged colloquialisms, well I suggest you look them up in the appendix of exotic foreign vernaculars. Suffice to say they are just different ways to designate a “bad motherfucker.” Except Fenian, that is an Irish political nationalist ideology of the early 18^th century.

We go one foot after another. We walk with a heavy defiance, with cold eyes that view the barrens like hungry wolves. We are each a raw material mined from a foreign conflict, smelted at some point on Breuklyn’s coast into the violent war machine we now compose. Sun-burnt freckled faces, which had first turned cherry red in the glare of the Caribbean high noon. Dread-locked islanders with accents well edged for song. Also some post and former Soviets with shifty morals and a small band of self-proclaimed Yids that never lift a finger on a Shabbos but refrain from emasculating headwear. And the native people that had not asked us to come here look. I suppose they wonder if we foreign faces are to be the turners of a bloody tide or the worst harbingers of an impending catastrophic event. At this juncture the book is still open.

We march to this dead place to bear grim witness.

War on this island fortress, and war in the world of man have burnished us into unrepentant murderers that have killed and will surely kill again. That we kill to stave off an even greater genocide by murdering its perpetrators, is the rhetoric we hide our murder behind. And if each of us came to this wasteland below the Choke Mountains beyond Illubador out into the contested borderlands about the Valley of Antimonite with some noble pretense to liberate the Ayitian people from the iron heel of the M.I.N.U.S.T.A.H.[2] and the N.G.O. Republic and their Maccoute or F.R.A.P.H.-rapist militia bag man; then periodically, it is the low volume atrocities like this one, which sometimes take the greatest toll on our resolve.

This is sadly not G.I., the Joe; those stand for real and vile things.

Roped up from the highest palm tree visible to all we men and single female of the Z.O.B.-Dublin detachment is the ghastly site of a hanged man we all knew and like a brother loved. A thick sanguine pool had formed below him. He is eviscerated. Slashed to fleshy ribbons perhaps just a few hours before we came upon him. He had broken camp at dusk, spirited himself away and wandered out from our garrison in Cange right into enemy hands. Had our ruthless jackal opponents had some notion of who the man was, he’d have been taken to a filtration camp like the others—the poor founding bastards of the Famni Lavalas Alliance- and flayed for information, tortured until he could no longer remember his Yiddish name. Perhaps this was better albeit completely inglorious. There is nothing about the condition of his corpse to make us think his end was particularly quick.

I knew this man so long that it was like stumbling upon a fresh crime scene of a beloved family member. To others, he was a tovarish of sorts, a less than humble man who sustained so many with his savvy and stalwart acts. The rest knew him as a fearless comrade and champion to so many souls not cut of his tribe’s cloth.

We find our close compatriot hanging disemboweled from a hook—his eyes gouged out, hands lopped off, bayonet marks slashed about his body— exsanguinated in a tree of death. He is now cold, wet and dead.

“Cut him down!”

“Cut him down and bury him deep,” commands a Pale Officer.

The future was evidently to be far bloodier than the scientists and high priests had originally prophesized and predicted. The physician’s blond hair, it blows in a swift desert wind. She looks away from the bloody mess we’ve made just for an instant.

 

Violence is the longest road to nowhere, but we seem to be making great time!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Listing of our Primary & Lesser Characters

ACT I: Str’ast

(Black, Black Hearts; or,

The Wild, but highly fickle passion of Daria Maccluskey)

2011-2012ce, AR0

 

Set in Moscow, Sophia, Penza & New York City

 

Starring;

 

Sebastian Vasyli AdonAEV, a paramedic adventurer. †

Dasha Andreavna Skorobogatova, a wild Russian courtesan. †

Capt. Mickhi Dbrisk, a righteous Jamaican gangster.

Capt. Watson Entwissle, Mullato Ayitian gun slinger †

Capt. Nicholas Rosetree Trickovitch, a private detective. †

 

‘Sasho’ Alexandre Dmitrievich Perchevney; the Great Bulgarian Oligarch.

Tania Magda Dimcheva Perechenova; Sasho’s wife, queen and Chief of Operations.

Slavi Dmitrievich Perchevney, Bulgarian enforcer & Sasho’s brother.

James White & Irish; retired cop/ Bratva enforcer

James ‘Behemoth’ Pérezes; Shapeshifting-Bratva enforcer

Justin Toomey O’Azzello, Mehanata General Manger

Mary Lia Lewis Monteleone (Amelia), a friendly French translator.

 

Alan Oleg Leondovich Medved, a former Soviet photographer.

Kudzai David Darious Chikwamba, a Shona warrior and biochemist. †

Yulia Romanova, a fine Russian modal, informant & delta.

 

Dmitry Khulushin Koch, a lesser Oligarch, Prince of the Eastern territories.

Raphael Ernesto Lynch Contreras; a Peruvian disk jockey & guerrilla.

Victoria Christina Contreras Lynch; the artistic wife of Rafael.

 

Tanya T-Bird Tall Flame Luv, a healer and a Maagi for the Resistance.

 

Franny of Rainbows, a DHS police spy, and mystic

Jared Forgetter, a cool and California medic, reverted delta.

Avner Mikhail Kreminizer; a Lithuanian Israeli Pararescueman of unit 669. †

 

ACT II: La Lingre

(The Longest Lingering Love)

2014-2015ce, AR3

 

Set Outside Greater Boston

 

Introducing;

 

Adelina Antolievna Blazhennaya; Sexy Russian linguist. †

1^st Lt. Irfan Khan, Pakistani military intelligence officer †

 2^nd Lt. Saiph Khan, Bangladeshi patriot†

Cpt. Roj Eli Zalla, Iraqi Kurdish Patriot †

Saadian Usmani, a liberal Pakhi mystic †

Malcom Ricardo Veshanti, a Rastafarian Warrior

Gen Jefferson McIntyre, Guyanese philosopher †

Eric & Joseph Ruhelman, Franco German Bikers †

Gen Tiputti Capois, Premier Ayitian General

Charlotte Kamande, Ugandan princess †

Nicholas Mapfre, film maker †

Siegfried Sassoon, bartender & Cuban Actor.

 

Ilya Lubov Trubadoroff Trump, a Lesser Oligarch of Charlestown

McIan Murphy, a Fenian ghost hunter from the Dublin Fire Rescue Battalion

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ACT III: Loyal’nost

(Tales of the Brooklyn Bath and Rifle Club)

2017-2019ce, AR5

Set in Breuklyn Soviet MicroRepublik

 

Starring:

Yelizaveta Alexandreavna Perechenova, a Ukrainian physician & vet.

Lt. Moishe Cohen Klein, Deputy Chief of Hatzalah

 

Capt. Anya Drovtich; Commander of left Rebel forces in Breuklyn, ZOB

 Mr. Hubert O’Domhnaill; bootlegger & Fenian freedom fighter, ZOB-FRB

Ysiad Ferraris; Suave Dominican businessman †

Laurence Simon, PhD, founder of the American Jewish World Service †

Capt. Mara Fitzduff; Fenian Minister of Agitation-propaganda, ZOB

Viktor Emile Cange, Ayitian Paramedic, ZOB

Michael Magnus Goldbar Allamby, Bajan money changer †

Don. ‘Big Man’ Mathew Allamby, cousin of Magnus

Anahita Noor; Afghan Persian lawyer

2^nd Lt. Kaveh Ali Shariti Atatable; Persian Agitprop officer

Ezra Pula Pound, Council for the Union Army †

Mikhail Mastrovitch; Military contractor †

                    Vanessa Birdy Rainwater; a talented singer and heartbreaker †

 

          Toba Hadaad, Ivorist spy, nymphomaniac †

Ruth Vered, Ivorist funding conduit, Hamptons Gallery owner

Ha Chi Yu Perechenova-Sassoon, General Manager of the Voodoo Lounge

 

 

Theodore Breria; Director of Homeland Security Services †

 

General Avinadav DeBuitléir, founder of the Resistance.

Maya Soraya Emma Solomon, the possible Messiah. Known as the Tsaddik Ha Dror.

 

 

 

ACT IV: Stojkost

(Code of the Haitian Gentleman)

2019-2020ce, AR8-9

Set in Hispaniola

 

Starring:

 

Gen Olu Obenson Étienne Dessalines,

Gen Watson Entwisle, HAC & SPLA[3]

Gen Ferdinand Prime Christophe

Gen Tiputti Capois, Premier Ayitian General, GAI-HEG[4]

 

 

Yelizaveta Alexandreavna Perechenova, a Ukrainian physician & vet.

Lt. Moishe Cohen Klein, Deputy Chief of Hatzalah, Hc[5]

Mr. Hubert O’Domhnaill; bootlegger & Fenian freedom fighter, SPB[6]

 

President of Ayiti Jim Basher Al-Talleyrand, French Oligarch

Dominic Strauss Kahn, French Oligarch

 

 

 

 

ACT ONE:   Str’ast

 

Set in New York City, 2011ce

 

Prelude

 

 

 

Moscow, 2019ce

 

 

It is not our intention that we should compose such an indictment of the Oligarchy that our reader throws down the manuscript and declares him or herself a revolutionist, for cruel experiences of this world and living in it breed more revolutionaries daily then our pens can expend on poetic syllables.

 

Instead we wished to put to paper an ethical argument that condemns our oppressors, clearly states their means of oppressive control and thus allows the reader to take what actions thou wilt to participate in the abolition of our collective slavery. We posit like others before us that the system in which we live is exploitative to all within; top and below. We declare that the World System and the Oligarchic Collectives that operate it are but agents of a vast killing machine; sentencing us all to toil ceaselessly; suffer long and die early while they glut themselves on ill acquired wealth.

 

With that indictment we ask the reader a Talmudic question; ‘a sane person in an insane world is what?’ And there by a conscious person in a sleeping world has what duty[7]? And furthermore, if the readers cannot be moved by the humble words of this theorist narrator, be moved then by atrocities that are carried out daily paid for in the taxes levied from the sweat of your work and the blood of your fellow humans.

 

We remind you as have others before me, it is not a mere revolution we are fighting. It is battle for the survival of our species and is still an open question of who will win, for this is a very old war began long before us and will end long after we are gone. But, far more specifically by what conduct, what actions are appropriate in the face of such a holocaust to ensure that there is still a just and equitable world for our children and grandchildren to inherit.

 

The victory of the resistance movement is question of consciousness. The victory of the Oligarchy is a death sentence for all.

 

My name is Sebastian Vasyli Adon. I do believe some of that to still be the name I was born with, but now I have multiple names. In the dead of winter, seven years into the Great Revolt; I was captured along with my gun slinging Ayitian partner Watson Entwissle after a firefight in the icy heart of Moscow. We were taken three parts-alive by the Russian Federal Security Bureau and then turned over to their inner most secret police for a most highly spirited interrogation.

 

They ripped out poor Watson’s eyes; then broke most of my ribs as then beat us both for many days and soon I was pissing out blood!

 

I will begin by saying that no matter what “changes” or revisions may occur in depiction of my narration that the world changed forever in a very specific way on the 1^st of January 2012. Of course in the constellation of dates there cannot be one discovered moment of alteration total; but instead linkages of great historic movements; migrations toward our human evolution out of darkness and barbarity and inequality; into our natural way.

 

How does one chart such movements; such milestones when they are but realized memes? Realized intuitions that came that pass as world events based on total boldness.

 

I have not the arrogance to claim a high rank in the revolution. Or the audacity to claim that my role was of some significant aspect for I was but a staff sergeant in vast chain of command were the ranks of war to be applied to the ranks of those who fight for peace. I will have you the conscientious readers to know that I am a poet. Yes a poet; once who delights in making words tell stories; who if left to my own devices would have been happy as a small farmer and passionate lover of my wife and the word; had not the violence swept upon my lands.

 

Did you know that when the Oligarchy[8] cannot conquer a rebellion they conquer its narrative? Did you know that the truth is not ever truly known except by those who saw a thing with their own eyes? How did it begin? Who was the leadership? What were the demands! These are oligarch questions because the small man or woman; the humble ones; those who submit themselves to a higher power and therefore love life; the children of the believers; we do not beg a political context for the world; one is thrust upon us.

 

Later on when I was asked or should I say interrogated with beatings, drugs and electricity why I joined the “Great Revolt” and became one its so-called “leaders” they asked me many times to declare the moment when I embraced these “zealous beliefs” or by what life event wedded my totality to this cause. They pestered me with these questions though throughout the events I had played no part except as a member of a small medical detachment putting our meager resources to good use.

They, they being the agents of the Oligarchy referred me to a poem published in one of the newspapers of the underground press I had submitted. It was only once piece of the “evidence” against me, but they claimed my role larger than I ever knew it to be.

I am able to say that I understand the world differently because my memory is longer; because I read books about the past, because I enjoy reading and because as a poet, a sensitive soul I delight in writing down my base human ideas and sharing them; making common cause with other suffering souls.

 

They would beat us many times and make us many offers. It was fortunate the resistance wiped away my mind so I could betray only myself. In addition, that Watson Entwissle is an Ayitian and therefore impossible to break.

 

They always beat me and referred me back to these poems. Poems they claimed were “proof” of my highest-level rebel involvement. The uprising had not at that time fully spread to the Russian Federation or the People’s Republic of China. But, I remembered nothing, well almost nothing well. I did remember several things throughout the brutal interrogations that in a way sustained me through their inflicted brutality. Were these things real or imagined, implanted or devised I have no idea for I know neither science nor high-level majik[9].

I know that there is a secret sleeper organization called the Z.O.B. that is at war with those in total power called The Oligarchy that control the world system core. I know that no one knows what those three letters stands for nor are they originally in English. I know that agents of that Oligarchy raped and brutally murdered my wife while pregnant with my child; they burned my city, they killed my family and my friends, my friends of friends and even former lovers and then there were no ideas or beliefs I needed to then learn to fuel my un-ending resistance after those most hideous events. There after I then breathed in the smoke monster, drank only on blood and nourishing hate.

Finally, I know that an uprising began in a place called Ayiti and that it continues to this very day despite major quarantine and most disastrous set back. I know that on January 1^st 1959; that the same revolution spread to the nation of Cuba[10] and has been entrenched there sense were illiteracy has been irradiated and people live longer than in the United American States. And things come in threes, all things; for on 1^st January 2012 that long quarantined revolt fought on the fringes of the developing word erupted on the streets of Port-Au-Prince and spread like wild fire worldwide.  I know that I am entitled to certain protections under the Geneva Accords I will not receive as a uniformed combat Pararescueman, shield 2952 of the 99^th Airborne Detachment from Breuklyn Soviet, epicenter of the latest phase in our latest and most glorious uprising.

They then beat me for many more weeks. They ripped out my finger nails and drugged me into nightmarish worlds of grisly torture. They called me terrorist as though it were my surname. They demanded I tell them “who are my true leadership”, “where is Emma Solomon?” “Where is Avinadav DeBuitléir?” They have nothing to gain because I know nothing but what I have already told you. I am a poet who makes silly rhyming poems to bed young women.

You murdered my entire family, I periodically think inside me self.

Therefore, I joined the rebel alliance as uniformed Pararescueman 2952 of the 99^th Airborne Detachment, known also as the Fighting 99^th. It was we who helped retake Port Au Prince briefly in 2009. It was we who took back Jerusalem in 66, 112, and again in 1210ce.

And such was the only thing still etched in my mind under vast torture. Periodically I wondered if I could hear Watson screaming, but it is against the code of the Ayitian gentleman to break under torture and I doubted therefore the screaming was coming from him.

In another life. Before knowledge of their atrocities sent me to first to Cuba; then to Ayiti and Syria where I saw with my own eyes the fullness of genocide the Oligarchy was capable of. Before I read my Orwell, my Marx, my Zinn, of course my Emmanuel Wallerstien, and Chomsky; peppered in with my Mayakovsky, my Bell Hooks, my Emma Goldman, some Rist, the great Kropotkin and many, many others. So many books and not enough life times!

Those doomed idealists and wandering; those seculars; those unrepentant exile Ivories. I was living on a kibbutz in the land of American occupied Israel writing small poems, laying out my first novel, working the land; laying sprinkler drip lines, making small art and being very much in love.

 

They refer me to some poem that supposedly appeared in something called the “Banshee News Service” several months ago. Of course I deny anything they claim I am party too. Banshee isn’t that a ghost, I ask. And a truncheon strikes my jaw.

All I see now is her oy smile, beaming at me by the desolate Brighton boardwalk, there was so much hope that day that we could both leave this grim city and bleak life.

 

            Who or what, how now, why is my Dasha?

Dorogaia (dear one) I have failed you, where are you now! What have I again done!!

 

After reading me this trifle wearing both a hideous and vaguely comical mask; one my interrogators then smashes my face with a truncheon again. And such was the only evidence they ever presented me with. A stupid, non-rhyming poem. A ridiculous, minuscule Partizan Song.

Written in Gamatria (Secret Ivory Code), ah ha; you’d have to know what that is pig!

In another life I wrote a boat load of little poems. Interestingly enough, or perhaps commonly my mind retreats into itself to escape the shame or torture and also the unending pain of total human sympathy. My memories it seems are crafted devices, walls of data to waylay my opponents and thus shelter my closest friends and associates. What for are then these ridiculous poems? I call them but a masochistic hobby horse. Though they are not all without some talented intent, they serve me no good, not once or ever.

I wrote them all to four various Russian women. Though that cannot be used to say that all four women were properly loved, or that I loved each with equal rigor. Poetry, song and art itself are manifestations yet they are not equal and they are not all backed up with the same stuff, the same longing, the same level of doing of deeds after words.

It should be clear that though I slept in and beside these four women over a period of some six years; I did only love one truly in a humane way. And only she loved me.

Now they’re yelling something in Russian and I pretend as though I do not speak it not at all. But how could I not for all and every of my strangest loves taught me my greatest lessons in that language.

They are demanding all these pieces of myself I cannot even hope to deliver. These interrogators and also those four women. Though I took more than I probably gave.

 

It seems they are less interested in the recently murdered guard colonel my Ayitian partner and I played the part of recent highway men to gun down dispatch. Less interested in our baser affiliations. It seems that the strong arm of the Russian Oligarchy is most concerned with a brief end of summer liaison that happened seven years prior with a young buxom émigré from the little city of Penza whose name was Natalia Andreavna Skorobogatova who for some time I called Dasha, or Dashutka to be even more sweet.  Do not ask me to quantify my love and longing for I cannot.

I cannot tell these torturers what names I have invented, or under what puzzling circumstances came upon me when I shed the privileges of my imagined identity and lesser American aristocracy, to make new friends in the Russian quarter, placing myself hopefully in the arms of humanity.

 

 

 

Scene 1

140 Nassau Street, 2011ce

Financial District

 

 

 

Blast the damn heat, for my brow drips. For in New York it gets so hot in the late of August, a swelter box most people of any means flee to their dachas in Strong Island to avoid!

Dawn is now rising, breaking and expanding on the roof of the low roof of ancient print house converted at some time in the past hundred years to a seventeen story cooperative. District Financial and with the last manic burst of energy being expended by one of our antagonistic protagonists, Sebastian Vasyli Adon, over a huge bottle of illegally imported Basque white wine, tells old danger tales to those who will and can still listen.

It is the second to last weekend of August and soon summer will end.

Bottle uncorked and the debacle of his oratory may now unfold.

A fake gold watch dangles off his left wrist as he enunciates his wild tale with his hands, although it is known he is only one half a Yid. Covering his dark brown hair cut short for summer is a brown beret newsy cap, called a skally cap, if you were a rude boy from the two tone army like he was. It’s very 1943[11]. So very neo-hipster or proletarian-chic!

Behold the faces of off duty urban partisans and gypsies who refuse the gift of sleep!

On the 17th Story roof deck of the old converted print house on 140 Nassau Street, slim and enthusiastic Europeans Mary Lia Monteleone and Victoria Christiana Lynch Contreras snap off photos and clink glasses bantering on care free flirtations and intoxications.

Mary Lia takes off all her clothing for green money, she’s a dancer she tells her parents back in the Cayman Islands by way of Italy and France. In another life she’ll hopefully take up photography or become a police spy, which pays a little less but has more dignity.

Raphael Ernesto Lynch Contreras, a Peruvian revolutionist is baby faced with flowing black hair with but a couple salt and pepper streaks is the husband of Victoria. He sits with his dear friend Sebastian and a ravishingly beautiful Russian dvotchka named Dasha and attempts a boozy mediation as the two evil eye each other viciously across a low wooden table.

She has big beautiful crazy person eyes the color of the Caspian Sea. Adon’s soulful orbs are auburn hazel slowly becoming green with sleep deprivation progressing.

The stare down is punctuated by accusations of impropriety.

The two are both “aspiring paramedics”. Ernesto is their introducer and is a frivolous and womanizing artist tamed as of lately by his marriage to Victoria.

Adon is in school to push away death with needles and relative high voltages. Dasha is partially knowledgeable on how to pour away sadness and sometimes temper internal evils with liquid poison and that which she doesn’t know how to mix she bluffs, knowing men are staring at her eyes, amongst other things.

He a brunette normally clad in a dark brown leather jacket and brown skally cap beret. Tonight he is in a white linen suit with his hair cut short. It’s a vaguely irregular look for him that he hasn’t pulled out in some time.

The reason he is dressed like that is because prior to his arrival at the Mehanata Social Club he had been at an all-inclusive White Party, a river cruise of wild Latin salsa based gallivanting circumventing the Isle of Man.

Dasha is a siren to which many men have smashed there ships with a proverbially loaded firearm called her fearsome wits to survive and the belligerencies that pour from her mouth when intoxicated. She captures much attention anytime she steps in the room and onto a dance floor. Her style is quite Postsoviet in its cut and colors. There is well put together sashay and flurry to her movements to be sure. And she has an unnerving look, a cross between a size up and seductive stare, a dismissive dart of her eyes to cut men down.

An affectionate rendering of Dasha is Dasha, and this is what Sebastian has been calling her all night. They had been introduced several months before, but both had been too drunk to remember. They both are regulars but he more on Saturday and she more on Friday, but without rhyme or reason despite being regulars for over three years, they had rarely crossed paths before.

Dasha is a stunning high octane mix of wild blonde partisan with her azure silver eyes darting between warfare and wanting; and the bright eyed curiosity of a child in a large affluent glass and steel playground. She is wrapped in a tight to the curves light brown leather jacket. She is never cold on the outside.

They are locked in scowling death match of heavy unguardedly hostile words and also a few thinly veiled threats.

He said “don’t smoke in my father’s house,” so she smoked in his father’s house, so he had to yank the fucking smoke out her pouty lips and talk harshly about throwing her out in a cab back to Brighton. Then he “classlessly” handed her forty bucks for that cab, even though it’s really a fifty to sixty to seventy dollar ride, and more if you tip. Which is against all Russian cultural context, to tip a chornay driver.

To which she debased him as a useless man living off his parent’s wealth. And said never in her life had she been so offended by the callous, pompous behavior or an American dog such as himself.

“Less than a dog!” she proclaims.

To show he wasn’t a push over to bombshell, star lit scarlet that no one probably ever said no to he did all that, also because he’d been drinking a lot. And he’s not always the gentleman that he presumes himself to be. Letting any person show such appalling disrespect was cheapening. Men make up all kinds of stories about the motives of beautiful women. Her light up was belligerent and far beyond any international definition of respecting the host. And that’s pretty much how she rolls. Over anyone she feels like.

And yet because she is stunning and pouty and her heels take too long for her to fasten, in effort of perestroika he’s asked he to stay and ten they all ended up on the roof to catch the sun rise.

Now he’s telling a dangerously insensitive story. And she is again beyond appalled.

Sebastian Adon removes his cap and says,

“The job, and operation; call it whatever you want; involves calling on high end prostitutes whose numbers one acquires in the association of men of your former Soviet back ground, mostly at the Banya.”

Banya is Russian for bathhouse. In the past few years Sebastian has been bathing with Russians regularly to wash increasingly dirty hands from stakes that keep mounting and knock around work that just keeps coming.

He loves the way music sounds in Russian. Though he knows under three dozen phrases and cannot even read Cyrillic.

She watches his words take form with her big predatory eyes.

They peer right into you, and they are not always as happy as the smile she plasters on so regularly for photos. That is acquired art in itself. Either they are blue or they are grey or they are silver when sleep deprived, but they are not the eyes of a spectator.

She participates actively in all she observes.

Maybe not rules men try and make or overly hard work though.

“So shortly after they arrive and give you some fictitious cover, you take a coat and as they walk in and settle on a price that will involve no bit of touching at all. Then, you tell them that they’re being filmed and recorded, but that you’re not a cop, agent or a Mossadnik or who-ever dangerous, you’re not there to entrap for absolutely anything. You tell them you’re an abolitionist”

Puff, puff passes along this ill-conceived venture.

“You tell them to call down to the pimp’s driver, and say your John is layered out like Charlie Sheen.”

“Tiger-blooded,” notes Raphael Ernesto.

“Then you make tea. You tell them a story, a personal tale about why you are not a dog or a pig, and how you came to hate this line of work because you had loved someone forced into it. You convince them to take and perhaps disseminate to other persons a number to arrest traffickers and pimps, also to get trafficked and victimized people the resources they need to escape. They get half the job cash for nothing but a number and a way out. They get a number on a card, you ask them to put it in their phone. Eventually, the poor soul either will pass the number or report it directly to the pimps, but you force a violent hand and spread the knowledge that there is in fact a networked way to escape slavery. It’s cheaper and more effective than lobbying or political routes, we must go directly to the slaves and assure them there is safe way out. The next stage then is to get our operatives into brothels to feign cardiac arrest and call ambulances and firemen in as reinforcements.”

Her jaw drops.

“They would kill you just for that,” she spits out.

“For bullshit man! For a lot less than bull shit. A number! I spit on your American number. For insulting low grade bullshit that changes nothing. You will die, they will kill those dear to you, and nothing at all will be fixed about anything, not one woman will walk free” retorts Dasha in all of the glory of women few if anyone has ever said no to.

So, he predetermines.

Not a debutante, not a true New Russian. All the regality of being born all Slavic, but outside the great dividing highway that loops the capital separating the have everything’s from the have nothings or have only little something’s. Being born so radiantly beautiful and tough and Russian after the triumph of Capitalism has left her charming and capable of fighting. But she is far from Russia with love, rootless and floating in glittery fairy tales that don’t expel the hardships of her new country.

“I am not afraid to die for a thing I believe in sweetness, I am not afraid to try and save only one life at the cost of all my American privileges” he flatly retorts.

“He has such American beliefs!” She mocks.

Ernesto always has applauded his radical specifications and foreign adventures over the past three years they’ve known each other and well before. He’s done his trench time, Ernesto. He can recognize a latent revolutionist, from a sleeping one, from a broken man reborn as a hero.  Palestine, Egypt, Ayiti, the worst of Europe too and the street battles to occupy the District last fall that went so bloody poorly playing out in split skulls and tear gas all over national television.

“I guess you’ve never had to work for anything completely or work to keep something you fought hard for, so you give away most easily. Your life seems so easily offered, to take if you ask me,” she snaps at his bait.

“Hey, lady, you are insulting to my dear friend and our gracious host,” sternly interjects Raphael Ernesto, “This man, you have no idea what he’s been through to back up these words.”

His mind, his name, his face.

His mind flutters something about heroics under siege in land place called Ayiti. His face; vague recollection of doing his job over and over again in bad situations.

A few many baton cracks in the Gulliver. I few to many months in cells.

He’s given lots and lots of militant speeches but never done a very violent action with his hands. Like, Ernesto had to in Peru.

His name? Sebastian is only one of his names He’s piloted an ambulance for the Fire Department for three years in all the city’s worst districts. He has traversed the Levant as Zachariah trying to free slaves and end occupation, the American occupation of Israel and the Israeli Oligarchy’s occupation of Palestine. Vasa, he’s dissident poet.

He’s told people of their human rights over and over, until not over, and over again. He delivered a baby once, helped do it many more times!

She could care less. Bold wild statements don’t get first impression credential checking.

She was appalled by the rude cigarette yank and further appalled by his cynical bourgeoisie story about call girls passing itself off as completely vain and stupidly incompetent activism.

She offers to kill him.

He obliges her. Thinks she’s bluffing.

I’ll kill this over privileged American hypocrite too, maybe she thinks. A civic duty to my new country and old country too. Mostly, she maintains a mighty level of the not giving of a shit. She’s also on an off day. She only remembers every other night out when she drinks. The rest of them a blur black haze punctuated with irregular black and blue marks.

“From falling down stairs.”

If she kills him, the tragedy, as far as a memory, will belong to no one.

Ernesto implores her to be more, “Suave, Suave”. To be more calm and “Tranquillo.” The famous Peruvian revolutionist now a New York low key digital disk jockey cannot even barely modulate Sebastian’s posturing and Dasha’s swaggerous, murderous taunting.

Now they’re waving invisible pistols at each other’s’ faces like wild Middle Easterners. They fuel a veritable bonfire of ego and prideful feuding.

Ernesto urges Victoria and Lia Monte to intercede but they are taking lots and lots of pictures and have seen Dasha make a properly rude scene before, of things when men, “get smart”.

“When men get smart with me I cut them apart,” she lives by that.

The job of any and all men as far as she is concerned is please her by makings sure her drink is never empty and that life is a series of taken care of attractions, to make her life more easy. He has failed at both in his utter self-serving arrogance.

“So you’re gonna kill me or just threaten on about it?” says Sebastian secretly hoping she might actually kill him. He hasn’t felt so alive anyway since the last girl ripped his heart out with a dagger in a long game of masochistic sex coupled with co-dependent longing.

There was nothing healthy about his love life lately.

Even the use of the word bids a mind of shame for perpetually having to beg back affections from those he’s thought he’d die with or for.  A year ago his previous partner finally cut him off and the struggle, the paramedical one and human rights one and abolitionist one, all firmly linked; that struggle itself has overwhelmed him lately with his purported role, his Icarus sky walled expectations, his place in the chain of command remaining unclear. Truly only the existential problems of an overly privileged first world revolutionist, as Yelizaveta used to declaim. His last six months have been a black hole of studies on how to beat back death with drugs and electricity. There is also a lofty, high risk plot underfoot to smuggle himself and small team into Aleppo to train Syrian Free Army combat medics. But what faction! There are over forty groups of fighters there. All predict a poor end to such a venture, but the same neigh Sayers neighed the same on Ayiti.

When he sleeps he barely dreams, when he dreams its nightmares about the city of Port-au-Prince or about the last woman he was foolish enough to cry love for whose name was Yelizaveta Perechenova. Who left him eventually for a young physics student and with the declarations of his madness by her mother were the nails in the coffin of their two years of life together.

Something like that.

A veritable blur of a broken dreams to lay down his irrational struggle and pursue medicine, choose life over vain pretenses as a prelude to inglorious martyrdom. His life has taken a turn for the worst now several times “believing in things”. “Being a hopelessly real romantic.”

His studies are narrower now.

He is enrolled in a one year paramedic upgrade program. He had though to jump country, apply for work abroad. He was ordered to hold post in the city and keep working. Lt. Moishe Klein, the orthodox Ivoryish lieutenant on the grave yard shift of Station 31 Cumberland outpost, a sympathizer of the resistance arranged his hasty enrollment in the paramedic academy of Methodist Hospital on Kings Highway.

Or perhaps better focused on saving the individual life here and there; not the world in its totality. Which no one asked of him or expected that he deliver on.

His weekends are soaked in vodka and with wine, sometimes one poured in the other. And the booze keeps his eyes closed to certain things. And now he’s drunk now again. Acting poorly in the company of a Russian woman, yet again.

Kill me for the sake of it, he hopes. It’s what the world would surely not mind all too much. Drunken thinking of an angry man who’s been hit in the head a few times.

“So you’re gonna kill me or just threaten on about it?”

“Absofuckinglutely,” she says.

And then before drunken Ernesto who is now very, very drunken, and also very, very tired, after spinning all night can talk them down they’re up a ladder up to the 18^th story, more of a top, Easterly deck on the 17^th story roof with a deep and deadly edge of death into an 18th floor down plummet with the Geary Building looking out, a million cubicles of an upper class aquarium. Like a Sorcerer’s tower of steel rising up to the East at them by proximity of less than three times an alley way.

 

A great setting for a hastily arranged assisted suicide.

They’re now boxing. Dasha is properly in boxing school. She strikes at him hard then harder. Die you fucking Amerikanski, you damn wasted one, she thinks.

 

Ernesto and Lia and Victoria who are always so very stylish, now have stopped their art making over white wine and look up with some very now real concern. Not a bird or a plane could have killed him so far. Not spy agencies or police forces with much bigger better threatening fish to fry.  A beautiful woman might get close enough.

“You don’t want to live here forever?” she taunts him.

Their boxing and taunting has them perilously near the edge to the pit.

The roof deck is a glamorous lit up garden trip into the sweet hereafter where one might fall dead on to the front porch of New York’s highest high rise residential where the rent is now 40,000 American a month on the month before.

The pit is just a dead drop, it’s a Fire code ordinance for building in late 19^th century, a ventilation shaft for the 19 real story print house now a new riche-intelligentsia-queer-Ivoryish coop on the districts northern most edge.

She is striking hammer sickle hits and he is just taking her hits and then, then it comes.

“Hit me to kill me! Just knock me into that fucking pit and make a good inglorious end to it all,” he swagger demands in bellow.

 

The most beautiful woman he has ever seen is just a side story in his own mind to his own tragedy. She cocks back and doesn’t blink.

Dasha hits him with one big shove and he tumble crumbles backwards into the abyss.

Kill me he beckons and then, she tries so really kill him.

 

As he plummets back, he grabs out and yanks her with him in a tumble off the very ledge of the roof, plummeting to a certain death in the alley way below.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Scene 2

Pacific Ocean Deeps, 2011ce

Black Freighter

 

 

Far below the waves of the black blue Pacific, a vast underwater leviathan of a craft named the “Black Mermaid” hulks its way gradually toward the surface. The vessel is forty miles off the Western coast of Nicaragua, sloshing bashing water; cascading aggressively all of these things as its crew makes way toward “New Shoreham”; a tiny settlement on Block Island.

And, says McIntosh, a member of the Trinidadian Special Forces, “A quite stupid name for a town overtaken by the simple name of its own island,” and he knows about such things being a Trinidadian.

Adelina Anatolievna Blazhennaya with her soft auburn hair tied behind her head has just graduated from a prestigious Sharashka in Seattle, Washington. This particular “Bureau of Experimental Design” was paid for by the Chinese and therefore into her studies were incorporated the most elite techniques for parapsychology cultivated over 4,000 years of Middle Kingdom, as well as appreciations for those aspects of the Mezzo-Americans.

Shortly after graduation she took the instance of her America husband’s infidelity to promptly divorce him and renegotiate her contract to the higher authorities to which she came under employ.

She’s doing her make-up, red lips on beauty. She is very agile looking, big brown eyes and light cedar brown hair; she looks through the mirror into the eyes of Emma Solomon, her commanding officer watching her from the portal door.

 

         “The greatest trouble with Russian men is that they are animals, though quite good at being men in all other regards were we all measured by our fuck and our fight, our bite and our valor. The greatest trouble with Americans is that while good at being gentlemen, in many regards they fail at being men for they are quick to make and break promises,” reads Emma Solomon from a book with a grey and black leather binding.

“I have never read his writing deeply, but I hear from others that he makes sweeping cultural generalizations throughout his novels. Many of which are harder on Americans than is fair and certainly reflect that he did indeed grow up here and not somewhere else,” Adelina says while painting her face for war.

“And I don’t think you can lump us and them into simple gender roles, mentalities and generalizations,” Adelina adds.

“I’ve read them all,” says Emma Solomon, “he’s my husband after all, and they get better as the serial progresses. The poems I cannot stand.”

“I’ve never read his poems either.”

“You’re missing nothing. Think communist Dr. Seuss with a slight swagger of Mayakovsky.”

 

 

“Well I think highly of his contributions to the resistance. I could give a damn about his artistic abilities. Husband?”

 

“Well a long story is a long story, but suffice to say the need for documents was once involved.”

 

“Ah. Well that doesn’t concern me either.”

 

“You’re a wonderful creature dear Comrade Blazhennaya, your work will not be so hard. We have to activate a chain of cells he’s built up and down the coast. I will see to that, but you have a sensitive task. You must make him love you and trust you mostly with a mobile phone and a radio.”

“I know my job.”

“My husband has a lot of potential.”

“So I’ve read.”

“The Oligarchy knows the general date for the rising. Numerous operators were compromised due to sloppy work on the American end, not his fault, but it’s locked down tight as a drum over here.”

 

 

“Tight as a drum?” asks Adelina, though trained a linguist and a parapsychologist she sometimes misses vernacular which comes out of hip hop.

 

 

“The resistance movement has evaded the American State Security apparatus for twenty years. Everything is going according to plan.”

 

“According to prophesy?” asks Adelina who can converse with the higher power when she feels she must, but trusts completely in the Baraka, the Devine charisma of Emma Maya Sorieya Solomon, the hidden candidate for Messiah of their generation.

Emma nods and places her left hand on Adelina’s shoulder.

“Little darling, just stay out of the New York City.”

Adelina looks at her bulky satellite watch made by an Israeli company called “Superior Alien Military”. In eight hours’ time she and her “unit” will be launched from this briny abyss via a hermetically sealed fast boat, they will then land on Block Island and be taken to the Hygeia Hotel; given new identities and “Americanized in the greater Boston area”.

 

“I would like to examine something that Avinadav and Sebastian wrote in the summer of 2001, before my capture and russification, before the infamous martyr operation,” says Emma taking out a grey leather bound manuscript:

“I’m not afraid of anything you know,” states Adelina to Emma.

“I know you’re not, my beautiful one. That’s why you were selected to keep him under control. His mind is now in a dark and treacherous place. He’s been in the field for too many lives.”

“I will not fail you Commander Solomon,” she says.

“I know little sister,” she smiles, “And when it gets crazy in Babylon you can rely on the rest of your unit. Oleg the Bear, Yuliana Romanova, and McIntosh are, well suffice to say we don’t use anything but the best minds when we’re this close to the edge.”

 

“We’ve never been this close to the edge before,” Adelina replies.

 

Chapter 3

The Upper West Side, 2011ce

Penthouse J

 

 

So much light and so much air, still under nine hundred American, my to the chagrin of the Ivories who own the building; the House Trikhovitch is rental controlled!

Penthouse J has been in the hands of the House Trikhovitch Family the early 1981 Common Era. That was not a hey-day for New York City as some newly arrived hip individuals have come to believe. Heretics.

 

By the mid-1980’s looters and vagrants were scaling the walls to steal anything not tied down. Well we thought it was the 1980’s, that’s what smart phones and TVs said.

 

Crack is wack! (Heroin is back) they say, but who do you know that has tried it, sucked the moon rocks, boom! The CIA brought it here in 1980 to help kill all the black people, get them hooked on that vile addictive substance; then arrest loosely 1 in 8 of them. The book about this phenomena is called the ‘New Jim Crow’. That’s what Pacifica Radio says anyway.

Located on 95^th and Riverside it is now one of the Z.O.B.s most luxurious and safest of safe houses. It is rent controlled and guarded by Albanians. They are warlike these Albanians. Good at moving people and things, also safe guarding things for others. They do not practice Cannibalism. There are two garden terraces that look out over the Hudson River to the North and Midtown to the south. The place has wall to wall books and a rather large aquarium filled with amphibious turtles. The building has gone coop and they are the last holdout sitting on a highly choice property paying $850.00 American a month for it. A good number of Ivoryish lawyers have been paid to figure out how to extract them from this property, so far unsuccessfully.

It was once a little more of zoo filled then filled again with animals and young girls with long legs.

 

“The most striking thing about her is the murder in her eyes which beg a man closer with the promise of bliss then deny him everything,” utters Sebastian Adon looking out north toward the palisades and George Washington Bridge.

This is the place to jump when you really want no mistakes made on the outcome.

Fleetingly he thinks of the Fort Washington district, the highest point on the isle of Manhattan. He thinks of all the times he’s wandered Fort Tryton Park with a lover holding hands. One lover in particular for after her none of the other previous ones had mattered.

But, then his mind quickly reverts to his newest fascination with the fairer of the species.

All previous lessons are lost.

On an adjacent bench in the roof garden, shirtless with a Noblisse dangling out his lips is his best friend and long-time partner Nikholai Trikhovitch.

Nikholai was briefly a police officer for a short period, and is now working for the Red Cross in a vast housing and logistics Ponzi scheme, he is also one eight the leadership of the Z.O.B. and the editor of its newspaper, “the Banshee”.

From time to time he picks up work as an unlicensed private detective helping cheating wives get their proofs of infidelity or parents find their dead kids in Newark, New Jersey.

Rudely we have introduced Nikholai without introducing the Z.O.B.; the clandestine organization of ambulance workers and West Indian entrepreneurs that bind many of our characters into a pact of lawless mutual aid. The group is best known by its clandestine newspaper and this is often called the Banshee Association, but these three letters better indicate the club’s inner circle, and its place in the international human rights movement.

“It’s a human rights version of the Westies, that’s all I can tell you for now,” says Sebastian often.

“What’s the Westies again,” people ask.

“Um, a small but ultra-violent Fenian gang from the 1980’s,” he often adds then distracts.

“What’s that stand for?” people ask Adon.

“If I told you….” and then he orders a round of water shots.

So many people just call them the Banshee Association, some kind of emergency medical service proto-union alluded a recent write up about them in the blog DNA info.

Regardless. They all just called it “the Club”.

Nicholai has heard all about, literally all about “the Russian Girl” as he calls her.

“This one, despite all your most base prejudices is actually Russian. Not Ivoryish Ukrainian like Yelizaveta or Maria,” remarks Sebastian.

Does that matter slightly? Neither can decide.

They are not Russian speakers though they are the mutt descendants of them, Sebastian and Nikh are four generations made American. Their mothers are 8^th generation Americans. Their fathers are third generation Ukrainian Ivories.

 

Like Ms. Maria Parsheva now married and or Yelizaveta Perechenova, physician in training, soon to be a doctor of infectious disease s says the wire.

 

“In Russia we were Ivories, outside of Russia we are finally called Russians. We are treated the same,” once explained Yelizaveta’s father Alexandre, or Sasho if you knew him well for he was a fierce and indomitable man, but also a gregarious buffoon behind the doors of his tavern when no one was looking but those he mostly trusted dancing about with a cigar grinning.

 

Not that these things have anything to do with two fucks of an anything. Those were the two other Post-Soviet lovers Sebastian had taken as his closest partners in the past four years. It would be incorrect to say he dated “Russian Women exclusively”; as later inferred by the Russian photographer and Israeli gangster Oleg Medved; he had simply intimately engaged only just two, one right after the other. And that was enough for him to suspect there was something remarkable about the character of a “Russian woman”. The first, Maria who was ever calm but he did not love for she did not excite in him full passions; and the second Yelizaveta who was headstrong and wild whom he could never forget.

Nicholai remembers red headed Maria as something of a submissive Soviet Jessica Rabbit, complete with a cute little mole, slightly husky voice and marked non-fascination with much that wasn’t Russian in origin, besides Sebastian of course. She sure did hold her own on the “train job” though, that bloody mess in 2007.

Sebastian would forever view Maria as his “Betty Shabazz” as their black nationalist associate Justin Thomas described her; a strong woman who stands behind her larger than life man. Nikh just thought of her a Russian geisha, until he watched her do the train job, which we’ll have to consider the details of later. In that moment under fire her realness did come out.

Nikh remembers Yelizaveta emerging into the club picture, and Sebastian’s bedroom sometime in 2008. He remembers her at meetings and social functions as a highly mouthy Americanized blonde know it all little bitch who walked all over Sebastian publicly and privately, emptied out his pockets, put wild eyed ideas in his head, and reduced him to bawling tears when she eventually left him over her mother’s total lack of approval. She may or may not have helped them sketch out the entirety of “the Ayiti job” though. And probably pushed Sebastian into joining the original ground crew that three years prior took over the Port-Au-Prince general hospital triggering the uprising there.

 

“Your women are never far from the very center of your goriest war stories,” Nikh notes.

 

The two comrades Sebastian and Nikolai had been partners in human rights defense committees and general thought crime since 1999. The year they did their first “job”.

There had been a lot of great and mediocre women and a lot of “jobs” since then. But not for nothing, since Sebastian Adon entered his “Postsoviet amorous period”, as Nikh liked to call it, well the jobs had gotten quite a lot more ambitious. The man needed an iron clad muse all assumed. In reality he simply needed to be loved so that the love he put on the world could find a singular dedication, another soul to whom he could do all his work for.

The Human Rights Westies did some wild work in Russian amorous period.

Their associate; a proud Fenian named Hubert O’Domhnaill had coined that phrase. “Human Rights Westies”, and also his “Russian Amorous Period”.

That was the Z.O.B. in a witty little simplified nugget of Fenian witticism. The club now had a larger than life presence in certain regards or perhaps it should be said; circles. But that would still make Sebastian Adon into a humanitarian Mickey Spillane. Perhaps the analogy if that’s what it was, was poorly conceived.

Back to the task at hand.

“How do you think that bodes for longevity? More importantly love making? The full blown Russianness of her” asks Nikh.

“Referring back to this new lady being a full blown Slav?”

“Certainly. Slav is only one letter from you being a slave after all. And you and I know full fucking well that it isn’t the female who’s the slave in these flings. Those woman walk all over men with their parapsychology and high heels.”

Sebastian had come to believe that Nicholai harbored some rather bas prejudices against Russian but had never determined why. Nicholai had come to believe that Sebastian unable to love himself at all found himself enslaved by a series of party damaged dangerous women, Russia and non-Russian alike.

Sebastian had not previously thought of how Dasha acted in bed. It was as if he had known that already from first sight as she sized him up like a slave on an auction block being told to try a cocktail. She could fuck a man into pieces.

But this was not the immediate attraction. There was some great familiarity she bore to someone he used to know. And it most certainly wasn’t either of his previous Postsoviet partners.

“I bet she is most ferocious,” remarks Nikh.

An apt word for her, all things considering what transpired on that rooftop.

“I can’t stop thinking about her. She’s made more remarkable not by her sheer dangerousness, but by some feeling I have of having seen her before in another time. A true predator not even posing as a house pet! And the things she confessed to under torture.”

“Tortured her did you?”

“I did. With my words.”

“This is your main instrument of torture tovarish.”

Tovarish is former Soviet for, comrade-brother-worker. Nikholai is a Russian-Ivoryish-Fenian-German mutt just like Sebastian. Neither of their mothers is a Ivory, so the black hats would of course disavow them and they can’t marry lawfully in Israel neither. They both look like “the Russians” but they speak and they think like children of the American intelligentsia. Both of their fathers are medical professionals; Nicholai’s father is a neurologist and Sebastian’s a puller of teeth. Both fathers being Ivoryish Atheists and both gentile mothers being American sorceresses perhaps predisposed the young two men to “communism” as they’d be denounced as over and over. But they were not communists. They simply were two young men of privilege aligning their lives with the plight of the much trampled masses. They were only about as Ivoryish as their value for education.

Until the “Russian Amorous Period” they had been concerned with propaganda and human rights, but their jobs had not been ambitious.

It was the end of Nicholai’s marriage and Sebastian’s deportation from the State of Ivory that got them working together again on the cause.

And it was perhaps Nicholai’s inner misery over the fate of his marriage and Sebastian’s inner misery over being denied a homeland he’d imagined was his destiny; that put them back together; left them open to suggestion.

And let us all be frank that women can give men any number of tremendous suggestions and wield a power that shapes a man’s deeds. Perhaps you could say women, with more love for the world and more investment in its future can direct the violent ego driven nature of men.

And in the past four years the Z.O.B. accomplished things no one had though possible. Like organize a newspaper, which organized a general billing strike in EMS, which lead to a trade union of all the cities EMS, which build an ambulance guerrilla movement on the island of Ayiti; and developed a training blueprint for international medical guerrillas. All was poised to smash the trafficking and prostitution infrastructure of the biggest Apple on Earth.

“She didn’t tell me everything, but enough to conclude she is a victim of sorts. Another dark Post-Soviet past to unravel all of her callous behaviors and the smile she hides behind.”

They had toppled backwards together toward the precipice and in the free fall he had pulled her with him to death only averted because of certain laws of physics. Well it was impossible to truly know, Yelizaveta the scientist could have explained it but she was long gone these days.

Rather than fall into a pit of death, his grabbing on to her altered the trajectory of plummet. She had made every effort to follow his deadly command and rather than go through with it honorably he had tried to take her with him.

How American.

“So what the fuck happened on that roof?” Trickovitch asks.

“Well we landed on top of each other half off the edge panting and realizing that she had almost just killed me and I had almost just taken her with me.”

“That’s hot. And by hot, I mean real fucking stupid.”

“Well, anyway. So panting and looking down into seventeen stories of death she grabs my hand and bites down into my right shooter.”

Sebastian shows the wound.

There were a literal ring of red bite marks around his right index finger.

“I think I know her from before,” he finally admits.

“You’ve always been a sick fuck. And you need to not let fourth dimensional things interfere with the growing war effort.”

“Well then she calms down and we do this kind of half swoon, half reevaluation of an enemy and she tells me that she paid 25,000 dollars to come to America and have an arranged marriage set up. She said she had to work the debt off and the work was highly unpleasant. And she told me she will help me identify the biggest trafficker targets in the city. ”

“Don’t project and don’t believe her lies. You always seem to tell a tale always darker than is. The world is evil enough on its own comrade story teller. As for her offer to help? Why? What’s in it for her? I think you should ask where this woman came from, ask why she ended up meeting you at this stage. You know, right before the biggest job to date. Don’t think with your dick. You’re not her type. The whole thing looks fucked at every angle of evaluation.”

 

“She told and made most illicit references to what she did to come here. Perhaps she wants out of who holds her paperwork. Or maybe something else.”

“I’m not sure she did anything but prove you’re easier to kill than the rumors suggest, you’d both been drinking and we all know just about anything can come out of a Postsoviet woman’s mouth drunk or sober. We both know all women lie.”

“Just about anything true, but given the entirety of the encounter, it seemed she was alluding to her own imprisonments and debts. Whatever their current state might be.”

“But are they true? All women lie and these Soviet women lie highly convincingly as if it were story telling as art or parapsychology. You magnify and exaggerate all suffering to fit in the contexts of your often convoluted radical politics. You’ve done so time and again. Remember your truest partner Ms. Hali Vik, the one you quite nearly married? Before you dated and slept with former Soviets in endless succession you did date and slumber erotically with Americans for a time.”

 

“Nikholai. I had two partners after Hali. I know what you’re getting at. But really man, there was Maria and then there was Yelizaveta. And there were a couple short stands in between, but they meant so little and felt like so nothing that I all but stopped my fucking for fun.”

“Hali Vik was the kind of woman you need to find, not these cold, possibly morally vacant Russians. They will never understand you and they’ll never join this cause,” says Nikholai.

He’s referring to the only woman that anyone ever thought had made a realistic and well suited partner for Sebastian Adon. He’s also referring to the “Lowell Job”. Which had been a messy over exertion of well-intentioned violence due to the fact that Hali Vik, had gotten herself in a lot of trouble, but Sebastian may well have made up stories in his head too.

Well anyway, Hali was safe in Italy now and while there may have been a little bit of torture utilized to get her there, well nobody was dead and buried in Lowell that didn’t deserve somewhat to be dead, burned and buried in Lowell.

 

Nikholai and Sebastian being best friends talked a lot about their women. But there was one woman that Nikholai new precious little about and that was Emma Solomon, but he was correct that Hali Vik the only American was in fact the only person he might well have married in a normative sense of what that word means. For in the State of Ivory, he was in paper work still quite married to Emma Solomon.

But bigamy of paperwork is not the same as bigamy taken to the firing mechanisms of the inner heart.

It was these four women that had made him believe in the struggle as if it were love? No, only Emma did, and fine perhaps also Yelizaveta in a completely separate way. There had many lovers. He had well ripped the heart out of young Polish comrade Joanna who loved him as no other woman had or perhaps could but to whom he felt youthful nothing. But that was decade ago.

Nikholai had been married to a Syrian-Italian-Puerto Rican modal for seven years named Krissyiana, or Krissy for cute. She had wanted very little besides children and she was an agoraphobe. The product of near ceaseless sexual harassment and advances. Her father was wealthy and also CIA, disowned her for cohabitating with an Ivory, Nikholai. They married early at age 18 and lived together in District Midwood until their late twenties.

Adon rarely saw his best man then, but Nikholai was happy playing house, he was domestic in his soul. Eventually it ended, he wouldn’t bear her kids.

They divorced and then she completely disappeared, into smoke. He had been fucking and drinking his way towards oblivion lately. He felt nothing anymore now that Krissy was gone to god only knows where. Self-destruction or the arms of a rich man, who only knew?

“I am only suggesting slowness and loads of needed caution is required are you to obsess, I repeat the word obsess! Further about another woman you meet by the brink of your crazy pursuit of wild partly damaged women. Joanna was great to you but you never felt anything and that destroyed her and perhaps forever cursed you if you believe in the dealings of Erzuli Danto. Hali Vik was the closest thing I’ve ever seen to you to being unadulterated happy for a brief fuck of time. But let’s not forget just how much we had to burn down and knock around over that little lady, and that you may have saved her life but she well near killed you. Maria Parsheva was a loyal little Russian geisha, but between various factors that we need not rehash, that too was doomed. Though, on the train, what a little gangster she was! Perhaps you did faster more far reaching organizing so moved as you were by Ms. Yelizaveta Perechenova, but you have such a way of making women into these wild muses and then yourself into tragic fucking art. And to be frank, all the women you take as your serious partners, well none of them have fathers and all of them of dark pasts. Except Joanna who you completely destroyed. Poor noble woman. Which was rather sad because none of them loved you as fearlessly as she.”

 

Yelizaveta had a brilliant father. But he was highly bipolar and the ambulance men carried him off all the time, like every other year. So it went to reason “that the daughter of a bipolar man carried away by ambulance men should perhaps not marry a bipolar ambulance man.”

Sounded logical now, but not in 2009. Her mother forbid them to see each other and a woman with only one functional parent will follow the will of her mother in the end.

“Dasha is a continent on to herself. I ask you not compare and contrast my various past uses of love and longing. I can’t even truly say that I know her well enough to speak anything like love to her. I simply felt like I was in the presence of…”

He almost said, ‘his murdered wife’ but he decided that Nikholai would then really mock him. A damn construct man! Do not mistake your fucking black Israelite training for reality or it will consume you. That’s what Nikh would yell at him in simulations.

“You love dangerously and inappropriately. Just remember that Ms. Hali Vik was also the closest time, in my memory to you being killed by another man over a woman. I suspect that is something you are secretly craving in some reminiscence of an older life.”

“Well maybe she hasn’t got a man. Maybe she hasn’t got a dark past. I’m very hard to kill as you know. Dasha has already tried.”

“You might have easily both died. And truly this time for nothing!”

“She claimed to Raphael Ernesto she remembers nothing.”

“A black out as a reconciliation for your near arranged murder? Neat, so if she had killed you she wouldn’t even have remembered.”

“A black out woman hides a dark past in my experience.”

“I fail to see what at all is attractive about her willingness to murder you.”

“I’ve always fighters, but this is something surreal. They say she has been coming to the Mehanata Social Club for a little under two years. Never pays, always leaves alone. Drinks like she needs to part the Red Sea via consumption. I’ve never seen her at the club before.”

“That my friend is only called the thing called too much trouble. She is not what you or we need right now.”

Sebastian would perhaps not have noticed her because for the past year and a half he had weaned himself off that den of Bulgarian sin and former Soviet misery by convincing himself no woman on earth could be as angelic and pure as his Yelizaveta, his last and most imperfect love. He pulls glasses on to make a mythology out of the world starring him and his overbearing sense of mission. Often with an unwitting female who tries to love him, but he’s from a house called trouble.

“The trouble is you’re not a hopeless romantic,” says Nikh getting a second cigarette fired up, up off the first, “It’s far worse that you’re a real romantic. You usher in the 18^th century for the coldest of post-Soviet hearts. Some of these poor girls have to learn how to protect themselves from whether you’re sure you’re serious or not. More precisely you need to protect yourself from your projections of love and the cowboy like way you shoot cupid’s arrows off in your artistic yet unpredictable shifting of moods.”

“I’m deadly serious with this one, and will not weigh its risks against the others.”

“All of them. It’s either a blessing or a curse you love early and love often as you do. I suspect a curse upon your own well-being. You seem to enjoy these unstable, untenable trysts as if pursuing the romantic ideal of poorly constructed epics might necessitate your own energies to live a more basic life. Not that anything you do is basic, but I suspect you’d always be happier as a wandering poet than as a loosely grounded resistance fighter. ”

“I have no idea anymore. I haven’t written a truly good poem in many years. If quite a little good art was made under Yelizaveta it was because she asked for it and returned it. They are all quite different loves. One loves the struggle because one always thinks it noble, or heroic and the cause just and the suffering of our people, all people immense. One loves a woman because she emboldens him. Makes him a real man by showing love as something justifying of our human condition.”

“Different Sebastian’s have said differing things on the matter over this decade mind you. You must look yourself in the mirror more often or more deeply. For one thing you’re too lean for my liking and you hair is too short it means you aren’t eating. That is always a giveaway that you are about to do something reckless. Police and imprisonment tend to follow old friend.”

“You’re being an Ivoryish mother now. More praying is perhaps in order too?”

“I certainly don’t care what you pray to this week, but you do need to eat more, drink less and certainly not be chasing around a woman you hardly know. And for the love of god: You just got over Ms. Yelizaveta and were beginning to sleep around more casually, so please just don’t get drunk on any more roof tops. Just be cautious of what a wild woman you are dealing with. And please, whatever you do, just don’t tell her you love her until you can pronounce her last name. And have done the homework on the skeletons in her closet. This is a Russian fucking woman after all. They play no games, not with one damn thing.”

Nikholai then asks Sebastian quite specifically, “What really happened up on that roof?”

Sebastian blows out smoke.

“I died and was reborn, like the last few times,” quietly responds Adon puffing his cigarette, “we toppled to our very deaths. And miraculously awoke panting in the alley way my penis in hand. Walked out as if nothing happened. I put her in a cab.”

“And you think you see the soul of your dead wife in her, is that the story?”

“Nikholai please do not judge me.”

But Nikholai Trickovitch does not judge him because he too knows what it is like to bear forced separation from one you love. He simply is aware of something that Sebastian Adon is not because Sebastian is “sleeping” and Nikh is completely awake.

 

That a full blown uprising is but three weeks away. And that enemy knows that the Z.O.B. has helped organize it, and keeps its factions coordinated.

From which one could infer that the enemy will be moving in on any of the known leadership. And although security culture is tight as drum; Sebastian is a known operator no matter how many faces or deaths her passes through. And that there is no reason in the world why one of the leaders, albeit even one “put to sleep” for his own safety should be getting into a tryst with some new dangerous Russian blondie.

Who in all likelihood, coming out of nowhere at this precise time; is undoubtedly an agent of the Mossad. The Mossad or even far worse, the inner most Secret Police, the ruthless agents setting up for murder all who resist the iron heel of the Oligarchy, the grand cartel of power and plutocracy.

The Jews will try and murder us faster because of the secrets we stole.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Scene 4

The Bermuda Triangle, 2011ce

Black Freighter

 

 

“No, I’ve never read a thing, he’s written, I only just have encouraged him to write,” sates Oleg the Bear and all nod in agreement. Yulia Romanova doesn’t even know how to read in Russian, she’s paid to fuck men on demand and place satchel bombs.

 

Back in the present, back on the monstrous underwater vessel called “the Black Mermaid”; traveling propelled by a Thorium reactor towards the United States; the extraction squad sits for black bread, herring, tea and Compot, sweet berry punch.

The Chinese had finished a canal across Socialist Nicaragua that was three times the size of the US controlled one in Panama.

But, for some reason no one in the USA even knew the thing was operational. And it was through this cognitively non-existent mega water way the Black Mermaid nuclear submarine was planning to pass on its run into American waters.

McIntosh is a very big guy, big in all four ways that matter. His biochemist brain, his black noble soul, his heart and his Shona warrior hands. And so is Oleg Medved, but they are big in different ways. Oleg is simply physically imposing, but his brain, heart and hands; they are smaller. McIntosh is Trinidadian, dark as night. Black even for the eyes of white men that turn many shades into enemy other. He stands over six feet tall. He is by far the most conspicuous person in the unit that was being briefed one hour before deployment in a hermitically sealed fast boat unto the shores of the United States of America; a border run to a rebel base on Block Island.

McIntosh is muscular and very well trained in the arts of Voudoun. While his size stands out and his willingness to break the backs of any person who might lay their hands on the candidate he has taken a blood oath to protect; his main task one mission will be to allow Ms. Adelina to enter the dreams of Sebastian Adon, and keep him from unleashing his fighters in ways that might trigger a bloody, bloody bloodbath. In fact, their unit, now in massive black nuclear submarine owned by the State of Ivory is hurtling toward the international maritime border.

Oleg Medved will be quick to tell you that “Oleg the Bear” is certainly not the nice Ukrainian Ivoryish name his mother gave him. But, it will be his name for now.

He is very likable. Gregarious in the right word! He goes nowhere without a camera and takes a lot of pictures some arty, some naughty, some of assets to note all of them quite professional. He even as Ms. Adelina giggling on the first time they met; which was a few weeks ago in Sakhalin, that cold vile place.

Oleg is the Communications Officer for their little squad. It is his responsibility to work with his very stunning partner Ms. Yulia Romanova, to whom he sometimes called “his muse”, but alongside being a slender and sensuous brundinite she was very good at building bombs and also social engineering. Every artist dreams of fucking their muse.

 

If it was the duty of Adelina Blazhennaya to enter the mind of Sebastian Adon and take control of the resistance apparatus working towards a vast national uprising set for an upcoming hidden date; no longer hidden to the N.S.A. and Department of Homeland Security; and it was the duty of McIntosh to use his spiritual training to help her enter that glorious rebel of mind of Adon’s; then it was Oleg Medved’s job to teach the resistance how to use the advanced communications and IT tools developed in the Sharashka in Seattle, Washington. This particular “Bureau of Experimental Design” was Chinese funded as said but really was bringing together some of the best offerings in the Persian library vaults and cross collaborating with Cubans and Israelis. These were upside down cake times. And it was Yuliana job to seduce everyone they came in contact with and use her very specific charms to extract data needed. And Adelina being a powerful sorcerous shaman and considered a candidate since birth was to lead quietly the unit and ensure the outcome of prophesy foretold in a little book called the “New Social Gospel” revealed by some magnimonious higher power to Emma Solomon.

What politicians said on the international circus stage were hardly what their populations connected via the inter-web were ready to agree to, not a single year longer.

December 21^st, 2012 was to be the year according to the Mayan calendar that a great shift would occur in Humanity. Well that was not the date of the uprising. But those great spiritual cosmic forces were being factored in.

Before they departed to run the border via Black Freighter submersible they rendezvoused a week prior below the desolate Eastern coast of Russia’s Stanovoy Mountain range; on the island of Sakhalin.

They were all meeting for nearly the first time so to break the ice over vodka, Oleg the Bear got them playing a famous game of gradual interrogation called “Three Thing to Know about me.”

“Let me tell you three some things about me,” Oleg said to them back in Sakhalin, them being McIntosh, Adelina and Yuliana Romanova.  They were drinking vodka and eating black bread with herring, and salted tomatoes, goose patsy and strange orange vegetable that only grows below the soil of Russia.

“I am not a creature that will live vicariously!” he declared in English out of respect for McIntosh who spoke no Russian.

“I am not a believer like you three in some vast forces that I cannot measure hold and see. I am not here there therefore as a fact of faith in Comrade Solomon; I am here because I have money and orders and a contract to be here. And that is simple enough.”

“I was told to come and get these Americans a means to tell their story. The story of their uprising most precisely. I was told to set up these communication lines so Americans can join the global revolution underway for over two hundred years.”

“I am here too to enjoy myself and take pictures!” he declares.

“All the most reputable of foreign scholars have declared an American uprising impossible. That the nation on the mount would sooner watch sports than tune into see the world burning. As long as they keep the flights to Europe running, as long as they have their beer, football and porn, hookers for those who can afford them then they will be the grinning bastards, the opulent retards, their cities blue grounds for the world elite to harvest more women and treasure.”

“I’m coming as a highly paid tourist. I will take a million pictures; I will leave behind more than I take away,” and this was the conclusion of Oleg Medved’s little speech back in the Sakhalin Outpost.

“Have you any faith in the prophesy?” Yulia asked him. Yulia was every bit as beautiful physically as any woman Oleg had ever known, but Oleg had come to see women as accessories for men, adjuncts and muse for the doing of big things or even just fun sweaty things. And what he noticed since the Romanoff Bratva took over his contract was that he had more time to pursue his art. Money absolutely brought options.

He had a morally ambiguous relationship with Yulia founded on the principle that her partner back in Russia was not her boyfriend or her husband. These were times of fun and games with papers and loyalties.

They took a lot of pictures together; he of her and she and he from his hip. His burly part beard and broad shoulders were quite the opposite of her elegant spindle form, her black brown hair falling back and forth over shoulders as she let him capture her.

“No faith at all in anything, or anyone, certainly not the Americans,” he declared.

Yulia feigned a small, false pout.

While beauty was not a question her eyes lacked what the parapsychologist called the “Old Soul depth” of Comrade Blazhennaya.

“And you little Mosquito,” exclaimed Yulia referring to the American translation of Blazhennaya’s fictionist name, “Do you even believe?”

The Ivory handlers had put them up in windswept bunker safe house in Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk waiting for the black freighter sub to arrive. The streets were empty because of the snow. Yulia and Oleg were flown in from Yekaterinburg by the Romanoff Bratva that held their contracts. Oil and Gas oligarchs. McIntosh and Adelina arrived together from Seattle.

In the cultural context of both Russia and Trinidad it was necessary to drink a lot of toasts and shots in celebration to possible; the hopeful success of their mission. And secure potentially physical privileges to be allowed of their either female leadership!

And before Adelina could answer Yulia Romanova’s inquiry, her face grinned with a hard and quiet smile now into the thirteenth shot of Russian Standard Vodka.

Drunk, was the only way to even take in or put out this rhetoric, the theories of nonviolent resistance to oligarchy, codified by Emma Solomon, Avinadav DeBuitléir and of course; Comrade Sebastian Adon.

 

Drunk she carried out a most dramatic reading!

 

 

Her eyes began glowing a brown into turquoise, Yulia jumped in her seat, then Adelina’s eyes went grey on grey and McIntosh arched his back contorting into a Bhutto type posture, spasmodically twitching! Grinning obscenely. Oleg lurched out of his seat but then by the force of her mind and found himself saluting her.

And then Emma Solomon in husky, but authoritative voice of a warrior woman spoke out the mouths of Adelina and McIntosh perfectly synchronized, and that was when Yulia and Oleg realized that neither the Romanoff Bratva nor the Israelis were in charge of this ‘job’ at all.

The pair then exclaimed in the voice of Solomon,

 

“By the time we are done here there will be no more safety for the men in high towers perched atop the mountain of any faction. You were all born serfs or various types of half casted slave, but your unborn children have been assured their emancipation via deeds to come.”

 

 

Everyone dropped back into their seats almost postictal from possession. Oleg simply grinned. McIntosh smiled too. Yulia looked truly scared, emotions breaking through her control of countenance. And Adelina Blazhennaya in all her petit and unassuming compact grace then uttered, “Trust that among the Americans are many who have cried out over what happened in the killing fields and sprawling slum cities. They have more going on than dancing, fornicating and erection of taller towers and bigger, brighter stadiums.”

 

“Don’t overestimate the prophesy[12] and underestimate the cowboy libertarianism of the American underground,” she tells them, and pours the next round of shots.

 

“America, fuck yeah,” says Oleg!

 

 

 

 

Scene 5

113 Ludlow Street, 2011ce

Mehanata

 

 

The lights are dim no matter what happens. You can dance all night if you have to, but eventually someone has to herd the cats out the door and hide the bodies on the floor. The Mehanata Social Club is tucked away discreetly on 113 Ludlow Street. This is its second location since many times police raided and finally burned to the ground in an ugly incident that took place in 2005. Surely it will not be the final location, given the times.

 

At an infamous establishment such as this you ought to always know the names of the men “standing the watch” or women “pouring for your drinks” or the “holding down of your bags and coats. Most importantly you ought to be cautious of the seductive forces marshaled via inexpensive vodka and black magic to lead you to things you ought not to be playing around with.

There might was well be signs on the wall telling you anything not tied down will be carried away into the night, bags, souls, virginities. Come to think of it, there are such overt signs! One claims three teeth are needed for entry. One says anything not checked will be stolen. One says get naked get a shot, get fucked on bar earn bottle.

It’s a Gypsy Bar. And it lives up to that designation splendidly.

You wouldn’t find it unless you were looking for it. You’d only be looking for it is someone told you about it and perhaps you’d hate them for it later. But, in the wilderness a tavern of wild foreign and domestic people dancing to the tunes of the Roma can draw angels and demons by word of mouth and since 2001 it has been surviving pogroms, police raids and venue changes via fire.

There are three floors to the Tavern.

The website extolls patrons to “meet their future green card holding spouse.” There is live Latin music. Live fire juggling. Bulgarian contortionists on Thursday alongside with Bordel Dali; Ernesto and his business comrade Georgie who is from Romania. The cast of characters around here boggles the mind.

The club has the look of a vast lawless pirate ship or a wilderness brothel.

The waitresses and bar tenders are skinny or shapely, Bucharest or Sophia girls just arrived recently though generally well educated and for now, un-indentured. They mostly don’t stay long and the reason for that is partly because of the demands of the work, and because their boss is the devil himself. The club is only open Thursday, Friday and Saturday. There are private parties in the basement you’d do well not to crash unexpected or uninvited. The talent is highly various. There’s a rather pal-mal esthetic of transcontinental bacchanalia.

The booking agent is petit and elegant Victoria Lynch often wearing the hat of a Soviet officer the shoulder length locks of her hair falling over well fashioned skirts or flowing dresses. The primary live acts are Gypsy. Roma meets Latin American mostly. You get dance hall and reggae tone periodically.

The doughty wine.

The salsa, the tango, sometimes even a little Zouk.

The most popular disk jockeys are Raphael Ernesto Contreras Lynch also called the “DJ Rafflex” and Georgie from Bucharest also called the “DJ Mishto”. As stated “Romanian” but “not a Gypsy”.  The most famous of the bartenders is Martina called Hella Dubreskaya. She has been here a good deal longer than the others.

She has the special constitution that a bartender needs to work the shit show around here longer than a month. Though many suspect she will quit soon.

Outside and inside are James White, the retired Fenian cop on ¾ pension after his ACL was torn chasing down a perp and James “Behemoth” Brown Pérezes a smart talking, burly Puerto Rican. Always outside is Slavi, the stone faced until a sneaked grin Bulgarian collecting the irregular admission wearing a Soviet wolf fur hat except during the time of summer.

You pay cash up front for everything unless, unless you’re a card carrying regular. James White and James Brown are sometimes easy going on admission and fierce to squash the fights which happen, generally around 2 AM, but often before and after.

Justin Toomey O’Azzello is the general’s manager. He has wandering hands. He is jovial and likes to tell elaborate stories about his days in the “air force”. He blames his flirtations with alcoholism over the years on bombing runs he inflicted over Bosnia[13]. But Justin was never in the air force or in Bosnia. His hands wander though.

 

The owner of this place is a fearsome Bulgarian Ivory called “Sasho”, but is real name is Alexandre Dmitrievich Perchevney.  He has a soft spot for revolutionists, debaucheries of fallen men, as well as a hard spot for undocumented woman of theatre. Misha Kishbivalli, the long haired millionaire playboy from Bulgaria also is his silent partner. The cooks are all from the tropic of Capricorn but nothing is ever very good eat except the soup or the salad; white cheese over fries or some type of Borscht which is rumored to sometimes contain menstrual blood. It is rumored also that there is tunnel running from under the club to places unknown. Some nights Misha Kishbivalli has pontificated outside of the American engineered mega tunnels that run under the country in case of insurgency or general emergency. The traffic around here is always hard to predict.

There are tall glass confectionaries of apple cider ginger vodka that sit atop the bar. There is a sign informing people that “get naked get a shot, get fucked win a bottle”.

Also that patrons must have at least three teeth to enter the establishment.

The music is always playing loud at the Mehanata Social Club where Dasha makes eyes then orders a Vodka energy drink confection, then slides up to Sebastian at the bar. He is wearing a black suit.

“It seems that we have found each other again,” she says.

“We were misbehaved I dare tell you,” he says.

“I was bad. Rude should I say? I am told I insulted you greatly.”

“That you did. You remember nothing?”

She just gives me a devilish smirk. And shakes her head.

“I drink a lot for fun. I don’t always remember my Fridays or my Saturday nights. I was told I was bad. So I’m saying the sorry. For the being of bad. What are you drinking? This is our custom.”

“Nothing? No recollection.”

“No nothing at all. Oh, you were wearing a suit that’s a different color from the suit you’re wearing now, this I remember.”

Sebastian is now in a black suit. The night she almost killed them last it was white linen.

“You never acted all that drunkenly. You were calm and in control throughout, your, shall I say, outbursts. My friends have told me that it’s too late to stop your vodka calamities from unfolding sometimes.”

“Well we all have our demons[14] in here don’t we. I’m good. Until I fall down. I fell down those steps one night,” she says pointing to a long downstairs plummet into the downstairs floor where the Ice Cage is hidden.

The Ice Cage is a freezer box in the basement where people pay thirty a head to slam wall to wall cheap vodka over a period of two minutes. It never ends well for those who get in that cage. There is perilous flight of stairs down to the basement where they keep the stripper poles and the blue lit cage by a second bar and dance floor.

“That looks like if would hurt,” he notes.

“I don’t remember,” she smiles wide and seductively.

But that’s a silly thing to say. Seductively. She is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen with a proclivity for homicide. Describing just how beautiful she is almost doesn’t fit in a short play. Her golden locks are like a lioness. Her eyes are capable of quick swing between fierce, curious and loving. She loves to hear men say it, how beautiful she is, but beauty isn’t where a man falls from when he falls from the heart not the groin. Beauty is a thing of lust. It has no bearing on love when that love is real love and not lust with imagined feelings. Love is energy, a wave crashing over you. Sebastian has drowned several times before. He’d be very careful to use the word again. In that regard he is reckless to no end. He feels an attraction and can’t comprehend it, must be love. Previous formularies for the same emotion dictated that whatever woman resisted his affections the most adamantly and then let down her guard to an elegant seduction of deeds and art, must be love. There were loves at first sight, or interaction as well as friendships that became romances and he was unafraid to say the words again. The words often came out without his permission.

Overtime several women had accused him of bastardizing the loaded phrase via serial usage. There were over a dozen women he’d uttered it to over the course of his 28 years.

Generally after the conquest of kisses, but to a couple before.

They were all very different women of course and they all brought out very different rolls to his emotional dice. Sides to his coin being a limited idiom. Supposedly in popular fictions man or woman is supposed to have only one true love in a lifetime, to marry them or be parted from them tragically. So Sebastian was working hard by that standard, which truly in real life it can never be that simple, that limited.

“You’re really something to write about,” he says.

“Absolutely I am. And I never say sorry to men, but Ernesto said he would cancel his friendship with me if I didn’t say sorry to you. Apparently I underestimated that you are the favorite host, the dashing revolutionary saint, the darling, the grandeismo also the confidant of Rafael Ernesto and Victoria.”

“I’m just Sebastian on my good nights.”

“And on the bad nights?”

“Vasyli Pveada.”

“Royal Victory? Where did you concoct this other strange and slightly atrocious moniker? Moniker, is that the right word?”

He nods slightly.

“I’m Sebastian when the drinks flow and the desire to dance returns to my hard hips. All other times I’m at war. With myself and my nature, with a world of sheep and a den of wolves. In such circumstances I require a hard Russian name, and the luck of a royal victory.”

“Hm. Well it sounds ridiculous the way you say it. I’ll call you Vasa sparingly. But, Sebastian is ok too. I’ll see what rolls better off tongue. All that other stuff, well I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Martina the bartender comes over and gives Dasha a wink.

“This is sorry alright. Now I again reserve the right to be rude to you and forget about it later. Fair game yes?”

He looks deep into her blue eyes and gives a half smile wondering how much she really remembers. In her eyes he sees someone looking out at him below the swagger of her posture, behind her beauty is a much older beauty.

“Well aren’t you impressed with my new manners?” she asks

I find you quite a bit stunning, he thinks and almost says.

“Of course I am.”

“What are you drinking?” she asks.

“Astika[15].”

And she thinks, terrible piss but of course she orders him one from Martina the raven black haired Bulgarian bartender. Because Russian apologies are based on acts not words.

“Are you coming to festival?” she asks then almost casually.

There will be a four day Bohemian Festival happening Labor Day Weekend where all manner of fuckery will take place in a park in Queens called the Onderdonk Public Fields. Sasho the owner had let Victoria allow Sebastian do a benefit concert for their Ayiti efforts at Mehanta a month ago. So a week from now Sebastian and his EMT, Paramedic in training comrade Jared Forgetter from California will be freelance EMTs covering the first two days of festival.

“Wait,” she pauses.

“You are working the festival as our paramedic,” she says as she presses her palm to his side burn and face side.

“Sharp as a dagger you are dorogaia,” he smirks.

She smiles with big bright eyes.

“Don’t call me dear ever again, I’m not so old. I’ll alert you that I may well come to some of it and if I fall down, drunk, I will ask for very intimate and professional service.”

“Hand pressed ice,” he promises reaching for her waist then thinking again.

“Hand pressed everything,” she demands.

“It’s at the service of all attending,” he declares.

“You are a true servant of the people,” she mocks with a wink.

“Dasha, you’re a tough act to follow.”

“You’re gonna keep calling me that are you?”

“That a problem?”

“It’s rather intimate, I don’t know if we know each other like this or that.”

“Well I suppose we can work on that over festival.”

She smiles a lovely, practiced smile.

“Vasa. Press me best you can. The risk is completely yours not mine.”

A song about the great and noble Commandant Ernesto Che Guevara[16] by the Buena Vista Social Club comes on and she thrusts herself into his arms for a last dance.

“I knew you back in Cuba,” she whispers.

“I’ve never been to Cuba,” he replies.

She sashays him across the dance floor muscling out the other couples with her buxom. She lets him lead and he does a fairly good job.

“You dance like you’re from the Caribbean,” she says.

“But I’ve never been to Cuba,” he repeats.

He dips her slightly. A full dip might turn into quite un-romantic arms to floor plummet.

She’s a gorgeous powerful woman who will always get what she wants in the end so it seems. Except perhaps happiness which no power or money can so far buy.

“You’re good at being an Amerikanski,” she replies.

It is 4 am now and efforts begin to clear the worst kind of rabble out the tavern have begun. Only card carrying regulars and lovers of staff can remain and light things up or pound things down. It’s now with the storm shudders sealed just over two dozen left lingering around the bar.

“Right never on schedule,” says Justin Toomey O’Azzello to Sasho, the burly owner smoking a cigar at the end of the ground floor bar passage way, packed up with intoxicated patrons, tight except around his circumference.

“Hasn’t changed his cap much in ten years,” Justin notes.

“I know him of course,” Sasho says without looking up, “with or without the ridiculous peasant cap.”

“He’s dancing with Dasha, good for him! She’s got great big ones.”

“He’s always dancing with Dasha.”

“You’re thinking of…” notes Justin.

“No Azello. I’m thinking exactly what I mean to be thinking. He’s always dancing with Dasha right before thing get interesting.”

“They just met boss.”

“You’re thinking of things three dimensionally and I am thinking of things fifth dimensionally and I know that when those two dance. Fucking trouble. Niggers with arms in the streets. Israeli mind games. Decapitations on camera and lynchings to boot. Lynchings and burnings of bodies.  It’s time to call up all our troops, every single man to the front.”

The lights come on and the remaining guests not vouched for are herded like drunk cats out the secondary exit on to Ludlow street until no one is left inside but the staff, a handful of regulars and of course Sasho with his cigar.

Out of the corner of his eye Sasho notices the Mexican weight staff are carrying the body of a man out of the tiny room upstairs where people go to fuck whores, or their drunk lady girlfriends, or NYU students, or he supposed less frequently, but evidently in case tonight; kill a man, drain his blood and empty his pockets. A little room to the very back of the second floor mezzanine. You can fuck or murder at the top of your lungs and no one would know.

Of the three little Mexicans none are taller than four feet a piece and they must carry drag the body down the stairs.

The corpse is pale from exsanguination.

“Into the soup?” asks Enrique from Monterrey in Mexican Spanish.

And Sasho nods. Let the dead keep eating the dead, like they do in the Bronx.

 

 

 

Scene 6

The Hygeia Hotel, 2011ce

Block Island

 

 

 

The boat ride to shore through sloshing blue black waters carrying their clandestine squad of four had gone off much more seamlessly copasetic than McIntosh had feared, who being West Indian did not know how to swim.

So after the most confining submarine ride which had to round the Cape Horn and run both tropics twice to reach its drop off point undetected by the military intelligence of the U.S.A. a short boat ride thorough rocky waters brought Yulia, Adelina, Oleg and McIntosh to safe house on Block Island; via a small flashing green Beacon a woman named Tanya T-Bird Tallflame Luv guided them to shore, and quickly shuttled them in her jeep to the island’s underground railroad station at the Hygeia Hotel; where now they were most vulnerable for they were under the protection of a coven or witches, or shaman sorcerers it should be said, witches begin derogatory.

This coven could trace its origins back to the genocide in Salem when aligning with Fenian pirates, bootleggers and Mohegan Indian they had fallen back to New Shoreham to take control of the island.

Tanya T-Bird Tallflame Luv looked like she was in her late forties long dread locks rapped up above her head in a taam, but by night she transformed somehow and looked half that age. Oleg when he awoke and came to find breakfast in the three floor yellow and red hotel that he barely recognized her. All the sorcery alarmed him and he wondered what drugs had been injected into by the sneaky Ivorites, or fed to them enroot so he could be so susceptible to manipulation of the senses. Oleg had lived for some time in the Israeli city of Nazareth and served two years in its military police force before immigrating to America to not think the Israelis were one of the sneakiest, most manipulative peoples alive.

Oleg Medved feels the same way about Judaism as he does about witchcraft, but many a little more sentimental about Judaism because witchcraft doesn’t have any warm welcoming family holidays that he is aware of. Nor did the witches, shaman sorcerers rather help him obtain the blue American passport that makes him the only legal member of this little unit.

“So, you want a Bajan truffle scone,” asks assertively Tanya T-Bird Tallflame Luv.

“Why thank you,” he replies and pops the crunchy beige cake in his mouth.

“The orders are in to separate your cell immediately. You and Ms. Yulia Romanova will leave for New York this morning from the mainland by car. The candidate shaman Adelina Blazhennaya will take her partner up to Boston and get your safe houses established.

“Don’t you think we need more time before we make contact,” he asks.

“No. The enemy made contact two weeks ago. We’re behind schedule as usual.”

“One ought not to be fashionably late to a revolution,” Oleg notes.

And Tanya T-Bird Tall flame Luv agrees. Even if he does not believe in the magic, it is clear to her that Solomon selected a very good team to activate the network, get this revolution back online from here to New York and then via underground rail road out to Oakland, California.

“Where are your truest loyalties Mr. Medved,” Tanya Luv asks him suddenly before he heads up to his room to get his gear in order. She wonder can she just call him Alan?

“To the art I make and the money I’m paid and women that love me for both when I am so fortunate.”

“Fair enough, like all men,” she replies. A typical Israelite spy answer.

Yulia pops her slinky brundinite head into the dining room and says in Russian, “You have call from Moscow, they are saying we must be in New York by tomorrow’s nightfall.”

“The blue moon has a power that will dash the best of plots and largest of armies into lunatic disarray. You should thus make haste,” Tanya T-Bird Tallflame Luv says, “and please remember that for whomever you work for or actually report up chain of command to; you’re in the American Arm of the resistance now; we budget for bribing and drinking, but not for whoring and gambling.”

Oleg the Bear grins, “We are internationalists, and this is still a supposedly free country.”

“What the blatnoy is a blue moon,” Yulia asks in Russian.

“You’ll know when you see its effects,” says Tanya T-Bird Tallflame Luv the Pagan shamanic sorcerous in Amharic.

“We don’t speak your dessert wasteland gibberish,” Yulia declares, “Only English, French and Russian!”

But, Oleg inferred what she meant and decided that he was quite uncomfortable with the American resistance’s widespread use of magic. One could not bribe magic or placate it with whores, or get magic too drunk.

 

Most unnerving work conditions to be sure. Unlimited operations can get so fucking hectic, and fast. A real big steal and a zero sum game at this point.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 7

Block Island, New Shoreham 2011ce

The Hygeia Hotel

 

After Yulia Romanova, this was not her last name just the name of any of the women that belonged to the Bratva of Yuri Romanoff; and Oleg Medved boarded the Port Judith Ferry wearing flicker masks and made their way thirteen miles west to the mainland to retrieve the black jeep wrangler waiting for them on the mainland under the name, “Atticus Crispy”; well then Tanya turned on the good weather with satellites and magic.

For the weather was indeed a thing that some factions controlled.

‘Most peculiar’ thought McIntosh now clad in a black suit cut exactly to his figure. When they arrived there had been storm and fog, rain and midnight, it was freezing cold all night as they landed on the beach in the hermitically sealed baby schooner. He had wondered how it could be so cold in this North Eastern August. But, as soon as ‘the Russians’ departed it was a beautiful August late afternoon on a Thursday. Adelina Anatolievna, the spry and beautiful pixy was a sorcerer like him, a sorcerous like Madame Tanya T-Bird Tallflame Luv; so her Russian ness was only superficial; for all people of real magic; “Majik” knew themselves to be Gods and Spirits living in host horse forms called human; vessels for the divine multitude.

“Do you have a first name Mr. McIntosh,” Ms. Adelina asks as they sit and watch the late afternoon beauty of this green and rocky place from the back porch of the hotel Hygeia.

“It’s David; David Darious Kudzai Chikwamba Dorset. McIntosh is just the super stupid code name they gave me back in Port-Au-Spain because I retain data like a computer.”

“What should I call you then,” Adelina smiles politely.

“You can call me Kudzai in private or Alexei because it says Alexei on this intricately forged passport here,” he beams at her.

Alex is a very, very common Russian name.

“What should I call you when nobody else is listen,” she whispers.

“You should call me Kudzai.”

She puts out her slender and delicate hand for the shaking and he takes it in his large and powerful dark hand that is becoming lighter as he begins his transmogrification into a light skinned, blond haired blue eyed Russian man.”

“Do you feel uncomfortable playing a Russian businessman?”

“Less uncomfortable than with the boys in blue patting down my long and my vulnerable every single time you and I go out in public.”

“You know I was thinking I’d make myself black just to make a little controversy but low profile is now we need to work. I’m sorry you have to hide yourself. You are a very attractive man as you are undisguised.”

“Don’t make me blush until my complexion better allows it,” smiled Kudzai, code name McIntosh.

“Alexei, Russians don’t ever blush. You’ll give your mask away.”

“I will call you Lady Adelina if that is all right,” Darious replies.

“Or Adi B, is fine too,” she says. What’s in a nom de guerre?

Tanya T-Bird Tallflame Luv looking younger and more vibrant as the day recedes comes out with pitcher of lemonade, some more Scarborough Scones and a leather bound ancient looking manuscript with red stones embedded in its cover.

“Do you have word in the Caribbean called Loup Garrou?” asks Tanya T-Bird Tallflame Luv pouring Lemonade so chilled it reminds Adelina of the vodka served at the Trinidadian Special Forces “School of Alcoholism” where operatives train to accomplish tasks like driving, dancing, sword fighting, doing yoga, or flying planes completely under the influence, yet as if sober. The lemonade looks mighty cold.

“Are you referring to the werewolf sorcerous who steal young babies and ruins marriages in the dead of night? Those we call the Je-Rouge, or red eyes.”

“Perhaps it is the same. A particular breed of super natural creature; like a werewolf, a vampire and temptress are in one.”

“Particular to the Island of Ayiti there is a spirit called Je-Rouge Loup Garrou which can take possession of person, normally a woman and turn them into a cannibal lupine creature. They keep mother awake all night to trick them into giving away their children and they keep men awake all night with shall we say succubus like luring, disorientate both; steal children and infect the very soul of the men with their dark and primal character.”

His skin moved still a few shades paler and his build diminished substantially though his musculature remained.

“Why do you ask,” Lady Adelina.

“What know you both of Sebastian Adon and his Z.O.B.?”

“The ‘B’ stands for Banshee does it not?” says Kudzai Darious (called McIntosh) in front of Ms. Luv.

“No. That is a deception. The B doesn’t stand for anything nor do the other letters,” says Adelina shooting from her hip.

“You are most right. None of the letters stand for anything. They are a ghost shirt organization[17],” Starr explains.

“I’m not familiar with this Majik,” ‘McIntosh’ says sipping the ice cold lemonade.

“They are twelve old souls that jump from body to body at will. They project incredible power, Baraka is the word on those around them. They can leave their bodies at will and be in other places, other realities, other lives. They are six woman and six men, though some are hidden. The leadership on paper is not the leadership in practice. The term ‘Ghost Shirt’ refers to the American Indian practice of painting the crest of the soul on their under armor before battling the invading white colonizers. They therefore by moving so fast in space and time deny their enemies any real conception of their hidden numbers and power.”

“This is most interesting, unknown to me that Comrade Adon had such power,” says Adelina Anatolievna Blazhennaya.

“Only a speculation on my part and this coven, and I know his birth mother well, so my speculations about his auspicious condition are not based on pure speculation.”

McIntosh hides in him what he knows as Kudzai Darious Dorset as he transfigures more into Alexei Thermadorov; acquiring the memories of new food groups, mostly bland, new letters, mostly strange, new ways of making love; mostly savage, and new skills like dog fighting and the selling of medical equipment on the black market.

Kudzai Chikwamba is a Shona warrior from Zimbabwe, stranded in Trinidad during the War of Lesser Antilles Succession in the mid 1990’s. He had been send by President for Life Robert Mugabe as part of an expeditionary force supporting the Garveyite faction of the 1994 Civil War in Trinidad against the Western backed Indo-Guyanese nationalist faction. Cut off after the ceasefire due to the American naval blockade he was naturalized in Trinidad, became a bio-chemist and as eventually recruited in the elite Trinidadian Special Forces.

“What is his mother like,” Adelina asks.

“His mother is wise and kind and raised him as well as she could given all the circumstances of the curses upon their house.”

“Curses?”

“Well his father was full blood Chosen so that would have been enough to mark them all, but this is America so being a descendant of Ivorites or Ivories, is not enough to be marked. No it was a deal his father made with a devil during the third War in Indo-China. And his membership among the horrid Bohemians that invited the cursing.”

“Enough for now,” interjects McIntosh looking ever more like a young Russian businessman, “speak of this Blue Moon, of the trigger it might play in this Labor Day Weekends events, tell us why you ask of Loup Garrou.”

“Well first the blue moon; you are both people of ancient knowledge; she a candidate and you a Shona Ougan. The blue moon itself implies a lunar cycle where in there is second full moon within a calendar month. One Lunation, the average lunar cycle is 29.53 days, there being about 365.25 days in the solar year there are therefore normally 12.37 lunation. Every 2 to 3 years in the 19 year Metonic cycle there will occur a 13^th moon. This occurrence, which will occur again tomorrow night is referred to as the blue moon.”

“As in, once in blue moon the Trinidadian Special Forces sends a raiding party to establish the readiness of the American resistance,” exclaims Adelina with delight.

“Yes, it’s been nineteen years,” replies Tanya T-Bird Tallflame Luv.

“The suggestion has been made that the term “blue moon” for “intercalary month” arose by folk etymology, the “blue” replacing the no-longer-understood belewe, ‘to betray’. The original meaning would then have been “betrayer moon”, referring to a full moon that would “normally” (in non-intercalating years) be the full moon of spring, while in intercalating year, it was “traitorous” in the sense that people would have had to continue fasting for another month in accordance with the season of Lent[18],” notes McIntosh quoting from his Wikipedia update almost verbatim.

“Very right,” says Ms. Tanya T-Bird Tallflame Luv looking herself younger by the hour as late afternoon stretches on. The weather is flawless.

“Interesting cycle of events, and the last of the cycle falling on September 1^st, 2012, the last possible moment before the B’ak’tun Long Count Calendar ends on 21 December,” Adelina concludes while trying to deduce via syncretism the overlap of old and new world Majik.

“The completion of 13 B’ak’tuns since August 11, 3114 BCE; which marks the Creation of the world of human beings according to the Maya. On this day, Raised-up-Sky-Lord caused three stones to be set by associated gods at Lying-Down-Sky, First-Three-Stone-Place. Because the sky still lay on the primordial sea, it was black. The setting of the three stones centered the cosmos which allowed the sky to be raised, revealing the sun,” quotes Tanya T-Bird Tallflame Luv from her red stone crusted book which has an electronic reading device inside it.

“Well what does that mean for our chances of success,” wonders McIntosh aloud who now fully every bit like a Slavic business man looks.

“Well there are two dates for the uprising are there not,” states Tanya Luv, ‘the political date and the spiritual date. The date of ‘the great disorder’ and the date of ‘the great revolt’ and the oligarchy knows neither.”

“I will tell you both well, coming from the political camp of things that the date of the uprising is certainly not set to a date of historical-spiritual-magnetic-geo-syncretic origin, but what do I know I am low in the chain of command” says Darious Dorset who now speaks in Russian as “Alexei Thermadorov”.

“I don’t care about the stupid politics of it all,” exclaims Adelina, “I want to know why you were asking us about the Loup Garrou!”

Tanya T-Bird Tallflame Luv turns to her, “Such passion!”

“You mistake inquisition for passion, I am quite numb,” she retorts.

“We shall see what you see in his head,” Tanya T-Bird Tallflame Luv replies.

“His head will be like the head of all men,” Adelina replies, “Self-absorbed, self-loathing in need of woman to pacify it. I was not chosen because I was just the best of the best of the candidates not committed. I was chosen because my Kaaba score ranks my empathic ability high and my sentimentality non-existent.”

“Hmm,” smiles Tanya, “we shall see.”

“Tell us now of the Loup Garrou, so we know what you are telling us in full.”

“Enhanced by the powers of the blue moon one will strike at Adon. It will be subtle, it will be nefarious. It will last. It will close him off to you completely except in dreams. If your associates Ms. Yulia and Mr. Oleg get out alive know you will have no ability to affect the outcome in New York the very minute she bites him. If she hasn’t bitten him already. I see blood and poison in the tea leaves. I see madness, treachery and betrayal. I see what nineteen years of planning non-violently will do, done away with a single bite. She bit him two weeks ago. Oleg will confirm the worst,” says Tanya T-Bird Tallflame Luv.

“Well this creature is not more powerful than I,” states Adelina Anatolievna.

“Beware the Loup Garrou, she is of old and primitive majik but she serves one who wishes this uprising to go bloody-bloody murder,” Lisa warns.

“They feed not on blood they feed on our excruciating pain and hopelessness, all pain we release is energy they drink of our body,” quotes Tanya T-Bird Tallflame Luv from the New Social Gospel, written by Emma Solomon and dictated to a teenage Sebastian Adon in 2001, before she was crucified and he was wiped clean and dumped on a beach in Strong Island never to see the promised land again.

“Perchevney,” says “Alexie Thermadorov” of the old devil himself.

“Part of the curse on the house of Adon was that for twelve years the eldest son Sebastian would spent the Sabbath in the House of Perchevney, that Tavern in the Wilderness called Mehanta. You must both stay out of New York and out of Brooklyn especially but above all things do not go in that Tavern or all is lost.

“Sounds like a damn good time,” says newly metamorphasized Alex in newly grocked Russian.

“My message to you both is simple, what little Emma Solomon didn’t brief you on I was to share. You are being given a special and enormous task. Anyone can make a little revolution. Tearing things down can be done with a herd of monkeys in any part of the world. Building things up requires open minds and the job of you four resurrectiors is to awaken the sleeping dead. Be bold, have no fear the Old Spirits[19], the New Spirits, the Old Gods and Goddesses, the New Oneness, the candidates, the sorcerers, and armies of Emma Solomon the Gold Lioness are behind you. You will both suffer much, but you will win; it is written and it will be made real. This slave uprising has been fought for 4,000 years since the first coming of the prophets. The scales will tip mark my words. Go city to city in this country from Boston out and seek out the ones this little Otriad, this group of 12 called the Z.O.B. find the ones they’ve touched and readied. Give them the vast freedom dreams, open in them the true knowledge. And when the hidden uprising does unleash itself see that we evolve, not devolve this people. The rest of the world has fought for the last two hundred years to liberate mere pockets. This uprising in the land of the eagle will fulfill the Baha’i Prophesy and then down will fall the Bear and the Dragon, good luck my magical co-conspirators,” says Tanya T-Bird Tallflame Luv with a jovial smile.

“What dream constructs are you using to tempter the hate and win the passion of Sebastian Vasyli Adon,” Tanya T-Bird Tallflame Luv asks.

“Prague Sunsets and Burma Nights,” replies Adelina Anatolievna Blazhennaya.

“And some Trinidad and Tobago,” to take his lusty edge off says David Kudzai Darious Chikwamba Dorset, code name McIntosh agent of the Trinidadian Special Forces, now hidden below the skin of Alexei Thermadorov, waiting.

Sunset falls for some odd reason in the East on lovely, rock green New Shoreham with its prohibition era hotels, its farm of exotic animals, its pirates, it’s boat people, its witches, it’s descendants of Mohican Indians and Fenian bondsmen. Sitting on the porch above one of earth’s many tertiary chakra points; Tanya T-Bird Tallflame Luv read beat poetry, Darious accustoms himself with yoga to his new fleshy pale armor; and Adelina Anatolievna breathes in the universe, and readies herself for the greatest act of passion and battle she will ever know.

And the moon in the distance readies vast and often misunderstood powers for the re-writing or shall we say perhaps the universe auto-correcting human destiny itself. The Thursday evening into Friday morning that Oleg and Yulia spent in a gritty off road motel 6 between Galilee Rhode Island and New York. That night she spent three hours nervously improving on her make-up, while Oleg took a few glamor pictures to calm her down; that night. That night where in all the nervousness of initial deployment she thought he’d really tear her apart, he was mostly a big gentleman.

Don’t ever fuck the mark or the modals, Oleg had learned early.

Their papers got them through all the weakest check points moving south bound on I95 and by late afternoon they were posted at the Green Point, Brooklyn safe house in a ginger bread brightly checkered apartment; that of Raphael Ernesto Contreras and his wife Victoria Lynch.

You have to about this life, thinks Oleg the Bear.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Scene 7

Lower East Side, 2011ce

Manhattan

 

 

For the nine million rats in their races, this city never fucking sleeps. Its go-go-go, zoom-zoom rush, slaves and serfs to the trains for service, getting in early and leaving late, the master sin yellow cabs and black sports utility cars, the city is high tower high octane multi-diverse plus racial death trap.

I need another drink, thinks Trickovitch, he thinks it regularly. And as of lately resorts to smoked Ayitian Rum on the rocks. For their troubles were really just getting started. Well that same night Nicholai Trickovitch put together a little team to, “do a messy little big job.”

There were big jobs and little jobs. Jobs where social engineering was need, others where brute force was the best approach.

This required both. Now, outside New York the Resistance eclectic as it truly was relied heavily on “black, white and grey magic,” as Nicholai was fond of saying, “In New York we do things the old fashioned way. By having a real tight crew.”

In the dead of night around a table on the fourth floor of 113 Ludlow Street, that is to say the restaurant immediately above the Mehanata Tavern a little talk is underway; a briefing.

There are thirteen leaders of the Z.O.B. Two are hidden, two are sleeping, that means at any given period nine are charge of all the cells in the division; Greater New York City.

The table is wooden and plates of Pan-Asian fusion tapas have all been cleared.

“Let me tell you how this is gonna go down,” says Nikh to his fellow partisans the tall, well-polished Jamaican Gangster Mickhi Dbrisk; who is wearing a black suit and tie. Also Mara Fitzduff Donahue; the half pint Fenian dirty blonde famous for firebrand speeches on ‘the Fire Switch Radio’ and also present was Raphael Ernesto Lynch Contras; the Peruvian disk jockey, photographer and one time leader of a guerrilla band in Arequipa Province. The fifth member of this add-hock unit was Siegfried Sassoon; a bar tender and minor actor. A dashing swaggerous man of Cuban descent. And the sixth man in this late night call up was the light skinned Ayitian Ken Francois, or ‘Ken the French’.

In the confusing and albeit vaguely disjointed chain of command Mara, Mickhi and Nikholai were are all title holding inner leadership while Siegfried Sassoon, Ken French and Raphael were called “volunteers”; though technically Ken the French was a “provisional member”, made but not sworn in. Not written in the books.

“The Labor Day weekend begins tomorrow and we all know what’s coming. The West Indian Day Parade isn’t heading south at the Grand Army Plaza; oh no; they’re gonna head north right over the bridges into the City.”

They were all aware of the score. This was being coordinated by the Pan-Africanists, the Garveyites, Black Lives Matter Movement, the liberal and radical trade unions, the IWW of course, the Muslims, the Occupiers, the Malcolm X Grassroots Movement and of course; Uhuru.

“Hectic shit,” mutters Raphael.

“Our role then is quite basic,” explains Nikholai Trikhovitch, who knew indeed that the General Rising was close in coming, but not four days away.

“We all know what was revealed about the h1n1 and Ebola[20]. The documentation has been widely circulated and now the community is ready. Enough outrages have occurred to spark riots. Stop and Frisk, weekly shootings, the Iran war conscription, and the drones of course. This time almost everyone expects street warfare,” Nikholai explained.

“The Z.O.B. has called up eighty-eight street medics and agitation propaganda officers to support this parade & convoy of marauders. They will be attached to each major island band truck. Flying columns are all on standby in all five boroughs; an additional three hundred and forty three women and men.  As usual the Ayitian Convoy will bring up the rear. Unknown to the parade organizers and hopefully the police intelligence forces; there are actually two Ayitian bands this year of 10,000 marchers a piece. One ¾ up the route which will initiate the charge across the plaza and up Flatbush. And this is when the hectic bloody melee will begin.

“What’s our precise role tonight,” asks Siegfried Sassoon. Siggy, who god or his parents made tall dark and handsome never goes to many meetings, he never votes in otriad elections except for Sebastian. He did however vote for putting Sebastian to sleep after the last Ayiti job. He’s a serious knock around guy. Only does jobs. Never ever meetings, rarely even the candle light salons.

“We’re gonna install Fire Station Transmitters on four very, very tall structures,” says Mara Fitzduff. She has been the club’s chief communications officer for the past ten years.

“And then tomorrow we’re gonna blow up the NSA server depot inside the Consolidated Edison building, putting most of Manhattan in the dark” says Mickhi Dbrisk, who has been the club’s Operation’s Chief since nearly the very beginning.

Nikholai holds the official title of Logistics Chief, but he’s more hands on than many before or after him, as logistic fixer should be.

“The transmitters will override the police radio system and turn whatever frequencies we feel like into dancehall radio stations. We need them hidden and we need them high,” explains Mara.

“We’ve gotten the four spots picked out well enough. Each transmitter is about the size of a football. There are blasters and flicker masks in the bags at the downstairs coat check, but those are for getting out of the buildings. Soon as this meeting is done you’re all getting in the town cars outside and getting dropped near all three targets, one man one location. In the bags with the guns and masks are the addresses and names of three sympathizers. You’re going to get dropped at some of the tallest buildings on the island; masks go on to obscure your faces, sympathizers have you over for a drink. Don’t really drink. Then they will give you a parachute and send you up to their roofs. You will see on your smart phone a beacon; follow the beacon to the lower roof via a base jump. The beacon will guide you to where we want the transmitter hidden. Install it. And exit the building without being caught or your parachute found,” says Mara.

“Ken Francois, you’re assigned to south Manhattan, Siegfried Sassoon you’re in Midtown, Mr. Raphael you’ll be setting up the Long Island City installation which is quite tricky because there’s nothing higher in Queens so you’ll have to social engineer it, while Nicholai and Dbrisk will go after the Hightower on Atlantic Junction also with the same predicament. But you’re all Pararescuemen and Parapsychologists so I’m sure this will all just be fun. Once you get to the safe houses you’re staying at feel free to relax and take a nap. This doesn’t have to happen at once or tonight, it just has to happen before we blow up the server depot on Sunday night. So enjoy. Some of these sympathizers are very attractive. I’m not saying any of you would take a whole a day to ravish the high end escorts at the brothels you’ll be staying at; certainly not as either husbands, fathers, or Ayitian gentlemen; but well it’s an option. Can’t have you stressed,” grinned Mara Fitzduff knowing full well Raphael was married albeit a consummate adulterer; that Mickhi Dbrisk for all intents and purposes has three wives; that Ken Kin is married to the daughter of a powerful Russian oligarch; and that Nicholai is an incorrigible womanizer and that Ken Francois is a very loyal family man.

“We’re working out of the apartment brothels again?” asks Raphael, hope in his voice for he so loves Manhattan apartment brothels.

“We needed these devices set up high,” says Mara, “Three of you are working out of brothels. Two of you out of homes. Assignments are random you’re five of the best jumpers we have. And remember the database has be blown up before the disorder on Monday. Even Uhuru doesn’t expect this action to result in a general uprising. But if we knock out their communications and we neutralize a mega data store where they will start for the round ups and reprisals then we’re keeping to our end of the mutual aid agreement with Uhuru; without blowing our arsenal and fighters prematurely,” she says.

“Am I based in a brothel or a house of the seniorly,” asks Raphael.

Mickhi Dbrisk chuckles at this plump washed in and out philanderer. But man, can the boy jump! Nobody has as many jumps as Rafflex, his nom de guerre.

“Four transmitters. Then we blow the Consolidated Edison NSA depot on Sunday night and EMP the district financial at noon thirty Monday with the anarchists. Monday; all of you are in the trenches and I’m running dispatch with Anya out of a most secure location. Things are going to pop the hell off prematurely. We’ll do the best we can to keep up with impossible expectations.”

 

Things were about to go bang in the night.

 

 

 

 

SCENE 8

140 Nassau Street, 2011ce

Financial District

 

 

Sebastian Adon was always reading some book, though he never seemed to finish any. He was always partly into a few.

A Russian lover always was being asked for a literary playlist. It was almost his way of saying it’s not a fetish, it’s a profound respect for your civilization. Most of them end with the death of the female protagonist and the imprisonment in a mental asylum of the male. Not to project a spoiler alert.

But he did have a favorite book, he used it to teach the dark truths of the uprising; one that there were no reinforcements and two, that the enemy was Oligarchical Collectivism, not an ideology or specific national imperial grouping, or really even a whole class, sucgh as the bourgeoisie of the Global North West.

The title of the one in his hand now which was 1984, the year his documents had told to him that he was born.  Seated on the rooftop he could be seen from any number of vantage points or sniper postings. The roof of 140 Nassau street was adjacent from the Woolworth building with is copper green spires and the five story City Hall; as well as just three blocks from Police Plaza One; and below it the holding cells for all of the cities concentrated perpetrators. While no book in the Unites States of America was a “banned book”, 1984 was certainly a “flagged book” because the Department of Homeland Security viewed it as a “gateway book” to subversive thinking. By late August of 2012 it was not so much that the American public didn’t know how to read; simply that they chose not to for the most part. It was quite unusual for families to ever turn off their televisions; “telescreens” as described in the book. And while these devices were not two way transmitters; there was virtually no corner of Manhattan not under surveillance by a networked feed of public and private CCTV. Some varying effective efforts in Breuklyn, Queens and the Bronx has rolled some of that back; but Manhattan was fully watched.

 

Especially since September 11^th, 2001 when the towers came down and the security state rolled out into the open, like it had always been there watching and collecting everything.

 

In 1984 there are three world powers described; Oceania (the United States and England), Eurasia (Russian and the EU), and East Asia (China, India, Japan) and they square off in endless resource wars in the rest of the world. Although each power block claims to have competing ideological differences; such as Chinese Communism, Euro-Socialism, or Capitalism; each simply utilizes the ideological coloring to distract their respective populations from the real system of control.

A book within a book; in 1984 the heroes discover something called ‘the Brotherhood’ which is distributing ‘the Goldstein Book’ which explains the way the world is; a system called Oligarical-Collectivism; an international corporate oligarchy devoid of ideology which utilizes endless warfare as a means to dispose of productive labor and surplus value. The wars supposedly fought for control of resources in the Middle East, Latin America and Africa are actually utilized to keep the population terrified, patriotic and get rid of wealth that might otherwise trickle down and create valid middle classes.

Class consciousness is parlayed into base hate and war mongering and fear. The book which describes a young couples efforts to join this clandestine network; the Brotherhood end with their capture, torture, and betrayal of each other.

Typically read in American colleges Political Science classes; George Orwell’s tome against authoritarianism of all kinds, alongside his more pedantic novel Animal Farm are used as part of the American Oligarchies perpetual indictment of Socialism in general and Russian Socialism in particular. Although the book is set in England, Oceania is clearly America; and George Orwell was himself a Socialist, shot in the face while fighting in the Spanish Civil War.

Sebastian owns many copies of this book, and the book within the book printed in tiny hard to read red text, like a test. He likes giving it to lovers and friends on their birthdays. While he is unconvinced many have ever read it cover to cover; it is better reading and more radicalizing than say, the Communist Manifesto by Karl Marx, Days of War, Nights of Love or Howard Zinn’s People’s History of the United States of America or World System Analysis. Which are all very good books, but you have to be open or free minded to absorb them.

The book was waking Sebastian up though the others didn’t realize it.

This was perhaps the critical realization of the Z.O.B. underground. That to fight the mental slavery imposed on the American working class; a sophisticated range of media and parapsychology would have to be utilized to free minds. The release of Matrix, Fight Club, Hunger Games and a whole industry of black market films designed to erode this mass socialization had been deployed throughout the decade. Thinly veiled metaphors and overt subversive media made it through the censors; but it was in the bathhouses that the underground used to deprogram.

Bathhouses were of course Russian mob money laundering facilities and black market steering sites with the right references toward, well anything you could afford. And though the kinds had been worked out slowly; the movement soon learned to deprogram efficiently; using the bathhouses as “wake fields”. It was long known that the American Oligarchy was using Nano-bots in the water supply, social programming via television; as well as spraying from planes a chemical that encouraged tiredness and obesity. It was fully known that between alcohol, sports, TV, feature films, and schools the public was put to sleep; believing the American Middle class was quite large. While in fact the distribution of wealth was quite comparable to anywhere else.

They had utilized the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan to squander the decade’s surplus and manufactured a financial crisis in 2007 to further consolidate their economic gains. Now 1% of Americans controlled 47% of American wealth. And 85 people on earth were worth as much as the bottom 3.5 billion. And the planet was dying to boot. Getting warmer by the year.

Sebastian Adon was reading his favorite book on the roof, where two weeks ago he dreamed he had fallen seventeen stories with a young woman named Dasha Andreavna. But everything was a dream now. He had been put sleep by the resistance after completion of his last job; a messy raid in Syria. What that meant was that he was now thinking three dimensionally. That he couldn’t see the parallel worlds; couldn’t see all the possibilities. Didn’t see his past and future lives.  Didn’t know that he had spent the last twelve years as staff sergeant in a vast international underground, a member of the Revisionist Zionist movement.

The sun was out, it was completely beautiful. From the roof he can look up in the bourgeoisie fish tank called the Gerry Building shooting 104 stories up blue glass. He doesn’t remember anything about a wife and child. Doesn’t remember Kibbutz Ain Dor. Or Kibbutz Sde Bokr. He doesn’t remember his Pararescueman training in Cuba, Ayiti, or Syria either. Science is a hell of a drug.

And doesn’t remember at all when he stood on this roof eleven years ago, wearing a flicker mask to hide his face and with a shoulder to air missile launcher to put a flaming hole in the World Trade Center.

He wakes up on the same roof. A burning sense of shame, of failure or is it the booze. Is it the late nights, the rigors of studying something he might have learned before in another life.

What year is this is the first thing he wonders. His gut says 2011, but that means he’s in the future. Doesn’t it?

How many jobs has it been, and where’s Dasha? Is everyone ok? Did everyone make it out the tunnel? Did everyone make it out of the ghetto? Who has my back? Is my back got?

“They gonna kill us all, them brutal pigs,” who’s voice was that the inner he asks himself, yours, or Huey P Newtons[21].”

His mobilblat goes off. It’s a Telegram 2.0 text from Tanya. It’s a YouTube video, of the Soca artist Ricardo Veshanti, followed by a selfie of Tanya. Which is a signal for notification that the Trinidadian Special Forces have landed in the states.

 

 

 

 

Scene 9

East Bushwalk District, Bohemian Encampment,

 August, 30^th 2011ce

Borough of Brooklyn

 

 

Friday morning of the Labor Day Weekend. The sun is shining and thus the August humidity is oppressive, but the Flushing highway leads deep into the greener pastures of Queens. A heat wave of unprecedented proportions has been ravishing the city for the entire week. The globe is warm, there are many deniers though flying in the face of science.

It is warming up further.

The New York Times, the local paper of the liberal elites says wild fires in Moscow and its environs are blazing completely out of control. As if allowed to burn.

Five to perhaps six dozen tents of assorted makes and models have been erected at the top of green hill whose perimeter is a steel fence; its base a small Dutch historic home and the rest a camp ground in the badlands of Industrial Bushwalk. A big band stage is almost finished in erection to blare live Gypsy Latin music is being set up and sound tested. A four day proclamation of lawlessness has been posted, but only the social club staff and its regulars will truly be encamping. At forty dollars a day, it’s a rather pricey venture to go camping in a field in the heart of a barren industrial wasteland between Brooklyn and Queens know for salvage yards, construction material stock piling, biker gangs, and various front operations.

A railroad to somewhere and poisonous green river called the Dutch Kills Creek separating Brooklyn and Queens officially.

Slavi, stone faced with black hair until he cracks a jovial grin only to those he knows is Sasho’s brother. The sometimes grinning Bulgarian enforcer is at the gate nominally charging people whom he doesn’t recognize as the spoken for “regulars”. Justin O’Azzello, “the General Manager” is cooking up “kielbasa” and barking grinning efficient commands on set up.

“What are the kielbasa made of,” asks Michelle Christina, who has booked all the bands and done much of the production work to make this Bohemian Festival occur.

“What are they made of pendaho,” repeats her husband Raphael.

“Chicken,” says Justin with his mouth, but ‘people’ with his teeth and she refrains from trying.

At various points Justin Toomey O’Azzello has come and gone as Mehanata’s so-called “General Manager”. He’s quit, gotten fired, quit, gotten sober, quit found god, rehired, lost god, gotten very drunk, gotten very sober, and now, he seems to be conducting business well enough and is back in good graces of the management. Which means Sasho, and maybe to a lesser degree in reporting and accounting; Misha Kishbivalli, but Sasho is undisputedly the boss.

The Onderdonk Fields are now held by a colorful gypsy mafia. Sasho and his young son join a game of football game now underway.

And then around 4 in the pm; arrives the medical team; Sebastian and Jared Forgetter.

Sebastian Adon shows up proudly. With his tall street aspiring paramedic partner from Methodist Academy Class 33. Jared Forgetter is carrying a large red medical tech bag, the one Adon was allowed to keep unofficially by his friends and supporters in the quarter master’s office after the Fire Department made him resign in lieu of termination after a long and draining trial over the event that occurred two years prior in Ayiti.

The nature of those bloody ruinous events will be recounted in due course. But the big red bag, his experiences and ten thousand dollars were all he walked away with. And the cost of the years with that agency were yet to be calculated.

Jared is tall and dirty blond and lanky and looks exactly like one might draw all stereotypes of the laid back high fiving, dope smoking west coaster; is a skilled electrician and followed his college sweetheart out east.

Adon and Sebastian join Victoria Lynch and Raphael on the top of the hill by the main encampment.

Raphael and Sebastian embrace as they always do. They grin because they know what is coming in the next 72 hours.

A large and gregarious man rises to introduce himself, the slinky slender dark brown haired woman at his side does not. Also seated in the main encampment are Mary Lia Monteleone with her big French tits, Georgie Rabanca, and Dasha Andreavna Skorobogatova.

Dasha ignores his arrival most completely.

A burly Post-Soviet man with a cropped beard and fashionable dress with a camera around his neck steps up and offers his hand.

“My name is Oleg Medved, but you may also call me Alan,” the big Russian says.

“Sebastian Adon,” Adon replies, “this is my partner Jared Forgetter, medical partner for the encampment, not homosexual lover.”

Oleg grins and pours everyone drinks and Adon takes out a large bottle of Spanish red wine and uncorks it.

And he passes out wine glasses wrapped up in socks.

They all then dance and dance and drink and steal and make art and chat about the world. And the fearsome, but utterly kind hearted in disposition Ukrainian-Israeli gangster Oleg Megved “from Boston” takes a wide assortment of photos of former and Postsoviet models. Victoria has arranged a series of photo shoots and allegedly Alan, who most call ‘Oleg the Bear’ is local celebrity “up in Boston” and he takes tons of fashionable pictures. Sebastian in his blue paramilitary style EMT uniform with a red bandana arm band is soon dancing the half tango, half salsa with Dasha clad in a yellow mesh cocktail dress with blue Indian war paint under her eyes; it makes for a lovely picture.

 

“I didn’t recognize you in the uniform and your little partisan cap,” she earlier exclaimed.

 

The four day Bohemian Gypsy Festival is in Friday day one full swing by evening.

It’s a very Old Soul-Old School movement of a moment.

They’ve taken a barren camp ground in bad part of warehouse district and turned into something of a cross between the Gypsies of Patagonia and or a cold war partisan encampment.

Adon has little medical work to do so Jared at some point disappears into a tent with a young Russian girl to smoke some weed and then later they see the tent shaking gently, arithmetically. Sensuously.

And Adon begins working on sketch of Georgie and the big French tits on Mary Lia, and Georgie with a laugh mentions he found black and blue marks all over his woman’s body the night she went back to Sebastian’s home two weeks prior. The night Dasha nearly killed him.

 

“I fell down some stairs,” is all Mary Lia says. And Georgie laughs it all off because he knows Sebastian is tragic man, a good man but a tragic man. He doesn’t have it in him to have any affairs. Georgie who is CUNY Grad center professor and also a computer scientist has affairs all the time, but he is not an American, or tragic, or rarely ever sad.

However Mary Lia’s black and blue marks are from Sebastian fucking her dirty and rough, and then fucking her with love making. Just one week ago.
Georgie wonders when it will be that Dasha Skorobogatova gives him the opportunity for a good long strong affair, but Sebastian has and does have affairs all the time, including with Georgie’s girls and main mistress. No regard at all for other men’s relationships. Admittedly such a conquest seems expensive in a few regards. Georgie feels sad for Sebastian at times, buys him drinks periodically with an ugly Romanian smile. He has never understood the complexity of the man, or the complex behind his tragedy.

Recently he became aware of the possibility of the small and short affair between Sebastian and another regular mistress, the French girl named Mary Lia Lewis; he was shocked that beautiful women could find pleasure with such a sad, broken man. This is the perception Sebastian Adon paints at the social club, that he is broken and must be pitied. Only Raffael knows this to be a partial ruse.

And low and behold Dasha and Sebastian are dancing up a storm to the Latin Ska-Gypsy Jazz Band Eskarioka now playing. Followed by the Sunny Side Social club. George has never even seen the man dance more than two or three forced times. No use of hips at all!

She is the woman at the tavern that turns all the heads as per the usual lately. Even more so than that American girl Jessica who always takes off her clothes and climbs the downstairs stripper poles, even more than Amelia who after the Sebastian affair has been around a great deal less. Even more than the Moldovan twins who kiss! She arrived perhaps six months ago and now certainly has a regular card. Sebastian turned his in for some time and has just begun to reestablish it.

A regular doesn’t just show up early and stay late two of three weekend days open; they make themselves part of the tavern’s atmosphere. They have affairs, they get in fights, they make scene.

“Now I could not have seen that happening,” says George to Raphael, “he never ever dances!”

“She’s fucking that hot, prosto,” Raphael says, prosto is Russian for simple.

Sebastian Adon who is half of the medical team for a three day commitment here, but is also part of the back-up team if needed for Raphael’s planned raid on Citi Plaza Tower, the “big blue building in Queens,” has been given the green light to have a good time after three non-intensive demonstrations of his worth a competency paying for themselves. And the not giving of a shit on Sasho’s end if the house paramedics are intoxicated.

Jared Forgetter is kind to people and ‘really fucking West Coast’ as a spacy partner and is high as a kite making out with some young lady in a tent somewhere, she’s a just off the boat and he’s never had a “Russian girl” before. She’s not really Russian, she’s Moldovan, but Jared isn’t really sure what the difference is. He’s good long and uncut and after three spliffs the young girl drains him dry. His cock, not his pocket. Although she does manage to take forty bucks off him. While he was in the tent Sebastian attended to three small intermittent soccer related injuries.

Dasha is never far from the fact that Sebastian not only has steel toed boots and two left feet, but she takes him up on his hand to dance over and over.

Sebastian is so happy to be dancing again and he aims to do it well, but that is a highly subjective “well”. He swore to her on the night she almost killed them that he never dances anymore. So that night before the fall, she made him two-step as she watched and pressed her weight against his hip until he came correct.

“Your hips man! Move your goddamn hips.”

And he almost crushes her bare foot with a steel towed combat boot dip.

Ernesto is wearing a gold baseball cap and sits watching with his wife Victoria manically try and direct this shit show. Bands not showing up, nothing going to schedule everyone getting more and more furiously drunk. In yester year and future year Raphael commanded men, now he mostly makes life. With his music twice a week at the tavern as part of Bordel Dali and he also makes love with his camera twice a week and always maintains a slave job at a boutique blue jeans fashion blog.

But, a revolutionary is a revolutionary and when asked by the resistance three weeks ago to activate his cell and raid the big blue tower to deposit the transmitter for the Fire Station to broadcast orders and shut down government coms during the Labor Day Parade, he agreed.

Jumping out of planes, carrying out raids and building non-lethal bombs is like riding a bike, you never forget how to do it.

“I like to see him pretending to be happy,” says Raphael to Victoria.

“They are another tricky thing now moving too fast,” states Victoria as she watches out the corner of her eye. Victoria is very happy with herself for it was she who made this four day festival come together. And it is mostly out of control.

She has no idea her husband and most of the Peruvian Ska band Eskarioka are about to stage a raid on the tallest building in Queens. She has no idea that Oleg Medved and Yulia Romanova are poisoning half the camp with vodka based neurotransmitters. She was no idea there is dead hooker in the tent next to hers. She has no idea that an Islamic Sleeper cell is carrying a bomb into the heart of Times Square to black out the city in a thermo-electric pulse Monday morning. She has no idea that 2 million black woman, men and children are coordinating their revelry amid an armed uprising. She just isn’t aware of those things.

She doesn’t know about all of her husband’s affairs, she doesn’t know he used to lead a guerrilla band in Peru called the “Bolivarian Hotshots of the Brigade Cinqo de Mayo”. She loves Raphael her husband with all her heart, she loves Sebastian Adon as her tragic brother, she loves-hates Sasho who gives her a platform for her fashion, art and music. She wasn’t a child one day. She came to this city and got a job at the Tavern as events producer and tavern has taken over most of her life and time. She doesn’t see the world like Raphael does, or Sebastian did before his friends put him into sleep.

Sleep is the cousin of death, but not physical death. It is simply reducing the size of the world one can see, third, fourth and fifth and sixth dimensionally.

Sebastian and Victoria can only really see a couple days into the past and future. Whereas people like Raphael, and Dasha Andreavna can see things much further back and forward, see things happening in other realities. It makes them very, very functional in this reality.

But the more one drinks, the less they see.

If Victoria Lynch Contreras was aware of any of those above listed things, she’d have a baby heart attack. And probably move back to upstate New York where the world is safer. Back to her hippy parents Alpaca farm. Way out of the coming crossfire.

“She can’t be tamed by any man,” states Raphael Ernesto.

“He will try, but when he fails I’ll have to pick up the tragic pieces again,” states Victoria. She’s already had to coax him gently from his Maria to his Yelizaveta and then to freedom and then through the affair where he broke the French girl Amelia’s heart and it’s now back to the bondage of his wanton reckless emotions and habits of loving early and often. She admires that about him though, she’s a hopeless romantic herself.

It is Victoria’s shoulder where Sebastian does his most cathartic crying over the past three years since they all met on Floyd Benet Field at the original Bohemian-Gypsy-Tabor festival on the abandoned tarmacs of Idlewild airport.

A cool breeze breaks the city’s August humid heat wave.

“Spin me faster man!” commands Dasha.

He is under her spell.

She feeds him still more wine. He can be known to drink in uniform when a General like Sasho gives him the green light to do so. Sebastian has at least some discipline, but like a regular rank and file loses this discipline if the drinking lets him and the front seems far. And surely it takes a lot of drink to render him incapable of splinting extremities or dealing with overly intoxicated people, the most likely of injuries. But now, he’s really not good for much but chasing this woman. He knows nothing of Nicholai’s “great big job.”

And as a card carrying Banshee member he has several local ambulance crews on speed dial worse comes to worse.

There are endless bottles of wine and vodka miraculously stashed away about the encampment. All need tasting.

Adon is no obvious martyr today, or yesterday. Obviously for all his past mountains of zeal he’s built up, he saw the loveliest girl in the camp teach him how to dance and then try and kill him two weeks prior. He cannot be unaffected by the contrasts there. And if he was aware that his closest circle is up to something very large and possibly violent, he “is asleep.” He is out of the chain of command until reactivation after his paramedic graduation. Which is in January.

After his work in Ayiti, the brought him to the bathhouse, they submerged his consciousness in the great waters of a temple buried in the earth; and to keep him safe they closed his eyes and made him aware only of what was around him in a small circle of seeing.

A hint that there was a close bout with death has been made. Did our protagonist antagonists actually plumed to death off a roof top?

In a futurist play, any bout with death has at least three angels standing guard over the protagonist antagonists. And if he had died on the roof how might he have died on the roof a second time as indicated in Act One, or at the Millennium Theatre after that?

So to clarify.

The night Dasha and Sebastian boxed ferociously after he yanked the cigarette from out her mouth, she shoved him off a roof.

That was two weeks prior from the night before the Blue Moon, now.

He grabbed out for her and they both died falling into the deadly drop pit.

She did shove to kill, but rather than make suicide assembled he pulled her along, to death. They toppled off the roof into that pit of death.

But angels quickly and immediately came to their rescue.

Only Nanoseconds after lying broken and dead in a pit of death, having killed each other over nothing, over posturing and arrogance and lack of respect for physics; reality reset.

The angels, on behalf of the spirits took their two souls from their corpses and went back in time five seconds. And put the souls into the bodies of Sebastian and Dasha, took control to make them step just one foot away from the pit.

So bang! When they toppled this time they just fell to the side and pissed the pit and their deaths by one single foot. A near death experience was now near life experience. Because the spirits were protecting them both.

Panting hard, as if post-coitus she grabs his right hand.

She bit down into his right index finger to draw blood. He makes no reaction his animal soul hasn’t fully absorbed itself into his new body. Then they lay panting by the edge of precipice staring each other down, bitten hand clasped and bleeding; and then she confessed to him things that were highly unnerving.

Some were true. And some were white lies.

Now, back at festival!

Now, “she remembers nothing” and keeps urging him to explain their first night of misconduct under good night almost blue moon and tell her what happened on the “roof of the financial district.”

Had they fallen into that pit having no spirits or angel to aid them you could have taken their bodies out a side basement door and it wouldn’t have even been real news. Senseless tragedy only bothers all of the living as everyone is missed by someone. So now they dance and self-seduce, she would say she is incapable he above it, so they self-seduce.

They are engaged in a passionate stare down, but it is more playful than hot. She is very used to drunken men desiring her. He is very used to being a sober gentleman and sometimes also a drunken man.

Victoria Lynch can see the steam and glow from the tent camp at the top of the hill. It reminds her vaguely of the wild passion that came over her several years ago when she wrested Ernesto from the arms of wealthy temptress and got the ring of marriage around his ways.

Sebastian is a marvelously incompetent, albeit enthusiastic dancer. Dasha drags him off here and there and they imbibe relentlessly without even seeming to stagger.

Night comes and darkness falls.

“It most was tender to see you saving the life of Sasho’s son,” Dasha had whispered earlier making a dry Russian joke out of his earlier handy work.

He had put an ice pack on a not that sprained ankle of the eleven year old son of the club’s owner. But, it was a smash hit. Calling an ambulance costs between $475.00 and $4,000.00 in the City of New York.

“Saving lives is much easier than taking them,” he says with a grin, “in the long run anyway.”

“So what happened again on our fateful roof! Tell me the whole story!” she demands.

“So no one meta died, or really died. Only almost died. Because when dawn broke two weeks prior we were still standing, I called you a cab and we begrudgingly agreed to meet again, only by fated coincidence, as we are both members of the same social club.”

“Fascinating,” she says staring out into the bonfires of the encampment. Pouring perhaps the fifteenth glass of wine. Knowing behind her bluff they were about five three dimensional seconds were warm, bloody broken and dead.

They had gotten quite drunk on wine then Astika, then Rakia and then Vodka, eventually.

Again she pressed him for, “The whole of the story.”

“We boxed. You drank and boxed me harder. Then we fell twenty stories to our deaths in a sub-basement pit,” he explains.

“And now we dance like two lovers who could have been just two separate funerals, in two separate languages, with Raphael Ernesto and Victoria being the only overlapping guests of note,” she notes and winks at him.

The festival has become an alcoholic blur to all involved by midnight thirty.

Dasha and Vasa dance, dance, and dance like they almost died for nothing just a week before. Under a bog moon taking shape in the night sky above the border between Queens and Brooklyn.

Earlier in the day Oleg Medved took a good many pictures of her and the three lesser former and Postsoviet models from Bucharest, Bulgaria, and Transdeisnester Republic. And also of lovely Victoria who always looks lovely and charming and caring for this rowdy band that gravitates to the tavern. While refusing to let the sometimes dirty laundry of her marriage ever be aired in public views. Though there had been improvements lately.

Sebastian kisses Dasha’s hand in the end of the song, then lets her swoop low and he catches her in his arms as she gets an inch from the ground with her long golden locks. It is not a smooth or graceful motion, but he tries the best he can. They nearly topple over.

Then she has her lips pressed to his neck. And they eye into each other, taking in the passion that they are generating without necessarily acting any further on it.

“I will call you Vasa!” she declares. “My name for you from this point out.”

“I will call you Dasha.  As I have from the beginning.”

“You like a devil have too many names,” she smiles.

Drunkenly they declare what each had planned to name to the other already.

Then more dancing, dancing and more dancing; sway and grind like they almost died for nothing.

Sebastian kisses her hand in the end of the song, then lets her swoop low and he catches her in his arms as she gets in inch from the ground with her long golden locks. For the second time now with not much more grace than before.

Then she has her lips pressed to his neck. Again. I could fall for her quite hard, he thinks, but he obviously, has thought such thoughts before. A rather ferocious amount of wine and vodka and Astika beer are consumed.

Finally around 3 am the camp gets quieter, the Bohemian festival dies down enough for Dasha and Sebastian to sit almost on top of each other, leaning in, coloring the sketch he’s made of their near fall and of her beauty over two pages of his black archive.

She colors quite enthusiastically.

Oh to live just two lives more! He thinks.

As you know, he will get to.

She, this wild woman Dasha is pressing against me and I feel no pain, he cries out in his mind. She just smiles and takes each color rendering his work into a superior rendition via the brightness of the combined war effort.

Finally around 5 am the camp gets quietest, the Bohemian festival dies down enough for bonfire calm without drumming. Ernesto, Dasha and Sebastian sit at the edge of a terrific fire now also dying down. They are quite drunkenly and “derangedely” speaking on the subject of “phantom physics” and “meta reality”. Sebastian is waxing philosophically, as Dasha’s eyes roll, on the theoretical possibility of parallel reality and past lives. He pulls this from somewhere, according to Dasha, “His own ass.”

A little faux-intellectual rant positing his personal theory of existence.

Raphael Ernesto Lynch Contreras nods in agreement, adding his own deductions. His own Mayan prophesies mixed with some Peruvian socialist folklore of the Arequipa Province.

“What if there are other lives running right alongside this one!” exclaims Sebastian Adon, “other possibilities, other potentialities had tiny little digressions been made on the course we follow in this waking life? What if, mind you the slightest digression and decision had yielded a vastly different outcome from what we experience now? And, what if there was some way to step from one reality to another. Moving about time, changing your body while keeping your soul and memories intact?”

Ironically, like as if he had ten thousand spoons and all he needed was a knife; Sebastian Adon has in his drunken stupor articulates exactly what has happened to he and Dasha just two weeks before.

“Fascinating talk boys before we die,” remarks Dasha yawning.

It is to Adon like one of those grand conversations he once one had in the East Village coffee house Yaffa Café over red wine when he was younger. Or on the Golan Heights hills in Syria. Sweet mental nostalgia.

“Do you believe in past lives?” asks Ernesto.

“Well certainly! It’s so primitive to think this is all a show down between god and the devil over souls, one person, one life one try! How pedantic!”

“So then you believe in alternative realities, and also reincarnation?” Ernesto asks.

Dasha makes faces at Sebastian as they go on. The fire continues to die down.

“Tovarish Philosopher I’m tired and have need to be put to sleep,” she says.

“Soon, soon,” Adon says.

“The Old Soul is what I heard it called once,” says Ernesto, when I was boy in Arequipa Province, “the body is but a vessel my father and mother said. Like a suit for the soul strolling across time, across many lives. An Old Soul remembers these lives and in doing so has a mission to accomplish, what the Hindu call a dharma.”

“Boys! Bed!” yells Dasha.

Sebastian asks her for five minutes to finish his idea. She scowls and gives him three and takes off in a pout.

Raphael Ernesto with a devilish smirk says, “Speak of reality later. Go after her or I will.”

And Sebastian catches up with her mid hill and takes her hand.

“Lie with me,” he says.

“That conversation was a lot a lot of bullshit you know,” she says.

“It’s fun to speak about this bullshit sometimes.”

“Where will there be the best sleep for us?”

“I have a blanket,” he says forgetting about the inflatable mattress.

Dasha and Sebastian sit almost on top of each at the top of the hill under the trees. He pulls a black and green Arabian blanket from his ruck sac. She finds anther bottle of wine as if out of thin air. Pours them both glasses. Watches him prepare the bare accommodations. She pages through and returns to late night coloring the sketch he’s made of their fall and of her vastness over two pages of his black archive.

She stares into him with Old Soul eyes.

“Will you be my tovarisha for the whole of festival?” he asks her, “We can share our wine and food and I will watch over you.”

“Ha, ha. Tovarish is gender neutral. It is not changed to “Tovarish-a” for woman. We are equals in Russian. Only word in Russian without gender inflection. Also I need not to be watched after. I am always safe.”

“Be my tovarish then and look after me then.”

“We will see. For now this an ok plan. Likely I will leave you in the morning.”

They draw closer into a cuddle and then complete spoon. She wraps herself within his arms and he holds her like it is his duty, but it is also a thrill of some buried passion. He holds her tight like a little partisan as the trees whisper and the two double blue moons that are out late can blot out reasonable doubt. He likes to hold her.

They curl together on an inflatable mattress and a green Arabian blanket. They are both, for a variety of reasons unaccustomed to the perfect fit of a well-intentioned cuddle.

The fall into what passes as sleep, her first. As if on demand.

“We almost died for nothing,” he says.

“What if I kill all your hope,” she mutters in a whisper.

“What if I loved you until you know just what hope truly is?” he responds to her in muted tone.

“Don’t speak now of such goddamn stupid and impossible things,” she whispers.

They lie together in that Gypsy camp draped into each other on the air mattress and floating on a dream the only two partisans without tents. He dreams of escaping the struggle against the reaper to be forever in her arms and she dreams of a big black cat with a fiddle while a man on the moon plays the world’s smallest violin just for her little Amerikanski. No that’s just a romantic little literary device. He dreams of her and she dreams of nothing at all. Nothing at all she will ever, ever talk about to a man. And that nothingness is a subjective, but not the objective of her inebriations.

A good night for Sebastian is not to dream at all his dreams are clusters nightmares. She has thus has rendered him peaceful. A good night for Dasha is to drink and dance until the night is blur of happy smiling, swirling dance movies and escaping in a peaceful haze. He watches the moon and feels her breathing heavily against him. He is reminded of some great peaceful moment. Whether that is because a beauty lays in his arms, or something more ephemeral, magically real forms an underling narrative, he cannot say.

She snores a little. Makes unintelligible little cute moans. The last thing he thinks holding her looking up at the big blue moon is that if some monster or bandit came from the tree line, if bad men, werewolves, monsters or devils came to hurt them, if they sky fell out above them, if the blue moon became a meteor, he’d never, ever leave her. He’d fight on whatever level he had to keep this woman safe, to marshal every ounce of his abilities to deliver her from any impending strife.

It all felt like déjà vu, as if it happened a few times before this very moment.

She sleeps indifferent to his hold or his guard.

She has survived a nation of thieves to get here and scuttled through a den of vipers since arrival. Sleeping in a park, with or without “protection”, with or without a mattress or a pillow, these are not so high on her hierarchy of concerns. Amongst many other pressing troubles, the Vodka sung her to sleep.

 

And the big blue full moon lit up the sky marking on the lunar calendar the end of an epoch and beginning of an existential war for what will ultimately be the fate of this backward race or self-interested violent monkeys with guns.

 

 

Scene 10

Bohemian Gypsy Encampment, 2011ce

Borough of Brooklyn,

Day 2

 

 

He awakes on Onderdonk fields and she is still in his arms. She is warm and breathing deeply and clutching his hand to her ample breasts and thus is pressing her body against and besides him. Very much engorged he presses his hardness into the plump of her buttocks as if waiting for her to wine[22].

The sun has very much arisen. He finds it very tranquil and makes no effort to wrest her into wake field yet. The drumming has begun again and the camp is awakening and she smells of perfume and also cigarettes.

Sprawled out on a Persian carpet, on a now deflated air mattress the thick of him pressed against her rear parts, tits in hand he smiles happy victory; for she is most beautiful.

The Labor Day weekend is allowing about half of the teeming eleven million multitude of the NYC masses not to engage in much less Monday work. This Festival is well timed but is a small Gypsy side show to Winkle and Baltic’s production at Pzeier Chemical Factory, OR the Juveaurt festivities before the Labor Day Parade on Monday.

“Today is just Saturday which means there are three more to go!” declares Raphael Ernesto, “hooray for our liberated labor! Labor Day is designed to fall not anywhere near international May Day, which is communist international workers day to all other workers. Labor Day is designed to separate the bullets from the proverbial gun of the American proletariat,” Ernesto Lynch explains as Dasha rolls her eyes and throws back some breakfast Vodka Oleg Megved has obtained to wash down late breakfast.

Oleg Megved, the Ukrainian-Israeli photographer ‘from Boston’ exclaims: “This man looks just like Mayakovski!”

“You’re right, it’s the hat and uniform and red arm band. A little junior communist we have here,” agreed Dasha.

“Who was Mayakovsky,” asks Sebastian Adon.

“Mayakovski was the greatest Russian Poet that ever lived,” says Oleg.

Dasha had then cut in sardonically, “the second or third greatest of his period at the very least.”

“And you look just like him!” she says pointing to Sebastian.

“He had lovers all over the cities and the towns! Stalin let him tour Europe, Cuba, Mexico and America knowing he’d bring those capitalist pigs to their knees: Just with words,” puts in Oleg Megved.

“Let me put on this cap while you draw me more perfectly,” Dasha orders him.

He did as she ordered. And she looked like a partisan girl wearing it, a freedom fighter made so by the circumstances of her times, certainly not of individual ideals, bare and rugged necessity made fearless.

Early deaths for most.

“Spitting image of a Partizan,” said Oleg Megved.

A burly Russian gangster, although really of Ukrainian origin with a puzzling stopover in the Promised Land north of Tel Aviv, an Arab ghetto citadel called Nazareth, only an Amerikanski might dub him “a Russian”.

Or to use Adon’s favorite lexicon a “Former Soviet” or “Postsoviet.”

“Mayakovski was something of a total romantic and free radical,” Dasha then went on, “he wrote no less than thirteen volumes of Soviet poetry. A full third just to his tovarish, lover and muse Lily Brik.”

“Tell him about Lily Brik,” says Oleg the Bear.

“Let him read about it,” said Dasha Andreavna.

Sebastian who was earlier working on an epic caracatura of Victoria and Raphael; has turned his artistic abilities toward the capture of Dasha’s breasts on paper.

“Woman, tell him the goddamn story of Lilya Brik,” commands Ernesto.

Dasha grabs Sebastian Adon by his artistic medical coat tails and lays the sordid affair down in New Speak, Jive;

“So here you have Russia’s greatest poet and writer. Stalin gives him a Carte Blanche to get away with almost anything. So here we have his madness and his love life. He meets Lily Brik and her publisher husband early in career and they have a sick ménage where husband and Mayakovski have to share Lily while being partners themselves creatively.”

“They lived together right up until his suicide. He had to sometimes listen to her screw him from the kitchen even! That level of openness about the affair was absolute as her husband was a polyandrous man, a futurist,” she declares.

“What is a Futurist,” Sebastian asks.

“We believe in the future,” Dasha says calmly.

Oleg gives her a look, and grins a burly grin.

“A Futurist rejects all aspect of his past, the utility of pasts in general.”

“This is what I just said,” Dasha snaps at him.

“You didn’t say it gracefully enough in English for my liking,” Ernesto sneers playfully.

She give him dagger eyes and continues.

“In the end of many trials and many years Mayakovski couldn’t wrest her away from her husband, his closest friend and lifelong editor and then at age 36 he put a gun to his head and ended his foolish, albeit brilliant life over this Brik woman.”

“And then there was also the Tatiana affair in Paris to complicate the matter further,” breaks in Oleg Megved, “two perfect archetypes of unobtainable Russian women one red and one white.”

“Don’t kill all his limited American hope in one shot of story,” retorts Dasha, “Vasa will go acquire the books if he wants to hear the whole series of events.”

And shortly after Vasa and Dasha leave the encampment to wander the urban wastelands looking for a bodega and a place to buy more wine.

They make a curious spectacle walking together through the desolate warehouse district. There was not a Bodega in miles it seemed.

The district was quite bleak and they were alone on a lonely highway except for an occasional passing mac or semi-truck. Her yellow dress blows in the wind, but the sun still beats down and he offers her a water canteen and she drinks and hands him a cigarette.

They’re looking for a Bodega in the wilderness.

The grim warehouses are all one or two stories, all fortified and locked down with tall walls and barbed wire. The place is mostly without any life and smells of asphalt melting in the hottest heat of summer.

Eventually after a great deal of wandering small talk they find some foods and make their way back to gypsy camp.

“Could I be plain with you brother,” Sebastian asks Oleg the bear as they watch the girls fool around in the huge rubber inflatable pool, “what is the Russian mentality?”

“Oh, that’s just an American code word for building elaborate prejudices to former and Post Soviets. Or maybe the bunker mentality of thieves in law locked together under iron curtain quarantine.”

“Quarantine?”

“Quite so. That’s what you’re old government did to our revolution and then what our government did to us to preserve it. Locked us down in our Soviet Union.”

“There were other variables.”

“I am no apologist, but the Stalin I grew up with or should I say read about growing up for he was dead; was a very different Stalin than the one you maybe, or maybe not encountered in you college political science. To you all growing up the Soviet Union was an authoritarian gulag state of bread lines and deprivation. To us, growing up before the fall in 1989; it was our country. It was not spectacularly better or worse than yours. But we all could read and we all had jobs and no one was starving and since 1/3 of the world was within our red sphere the quarantine was less impactful. Our zone ran from Havana to Ho Chi Min City[23]; south ways as far as Angola[24].”

“Fair enough.”

“Your government and your media spent early one hundred years teaching you red terror. The school house desk hiding fallout shelter raids, the numerous adventures with torture abroad, the missile crisis, the Reagan years it all built up a viral fear and hate. And anyway you know what you do with your enemy’s women! Ha. The men are supposed to be barbarians and the women all whores. This is picture your country painted of “Ivan”, well my country too now,” he laughs.

“Agreed, whores and criminals is the stereotype, but I’m talking about the so called mentality. The effects of the iron quarantine.”

“We like new things, this is true, but more importantly we like true security without being in anyone’s debt. Those that even remember the former Soviet Union remember only its hardships mostly via stories told to them. Deprivations and breadlines they really at this stage were too young to remember. I was born in Ukraine, but I really grew up in Israel so I’m not even so shaped by this past. And of course, I’m something of an Ivory. At least below the belt. Those that grew up after the fall of communism likely tasted western things and culture and simply grew up knowing they could be better off here. So some like my family used their Ivoryish heritage to go through Israel then here. Some got stuck in Israel, enough for the fourth national language to now be Russian.”

“Yeah I remember that was about to happen when last I was there,” Adon says.

“Mentality? I don’t know, people are people, we all like a good laugh, some happiness, a toast and a good fuck!”

“Well I believe that, but I think people process data differently.”

“No comrade, not so differently at all. That Dasha you’re consorting with has just gotten off the boat. Whatever barriers between you both seem to have ben easily dispelled with vodka, wine and dancing did they not?”

“I’ve always had something for Russian women.”

“That’s because there’s nothing better than Russian women, everyone knows that of course.”

“Why is it though?! What is it about them,” muses Adon.

“Well I bet you have many most misguided theories.”

“Surely I do.”

“They make incredibly pliant whores” states Oleg to see a reaction.

But, there is none.

Oleg, who got off the boat quite literally three days ago wonders if he has the right mark. This Adon is a charachture of the potentially fearsome guerilla leader his file claimed him to be. This man was, well he was a nostalgic poet. A hipster even living in another age, perhaps uncomfortable in his very own skin. Not a leader of men. Could this really be the most fearsome operative the American résistance had?

“Russian mentality; this sounds like an American device to reduce us all to whores and vicious gangsters. Your media likes this kind of objectification to enable you to kill and rape us with less moral indignation” says Oleg.

“Perhaps that’s the truth though is that many of you do seem to have whore and gangster tendencies.”

“If you claim it,” Oleg.

Dasha storms up to them appearing quite distraught as well as intoxicated.

“Drink man,” she says foisting a bottle upon them. She shoves a cold bottle of red Georgian wine into Oleg’s hands. And he thanks her in Russian.

The she suddenly exclaims;

“I must leave! There is someone who will ask serious questions if I don’t.”

“Please do instead stay,” Sebastian lets alcohol speak for him, “nothing will happen if you do,” pleads Adon.

“You don’t know anything about what will or will not happen to me anyhow!”

“Please stay, its already night and if you leave I’ll have to follow my code and escort you all the way home and then I’ll be waking up drunk on the beach in Brighton certainly.”

“I don’t need you to get home safe.”

“Well the code says real men don’t let women take the trains’ home by themselves after dark.”

“What stupid code is this?”

“The Code of the Ayitian gentleman,” he replies.

“Well I am bound by no such nigger code and now I take my leave man.”

“I’ll bring you home,” says Adon abandoning his responsibilities to protect the camp completely notes Oleg the bear.

She storms off and he follows after her and this in itself seems like a thing that has happened and will happen again as if a cosmic comedy.

“I live in Brighton,” she declares, which is very long way off.

“Well let’s get you home then,” it was like he was following a script.

Like an aroused, puppy dog blinded by the lights of lusting, he follows her out into the blue moon lit night. But they only make it as far as a little tavern down the road called the Cobra Club, where hipsters aleggedly drink and do  yoga. A few drinks later they change course back to camp and never make it to Brighton at all. They end up back on the forest floor in each other’s arms, holding tight to a memory neither can remember yet.

“You hold me so well,” she mumbles in Russian.

“I have three thousand years of practice,” he replies in Hebrew.

 

 

 

 

Scene 11

Bohemian Gypsy Encampment, 2011ce

Borough of Brooklyn,

Day 3

 

 

He awakes on Onderdonk Fields and she is still in his arms, tits still plump and cutely snoring. She is warm and breathing deeply and clutching his hand to her ample breasts and thus is pressing her body against and besides him. Very much engorged he presses his hardness into the plump of her buttocks as if waiting for her to wine.

It was Sunday and everything would repeat itself again. Indecisive lusty flirtations with nothing to support the imagined memories and Oleg the bear stood by taking pictures. The festival of the Gypsy’s continued as the city braced for Monday West Indian Day parade. The dress rehearsal for any insurrection.

Eventually Sunday evening Dasha and Sebastian broke camp and headed towards the underground.       They arrived at a small tavern across the street from the faded green light posts of the L underground train in bombed out warehouse zones of so called “East Williamsburg”. The tavern is paneled in old wood and is made up like some old school prohibition tavern; the name of the joint is the “Cobra Club”. It professes to combine mixology and light yoga. Much to the delight of Sebastian who cannot think of two activities worse suited for each other than drinking and yoga, perhaps drinking and driving an ambulance.

And it was here that he notices that Dasha has a dragon fly necklace and matching wrist bracelet, which he had not notices previously adorning her. Although not on her person for the previous two and part days of festival, now they were back on. And that all other times which has been twice before the festival she was wearing some accessory piece with this image it occurs to him. How curious.

“What then does the dragonfly symbolize?” he asks her.

“It doesn’t symbolize anything. I just like the way it looks,” she responds.

Impossible it seems to gauge if she is lying he thinks. After three days of general revelry, they are both a little out of body.

“Your eyes are now green,” she smiles.

“Normally they are,” he starts.

“Hazel, I know,” she smiles.

“And yours are now silver where before they were blue.”

“What kind of American are you? You’re not like them and yet you are them and you are certain qualities that are Russian and yet not of us at all.”

“I could help you with your anything.”

“But I need nothing from you. Not even physical help.”

“Where are you and we gonna be when the weekend is over,” he asks.

“Strangers.”

“You’re indomitable woman.”

“Are you a jealous man?” she asks. Beware any woman that ever asks that ever in history.

He looks into her thinking; he could learn to be. There had been some deliberation on options, such are her joining him in the Hamptons at the family dacha (country home) or participating in the West Indian Parade[25]. Nevertheless, politely she said he could take her number and call her later since she had to soften the conspicuous blow to her keeper inflicted by two night’s disappearance. One had to have a little, just a little bit of shall we say tact, attention to protocol.

“I do not know if we shall meet again wild stranger, but I did quite enjoy you,” she explained and then they took the L toward the city and went their separate ways, she to Brighton Beach and he to the District Financial.

 

In his sketch book on a drawing they colored together she wrote in Russian; “Shame that it all will end.” Though you could translate that several different ways, all were pretty bleak.

 

 

 

Scene 12

Two Holes of Water Road, 2011ce

East Hampton

 

 

 

Why are Chornay always fucking late, wonders Sebastian as he waits on 40^th street and Lexington for the Hampton Jitney? And what’s so terrible about sometimes being early? But they had been slaves, maybe still are slaves and thus were excused from just about anything in his mind thereafter. Only a racist blan oppressor makes you work for free for five hundred years, reduces you to raped and broken human cattle, and then complains when you’re late, but they were about to miss the bus. But this was no way to regard one’s stalwart Chief of Operations, Jamaican gangster[26], Mickhi Dbrisk.

Even if that was a racism to its own self. Which clearly it often was. It is impossible to exorcise ones racism, you can try so hard and the whiteness still returns.

After Dasha replied by mobile phone she wasn’t leaving Brooklyn, the night before Labor Day Adon had called his bad man partner in crime Mickhi Dbrisk to run away from the city to the country to a place called Montauk for a midnight journey into a day trip, the night before Labor Day proper which locked down Brooklyn with 2.6 million masqueraders and full mobilization of the NYPD amongst other agencies. Each year they flipped a coin over Hamptons v. Jeauvert and it was “heads for Hamptons” this year. But really only because Dasha was occupied, Mickhi never actually ever wanted to out during the sometimes gun play active Juveaurt[27] nor was he ever particularly interested in trips to the Jewish elite Hamlet called the Hamptons where the Adon family had their second home. And he hadn’t woken up completely, Mickhi was supposed to be on the lines tom.

Surely, they needed to make a long palaver.

Mickhi Dbrisk and Sebastian Adon had met in LaGuardia Community College seven years prior in the EMT program. They helped found the Banshee Association and later the nucleus of the New York City cell[28] of the Z.O.B. underground. In the seven years that they had known each other Dbrisk had scene his friend through many ups and downs, many treacherous jobs, and many lives saved and thankfully none taken. He had seen just what Adon was capable of when he took his little salt pills and worked under the right woman. Dbrisk also had seen his partner fall down real bloody, horror show hard.

“It feels as though I have awoken again from a dream.”

“I heard you a say that just after you came back from Port-Au-Prince[29]. And the next thing I remember is you with a sharp knife heading down to settle a score in District Garretson beach. And then came your arrest, your escape from Lennox Hill[30] and the beginning of the end for your municipal employee status. So forgive me if I worry every single time I hear that again.”

“I’d like permission to step out of the chain of command to handle a situation.”

“Of course you don’t ever need my permission.”

“The full assault on the district will commence in seventeen days.”

“So it seems.”

“We have committed all of our best volunteers to serve in the medical detachment. It will raise eyebrows if you are not there.”

“I plan to be there. I just need to handle something first.”

“Well I plan not to be there, but you do whatever you go to do.”

Mickhi Dbrisk is a six-foot tall, smooth Jamaican paramedic. He leads quietly the one of the mightiest guerrilla squadrons of paramedics and emts history has ever known with its bases in Brooklyn, Ayiti, Croix-De-Bouquet and; the little park occupied in the Financial District’s northern frontier. The public private park called Zuccotti which a year ago was taken over by students and radicals and has since become the epicenter of a national rising now most regimented and entrenched against the national elites.

He leads quietly because he is gangster. That is how a true gangster leads.

He has been held in prison for over a year where he marinated his gangster by refusing to name names of coconspirators. He now raises two children. He saves human life on three continents as a paramedic adventurer. In the diffuse and decentralized chain of command of the militant human rights movement he holds the position of a Captain. The name of the faction he leads alongside Adon and few others is the Z.O.B., also known as the Breuklyn Bath and Rifle Club or the Banshee Association of the City of New York.

He is a bad mother fucker. A real Shatah.

David leads the Operations Section of Banshee mostly, with, Sebastian Adon our romantic “protagonist” leading the Planning Section, Scott Sevastra leading Communications and Trickovitch leading Logistics.

Allamby was our then Chief Financial Officer, Mara Fitzduff the most active deputy concerned with Newspaper distribution and fire switch radio. Anya Drovtich was the Minister of Information and Erza Pula Pound the chief legal counsel and Minister of Justice, our internal affairs.

And a very, very big operation is happening as they speak involving short wave transmitters, an electronic magnetic pulse bomb, and full mobilization of partisans.

2/8ths of the elected leadership of the Club’s Executive, one awake, one awakening getting quite removed from the front.

It is now the fourth day of Sebastian not sleeping and he is looking at a golden pistol in the men’s room the Hampton Jitney, while David Dbrisk, a co-passenger on a nearly empty Labor Day Midnight Express Bus jots down baby names for his third upcoming child.

“I may need a fast car,” notes Sebastian as he passes back the loaded weapon wrapped in a gangster bandana colored blue.

As soulful pause.

“I’ll borrow you a real fast car, Guyanese[31].”

Sebastian has been manically talking whispers about a kidnapped, a hostage bloneenet: a woman named Dasha he has just made a big picture of.

Soulful pause.

“I may, mind you may need a pistol.”

“Brother. I will get you a very good pistol[32].”

Mickhi Dbrisk has two; soon three children, lives out a hoopdee and three safe house in Bk and Staten Island, and he doesn’t have more than 5,000 green backs in the bank.

Sebastian lives within the Financial District, has no dependents and lives what’s left of savings he squirreled away while working for the New York Fire Department as an EMT.

“You are a dear and trusted comrade brother Mickhi Dbrisk,” states Sebastian.

Mickhi doesn’t even have to nod.

“I have to roll in and save her, is that the right word, rescue? I have to get her out of Brighton Beach probably out of city, maybe tomorrow night.”

The Maroon five song “Baby One More Night” comes on from his phone and annoys only the single hedge fund baby not sleeping on the midnight shuttle bus to Montauk.

“Sebby. You are going to have to free her without back up. I got a third kid coming and the uprising is just three hours away.”

“The uprising,” Sebastian mutters and she sees a forty mile high view of the city erupting in violence.

Sebastian contemplates if, what if, armed with a eight shooter set and a new sholem he can keep himself and the mission alive when it comes to Dasha Andreavna, this new dorogaia; maybe tovarish, maybe the sexiest woman living in the Soviet alive and happy and free.

Mickhi can actually hear Sebastian think.

“Brother, oh, brother you fell hard yet again, once a year you get the woman, but always lose your head. Keep yourself alive and you can save you, and maybe, just maybe daddy: you get the girl. But we been down this path ain’t we? Man you have to be asking yourself a lot these days just who you let pull your strings.”

            “She bit me,” says Adon and shows Dbrisk the bite marks on his right index finger.

“Well that ain’t no good.”

No good at all.

After Festival and then some real Hamptons fuckery gets underway and Sebastian via his weed Roll-And and Mickhi with his dancing get four girls back to the dacha built by Adon’s parents. But no pants off fuckery goes down even as those girls splash naked about the pool because Mickhi and Sebastian are both in love with superior sets of women, the Maroon five song comes on that September 1^st Labor Day weekend 2012 and Sebastian sleeps well alone in big Hamptons bedroom wondering, what kind of man am I? Do I possess the constitution to take this as far as it needs to go? What kind of woman is she? And all kinds of such questions. And Mickhi waits for Sebastian not to notice and steps out in the cool but still summer right to get a smoke and Newport. It’s exactly midnight, should be Juveaurt Eve back in the city, the march in the morning the strike at high noon.

Mickhi picks up his burner phone and short wave jammer at exactly 00:00 almost midnight Sunday, he relays a message to be bounced out via Sky Pager to the unit and detachment commanders; “Stand down on Wall Street. I repeat. Stand down on Wall Street. They know, I repeat, they already know the uprising is about to happen. We have infiltration. Get everybody off line. Secure the material. We are staggering the primary hit until the secondary fall back date.”

Before his eventual arrest and execution the father of Sebastian Adon held the social station in American society of that of a Duke, a member of the professional aristocracy that preceded the Lesser Oligarchy and Upper Oligarchy. The secret police executed his mother and father and made them ghosts, this occurred late during the melee of the Great Revolt.

And then Mickhi Dbrisk tosses the burner phone into the camp fires. He goes to bed in the cute little Hamptons Dacha knowing hell is breaking out in Brooklyn and it’s gonna get much worse in the morning. He looks at the latest Z.O.B. pamphlet tucked into the latest issue of the newspaper.

 

 

Some of this rhetoric goes way, way over people’s heads, thinks Dbrisk. It’s like stuff out of the 17^th or 18^th century. It has zero effect on the 70% that can’t read and the upper 20% that don’t read except to escape into their own minds.

One day more!

There’s gonna be a street melee to write home about in history popping and erupting like and avalanche of rage and burning, all day long. Kop Tete, boulay maisons! Cut heads, burn houses. But do it nonviolently! Thinks Dbrisk, I would laugh in the face of futility, had we not been kissed on the cheeks by a divinity.

 

 

 

SCENE 13

85^th Street, 2011ce

Penthouse j

 

 

Sometime around noon on 1^st September a bombing knocked out the power in Lower Manhattan when the ConEd Building blew up. Lead by Z.O.B. agitators, Uhuru fighters and the Garveyite Militia masqueraders broke the police lines at Grand Army Plaza and began marching north toward the City.

 

To the beat of steel drums and Soca, the uprising had begun in great disorder.

 

The Labor Day Parade and its 2.6 million marchers were violently turned back at the Manhattan Bridge with tear gas and water cannons. A good deal of Downtown Brooklyn was put to the torch in the block to block street battels which carried on until September 3^rd, when the barricades hardened at Atlantic and Flatbush; a General Assembly was organized on the first day of the rising and based itself at the Barclay Stadium. There were a wide range of street battles driving the first Labor Day Rising (now called the Great Disorder) which would continue for several weeks in the National News cast as urban looting. The bulk of the rising didn’t utilize short guns or bombings or arson burnings. Just days of rioting and economic disruptions that got recast somehow as black on black crime.

 

The National Guard was called up on 4 September. Barricades and assemblies went up also in the South Bronx, and South Queens triggered by same faction that planned the Labor Day rising. It was getting tense as hell. It would not be long before the rebellion spread to other cities in the USA.

 

From Manhattan one could see the signs of smoke rising from Brooklyn below.

 

The safe house roof deck of the House of Trikhovitch is on the 17^th story and looks north over the Hudson River valley rolling towards it is the heavens on the Side Upper West, a predominantly Ivoryish district. The George Washington Bridge and Riverside Park form a noble causeway of greenery against the back blue river, scenic but polluted.

“Cuddling is very sensual,” explains Trikhovitch, “my ex-wife and I used to cuddle, before and after having amazing tantric sex. Hot sensuous fucking that sometimes went on for like nine hours. Always, always began and ended with cuddling and candles.”

“So this went on for just two nights.”

“And it was hot and heavy?”

“No, highly innocent.”

“You’ll have to paint another picture.”

“We did on the third day.”

He refers to the two page drawing Sebastian and Dasha made of each other. He began it during the fashion shoot and she came back over and took a picture facing the colorless sketch and later they drank and colored and danced and drank and colored and it came alive.

“I worry about the girl who’d separate my bullets from my gun,” reads Nikh from the picture in the black archive binder where Sebastian keeps his sketches and pictures of women he enjoys capturing, caressing and making into his muse. Pictures of beautiful former Soviet women and post cards to prove it. He’s gotten a much more serious taste for the former Soviet Union in the last six years which has led to monogamous inclinations.

As most former and Postsoviet women demand. Partners as sponsors highly in need of undivided attention if you can’t throw a rubber band bank at a problem, at least worship it.

“What does that mean again in reggae?”

“She makes me want to live Nikholai. She makes me forget the wars we are fighting in Ayiti and soon in Ayiti and Syria. She makes me want to live and call out to her Dasha Adon until we are old. Have children with her. Not die on some barricade a million miles from home. Not face anarchist trials and accusations of treason and mental illness. She makes me want to take the salt.”

“And forget your past old boy?”

“Especially my past! No more a thousand and one lives of torment and struggle!”

“Old souls! That’s what we are, it is not our destiny to die or have boring lives” Nikh declares.

“Promise me I won’t die poorly in your next narrative!” Nikh exclaims.

He is referring to the latest manuscript being circulated about their club and circle, an epic war story love tragedy revenge opera set in Sudan. One in which Nikholai is cut to smithereens and hung eyes cut out from a tree.

 

A dramatic pause: “Nikholai, this, this is to be the content of my next play, and surely the greatest one yet!”

 

Sebastian doesn’t write “plays” so much as hard to follow multi character Noires loosely spun off of his life starring his friends, over and associates.

“What about your gun? And the old devil blue moon? Did she pull out all your bullets until you couldn’t shoot at her anymore!? What are you now but a love sick puppy! I have seen your 808s and heartbreaks, I have seen you in your glory and also you a toothless loon howling at moons and lost, last lives,” Nikholai proclaims.

“All we did was make cuddle, man.”

And on that drawing they made in a wilderness tavern before Sunday evening when they parted, her side of the drawing has a note in Russian which translates several ways.

“Sucks it will soon end. Or it is a shame it must end. Or, thanks for the memory its over,” as soon as Sebastian has his Russian friend Marina translate it via a camera phone picture his heart went to his sleeve.

“I will have you know that you speak of too easily of love. You have many times rendered the pandemonium of your emotions into this word, you have unleashed it like these metaphorical bullets on the often undeserving, offering yourself up as bush to be burned before the higher power of your emotions.”

“How now? What makes you so sure my emotions are so hay wire? Why can’t I be of an old soul, old school in which I act on the things that I feel? Why can’t I look into the encounter with this woman and not be overwhelmed? No woman has so effortlessly rendered near murder into tender longing. And the wild fire of her nature consumes me still.”

“You’ve known the broad for two days and a bad moon black out,” Nikh reverts from devilish poeticism back into American English, “No more new speak jive old friend. What I have seen in the decade I have been your closest friend and companion is not like the cycle of moons. It is like the Phoenix. Soaring heroic adventures punctuated by dissents into foul broken madness. Need the laundry list be read before the trip to the super market?”

“There have been bad falls…”

“Only matched by the heights you were reaching before them.”

“Nikholai. I cannot walk away from this.”

“How now! Tovarish you have said this before ruinously! Mali, Israel, Hali, Ayiti, Yelizaveta, and Tiputti all were all impossible mountains you climbed in the name of love and good ideals and each time your back broke. See there is your list. The only true victim of your epic promises was you, each and every time.”

“There were more than those. But each ones listed were the epic failures of my human vanity.”

“You did deliver what you promised in Ayiti.”

“Only because you all banded besides me.”

“Hear me now friend; you will be remembered by all who truly knew you as a romantic first and a revolutionary second. Your war of words are parlor tricks your ability to lead is what draws so many to you to carry long these overlapping missions, each which you dedicate in hindsight to your love of a woman. Saving lost children, saving whole nations, saving girls who never knew their fathers; these things I will list off at your funeral. But friend, Sebastian, you must check your passions before they make that funeral an event quickly upcoming.”

“Death puts no great fear in man who knows of true love.”

“I will not ever try and temper your ideals, or tell you that you are not really loving these women you invest so much time in. But the broad almost pushed you off a roof friend. You almost took her right along with you. And you’re response to that, is that you love her? What fuckery is this? That is what Dbrisk will say too.”

 

“Mickhi Dbrisk has said that I ought to ride into battle alone on this.”

“Well remember that battles you fight for love or wars you start for ideas will be always be rallied to by your companions. You dragged me into the fray over Ayiti. I served there honorably because of your pipe dreams. And some good we did surely. Hear me when I say that if you ruin yourself again over a woman, all I will be able to do is give warning. This girl is trouble. And a love battle field is not your historical point of triumph. I’d forgotten too about Birdy.”

“Ah, Birdy. A comic tragedy.”

He almost died.

“A tragic comedy? Who fucking cares. You’ve send your friends off to danger and possible death and risked your life for many worthwhile things in the cap city of being an American. But, but! But please don’t die for a woman who you’ve known but for two nights of cuddles and one night of near life experience. You have a lot to give the world if you can just survive your reckless adventurist youth. Hear it from me, as you heard it from Captain Dbrisk.”

“I’m sorry. This will be the seventh big promise. I will keep it this time. Without reinforcements.”

“You kept your promise to Tiputti. The rest were not even in your powers to promise.”

“I didn’t promise her anything yet.”

“Oh. Well. And what is it you plan to promise then?”

“I promised that we’d see each other again.”

“That’s banal enough I suppose.”

“I suspect that’s easy enough to keep. But there is some question of her man. She asked me am I jealous. Surely I am jealous if this proves to be new love.”

“I assure you it isn’t. But your promises invite trouble.”

“I saw Mickhi Dbrisk the day I left here. We traveled out to Montauk. I told him that I plan to steal her from this man and take her away from the life she lives. I plan to promise her a better life with me at her side.”

“You’ve made a good deal of presumptions about her life. How bad it is. How unhappy she is or isn’t’ Are you the knight in shining armor or just a mark, a shill.”

“I wrote her a poem.”

“Then I know it’s already too late to talk any sense into you. I suppose I’ll just stand back and watch the buildings explode. And of course stand ready to play the violin at the funeral.”

“Stop being so melodramatic poor droog, I’m sure she’ll partially appreciate it.”

 

That was certainly not the first, last or best poem to be generated in her name and handed over with intent to take her long to bed, and out of Brooklyn and anywhere else on earth, she wanted to go. And it didn’t take but four feckless days to see her again.

 

 

 

 

SCENE 14

85^th Street, 2011ce

Penthouse j

 

 

Back on the safe house deck of Penthouse J, the sky is quite clear and the city has hardly gotten any less humid. From the deck of House Trikhovitch one can see the whole Hudson River valley and watch the concrete jungle spread up into vast monolithic canyons in Midtown or the highland of Washington Heights[33].

 

Nikholai is sometimes dashing, sometimes just a drunk. That’s the only word for it. And he doesn’t like Russian Banya, and doesn’t trust Russian women, though he is sleeping besides one as of lately.

But she, the woman in question, is a Ukrainian Ivoryess from Brighton Six and had Crimson hair, and she sings in drag, and she will soon be a Physician Assistant, or a nurse from Hunter University.

Nikh for short has few close friends and works for the club’s logistical arm, but the Red Cross is his bank check and his education is continuing, in bursts at the Breuklyn College in Journalism, Marketing, as well as dabbling in Disaster Relief with employment.

 

His new lust-or partner in his crimes, new in that he has never dated his own before, his new lady friend is Francesca or Franny for short.

She was once a happy little Burner, but then she got Rocaroonied and repossessed on the Playa; enlightenment never followed. Sebastian has just met Franny Rainbows (not her real name at all), who at the safe house is listening to Sebastian get a lecture from Nikholai about “the kind of Zamni Cherie a man really needs.”

Zamni Cherie is an Ayitian Creole interjection that basically means “the dear partner”. The Z.O.B., amongst the other services it renders to the ambulance men and women who affiliate with it has for nearly years’ time since the great earthquake killed over 316,000 in Ayiti, been building a volunteer ambulance system on that island.

“When she kissed me, I think I didn’t long to die ever again.”

“Never ever-ever?” asks Fran.

“Ever never. I just wanted to come back, alive to that moment and keep getting kissed.”

“Tak,” pontificates Nikh.

“Tak, is quite right,” notes Sebastian, “She kissed me upside down and had the dexterity to tune her mobilblat to ‘Black, Black Hearts.’ That takes commitment to continued passion.”

“If she’s Russian, she’s just restless and sees you like new puppy,” says Nikh and Fran nods.

“I’m not so concerned,” retorts Sebastian.

“She’s pure Russian.”

“She’s taking her time,” jokes Franny.

“She’s bored and you are certainly a colorful catch,” states Nikholai Trikhovitch wondering why it seems as though on the eve of every major stage of the war plan called the “the blue print” a Russian woman shows up to sweep Adon off his feet. To prop him up or knock him down, that is just too hard to call.

“She’s not bored of me yet.”

“You have gone down this road before and you know where the road ends,” states Nikholai Trikhovitch remembering the past which his friend has wiped clean for the sake of the coming rising.

“Are you Ivory or Gorski; are you Cossack? An Uzbek? Or are you Chechen like me,” Trickovitch asks, more perhaps demands, or maybe even channels.

 

SCENE 15

Zuccotti Park (called Liberty Square), 2011ce

District Financial

 

 

 

Don’t talk politics at the dinner table if you want to have an American family, and don’t talk about it all if you want to have friends. But that’s all Adon ever talked about, until he dated Russian women, then he compartmentalized, which is safer.

You shouldn’t draw attention to your views as a civilian, every American knows that part of the freedom to say and write whatever you want is the tact, not to do it meaningfully.

It should really always be time for political education, everyone has so much catching up to do. A year ago in September a group of Canadian & North American anarchists supported numerically by left leaning college students used live stream, social media and the internet to coordinate a nationwide uprising against corporate financial establishment based in the United States.

It exceeded the expectations of all involved.

That demonstration which began in Zuccotti Park on 17 September of 2011, quickly spread to over 4,500 encampments worldwide, yet, was crushed just after three months[34]. Though it was just a dry run, a spontaneous first attempt at an uprising in North America. In those three months many theorists put out pamphlets trying to place the uprising in a global context of events, here was one such written by Dissentious & Adon.

Franny’s big pretty Russian raver eyes roll in boredom.

Reading to Franny and  the French girl Lia with a back flip and tales of danger and anarchist trials; Nikholai, Sebastian, Lia, Franny and a big bottle of Spanish White Wine are all Sunday morning rising in the Adon Otriad Safe House on 140 Nassau Street; Northern edge of the Financial District.

They were speaking of the Snowden Affair[35], the Panama Papers, Occupy and revolutionary show trials.

“Revolutionary show trial always begin and end, with an explosion of some kind. So they necessitate there first being a bomb plot,” explains Sebastian Adon tipping the Basque wine.

The other three look on. They are all after partying after the Mehanta Social Club around 5 am. The entire several dozen human leadership had run up a several thousand dollar food and drink tab, but only paid 700 American when it all gets settled and that’s with a 43% tip to all the staff serving.

Ernesto and Victoria opted out of this Safe House roof after the pre party and there by skipped out on the lesson and parable of Anarchist Trials. They have been to many such performances before.

“What’s the Core, what countries are in it?” asks Mary Lia.

“Well, I can read a little more, but there is both core critical and core peripheral states.”

“Oh please, please do,” moans Franny.

 

 

 

“My that was boring,” states Franny.

“You didn’t list who was what though, who’s in the critical core,” Lia says.

“The Imperial Center, for now is Washington DC administratively and New York financially, America is directly coupled with France, United Kingdom and Germany. Core peripheral states via OECD, NATO, World Bank and other alliances in include; Australia, Austria, Belgium, Canada, Denmark, Finland, Iceland, Ireland, Portugal, Italy, Japan, Sweden, Netherlands, New Zealand, Norway, Spain and technically Greece, though Greece is in foreclosure.”

“You said 46,” Lia notes.

“There are also the Banking City States Singapore, Switzerland and Hong Kong[36]. There are military garrison sates such as South Korea, Taiwan, South Cyprus and Israel. These hem in the People’s Republic of China in the way that bases in Germany, Poland and elsewhere hem in the Russian Federation.”

“That still isn’t 46,” she petulantly repeats.

“There are Euro-Royal City states he skipped, because they barely matter,” interjects Trikhovitch, “Such as Vatican City, San Marino, Luxembourg, Lichtenstein, Andorra, Malta, and of course Monaco.”

“And then there are invented Petro-States such as Kuwait, UAR, Brunei, Qatar and Bahrain,” Adon adds, “that’s the core 46, disclosing several hundred former colonial territorial small holdings such as the Virgin Islands, Madeira, and French Guinea.”

“So we are at the very top then? Top of the Core,” Lia asks.

“Yes the United States is the Core Central, France, UK, Germany and Switzerland are core critical, the rest are core peripheral; 46 states,” says Adon.

“And who aims to challenge us,” Lia asks.

`           “Russia and China,” Trikhovitch replies.
“Russia is the defeated core contender and China is the emerging one,” Adon adds.

“A Core contender is an economic and military block lead by a robust, well populated and resource endowed nation state with the military, diplomatic and economic capacity to challenge the hegemony of the current core block central power,” Adon explains.

“From 1945-1989 there was a bi-polar world dominated by the US and the USSR each with their own competing systems of dependency. After the 1950-1952 Korean War in which the PRC directly battled the US-NATO block a combination of the Cultural Revolution and Den Xiaoping’s embrace of state capitalism pulled the PRC largely out of Cold War confrontations.”

“The economists of all great power craft highly competing narratives of both history and financial prescription. Although evidence now clearly debunks the Washington Consensus which held sway from 1980 to 2001; encouraging deregulation, privatization, structural adjustment and integration into the globalized Western core market; it cannot be said that the effects of these policies did not enrich the core deliberately. The purpose of the proxy wars was of course a battle to control the resource flows.  As of 2011; the logical core contender is the People’s Republic of China. The financial mechanism it has deployed to support this claim is called the BRICS Bank; a counterbalance to the World Bank facilitating development lending from Brazil, Russian Federation, India, China and South Africa,” he concludes.

 

“That’s some real big useless talk boys,” says Franny.

Nothing quite like petty bourgeoisie arm chair revolutionaries, she thinks.

“Well look what’s happening in the boroughs,” Sebastian replies annoyed.

“The niggers are rioting again,” Franny shoots back.

“Whatever you’d like to believe,” Sebastian replies.

“Yeah, dirty uneducated monkey men are yelling about black lives matter! We want jobs! Give us more handouts! My family came here with noting, now we’re fine,” Franny says.

Franny has been staying with Nikh since Labor Day, it has been impossible to safely travel back to Brooklyn because of the so ca-called rioting and black on black crime, that is her ruse and so is fucking him.

“Things are bad and then; Ya Basta,” Nikh enunciates for some reason in Italian, though he often claims to be prejudiced to Italians. “Enough.”

Sebastian speaks English fluently with a smattering of Hebrew and Ayitian Creole. He speaks often at late night dinner salons lecturing on conflicts in Africa, or the Middle East. Or various terrorist responses to atrocities and genocides. He is well versed, enough to conduct amalgamated services in the New Testament, the Torah, also Midrash[37] and Qur’an.

“This is the beginning of a great and historical event. But we, not that I am an anarchist, the proverbial royal and esoteric “we”; never throw the first punch, and by punch I mean light off the first bomb.”

Though they did on 1^st September bomb the power plant.

He plays quite an open militant.

“I don’t even know how to build a bomb, but the point of an Anarchist trial is not about the alleged bombing plot, or success of the bombing operation or campaign. It is about accusing civilian non-combatant activists of all kinds of stripes and colors of being one big Anarchist plot,” he says with fire in his drunken eyes.

Franny sips and Mary Lia drinks, very much paying attention, being a police spy.

“Well they’re gonna crack down on all of you and drag you away to the FEMA camps,” says Franny with ha-ha, tee-hee kind of giggle.

“They probably planned the uprising just to get you all together and WAM! The whole purpose is to imprison and execute a big illegal grouping of public enemies. Niggers. Ivories. Hispanics, people with tattoos. Illegals. The Faggots. The Russians. Shtarkers. Fenians. Communists and Revolutionary Socialists of all tendencies. Students. Unionists. People with dark skin. People practicing Eastern religions. Hippies.  Everyone that’s even want just a couple more human rights. Like Indonesia in 1965[38], yeah boom! Kill you all. They will round up all the usual suspects. Accuse them of putting a bomb in a building, then they execute nearly everybody. Even your high class and pale skin won’t protect you boys,” she says.

They are ten minutes to sun rise, where they will brave guard dogs and no guard rails to see the sun rise from the safe house roof deck as soon as the danger story comes to a conclusion.

“The purpose of a revolutionary show trial, is just to kill some alleged anarchists. But the reality is that they round up thirty, try twelve, and kill thirteen. They kill the public will to resist with a big forgery of justice designed to trap make believe anarchists,” Adon says.

 

            Thinks Nikholai; like they in the secret police, the proto-DHS did to us long ago over a so-called bomb in the Nike Mega Store.

“And they’ve done for thousands of years and they’ll do it again, and they did it to us in 2000 when they rounded up our student movement leaders and accused us of putting Earth Liberation Front IED’s in GAP, Nike and Disney over child slave labor.”

Slave labor eh, more bold, misplaced, lost on everyone words.

“Let’s get drunker and let’s hear another poem on the roof,” notes Nikholai Trikhovitch. “Before you make us sound like Jihadists or something far worse; anarchists!”

He’s verifying via operational protocol whether Sebastian is sleeping or sleep walking.

Sebastian has written a five page hand written poem called to Dasha #01. He plans to read it on the roof. It’s all about his feelings for Dasha Andreavna of course.

“The last words he said! Ladies we, are not mere anarchists. We are patriots and freedom fighters. But they, they being the security apparatus of the iron heel have already raided this very safe house just ten years before and as recently as one year ago. I once had storm troopers kick in that very door and beat me and put me in a sack!”

“Ladies, this is all a true story,” notes Nikh. “But the sunset…”

“Oh tovarish Trickovitch! The sun will still rise! Five more minutes of this fine story!”

Franny and Mary Lia are still smiling, half stunned by this zeal and hyper-Homeric story telling maybe real, maybe a total brazen invention?

“Tell me one thing,” interjects Franny, “Do the lovers of accused anarchists suffer too?”

A pause to consider.

“After they killed Jesus and be became a God again guess who suffers most? They round up Mary M, his mother and all the disciples and they kill his girlfriends and his kids, probably even kill people that owe him money” replays Nikholai Trikhovitch from a speech he knows so well.

He is anxious to open another bottle of delicious sickly sweet ‘Xhocolee’ wine, from Basque country[39].

“Ok, ok we’ll go to the roof,” concedes Sebastian, “but Franny, to answer your question, it is tragic and true, but people who love anarchists suffer even more.”

“It’s a high crime to love an anarchist,” he concludes, “but don’t be afraid we’re not anarchists. We’re just under-employed petty bourgeoisie pseudo intellectuals, just saying bold things to woe younger women, don’t be alarmed.”

“But no one loves an anarchist at all, no one cares how many get killed or for what, it’s an ideology of marginality” Mary Lia suggests is the real lesson.

“Can’t you guys just use the opportunities you were given to become Jew doctors like your fathers?” Franny asks.

 

Yelizaveta had asked Sebastian that question many, many times before.

 

 

 

 

 

SCENE 16

23^rd Street, 2011ce

Isle of Man

 

 

 

            They wear these black furry hats on Friday. They often smell, and don’t ever make eye contact with gentiles. There are a total of eleven Ivoryish ghettos in New York City, but only one Russian Quarter, split into two zones; Brighton & Star City. The Brighton Ghetto, called by the Central Intelligence Agency Camp Alpha 1; It begins south of the Kings Highway and runs all the way to Brighton Beach, Manhattan Beach, Coney Island and Seagate (the gated community on the water). The Russian Ghetto’s Bravo Camp, called this because here would be settled the more dangerous and subversive elements was Starette City, also called Spring Creek. This was built on a swamp between the highway and the very worst part of town’ District East New York.

There are a lot of Ivories living on and around the Brighton quarter, but they get less religious the closer you get to the water front. They lived in the bigger, nicer houses, especially the Syrians. No Ivory’s live in Star City, and frankly a good deal of the second ghetto has been repopulated with African Americans after the triage decade of 1989-1999 when the newly arrived post and former Soviets were screened for communists, KGB (FSB).[40]

            During the week Sebastian goes to Southern Brooklyn twice via the Q train to attend paramedic academy on Kings Highway and Dasha goes North on the Q to Manhattan’s Clinton Murray Hill District in the east side 20’s accounting school at City University of New York Barack and they illicitly miss each other perhaps and so they meet on a school night and he reads to Dasha poem to her in park as the fall falls in. It will be the first of many poems where his emotions entangle her with worry, where she cannot read his English writing and has the poem read then re-read by a female confidant. The early poems didn’t rhyme as Sebastian began reading Mayakovski and assumed that to craft such pieces meant visceral images not rhyme. He missed the underlying reality of Mayakovski being famous for his rhymes, but in Russian, only the translations couldn’t pull that off.

Shortly after the seventeenth poem he changed his entire cadence back to rhyme. This impressed her far more, but that wasn’t until later. And it didn’t impress her enough even then do give him exactly what he was asking for.

“You’re always so well dressed, so fashion forward. English doesn’t have enough words for all the grades of beautiful I must be forced to consider whenever I see you,” he says.

 

“Flatterer.”

 

She peers back at him with big curious eyes. They are seated in the Park across from each other looking coy. She’s a flowing blue dress and her tight leather jacket and he’s all composed like he isn’t about to whip out a small pistol, don a mask and take over a subway car over universal human rights later in the week, don’t ever a tell a Russian woman that.

 

“You remind me too much of the artist Mayakovski!” she reminds him.

“Then allow me just to write like him. And act like him. And because this is set in America, with fearlessness I will walk the tightrope between idealism and pragmatic Postsoviet individualism.”

“What does that fucking mean?” she asks.

“I’m not sure yet.” He replies.

So over time he wrote many poems, each penned just for her then recopied, but they all had cadence alike extolling her virtue and ways, also declaring himself a true rebel, making great cause just for her. Fighting monsters for her real and mostly imagined. Urging her to run way to the West Indies with him.

Then she went back to her college and he off to carry out a wild plot to take over the A train on the anniversary of 11 September in solidarity with the Brooklyn resistance forces, coalescing around the General Assembly being held three times a day on the Barclay basketball courts and all Borough uprisings, Staten Island not actually being a real borough, not in anyone’s imagination at all, they say they’re Italian, but their just a bunch of newly soft Sicilian civil servants, they’re happy doing trash, contracting, police work, hose work and the work of the White Church[41].

 

 

SCENE 17

Brighton 6^th Street, 2011ce

Tatiana’Blue

 

 

If one follows Brighton 6 all the way to the water you arrive at the two Tatiana’s, competing Russian restaurants on the Boardwalk, one blue, one green. The blue one has a better reputation for food and music, the green one for gambling and boxing.

They meet the next day they can for a picnic in the warm fall night of September 11^th. She collects him from Blue Tatiana Café on Brighton 6. He carries a burgundy satchel where he’s put inside a four course home cooked partisan meal of rice and cheese and chicken and red wine. He was drinking Borjomi (Georgian Mineral water) when she found him. He was drawing what looked like a Brighton flooding, and practicing a couple Russian phrases that she’s taught by text message.

She collected him and led him to the sand.

They dine on the beach on a big blanket.

“When it comes time for Halloween festival, and I bite people with real fangs; am I part of your resistance war efforts too?”

“I think not.”

“Well I will have looked in my enemies eyes and tasted his blood!”

“Who are your enemies?”

“All those who oppose the will of Dasha! I am the once and future Queen of all Slavs!”

“To me you are a most benevolent queen.”

“What does it mean benevolent?”

“Compassionate and caring.”

“Ha! There is not even any word for that in Russian,” she lies with a smile.

Sun was setting in its subtle shimmers of red-yellow tones dwindling on the abyss of horizon, but on the desolate sands of Coney Island you can watch the cosmos illuminated retreat for some time before making an abrupt departure into the blackness and glow of a goodnight moon.

The sand is gritty graceful sand, it is populist sand and the untidy refuse of eleven million summarily visitations despite the best efforts of the parks department have left it a tainted oasis, but it has old school charm by the boatload. Adon has seen the beaches of East Hampton and Dasha has four times been off the coast of Turkey, so they have a high standards to work off of, but this place has je ne sais quoi?- It has sand and a mesmerizing effect on some type of minds.

They lay out a burgundy picnic blanket right below the parachute drop with the steeple chase pier in sight just to the west and it seems like they are very much alone in all directions, though a couple vagabonds are late night fishing. She has just come her boxing class at the Underground Gym she has as of lately been attending since the night a deranged man stalked her from the train to her lobby. She has on no make-up, but her hair is well brushed, maintained and flowing, her gym session doing quite little to alter her fresh faced and polished appearance.

That is a Russian art form too, being made up to get groceries, glamorously present oneself for buying coffee, not allowing the elements to chip the facade of womanly presentations.

Adon has just come from paramedic school on Kings highway and has a dark red picnicking back pack, and is dressed similar to how he was at festival, in ems ‘battle dress uniform’ blues and black boots and a skally cap and a red bandana tucked exposed in a back pocket, in case a woman begins to cry or a riot breaks out due a spontaneous eruption of the lumping proletariat.

He has set up before them a three course meal of sautéed mushrooms, broccoli rob, breaded chicken, and pilaf rice accompanied by Israeli avocado salad and three types of cheese that he cannot pronounce and bottle of Chilean red wine. He has brought red and white icon candles and they flicker in the spreading moonlit darkness. Picnicking is a poor man’s refuge at romance and he’s done all the cooking, though he hasn’t been on a picnic in two years. You don’t ever forget how to picnic if you were once good at it, it’s like riding a bike.

The rabbis say that an Ivoryish man ought to be able determine if he could marry a woman in but four dates, but Sebastian is only half an Ivory so perhaps it takes seven or eight.

“Beg me to let you take me on a date,” she’d once said the night she nearly killed him, and he’d told her he never ever learned how to beg.

But, how he’d learn with this one.

She had thought to break plans with him unsure if she could justify her prolonged absence after The Sly Foxing class, but she ran with it in the end, as he had seemingly put all this work in. The food fared much better than she had suspected he was capable of.

He looks so happy! She thinks. He makes jokes and he’s witty for an Amerikanski. Odd how he fetishizes us, she thinks. He cannot speak any Russian and has never been there. Curious fascination.

The sun down and the candles flickering she dispenses with small talk to pry out the root of his amorous fascinations.

“What is it that you think you know about this Soviet mentality you are always referring to,” she asks preparing well in advance to be disappointed by the answer. She already feels a certain pang of contempt when he switches out of the black suit into this blue paramilitary attire the ambulance workers wear. It was a reminder that this was not the prince in the suit and tie to carry her immediately from this coastal ghetto. It was vaguely unnerving for reasons she had yet to articulate or place why a child of solidly bourgeoisie parents residing in the financial district in that beautiful loft was playing hard not just at proletarian, but at a communist too! It was if anything vaguely a spit in the face of all the work she’d done to flee, that he who was born with a silver spoon in the greatest city on earth might be romanticizing the cold criminal empire she had fled. But he did it so sincerely that what first might be a laughable nativity took on a charm, a quirky little juxtaposition of opposites.

Well he is bipolar after all.

But what she couldn’t place and what made this boy so interesting was that he was so genuinely interested in her. He seemingly truly believed in these blue collar proclamations he made. Curiouser and curiouser, but she suspected that by the end of this picnic she would be ready to relegate him to a passing hello at the social club. Temper his courtship considerably. Before something happened that might get everyone in trouble. She has a full plate of suitors for a married woman anyway she thinks, what this crazy artist rebel will bring to the table but trouble.

“Well let me attempt that then.”

“Attempt away,” she smirks swallowing down her wine. He is aware that she is perhaps even more magnificent without her make up then when wearing it, he is aware that she is a wild eyed beauty and her coy happy smile never seems to leave her continence open to other interpretation.

“First let me say that I do not mean to casually lump some several hundred million of your former countrymen and women, into a pigeon hole.”

“A rabbit hole?”

“A pigeon hole, it means a stereotype.”

“And rabbit hole is a wild goose chase to nowhere yes?”

He smirks at the deliberate nature of her word games and nods.

“Nor am I so presumptuous as to think without speaking Russian I can mount any attempt at a psychological profile.”

“Less words man,” she smiles.

And he wonders to what extent she fully takes in any of what he will say or has said. And she takes in absolutely everything knowing the power of pretending to grasp a little less than she does in English.

“Ok then, you have no sentimentality to speak of. You have no romantic notions of rose colored thinking, you have no arbitrary beliefs. You have loyalty to no one, no country or code of law, no god, only a tight perimeter of proven personal or blood allies, and these except perhaps in the case of mothers can be severed off the minute they prove, disadvantageous.”

She grins at him and her eyes declare and admiration for what she’s hearing.

 

“More beyond more!” She demands.

 

“The mentality is like a cold ongoing calculation, it weighs the merit of all actions and all alliances. Its root were I allowed to play at the idea is pre serfdom, although that condition is history’s most long running subjugation of a people, by their own ethnic group. The only people to have completely enslaved your own people for over 600 years. And then the Soviet system generated a brutal regime of parapsychological survival of the fittest where by education and corruption were wedded wholly into the national character. And now, the world’s first open oligarchic collectivist mafia state masquerades as the fourth estate.”

“Why do you use so many fucking words man,” she says smiling again. She does like to hear him give these little speeches she realizes. His education is the only proof of his upbringing besides the large loft he resides in. It must be that he not only likes the sound of his voice, but also he perhaps has few people ready to hear him speak on these things.

“Because I think in Russian obviously Dvotchka,” he says. (Which means girl).

“Don’t call me that, I’m a lady!”

“Pardon,” he says but can tell she enjoys to berate him for his verbosity and his mispronounced bevy of Russian phrases.

“Alright then. But what in the world could be attractive about that mentality that so fascinates you? I consider myself a little sentimental mind you.”

“Cultural diffusion forges the greatness of this city. The merging of ideas and the fusing of mentalities. You can learn hope and romanticism here and we can learn rigorous pragmatism and parapsychology from you.”

“We, will eat you alive if these things you say are true.”

“I am not such a patriot as to assume that in the result you describe that is an impossibility. But the mentality isn’t so powerful if it is only used for pure personal gain.”

“What good for then? Seems good only for taking care of oneself. If what you describe has truth-ness then all we are commended for is our ability to sell one another, or sell ourselves without being tricked into seeing a purpose. Here is your mentality then, you Americans see miracles in the streets. You believe in too much destiny, in God in heroes. You are not an old nation so you’ve had no time to develop any real culture, and your world views, maybe not a liberal bourgeoisie part Ivoryish like you, but most Americans don’t have a world view. I will now use my words in English to speak to you on things. I’m not sure you know just how little I like Russia, like Russian things, Russian food and people. Everything. I hate Brighton Beach, I hate living in a ghetto. My mentality if you find such things interesting, as evidently you do, is shaped by living in a world where no one but my mother and a small series of men have offered to protect or help me. I’m not tough as you say so many times. I have had a charmed life and around me have been enough people to help me along. My mentality is that of anyone who has been hungry, I have ambitions and dreams. Believe me that my American dream is bigger than yours ambulance man!”

“If you say so darling.” And he pours himself another glass of wine.

“What is parapsychology to you? How do you define this term?”

“Mind games. Clever manipulations via social engineering to get your way. But that’s just the beginning.”

“I have no idea what you talk about,” she says but that’s what anyone who has a bit of game in them fronts like.

“Well you don’t have to put your cards on display at this juncture,” he says.

You’ll never see my cards, she thinks.

“How is the food?” He asks

“It much better than I expect. I would not eating it otherwise. Terrible idea to let men get false notions about their abilities. Especially kitchen and bedroom abilities. ”

“I couldn’t agree more,” he says.

And suddenly they are kissing again. Woops, she thinks with a smile. Passionately he presses her against the sandy ground and rolling about off the picnic blanket they wrestle for dominance lips never unlocking at any moment.

He reads her another stupid poem, which he wrote for her before the train ride. This is not that poem exactly, as she has long since hidden it away with all the others, but this once has a similar cadence. They extol her, they lament the world; they beg her always to take him back near her when the world is not looking, when the world blinks.

Dasha cannot always read the hand writing of Sebastian. She knows what he means because they text prolifically, but she asks him to read each poem in the beginning because she knows he will find the right way to explain his longing.

That night past midnight, after their meal which she appreciates, but isn’t writing home to her mother in Penza over locale; she allows him to read another.

She kisses him passionately again, for what else can she do. He is a hard worker. And then she pauses under the stars and by the coast of Breuklyn to lecture him again.

She has warned him that Mayakovski couldn’t ever get Tatyana his other great love and muse to ever leave Paris for his Soviet Socialist Republic. And he could never get Lily Brik to leave her husband.

“Poor Mayakovski had to listen to them make love from their kitchen. He tortured himself. What if you come to hate me? I cannot ever do anything but travel home with you. You know I keep another man, my boyfriend’s bed is always warm.”

“I will never hate you.”

“You cannot possibly love me! I am selfish.  I am demanding! I want to live in a huge house far from the Russian quarter and not worry about you!”

“I told you I’d never beg for a date once. I told you we’d just be associates of Ernesto and the Mehanta Social Club. I’m sorry to say that I cannot be rid of you.”

“If I order you go you will go?”

“Why the tortures? Are my poems not true, are my lips not soft?”

“All lips are soft when the man is still alive!”

“Dasha I love you! Does your man have this much desire in him?”

“We have been together for 5 years. He is the first and mostly the last man I’ve known here. He is hard working and good to me. He gives me things you cannot.”

What does a man say to the cold dead face of reality?

“This tryst is no real tryst. It isn’t an affair. You have tasted me, and I have nurtured your passion, and enjoyed it! But how far can this go! Please don’t beg for love that I cannot give to you. You will meet another woman in a month, I will be forgotten between the bed sheets! You have confessed to loving others before, you will again.”

He looks her dead in the eyes.

“I do not write frivolous things.”

“What is frivolous things?”

This is always the ice breaker to what will be a series of escalating fights on whether his love is real.

“I write to you from my heart which will not beat for another ever the same way.”

She kisses him again.

“What are all these kisses for when you say you will always feel nothing?” he asks.

“I didn’t tell you I feel nothing for you! I told you that we are nothing to feel anything about.”

She shoves him, then pulls him in close to her by his collar.

“I am going to tell you how to make love to me, with dripping hot wax on my back” she says.

“I’m going to try and teach you how to seduce me with much less words.”

They stay out all night holding hands and kissing in the late night Brighton Jazz Cafes. She pours the hot wax out of a red candle and presses their hands together and bites his tongue.

When they finally part neither can stop turning around and smiling at the other, checking to make sure it really is to be over.

They look, and they smile, and they walk a little more and look more, and look, and then it’s time to go home.

 

But finally she’s gone and he has to watch her go back to her man’s home and he just holds her memory close and boards the Q train back to the barricades near Atlantic Avenue, to make it on foot through the lines back to the heavily fortified district financial.

 

 

 

 

SCENE 18

116 Ludlow Street, 2011ce

Mehanta

 

I wanna pinch your big Peruvian baby face, thinks Sebastian, I wanna ruffle your salt and pepper hairs you happy droog (friend), he was overjoyed at his progress and again asleep to the plots underway. As if he hadn’t even plotted them.

Raphael Ernesto and Sebastian are seated across an upstairs gallery booth of the Mehanta Social Club. He’s more serious than he usual is, it may be because he hasn’t been drinking.

“You my friend are heading for some real, real trouble!”

“So is the whole City and nation as well, watching the news you can see the story breaking. I can’t stop now.”

Ernesto give me a baby faced look.

“How did you come to need her this fast? Is it sex hanging off her body? It is because you can’t have her so it makes her taste sweeter. Don’t you know brother how dangerous this is for a man! And of course the daily street fighting and arrests, and…” he pauses knowing what Sebastian may or may not know.

“I know. I know. I have felt in like this before.”

“And the others? There were surely others! I’ve seen you drunk over them before.”

Ernesto blows a kiss with his hand, “Amelia! Remember Amelia!”

He does and he regrets that episode fully.

“What are you plotting these days?”

Raphael Ernesto is asking a highly fourth dimensional question. He is Dasha’s old lover. He is a paid member of the Perchevney Bratva, as well as Mehanata’s resident jockey of disks. He is also rebel commander of the Bolivarian Hot Shots of the Cinqo de Mayo Battalion, planning to assault District Financial by air in just three week time taking part in the general rising.

“We may soon send medical workers to train the Syrian Free Army in Aleppo[42], I continue with my paramedic studies, but may be black listed from working in New York.”

It is clear that Sebastian Adon remembers nothing.

No Maria, no Yelizaveta, no Israel, no Havana, no Ayiti. Poor noble bustard.

Raphael orders another round of Astika from Martina D. also called ‘Hella’.

“Where do you find enough hours in the day for these plots and also Dasha Andreavna Skorobogatova?”

“This passion has burned hard and fast for three weeks since festival.”

“Did you take her to bed yet?”

“No.”

“Ha! She plays games with you friend. She is fearsome lover, I think I know, I did not bed her myself mind you, I have a wife, but she craves my male attention!”

Victoria Lynch is right next to them. For when Raphael Ernesto can fly off handle when their mutual friend Sebastian forlorn for the fairer sex.

“Darling! What my husband is saying about caution and taking time is valid. She is not a carnivore though Sebastian. Men buy her everything, but she always travels home on the subway alone and she is always not a floozy. She is strong and dangerous woman for you to be so smitten by. You haven’t the time or the resources for this I fear, and she certainly has a man. Somewhere.”

“Well, anyway that’s all a joke,” laughs Ernesto, “if he was so serious why is she so free to run about at such late hours?”

“More reassuring words please sister.”

Ernesto laughs off the contradiction and swills back his Astika beer. The Bulgarian bar tenders know the sober pensive Sebastian as well as the dumb faltering drunk Sebastian and they wonder what metamorphosis this tale will bring. Disaster has befallen him and glory too and he is not like all other Americans people know. But he believes in things which is dangerous.

The tavern attracts man tales and vice mongering spirits.

“Sebastian be careful!” orders Ernesto Lynch and gives him a cheers.

“Sebastian we love you as our brother, but be careful she is a Russian woman and you know well what we mean by that. You cannot compete in the ball park of things so you must just be steadfast and loyal and not come on too strong. Please be careful.”

Justin and Sasho are digging. There is hatch under the chamber called the ice cage; the wall to wall ice box where wall to wall two minutes of binge vodka drinking happens at fifteen dollars a minute. It’s all the same vodka bottled up and cut in various was. Well the floor it has a hatchway that drops quite deep into a smuggling tunnel out to Brooklyn via the old train lines and out to Coney Island.

They’re not digging a new tunnel; they’re digging a demolition bin so they can completely blow and seal the hatch and tunnel to Brooklyn behind them in the event of a raid.

Sebastian stands outside with the bouncer James.

“You’re becoming quite a regular,” says James White the former cop, “That’s what they call a poor life decision.”

“I used to come here when it was on Canal[43].”

“The old place.”

Raided often and burned to the ground in 2005.

The burly Fenian bouncer looks every bit like and off duty cop. Maybe, just maybe he smiles a little bit more.

They’ve spoken amicably of their blue collar nights many times previously. You see when Sebastian is heartbroken, as both Maria and Yelizaveta made him when those two relationships ended he takes back to the tavern, but his will as man is vanquished. That is a polite way of saying he was no ability or will to entice women on the dance or make small talk with young loose women that so fill the dance hall. It was in these periods he got to know Ernesto and Victoria in different capacities.

They had met three years prior at the Tabor Gypsy festival on Floyd Benet Field and he had become a confidant to Ernesto’s revolutionist notions and Victoria’s worries on her husbands’ ways. Ernesto it seemed lack anyone to palaver with on the issues of the world, philosophy or his long held beliefs in socialism, and Victoria on who’s shoulder Sebastian cried about his lost loves was also quite willing to console her about Ernesto’s alleged philander which was not quite real, but wasn’t either quite imagined.

“You’re becoming quite a regular I’d say for sure. Slavi lets you in without paying? I’d say that means you’re carrying the card now.”

“It’s a rebel friendly place.”

“For now. It’s quite getting bad up in the Bronx. We may switch loyalties back to those with the truest monopoly on violence.”

“Good to know.”

“All we retired civil servants have to stick together,” says James White, “no matter which foreign government might be paying either of our bills this week.”

 

 

 

 

SCENE 19

Kings Highway & 14^th street, 2012ce

Breuklyn

 

 

On Kings Highway and 14^th street sits the Methodist Center for Allied Health Education[44]. Most of the rising has stayed in the Ghettos and not penetrated the Ivoryish quarters. Sebastian has easily crossed the lines with his badge and grey bandana.

The bath room door of the men’s room at paramedic school is locked from the inside, the Austrian instructor got his head bit off peaking in while Artstien and his ambulance partner Shamel Edge count out about 1000 green ones in various denominations all handed over by the Z.O.B. and the paramedic class for the father of a fellow EMT whose father was about a week from passing, in a coma, in a Queens ICU (Intensive Care Unit).

They’re counting out the money for a 10-13 emergency as it’s called. When an EMT or a Paramedic gets hurt. They are sometimes sloppy under takings so the money is getting counted by three impartial men.

The Z.O.B. is the unarmed, well lightly armed, militant wing of a clandestine ambulance movement to unite 13,000 EMTs and Paramedics via a newspaper many secretly hand out and at least several thousand read. It is on its seven issue and looks menacing to the powers that be, but has cost a few their jobs and many more at least a few friends.

It is radical in that it demands living wages and recruits volunteers and materials for further subversive EMT training programs on the Island of Hispaniola in the Nation of Ayiti.

They seal 1,000 green back dollars in a big white envelope there was no card. Only that the monies came from the Z.O.B., secret arm of the Banshee Association as they paper distribution was titled.

If there had been a card, the card might well have ready “Happy almost Ivoryish New Year, We are sorry your father has nearly passed. Under anyone’s reasonable standard of good we have delivered our passengers over twelve years to the shore. Good, bad, we’re not the team with the guns but this meager envelope of cash is our thank you for secretly handing out papers.”

But their colleague is a woman of pride and quiet dignity and didn’t even know why Sebastian was helping. He promises more support, help from the union, he tells her this is what they built the organization to do; take care of one another.

“Thank you. You’re a really good person Sebastian. I hope you know that,” she says.

Watson knows Sebastian is great EMT from when they worked together at FDNY Station 35, but he can’t completely vouch for the sanity of the guy. I mean Ayiti had changed him. There were so many stories which circulate about the man, some that he perpetuates, others which his enemies do and Sebastian has more friends than enemies, but it is perhaps a weekly spiritual decision on if and when his God will destroy him.

That, realizes Watson Entwissle is that the man thinks he has the power of a god perhaps. The will to save Ayiti and also EMS and also Syria and also become a paramedic. Watson has seen Sebastian in the streets be a good EMT and he seen him in clubs drunk and dancing and racing for some woman to love him and pin a medal on him with a ring and say, you are my one true. But Watson knows too that Sebastian has impossible expectations. He has had his knees kicked in several time because he tried to fly with wax wings.

Watson sees it. They count the cash. And then the girl had a real idea of just how much her class of fellow EMTs could try and give when they had nothing themselves.

Outside is Paramedic Instructor Mikhail Mastrovitch Kreminizer, an Israeli Russian Pararescuemen born in Lithuanian before the Cold War supposedly ended.

“Safer than to just rob a series of banks I suppose,” the juggernaut declares.

A taste of things to come. Runners passed him a black satchel of cash for the young woman earlier, half from Stations in Queens, and half pulled off ATMS in unlimited coding scams.

“Her father is not dead, but he is not alive, and the girl claims they have no money to bury him and that she is already in debt. So we asked all to pass the envelope.”

“What is she to you?”

“A comrade[45].”

“You fuck your comrades?”

“Not unless the situation calls for it. And this time not so.”

“The Bronx is burning. The National Guard entered the city at dawn. I heard a rumor.”

“A rumor you say?”

“I heard a bomb is going to go off in the district financial, of similar make and modal to the one that blew apart the Consolidated Edison plant on the first of September.”

“What would I know?” Sebastian asks, “Am I a Chechen[46]?”

His eyes dart to assure the coast of the street corner is clear, that no one is in shot ear.

“I know you to be a good deal of many things. You are a marked man.”

“By whom?”

“You made a lot of enemies with your paper. With that train job in 2007. They lynched you in the court of public opinion after Ayiti. I admire you. You’re a zealot.”

 

Mikhail Mastrovitch likes to assure everyone he is not a man to fuck with. He has looked Sebastian in the eyes and said, “You will never work as an EMT again in this city, but history may absolve you of what you have done by not picking sides. Mikhail is a former Israeli Pararescueman and parapsychology officer for the Israelis security service Shin Bet.

“Do you ever fear putting yourself on a barricade that you cannot defend and ask all you’re closest to help you hold it?” asks Sebastian as Mikhail passes him a smoke.

The big man responds with a phrase in Russian.

“Dasha taught me that word a few nights ago.”

“Dasha, eh.”

“Raspizdia, do you know what this means?”

“A person who doesn’t give a shit.”

“I’m not such a person.”

“So you learned a little, good…but not exactly. More specifically it means the indolent leisure class choosing to nothing with their lives. I know a lot about you. Enough to know you will never work in New York City as a paramedic ever again, know that you are a known radical and working is not really your objective anyway. I know about what you did on that train in 2007, I know about the Ayiti operations shall we say scope and scale.”

“What do you know about dragon fly tattoos?”

That caught Mikhail Mastrovitch off guard because he did indeed know a lot about dragon fly tattoos.

“Why do you ask me this?”

He had thought that his data on the student was more complete.

“What do you know about whores?”

“Very little.”

“Where is this young woman’s tattoo?”

“She doesn’t have one. She says she’s going to get it put on soon. I told her our people don’t allow tattoos.”

“Our people?”

“Ivories.”

“I’m an Israeli not an Ivory. And you’re more Chechen than Ivory.”

“How now! What’s it mean big fella?”

“The Bratva tattoos them on its slaves. The ones it sends to snuff and slaughter. Or a black widow job.”

“Which Bratva[47]?”

“Let’s not step too far out of civilian clothes, tovarish. Where does she say she’s getting the dragon fly tattoo?”

“She didn’t say where.”

“I want to pass you a perhaps un-subtle message.”

“Pass away.”

“Do you have any idea the kind of monsters you’ve antagonized since you came back from Israel?”

He pauses and breathes out smoke.

“I have some idea.”

“You are marked to die. As your friend and de facto mentor, as a future brother paramedic. You are about to start a war you are not highly likely to win. And they will punish you and everything you love will burn and suffer. Fighting from a position of strength has never been your strong suit. How’s you Hebrew these days.”

 

“Ha Halom Sheli, Likhiot hoffshee.” (My dream is to be free.)

 

“I left you a good luck present in the third sub-basement of the garage.”

“What is it?”

“A racing bike. It’s going to get a lot harder to get though the lines tonight. And there’s clearly something you need to do in the district. Luck.”

Sebastian wonders if it’s also a remote controlled pipe bomb, like the old ones.

“Luck. Toda.”

“Stay away from Ms. Dasha she’s a honey pot job at best and there’s blood in the honey. I’m not saying you don’t lay pipe right, but you live with your parents and are in school to be a paramedic; what the fuck is she doing with you?”

“She likes my poems. Who’s she work for then?”

“Probably no-one.”

“No-one is the most dangerous fiend of fiends.”

“Even worse somehow to work for no-one, but destroy the world yourself.”

“That’s a lonely road to travel.”

“Shanah tova if I don’t see you.” (Happy New Years)

“Shanah tova, as you probably won’t, black cat[48].”

“What year is this again,” Adon asks.

 

“It’s the year 5773.”

 

“No one knows anything anymore!”

“No One, knows a lot a more than you think Tovarish Adon.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SCENE 20

116 Ludlow Street, 2011ce

Mehanata

 

 

Step down the hall go straight, not upstairs, go past the coat check unless you want to be robbed, open the second wooden door and leave the time, space zone.

The lights are now quite dim, the place is still cast in a dead, red light and loud gypsy Jazz is playing from the band below.

10 September, 2012, or also called the Ivory New Year. AR 0 as we call it now, ‘After Revolt’. The Bronx was being surrounded by the National Guard. All of the bridges into Long Island, which we all now call Strong Island were check pointed close. The National Guard opened fire in the North Bronx at a demonstration shortly before midnight. This was the Bronx though, the Bronx fired back.

Although Hebrew New Year begins right before sundown.

Card stock place holders on candle lit tables towards the back of the third floor declare several long wooden tables: “Reserved for the Banshee Otriad”.

Thirty two core and provisional members of the New York City Banshee Association, a clandestine organization of EMTS, Paramedics and Emergency workers are drunk and loudly occupying the third floor mezzanine of the Mehanta Social Club.

Except for the club’s current Chief-of-Staff Ayitian Paramedic Emile Cange, who is a nominally straight laced Seventh Day Adventist and his fiancé Praise Augustus, well it’s almost midnight and the music is blaring dancehall in their honor, and Adon is calling for a toast.

A running joke in the club was that for the past decade or so they never seemed to miss an opportunity to go drinking on an Ivoryish holiday.

There are a lot of Ivoryish holidays, approximately twenty of them resulting an innumerous number of work days to be taken off on top of the Friday into Saturday Sabbath, which man of the club members had paper work submitted to their employers, were their shops union stating that they couldn’t work on these assorted holidays and also, Fridays past 3pm.

At some point Trikhovitch had sat down with a calendar and made the calculation that utilizing the Ivoryish religion’s observances, one could get a whole lot of rest. And it caught on. Pretty soon over half the club carried bonifed conversion papers, certificates of bar mitzvah and briss where appropriate, kutb marriage contracts, the world.

Nikholai and the man named Lt. Moishe Klein, the clubs only actually practicing Orthodox Ivory had made some Russian rabbis in Brighton a good price and long term agreement they couldn’t refuse.

“5, 4, 3, 2, 1, happy new year!” Adon slapping Mickhi Dbrisk the back. Although, it is till two actual days to Ivory New Year, this being the Rosh Hashanah Pregame Party for the club’s inner circle. The New Year’s itself doesn’t fall on a weekend.

Adon, with a grey flash in his eyes is now dead sober somehow. As if the drinks he’d pounded, all five Astikas and three Stoli shots, and the bottle of red, then white there were glasses real cold glasses of bubbly Borjomi mineral water.

Somehow in the Melee of the dancehall, in flashing light and flickering candles of this tavern he had tuned out his fun and put upon the game face mask of his title, Chief Planning Officer of the Banshee Association. Surely not all thirty two of the guests were beyond all pale of corruptibility, but Banshee was proto-trade union with a 10-13 fund and an underground ambulance newspaper. Anyone could sign up.

But now at the round dimly lit table at the end of the long catwalk above the main dance floor, past an easily removed barricade was seated Dbrisk, the Bajan businessman Magnus Goldbar Allamby, who always carried in his own sweet wine bottles; Mara the half pint Fenian always drunk at these things, Trikhovitch, paramedic biker Anya Drovtich, Nicholas Mapfre (only there under peer pressure and perpetually nervous), Chief-of-Staff Emile Cange, a paramedic and Adon the leadership as it were, out of sight, out of mind looking over a document printed on grey card stock, downloaded and translated just the night before.

The Anonymous, the vast anarchist hacker underground had circulated a cut and paste manifesto. One which Banshee could never overtly endorse, but certainly various operatives of its armed wing, the Z.O.B. were certain to lend their talents behind. It is to be a collective response to the uprising and its grievances.

At all major Banshee gatherings, there was copious amounts of booze consumed, the Mehanata Social Club such a choice place for meetings and for gatherings for it was loud and rowdy and hard to bug, or hard to track the ins and outs, hard to see who signed what, under who’s name, easy to deny anything.

A version of this document had circulated for weeks, the uprising though aborted on the labor day weekend had to meet the popular response, the demonstrations happening in all the boroughs; the wild anarchy about to happen on 17 September, 2012 when the anarchist federations sought to again storm the District Financial.

This ‘ting they’re all signing, it’s written in Ivory.

 

Declaration of a State of Emergency in New York City

Communiqué #01

 

 

Activation of all Z.O.B. cells and working groups in New York City and Abroad.

In response to mounting grievances and human rights violations here and abroad.

 

The following institutions will effective 09.10.12 be considered ACTIVE ENEMIES of our people and the human race generally. Their businesses, affiliates and shareholders shall be subject to BOUYCOTT, DISRUPTION, SABOTAGE and GENERAL SANCTION for their crimes against humanity.

 

1. OLIGHARIC COLLECTIVES IN ALL NATIONS.
2. ALL WAR CRIMINALS AT LARGE.
3. ALL INSTITUIONS ENFORCING LEGISLATIVE CAPTURE VIA CAMAPIGN FINANCE.
4. ALL ASPECTS OF THE MILITRAY INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX.
5. ALL ASPECTS OF THE PRISON INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX.
6. ALL ASPECTS OF THE NARCO-TRAFFIC
7. ANY ASPECT OF THE SEX TRADE OR SLAVERY RELATED ENTERPRISES.
8. Pornographers
9. Strip clubs

• Escort Services

1. Brothels
2. Pimps
3. Traffickers

• Mail Order Bride Agencies
• Bonded labor of any kind

 

1. ANY LABOR EXTRACTING INDUSTRY EXPLOITING THEIR WORKERS
2. ANY GROUP OR CORPORATION WHO’S PRACTICES DESTROY OUR ENVIRONMENT.
3. ALL FINANCIAL INTITUIONS PARTICPATING IN OUR ECONOMIC BONDAGE.

 

THE Z.O.B., alongside the GENERAL RESISTANCE ALLIANCE-GENERAL COORDINATING COMMITEE (GRA-GCC) AND ALL MUTUAL AID BOUND AFFILIATED SISTER ORGANIZATIONS WILL POST BILLOTS, DECEMINATE OFFICIAL WARNING VIA THE LOCAL PRESS AND ALSO THE INTERNET.

 

ALL CORPORATIONS, RELIGIOUS INSTUTIONS, FINANCIAL FIRMS AND GOVERNMENTS WILL HAVE THREE DAYS TIME TO CORRECT THEIR INJUSTICES BEFORE ACTIONS AND GENERAL ACTIVE RESISTANCE OPERATIONS COMMENCE ON SEPTEMBER 17^th and build toward a an international general strike on THE 1^st of January, 2013.

 

1. THE Z.O.B. IS EXPLICETELY AGAINST VIOLENCE TO PROPERTY AS WELL AS PERSONS AND PEOPLE. ANY VIOLENT ATTACKS, PROPERTY VANDALISMS AND ACTS OF TERRORISM ARE NOT ENDORSED BY THE MILITANT HUMAN RIGHTS MOVEMENT AND SHOULD BE PUBLICLY CONSIDERED THE WORK OF UNAFFILIATED RADICALS, AGENT PROVOCATEURS, SPIES, INFORMANTS, AND THE COUNTER INTELLIGENCE PROGRAMS OF THE STATE AND ITS VARIOUS SECURITY APPERATUSES.

 

1. THE Z.OB. BEGINNING 17th September, 2012 WILL CARRY OUT ONE OPERATION A DAY AGAINST ALL LEGITMATE WAR CRIMINALS AND THEIR AFFILIATED INSTITUTIONS WHO BY THEIR ACTIONS VIOLATE OUR UNIVERSAL HUMAN RIGHTS.

 

OUR AIM IS TO STRIKE THESE VIOLATORS IN THEIR POCKETS AND BRING PUBLIC OUTRAGE AND ATTENTION TO THE MEN AND WOMEN WHO RUIN OUR NATION AND REDUCE THE WORLD TO CHATTEL SLAVERY.

 

1. ANY ATTEMPT TO ARREST OR MURDER OUR ORGANIZERS AND SUPPORTERS WILL RESULT IN EXPONENTIAL INCREASE IN RESISTANCE OPERATIONS.

 

1948. THE Z.O.B. WILL NOT STOP FIGHTING UNTIL EVERY LAST WOMAN, MAN and CHILD HAS BEEN GRANTED THE FULL 30 HUMAN RIGHTS AS CODIFIED AND PROMISED BY THE UNITED NATIONS and ALL PARTICIPATING NATIONS in 1948.

 

9. WE, HEREBYE ON 09.10.12 DECLARE UNRELENTING WAR ON THE CLASS OF THOSE THAT HAVE FOR GENERATIONS RAPED, ROBBED, CARRIED OUT GENOCIDE, AND INSTITUTED SLAVERY UPON THE COMMON HUMANITY TO WHICH WE ALL BELONG.
10. NO QUARTER WILL BE ASKED, NOR EXPECTED.

• WE WILL BRING THESE OLIGARCHS, BANKERS, BUSINESS MEN AND CRUEL DESPOTS, war criminals all to their knees to stand trial for what they have done and VIA OUR RESISTANCE WE WILL FORGE A WORLD OF DIGNITY, EQUALITY AND FREEDOM.

 

HUMANITY THIS IS OUR CALL TO ARMS.

 

NEW YORKERS THIS IS YOUR BATTLE CRY.

 

THIS IS A WAR TO THE DEATH.

 

 

The People of New York will lock arms with the people of the world and the dream of freedom which has been crushed for generations will carry our uprising to its full and inevitable victory.

 

 

That following evening of September 11^th Sebastian and dozens of other activists using the Cely-Signal-Telegram text dispatch system, boarded the subway cars with flicker masks and blue fatigues. They took nearly every train line hostage across 5 boroughs, all numbers, letters and colors. Terror and spectacle abound! Not even one lethal bullet in the guns, which almost no units even had to brandish; the captive audiences were petrified or participatory in the aktion.

Sebastian’s unit A08; took over the A train Manhattan bound from the Rockaways alongside an anarchist named Spike, the actor Siegfried Sassoon, a younger women named Clare they recruited off of OK Cupid and a film maker named Nicholas Mapfre. And eight back up team members whose names and faces he didn’t have to know.

Sebastian once road this self-same train to and from his Star crossed lover Yelizaveta Kotlyarova Perechenova, but now in his rapid speeches and flying mannerisms he dedicates this to all his injured people’s in domestic and also far flung lands. One night, this raid to redeem his American hypocrisy; to take over a train because his love is a warrior’s love. He has been sleeping for how knows how long, but it’s coming back to him slowly. What his place is in the chain.

Dasha called out to him earlier on the black berry smart phone to ask him be careful. She is no damsel in distress and he is no Shamel Basayev, yet. But she knows him much better than he knows she or she works for. She knows he’s waking up from a day dream.

Trains are stormed all over the city for mostly militant public addresses and passing out of homework assignments from big grey bags. Although, all of them are emptied right before the District financial where many cross.

Emptied and dynamited. The bankers take cabs to work, caps or ferries or are driven. This is to keep all of their surfs away. Deter servitude.

The speech needs to be cut short because he gives it over each transfer of the cars. Sometimes Spike or Siggy or Clare give the speech. It begins with, “My name is Zachariah Artstien, an organizer with the human rights resistance! Affiliated with the Z.O.B., we are not here to hurt anyone or take your money! We are here to declare that you have human rights and we must now link arms and fight for them.”

“Today is the 11^th of September, when ten years ago the Oligarchs manufactured an attack on us to secure their power and control. In six days the People’s Army of the General Resistance Alliance will attack the District Financial! If you ain’t running with it run from it!”

New York is the city of such disturbances. It’s also a mind-your-fucking business city. Its people are also heavily armed. But no on pulls on them tonight.

“Please don’t get yourself shot to ferment hope alone,” Dasha warns him and she hopes he isn’t killed because he is capable of making a woman care about him. But perhaps not her on a long enough time line.

Sebastian and his associates with their scary masks, one with a video camera tell tales of the Syrian Free Army. Of Israeli apartheid. Of the one black or Hispanic youth killed every 48 hours by the police. Of the 1 in 8 black men in prison. Of war, endless war consuming all around for the dubious purposes of Afghani and Iraqi and Persian “liberations”. The conspirators film the whole thing, in case they are captured or killed. For the viewers at home on the Livestreams.

After all the tales end, told by the three hostage taking narrators, “We are sorry for our operations washing aside considerations of your health and safety. You cannot join us, we are organized tight as drum, but go to your churches, mosques and temples, your gangs, crews and neighborhood councils, stay strong and carry on as we are all under siege together.”

 

And to a captive train load an adaptive audience held hostage, the cameras of Nicholas Mapfre running, Sebastian began a speech, about a four minute speech per car.

 

“Hyperdevelopment is the physical and moral state of core country populations that result from proximity to overabundance!”

“While each core country maintains an underclass of newly arrived immigrants, ethnic subturns, welfare subsidiaries and others are utilized for domestic exploitation on a variety of levels. Low cost wage labor, military or police service, undesirable or dangerous work, service sectors and prostitution; jobs considered below the acceptability of core ethnic identity in power.”

No one got up to open fire on them yet, which was good, as they were wearing blue uniforms and crazed masks in the age of public transport terror.

“Blacks in United States, Algerians in France, Turks in Germany or various former colonial groups in England. However, nearly every person citizen or undocumented migrant residing in a core country can despite low probability of achieving meaningful wealth; access a range of social services, enjoy relative security and purchase a full range of consumer goods. Hyperdevelopment affects all within the territories of the Core.”

“While clearly some of the highest Palma Index and GINI coefficient variances occur within the core at rate in the United States of 47 to 1 in wealth difference; hyper development is the result of goods, commodities and general capital flows back to the centers of financial hegemony; New York, Berlin, Geneva and London.”

Now Spike Timchenko jumped in, his mask was a grimacing ghost sleep no more mask;

“While the political directives of the USA form the overt course of policy and international relations; shared race, history and basic cultural religious values have allowed for Euro-American elite consensus to function more fluidly than its 1945-1989 core contender and nemesis the Soviet Union grappling with a far wider ethnic elite, a less structurally manageable economic system and a far new set of oligarchs; the inner circle of the Communist Party, KGB and subsequent energy moguls.”

He wonders if they understand anything he’s saying, wonders if they have unplugged from their smart phones and iPods.

Spike continues;

“Hyperdevelopment leads to things like the US obesity epidemic, high levels of moral decay such as the feminist consensus that 1/3 women in the US is a victim of sexual assault before age 18. It is access to too much food, constant imperatives to purchase more of everything, the owning of multiple vehicles per family, the imagined entitlement to home ownership and the ownership of homes far in excess of what a family unit requires. It is an exaggerated sense of importance and uniqueness.”

He concludes as the train rumbles into the upcoming station.

“It is a complete apathy as to what is occurring not only in one’s own community but certainly the rest of the world. It is media over saturation; constantly plugged in cell phones, movies, music and video games. It is a decline in meaningful literacy, a tacit embrace of ethnocentric white (in the case of the current hegemonic order) supremacy. It is over availability of print media and pundit debate, but relatively poor engagement of the political machine itself. It is the right to vote between red and blue flavors. It is a severely myopic world view manufactured by the educational system and media.”

 

 

“Power to the people!” an old black man says and pumps his fist.

 

“We are asking for you to work in sympathy with the resistance,” says Adon.

“We have a bag of homework assignments. Simple ways to assist the general strike and uprising coming on 17 September. The best way you can assist it is to join us in the streets. If you cannot stay at home. Wall Street will be a battle field. Support the Résistance anyway you are able.”

They were mostly greeted with quiet applause, but no one shoots at them or turns them in. And in this city that counts for something. Most people take home work, perhaps largely out of curiosity.

Later Sebastian and his three cohorts are at the end of the line and the job has been carried without any of the possible predictions of arrest by the authorities or mob violence against them. A sigh of relief.

“It’s nice to see that on the eve of September 11^th, 11 years later, security is tight as drum,” notes Mr. Spike Timchenko an anarchist childhood friend of Zachariah, the nom de guerre of Sebastian Adon.

So when Sebastian gets back to the financial district and he confirms around 2am with Dasha he’s alive and she breathes back a sign of near panic. He writes poems for her. Places them on old school gold painted stationary, dedicating resistance to her, although to her, it is more like street theatre carried up on a moving, highly privileged stage.

 

She texts him;

 

“I made you a picture of your bleeding heart.”

 

Bleeding out yes, unasked for and unheeded, a mighty pump. His heart was quite known to hemorrhage over little and for nothing. And certainly at the invitation of No One.

 

Who then was this Mr. No One, the handler, the man in the control room playing with all the pieces and running the show?

 

 

 

 

 

SCENE 21

Brighton 5^th Street, 2012ce

BRIGHTON BEACH

 

 

The Russian Quarter is always teeming with life. Were I to put my finger in it; my nostril to the whiff beyond her buxom chest; it smells like potato pancakes, cherry perfume, cigarette smoke and fish. Smoked fish. It runs along and below the above ground Yellow Q and Orange B Express train line which rumbles above like a mechanical wave breaking in the six story tenement row houses made of red brown brick. Following the Q line above ground the architecture of the quarter goes from a mix of these artless, durable six stories inter mixed with modest suburban homes running towards the coast. The Northern most boundary of the quarter is Kings Highway because it is here that street signs appear in Cyrillic[49]. Although the overlap with Midwood Ivoryish zone overlaps with the Russian quarter until avenue H where the Ayitian Bar Lev line was drawn in 1996. Drugs nor guns nor traffic can move north of that line or south. District Midwood is one of eleven Ivoryish ghettos in the greater New York area, a place of prayer and tunnels and coming and going. Sebastian Adon lived in that district for eight years on Ocean and H. He knows its comings and goings

The Russian quarter is awash with small restaurants with live music sung by comical tamidahs and various slender, busty, well made up on every level Slavic goddesses. And prix fixed meals. Its western border is Coney Island Avenue, which at Kings Highway becomes a Pakistani district where Shar’iah law is secretly enforced.

Coney island avenue runs parried. To Ocean Avenue to the east and ocean parkway to the west, and these three routes had to be thoroughly barricaded to turn back the advance of the National Guard and the 104^th and 116th tank column of Christmas Eve; 2015 or in the parlance of the rebels AR 3. That is still three years to come.

The eastern border if the quarter was Nostrand Avenue. Where the Russian quarter ends and the West Indian quarter begins, largely composed of Ayitian s and Jamaicans. There were never walls around the quarter, not before the revolt or after not even when the southern rim of Brighton and Coney Island because the internationally famous green light district once the Soviet was recognized by Russia and China in AR 7, or 2019 common era. There were not physical walks but perhaps linguistic mental walls that trapped the mentality of those.in the quarter somewhere between the 18th and 21st century. Perhaps between the old world and the new. Perhaps rendering the seditious place it was and is, a place unlike any others where by huddled refugees and expatriate radicals were walled in Brooklyn habitations in a space that was neither Russia nor America, a purgatory. For had the three million souls of the future Brooklyn, excuse me Breuklyn Soviet ever been embraced by the Americans perhaps they would not have enjoined the rising. For what solidarity did those in the quarter have with Ivoryish spies and black revolutionaries? Nothing. Less than nothing. So little nothing that the majority of the quarter might have seat the whole thing out, we’re that an option. But with all the other tribes in arms and the National Guard shelling so indiscriminately well most joined in the rising before long simply to avenge or protect their own.

That is a characteristic that certainly embodies the Russian quarter. They rugged are social individualists. As in their circle of live work and loyalty contracts rapidly even in the face of minor hardship. No other race has ever been fully enslaved by its’ own people first via serfdom then via Stalinism. It ruined them as a collective or idealist species. That circle of loyalty contracts down to one. Themselves in away few other races do. At a certain point they might throw their children and wives into the raising seas. A wretched generalization but their individual will is harder than any. It is impossible to break. The social nature if their individualism is the solidly of the alliances they form. With anyone that properly secures their ends of individual betterment. They are turtle loyal and truly blind for those that aid them. They go inside a hard shell indeed and not god or insects can crack it. It is made of strongest stuff

Perhaps never not even ever having anything but predators as presidents and thieves for kings. Often the Russian quarter was festive, often feisty often a place of lawless abuses. You couldn’t ever know unless you knew the name of a song in Cyrillic.

 

She met on the boardwalk, I stood there smoking a Newport sizing up the Green from the Blue Tatianna’s nothing knowing how different they were. I was sleep deprived.

She had told me this rambling story about being the great granddaughter of a German baroness. This seemed like the kinds of stories all White Russian women concoct to erect a regal lineage that the revolution had maligned. Yelizaveta and Maria hadn’t made up such stories, they had others though that were comparable. But Yelizaveta and Maria’s fathers had been Red Russians[50] and inner party members. They were less fixated on the 19^th century it seemed.

There were always these vague and ambiguous narratives Sebastian noticed about what their fathers did or didn’t do during the Soviet Union. Maria’s father had completely disappeared in Chechnya, allegedly been shot by friendly fire; he had been a General, but was dead before she was four or the family joined the exodus. Yelizaveta’s father had been a “dentist”. Or perhaps an expert interrogator. It was hard to deduce. What was the truth and what was the darkness that creeps out into his world any time he encounters them, these post and former Soviets.

Anyhow, Dasha was claiming to be part Ivoryish via her German Baroness Great Grandmother and that was her story for now. Her father apparently had just been a tramp and run out on her mom at fairly a young age.

She kisses him on each cheek and takes out a picture, wrapped up in papers and a bow.

“For you,” she states.

He opens it and it’s quite something, so black and dark and vivid. A heart. A black, black heart. But, his or hers? To what symbolic level goes it?

“Amazing, I love it,” he replies.

And for the nearly the first time in his life, he means it.

“I’m so glad.” She says with her big blue person eyes beaming?

“Shall we go get red wine?” she suggests.

That night long after midnight, late, late after a few shots, and some wine and a few dozen shared cigarettes in Cafes in and around Manhattan Beach they walk their walk, tumbled really toward to yacht yards and mansion of Sheepshead Bay.

And one point she yanks his collar close and says; “taste me”; she puts wine into him mouth to mouth.

The night gets early, he’s lost chasing her.

He runs his fingers through her thick blond lion’s mane. She leans into him on bar stools or when they go outside to spoke, let’s her tits rest on him, brush against him.

“So you’re really an Ivory?” she asks.

“Yes at least part.”

“I want to ask you silly questions and you will answer them of, she smiles rolling up into his arms, “and you will get a prize if you win, understand. True answers only.”

            “Would you denounce your Ivoryish God and become an Eastern Orthodox Christian to please my mother?”

“I don’t believe in either God’s monopoly, why not?”

“If we were poor would you work on Saturdays to support me?”

“As I have for years.”

“Would you steal for me?

“The moon itself. And whatever was needed.”

“Would you make love to me with my husband sleeping in the next room?”

“Your cries of passion would wake him, so only if he were drugged.”

“Would you kill to protect me?”

“Without a thought.”

“If I killed someone would you help me cover it up?”

“Yes of course I’d try.”

“Try?”

“Try. Depends on the mess not the risk.”

A mental picture flashes in his head of a memory. Was it real. The two of them dismembering corpses and melting them in acid?

“If I asked you to kill for me would you do it?”

“Are you in trouble?” he asks like a stupid American.

“You know I’m a married woman?”

“I’d like to suggest it lacks certain integrities.”

“Does it? How could you known. You’ve known me what, five weeks?”

“Time is relative.”

“Maybe. My husbands a monster and my boyfriend is boring,” is all she says and pulls away from him.

She shows him marks on her poorly hidden.

She has black and blue marks on her chest and under both arms. Like she got herself fucked ruthlessly. She has hand cuff marks on her wrists.

“What do you want me to do about your situation?”

“There is nothing that can be done.”

“I could take you away.”

“You could try.”

“You have to tell me what you want me to do, not what you assume is possible.”

“What’s the thing you Americans say, oh yes: You and what army.”

“What are those marks from?”

“Me being loved by three men.”

He looks sad, it breaks through. Sad for her and him both.

“You could leave with me. Tonight. I have enough money to get us away.”

“I doubt that.  I have expensive tastes.”

“Curb them?”

“Are you going to give me new clothes? And a beautiful home; and pay for my school. And give me a credit card. Give me money to send my ailing mother in Penza? Ivory.”

“I think I could give you a better life than this shit, this life. In this miserable city.”

“You can’t give me what I need. As sweet as you are.”

“I don’t think you’d be with me if you didn’t think I could try.”

“You’re broke. You’re in school. You’re up to shit, I know. Don’t think I don’t know what you and your friends are up to. You’re all gonna die.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you think I don’t know?”

“What do you think you know?”

“I got to know a lot of guys when they brought me here.”

“Who?”

“The Perchevney Bratva.”

“You’ve told me so many fucking stories about how you got here, who keeps you, what’s true. What! You play mind games like the best of us.”

“My girlfriend and I were hired to let a couple bankers work us up two nights ago. When I told you I was studying. I was being fucked by two Wall Street guys, swapping my friend and I for hours. These marks are from them, not my fake ass paperwork husband. Not my boyfriend.”

He wonders what if any of the story is real.

“The wall street guys were fucked out their minds. They were going at us for hours. Taking long breaks to do coke and talk about shit they own.”

He has been asleep because she keep feeding him booze. He wakes up sometimes and knows his role, but then goes to sleep and forgets what is about to go down.

“They know you and the so-called resistance are going to attack the exchange on 17 September. In two days. They know that you’re all going to try and take over the whole district and provoke a state of emergency. They know. The cops know. The National Guard know. The FBI know. The Bureau of Homeland security knows. Breria, knows. They are going to lure you all into those narrow streets and spaces. They’re going to wait one day. They’re going to kill every single one of you with gas. Now you tell me. What horse am I betting on? My fat American husband. My Russian accountant boyfriend washing money at the biggest hotel in midtown? My boss, the Israeli pimp who pays me one grand every night I take a Wall Street guy, a banker or celebrity out to dinner? Or you? The bipolar ambulance man, who has less than 400 in the bank, is on the B.H.S. (Bureau of Homeland Security) kill list, can’t buy me a new life, and can’t save me. All you have is happy noble Amerikanski ideals and some poems. You probably shouldn’t see me again.”

He knows she’s right about at least what’s in his account.

 

“I can get us out of this city, I can take you away from this life,” Sebastian says, “I…”

“You are going to tell me you love me?” she asks him.

He doesn’t respond, that word means nothing anyway in English.

“You better not even fucking dare.”

“I’ll give you my life and I kill anyone who is hurting you. I’ll bury your husband, your boyfriend your Ivory pimp. I’ll bury Breria[51] himself.”

She kisses him hard. Fuck it, she thinks he’ll probably be dead in a couple of days.

 

And that was how she began to suspect that he truly was the man she’d dreamed about as a younger girl with the powers she was born with, from a line of old souled sorceresses; and she of course recorded the entire conversation on her smart phone recorder as evidence for her handlers, well we all have them really.

Shortly they could cross this very, very loose and erratic cannon off their growing shorter list. He was so fucking out there, he was not to be allowed to walk off the map this time.

“I know a little hotel at the boardwalks end with mirrors on the ceiling,” she whispers to him, “I have to sleep at home tonight but he’s not gonna come home tomorrow. You can’t save my soul or fix my life, but you can do what you want to body, if I like it.” Now that was a value proposition, if he had ever heard one.

 

 

 

SCENE 22

Light House Inn, 2011ce

Sheepshead Bay

 

 

The following evening came and he was hard. In spiritual and conventionally phallic ways too. He sits there looking at the crashing waves and Eifel Tower of Brooklyn lit up red to the east, the parasol drop.

Dasha Andreavna arrives in the cold of night, met him as the usual place on the boardwalk, by Tatiana Blues.

One astounding thing about her was the variety of looks she wore upon her face. The way she carried her out worldly self, as well as her firm control of her surroundings via her deliberate metamorphosis from often carefree nymph to a severe and serious instructor of social etiquette and use of language. This perhaps this was the result of being born into the tender firm and earthly body of a non-aging and busty school girl, while her memory of events could trace its analysis across four centuries of wax and waning hardship were she ever to stop drinking. Her analogue disposition was that of vast kindness, but she resorted lately to various manipulations. It was the temperament best suited for dealing with savages and bonobos alike. For she was not descended from monkeys and her soul was not like any other he’d encountered.

They walk briskly toward the Sheepshead Bay district, which looks madly like a destitute and run down Tel Aviv, he always thinks so. Little second and third rate jazz clubs, micro mansions and the dirty boat canal.

He kisses her hard before she even closes the motel door behind her. He thrusts her against the wall clutching her tight and he smells like some cheap but ok cologne. She likes his taste. She can smell on him the desire to fuck her good and hard. He’s tender until he drinks a little, or gets her ass in his palm.

She pulls him in and tells him, “You miss me a lot then?”

He always misses her now.

She’s all he thinks about. Her big blue eyes. Her stunning baby face. Her devil smile. How she fits in his arms. How he hopes he barely fits in all of her tight little spaces. He longs to suck on her big perfect breasts.

He hangs her coat and she grabs his ass.

He carries her over to the bed. All he can think about is how tight she is every single time he enters her pussy, how hard she kisses him, how much he thinks he loves her, and just how long she can take his cock. He’s insatiable. And she can fuck him for days he’s sure.

It’s interesting to think such things about a woman you’ve only just kissed. He’s had three weeks of dreams about it. About what it would be like to have her.

The motel room has off white walls, poor lighting and smells like scented candles. There are indeed mirrors on the ceiling and walls. But it’s better than the ones before, the gypsy tents and beach blankets. It was just under $200 US for the room, almost half what was in his account. In the room is a new red desk and queen sized brown wooden bed with posts. Nothings on the desk. He lays her on the bed and kisses her hard again. They make out and she rubs his big cock through his jeans wanting to taste it. Wanting to suck him off twice. She’s wearing a short skirt and red lace panties; a black short skirt and tank top which makes her thick pale tits look quite perfect. He’s already rock hard thinking about taking her. He rubs on her breasts.

He wants to rip off her panties and fuck her brutally until she screams. He wants to take off his belt and put it around her neck and fuck her over the red desk until his hot cum fills her pussy. She’s so prim and perfect. She’s young and luscious and graceful. He wants to put her on her knees.

“Slow down,” she whispers anticipating his hungry lust, “we have all forever. Take your time baby make me a few times cum and extra hard. Seduce me.”

He starts rubbing her pussy with his fingers while she sucks his thumb. He likes her to take him all the way down her throat to gag on big cock. He’s looking up a voodoo spell to double himself so she can suck him while his twin fucks her on her knees from behind. She’s not sure if she can take two of him. It’s hard to slow him down. He just imagines always the tightness of when he enters. Like she’s fucking for the first time. That tight. What an illusion. That tasty and pure. Once he’s in thrusting all he can think about is pleasing her. He loves her amazing pussy. Its taste and its shape and its fit. She always shudders when he goes in. He wants to fill her with hot cum and break her in. He wants to fuck her hard and everywhere, put her legs on his shoulders and ram his cock as far as it will go make her beg him for to empty load after load inside her…

“Slow baby slow” she whispers.

He breathes deep. His mind can’t stop running ahead.

“I’m going to suck your cock dry tonight baby,” she whispers in Russian, “I’m going lick that cock and stroke it so well. But first you gotta play with me right.”

He has no idea what the fuck she is or isn’t saying.

She takes his index finger and shows him how she’ll suck him. He’s beside her. Takes her panties down and puts a finger in her pussy. So amazingly tight. He rubs her up and down and wants her to be his baby forever. He wants to please her so well that she can’t even remember the faces of other men. Men like her pimp or her husband. He can’t think of anything but her all day at work. She sends him pictures sometimes in her lingerie and asks him to tell her what he’ll do when they get to the hotel.

Since she started class she only fucks two or three men a day.

He plays with her gently rubbing her pussy. Whispers in her ear, “I’m gonna love you hard tonight.” She moans and say, “Please, please.” But hopes he is gentle. Then throws that away since men are not gentle.

Her shirt is still on and she’s rubbing is cock thorough his jeans. He licks down her leg and rolls up the shirt. He grabs her thighs and licks and licks and licks. She moans and tells him again what she’ll do on her knees. He’s got one finger in her working back and forth, can barely fit a second. He looks up and she’s her happy moaning face.

When it seems like she is about to cum, which is charade for she can cum on demand, he whole body contorting in ecstasy; he pick her up and pushes her over the red table.

“You’re gonna take my cock everywhere.” Did he think it or say it?

Men say that shit all the time.

She looks like a sexy little foreign school girl when she wants to or sometimes like a grown ass woman of the night. She can also be anything else, but always beautiful and dignified and pure at heart for him. He wants her to be his boss outside. He wants to be her servant and student he knows she’s wise beyond her years by a hundred. But in their inner rooms of that Sheepshead Bay motel he wants her to let him break her in as his for now. He wants to tie her wild ways and fuck her so ferociously that she cannot remember another man but him.

He wouldn’t be the first of last to try.

He lifts her skirt and guides his thick cock inside her. He moans, she’s incredible to taste and even more so to ride. He big pale breast are in his mouth one by one. He likes her to keep sucking his big fingers while he tries to go slowly back and forth pushing deeper.

“I’m going to try and break you,” he says. So you’re calmer.

And then for the next few hours he tries.

She’s bent over the desk now with her panties in her mouth and can she feel herself convulsing as his penis rams up her cumming for the third time in five hours.

Was that real or was that witchcraft?

In the candle light in the mirror besides the bed and one the ceiling. She wants to civilize him. Make him her serf. For sex and smoothies. Can he be taught? Where did she learn to fuck like that?  For an agitation propaganda officer he’s quite good. He finally slowly pushes deeper and takes her hands. He begins going faster one last time. “I’m gonna fuck that tight ass baby. I’m gonna you have you beg for my dick for days,” he mutters in Ivory.

“Fuck me harder Jew,” she yells at him in Russian.

But she loves to beg him. Beg him to serve her. Beg him to make her cum again. She likes him to treat her like the goddess she is. He begins pumping faster. And cums in her. Lying there awhile then he bathes her. Washes all the blood and cum off them both. And they pass out eventually before dawn, on the springy motel bed.

Dead men get a last wish in every great culture she thinks, should she let herself out and go home, that would prudent. No, that would hurt him she things with mercy.

Now that she owned him, I guess she could help him finally die.

 

 

 

 

SCENE 23

Partisan Shrine, 2011ce

Sheepshead bay

 

 

 

Time stopped it seemed for Sebastian Adon between the double blue moons of Labor Day Weekend and the 17 of September, the date of the General uprising. It was as if the bite of Dasha Andreavna, through his index finger to the bone had altered his very electricity and chemistry. Was it the moon; perhaps for we are but 70% water; or was she something clandestine, if not supra-natural? With so many variables, no many players and plots vying for the most cost effective means to the biggest slice of the apple; well it makes a dizzying narrative.

 

But from the minute she bit into him, the night they perished in a fourth dimensional sense on that roof; the days became long. Sebastian had forgone the gift of sleep. At some point he had had taken some pills that abstracted his world, deduced him to a broken shell. The glory of his early life and past lives squandered, but Dasha knew his face; knew his capabilities; knew how to wake a sleeper sleeping. For four straight weeks neither she nor he slept. The one or two hours of snooze was purely for biologics sake; they flattened out time.

 

On 15 September they walked down the Coney Island boardwalk towards Manhattan Beach; towards the strip of mansions and yachts in Sheep’s Head. They came across a shrine. An iron torch wrapped in barbed wire about a pillar; around the base which extended out in a marble slab as if for human sacrifice. There were dozens of low cut tombs with the names of villages and families and entire peoples wiped out in the Nazi holocaust. Upon each a short story of things Sebastian knew, knew as if experienced. And they paused there in the dry docks and canals of Sheep’s Head, with the jazz cafes and lounges lined up on Emmons Ave.

 

Time stopped yet again.

 

“What is this poorly maintained shrine,” she asks him, “why do we linger here?”

 

And everything about his life he then knew to be a fabrication. His name, his parents, his religion, his country of origin. All a clever, highly cultivated disguise.

 

He was suddenly in many places and times at once. He was explaining to her the significance of the Partizan shrine; he was teaching her about his people’s history. She was telling him that her Ivoryish grandmother married a German baron and hid a Ivoryish lover in the manor for the duration of the purge. He told her about how when he was young he used to train with black guerillas in the shadows of these shrines all over the city; as if the younger he knew more of his past life than the man now; the man who has his face and memories wiped out repeatedly after being used by both sides of the war? Yes, the war. The oldest war; between humans and those that prey on them. And those humans which help the predators exploit us. The collaborators. They begin cleaning up the Partizan shrine which is gratified and defiled.

 

“What about the hatch?” she asks.

 

“The hatch?”

 

“I heard that under every holocaust shrine is a hatch to great behemoth craft; a black freighter ready to carry your people out to sea. If the purge, when the purge begins again.”

 

There appears to be a hollow in the base of the pillar upon which the flame site. She reaches in to brush the leaves aside, looking for the hatch. She cuts her hand on glass and bleeds out all over the shrine, until he goes in his jump bag for some bandages and iodine to pour. He secures her, she never cries out; just bleeds on her pretty dress, bleeds on the shrine.

 

“My personal paramedic,” she says, “no hatch.”

 

He is using much more of brain now. Able to be several places at once. He has seen the hatch open, seen that it needs a hand grenade to break the shrine and controlled explosion to pop the layer open to the great craft; the 24,000 person capacity nuclear powered black exodus freighter. And its sister crafts in Star City, Fort Totten, Fort Washington, Waterside and Seagate. And the corrupted one under Richmond Plaza. He thinks the freighters have been there since the 80’s. She shouldn’t know about them; unless, unless.

 

So it’s hard to describe fourth dimensional time; being in numerous reality states and historical times. She was her great grandmother he was the Ivoryish lover in the closet space hidden away. He’d been to Vienna; he’s bombed the theatre there also bombed a police station. So now, now in this state he knows that he’s not just a three dimensional man; 29 years old, a petty bourgeoisie of mixed Caucasian race in a paramedic program after the fire department put him on trial for Ayiti, after the Israelis locked him up briefly and deported him for treason; he’s self-aware. He remembers the camps. He remembers the Sharashka Waltham, which is to say remembering things that haven’t even happened yet.

 

“Where are you right now?” Dasha asks him.

 

“I’m in the Waltham Special Engineering Camp, inventing the blue print 5 module training system, three years from now.”

 

“Good. Well finally, you’re awake. Five weeks under man.”

 

There was this whole other life happening all at the same time, happening while he slept and the rational mind cultivated by the Pharisees told him that his delusions were delusions but the world was sane. And several times, several times Lt. Moishe Klein asked him, “a sane man in an insane world is what?”

 

And the least complicated answer was, “insane.”

 

“What are you after?” she asks him, there in the fall, there in New York, there in front of the Sheep’s Head Bay Partizan shrine, the pillar covered in barbed wire and former Soviet looking torch.

 

“I want to know the truth about our, nature.”

 

“You need to process the truth about yourself Old Soul, you need to ask why other men sleep and you are awake, ask why you attract the others with the full range view; ask about why people like us don’t die; we just get reborn in new realities or vessels, over and over and over; why? You tell me because you’re older.”

 

“Emma?”

 

“Man, I’m not your long dead wife,” she says in total scorn.

 

He sees all these things and times. The Black Freighters levitating into the air with the waters rising up and over the ramparts and swallowing up the bay. He sees massive flying fortress ships gas rocketing Brooklyn, Breuklyn? Breuklyn Soviet; the citadel of the un-born messiahs’ the son and daughter of the Mahdi?

 

“How many times have we danced?” he asks her.

 

“We’ve been dancing a lot since the 17^th century poetic little gun slinger. I’m not as old as you, I’m just currently more self-aware. Ochen Bolshoi.”

 

He remembers another time and place when she found him sleeping at the base of the Shrine; Vienna maybe, 1804? 1886? Aren’t those the reset dates? Hard to say all made up dates anyway. She found him and he drew for her and they were lovers for a year until the secret police murdered her. Was that the oldest story? And there was the German baron, there was another time in the 1990’s maybe when he refused to leave the park because fucking Italians (Sicilians really) in the Columbus Association would come every year and sacrifice a virgin Ivoryiss there by gang raping her on the marble slab; the cops would never be there. They’d go to church and be absolved the very next day. They would be asleep. And she showed up the morning he was sleeping there and she said she’s help him defend the shrine, prevent this year’s annual Yom Kippur rape atrocity. And Mickhi Dbrisk showed up and the three of them with bats guarded the shrine so when the Italians from Garretson beach did show up to decorate and foul the shrink; they three of them reinforced by forty Crips with bats really fucked those nasty kids up, broke out a lot of teeth. Was that the 1990’s? Was that during the Crown Heights Riots, the Ivory-West Indian mass hate crime? Was it reality or should I say linear Pharisee[52] created three dimensional reality.

 

“Are you setting me up for someone?” he asks.

“Not me, No-One is setting you up,” she replies.

 

And the doors closed on me at Avenue H and the Q train southbound to Stillwell Ave. carries her home, to her husband on Banner Ave. Like I shall never see her alive again. That is what all nights have felt like since I have known her, but these four of five weeks. Parting with her is a type of death.

 

Knowing she returns to such an animal neither she nor I can control or break from. I begged her many time to leave with me to somewhere, to anywhere really. She only quietly laughed and loudly judged me.

 

The cabs could take us still thorough the Battery tunnel, but we often had to board the trains to get deeper into what was quickly becoming the most heavily armed and barricaded urban stronghold barring perhaps Baghdad and Mogadishu. Every ethnic group, every gang and mafia, every faction was warming up observing what was about to occur in the city the morning afternoon and next week days and weeks after 17 September. September 1^st had been a Great Disruption, all listening to the f IRE switch, fire station radio broadcasts knew what was soon to happen; a great slaughter.

 

So in Brooklyn, Queens the Bronx and many other places like ATL, Boston, Flint, Hartford and Detroit the innumerous factions of resistance dug the hell in. They got ready to hold ground, room to room, block to block. No one thought it would be feasible to storm the district financial. A real one way trip. But Anarchists are always after hard, symbolic targets and by that stage the city unions and student movement were behind them in the raid.

 

The blood of the left would spray into and open the eyes of the right and the center so went the brinkmanship of the Planning Section chiefs in the Breuklyn Bath and Rifle Club called also called the Banshee Otriad. There would be no Anarchist Trials here, who even had time for such warnings; only massacre and atrocity. Followed by deceptions like ones perpetrated in September 2001 and again in January of 2009.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 24

Zuccotti Park/ Liberty Square, 2012ce

Financial district

 

 

 

On 16 September the clock counts, ticks, trickles down. The demonstrations are growing in size across the city stoked by the mismanagement and brutality of the National Guard and local police forces in Brooklyn, the barricade line on Atlantic and Flatbush seems to be holding.

The Fire Switch station has been guiding residents how to fortify their blocs, knock out walls and basements for mobile firing positions, how to build phosphorous grenades and Molotov cocktails, playing the right song when your block association needs to flip city buses and turn them into barricades.

 

There is a no fly zone over all of Brooklyn and the Bronx, although the government has all the helimonsters and drones in needs fueling in Jersey.

 

A flying fortress[53] is fueling up in the skies above Staten Island, that’s no good. You can’t fight a flying fortress with ideas or even long guns.

 

There is no Federal control in most of the outlying city boroughs except Staten Island where the National Guard is staging. Police officer of the NYPD are being ambushed and killed all over Brooklyn and the Bronx, Queens has been more quiet, but is barricaded up tight; most important players are the Latin Kings (newly political again), Chinese Mafia, the Bangladeshi trade union federation and the Polish Press.

 

Sebastian and Dasha wandered around the District financial, which appears all but empty. He took her heart painting to be framed by the one armed Egyptian Musa the fantastic framer. He took her to a small Cuban restaurant near the South Street seaport for late lunch and then his bank account said over drawn, so she paid with her husband’s black Amex, I notice the name on the card.

Wondered were it a taste of things to come?

He’s wearing a blue pin stripe suit and looks handsome for a nearly broke dead guy. They wander around the district both knowing from different sources what is coming down hard tomorrow.

 

Eventually Sebastian calls a Mexican Express car service, she drags him into the long perilous journey quite easily. They make out for a while, and then she demands a poem. He takes one out of his satchel. He read it for a while until it’s clear she is asleep.

 

Grim sureality sets in further. They split a cab through the lines back home for her, towards the Brighton Ghetto again via the Battery Tunnel the only passage still open, the Arab driver asks them if they want to fool around back there ‘people do all the time, it’s like I’m not ever here’; the shmuck says. What do you even say to that? They don’t even react, it’s banal to react to savages. Dasha gives him evil eyes.

 

The radio said that a Hurricane called Sandy would break ground the very next day. But you don’t need a weather man to know which way the wind blows as they say. Which is to say whenever there is serious warning of inclement whether there is about to be a crackdown ore a purge.

 

The cab had to stop at a two story rubble/ bus barricade across Atlantic Avenue. The Orthodox Ivoryish militia and several Ayitian sets of the Bloods were stopping all traffic from moving south of the Barclays, where rebel government was still in session. Only because Adon had lived on H and Ocean, only because he encountered a man he knew well Lt. Moishe Klein; were they allowed on foot to disembark.

 

“What a looker,” says Lt. Klein in Yiddish, “I’d hit that tookas for weeks.”

 

And once they clear the tertiary barricade wall on the Ocean Avenue Bridge, past the Avenue H bar lev defense lines staffed by hundreds of orthodox Ivoryish watchmen called the Shomriim (the Yid secret police army) as well as Garveyites and newly converted Crip and Blood sets; well they board the Q train toward Stillwell Ave.

 

The towers on Banner Avenue and Brighton 6^th, the Soviet style high rises put up in the Russian quarter in 1988 to absorb the million plus Ivory, claiming to be Ivoryish and Ivoryish-ish refugees that took boats and planes, but mostly planes to New York City in the years that the Soviet Union collapsed; those concrete towers looks like purgatory on a bad day. The rains that used to be early snows were hitting them hard. Nothing worse that cold, wet New York rains.

Ghetto Camp Alpha was here in the Brighton zone and Ghetto Camp Bravo was in Star City, a much more controlled environment between utterly lawless East New York, the Belt Parkway highway system, a swamp and a river.

 

He’s seen pictures of her house. The place is white and low lit and clean and god only knows; is anything about her life real. There are no books except the ones he’s given her. He’s been in the lobby and there the sureality of the whole affair ends, each night for four weeks timeless.

 

“Once last kiss,” she says and lays it on him and they turn the corner to arrive at the departure point of the 44 Banner Ave lobby.

 

But tonight something was different. There are nine Slavic man in grey and black suits waiting in the lobby. They aren’t smiling, they aren’t taking any prisoners except the two they planned to take. Eight sets of muscle fall on them and grapple them both to the ground. They resist as best they can, but it happens rather quickly. One of them back hands her in the face. Then hits her in the stomach and she doubles over and is brought the ground.

 

A boot stamps on Sebastian’s chest and he feels something rip inside him, hopefully not a kidney. They hit him with electricity somehow.

 

The last thing Sebastian Adon sees before electrified black asps crack against him and he falls to the ground stunned is the grinning baby face of Dmitry Khulushin, his nemesis.

The ruthless Shtarkers quickly zip them up into body bags and carry them out to the running black bullet proof armored Escalades.

 

“Stop taking my stuff without paying” and Dmitry punches him in the face and knocks out his three front teeth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 25

Under Foxy’s Nightclub, 2011ce

Brighton beach

 

He wakes up somewhere. He was walking on the Tel Aviv boardwalk, running into all these old friends. Everyone was going ok. He was heading back to his wife and kids.

 

And then he wakes up upside down. He’s fixed up on leg manacles conjoined to the ceiling. He’s chained up in some dungeon, in some sub-basement Bratva torture center, maybe. It’s not a large chamber; just enough space to hang upside down toothless and naked from the ceiling. He chemically sedated, that he can feel. There is a black X tattooed over his heart and small black tattoo marks indicating placement of chest tubes and central lines. Like this is going to be a really fucking drawn out ordeal. The light is off. They are probably not even going to ask him any questions, for he knows how to indomitably lie. Most ominous in that there is a king sized bed and small stage and a boiler furnace below him. Evidently the plan to make him watch a rape and then burn him alive. That’s how these things go. Paramedic save thyself.

 

He wiggles a little, cold and bloody in the darkness.

 

The difficulty with Mr. Dmitry Khulushin Koch is that is he is a genius but also a cruel and most sadistic animal. So whatever torture he has in mind will be protracted. The last time I saw you I burned down your home with you parents inside of it, thinks Adon. Was that a real memory? This was a most timeless beef.

Do I do things like that?

Hanging upside down above a low burning gas furnace, in the low to no light of this rape room, Sebastian Adon reflects on his feelings.

 

Did Dasha set him up? They are going to torture him very badly and there is nothing that is pleasant about that, but he would feel very guilty if he had gotten her roped in without cause. He thinks he loves her. Well whatever that means. Loved her in another life? He has these memories of seeing this all exactly before. Of forty men raping his wife? His brand new lover? Forty men raping her until she could never look in the mirror again. Then they slit her throat and covered him in her blood, lit him on fire while they desecrate her corpse.

 

New Romans, I think.

 

The past and present are fluid things. And he knows they are not interested in anything but his pain and humiliation. Her total degradation is their policy towards those with the chosen blood line. All the blood is going to my head.

 

White lights come on and they strobe. Yep, they’re going to rape the hell of us and burn us alive for sport or Christian ritual. Forty men in animal masks and red robes enter the room and they’re carrying Dasha in white bath robe bound and in manacles struggling like she’s aware of how this Cult performs its sacrifices. They bind her to the king sized alter.

 

Filthy fucking non-believers after a taste of the blood and body of their Christ.

 

And I’ll tell you, I don’t pray a lot like I used to. Even moments just like this where a lot of the pieces line up and you realize that they took so goddamn much from you and your people. Here I am upside down and helpless while they defile this woman I love, I love? Yes, I love because she is one of the Tzadikk ha Dror candidates; the potential candidates for our generation’s messiah.

 

   “Let’s fuck this little busty bitch to death! Then we cook their bodies and eat their essence!” yells Dmitry Khulushin unmasked dropping is pants to penetrate. He starts fingering then fucking her. She’s gagged, I’m gagged. The strobe lights are flashing, some horrible screeching dub step is playing. There are men hitting me with electric batons. Dmitry is raping Dasha and punching her in the face.

 

One of these goons flicks on the low burner and I begin to slow cook.

 

They have this all set up for their sick fun, I am rotated to be barbequed and held feet over flame. I can feel the searing of toes. I can’t scream out were I inclined. I smell the cooking of my own flesh and it sticks to you forever that smell.

I think the worst part about a rape room is that you realize they just plan to make others suffer at your expense until you do what they want. But Dmitry Khulushin is a vampire; he’s a demon and he just loves his work.

He begins hitting her in the face as he fucks her. Getting off on her helplessness and mine. The humiliation of seeing those your love suffer. I know it well.

 

And then suddenly Dmitry, or really the flimsy husk holding him, has an enormous hole in his chest. And then his head ruptures and bursts brains all over the place. And his blood and guts fly out all over her naked mid-raped body.

Gunfire erupts, louder than the movies.

Because Watson Entwissle in a brown leather jacket and submachine gun has raided the ceremony with brown haired pixy Adelina Blazhennaya and she has put a powerful spell on everyone. As is his way Watson and a twelve person crew in flicker masks and Uzis are preparing to unload live rounds on every single hostile they see in a red robe.  Kill every single person in that bloody cult ordered Emma Solomon. And burn that white church to the ground.  And Adelina was only using majik. They had gunned their way into the bowls of this enormous white church in the heart of Coney Island; yet another Catholic front for the work of these murderous devils. They had encounter minimal resistance, so as she took point and pushed open the doors to the sacrifice;

 

“Davai,” she exclaimed. And with a small motion of her wrist, Dmitry’s heart exploded in his chest mid fuck, then she snap her fingers and his head blows off spraying blood everywhere. And before Watson Entwissle, the Mullato Ayitian and his fellow rebel gunman for the Z.O.B. can open their fire; forty devil rapist heads pop off. And forty dead cult members along with the latest husk of Dmitry Khulusin fall dead on the ground in crumbled bleeding piles. As if it were just that easy to dispatch evil.

 

Adelina pushes the latest body of the ancient devil Dmitry K. off the despoiled and now covered in blood pale busty body of Dasha Andreavna. She unlocks Dasha’s manacles and hands her a bathrobe to wipe herself and then tosses her a grey multiform. They will have to fight their way out of Bratva controlled Coney Island, best you believe.

The two women say nothing, not even hello or thank you. They know they are in competition for a lot more than the time, gun, sword or pen of Sebastian Adon. They are two of the most powerful candidates alive.

 

Watson turns off the flesh roasting fire and cuts Sebastian down, and he gets a hug and a thank you, and he can barely walk from the fire to feet. Sebastian has full thick ness burns to both his feet. They had flipped him vertical to cook and cook he did.

 

“Thanks for the nearly perfect timing frère,” Sebastian says in Ayitian Creole. Although Dmitry raped and black eyed his buxom candidate lover and they cooked his feet until he can’t walk thanks to the third degree. Other than that the timing, was nearly perfect.

 

They leave the ‘White Church’ in flames and all the ghouls headless like it is Paris 1789 all over again. With Sebastian on a stretcher they load up into three ambulances and take off for District Midwood, because even in this near lawless state of emergency you can’t just burn a big white church in Brooklyn with no reactions.

 

There are almost no cars on the roadway, a curfew was called on the radio. Which make is easier for the government drones to light up the convoy with air to surface missiles. And the missiles blow this ambulance convoy right off the parkway.

 

Around Avenue U hellfire rockets take out the first of the three ambulances in the convoy. The third shortly after. Dasha and Sebastian are in the middle of the convoy. She grabs the side arm off one of the rebel fighters and shoots him point blank in the chest. She sucker punches Adelina as hard as she can, and she goes down. And tires to put a round in Watson, but the gun jams. So she picks him up with her mind and throws him out of the back of the crashed ambulance. She tells Sebastian, “be cool, this is not a fruitful rescue party.” She tucks in note in Adeline’s bandoleer for later, explaining herself a little why she’s struck a candidate and country woman. “Sorry” is all it mostly says.

 

And she pressure strikes Watson in such an ancient way with four fingers, vasovagal and he goes out too.

 

She knows Sebastian can barely walk. So she throws him over her shoulder, like she was taught in the Black Cats Unit 669, when she trained under the mountain of a man Abner Kreminizer back in day; and she hauls his ass across the parkway before the drones can make their second pass for pick offs. She has no cash, no documents, no weapons, just was raped, but her mind and the extraction point at the Tavern is nearly 24 clicks north, across the barricade lines and down a three kilometer tunnel.

 

She has to get this man to her latest employer Sasho Alexandre Perchevney, bring him fully alive to the Mehanata Social Club so they can sit out this sure to be disastrous first phase of the American uprising alive and get the hell out this reality before it implodes. Either she has to carry him through the sewer and subway tunnels or listen to yet another disgusting Arab cab driver make degrading comments all the way back to Manhattan.

 

 

 

Chapter 26

1 Wall Street, 2012ce

Financial district

 

 

On 17 September over 144,000 demonstrators and over 10,000 cops (who knows where the papers got those numbers) battled across the tight & narrow ravines of the District Financial with bottle rockets, gas bombs and by mid-day were exchanging gun fire. The trade unions and socialists called in reinforcements around noon and soon the whole district was then awash in tear gas and broken glass and Taser fire and then quite live fire and protesters being beaten bloody in front of the stock exchange and the Deutsche Bank, something hit the mainstream prole feed media about a bomb going off in the Stock Exchange, and then, the TVs all switched to sports, commercials and giggling tits.

 

The rising on the anniversary of the occupation a year ago suppressed and the attempted recapture of Zuccotti Park was under way.

 

A national General Strike was declared in relation to the State of Emergency called for by the Anonymous and newly christened ‘Résistance Alliance’. It was observed only in L.A., Oakland, Detroit, and Chicago and partially in Boston, D.C. and Miami but then the internet went blank at 14:00. And the TV news babble junkied out misinformation, prole feed.

 

So then no one knew who has fighting where, resisting where, what was even happening. And so things then got a lot more violent than anyone had anticipated. Purge orders were issued by dreaded Director Breria of the Department of Homeland Security. Amidst a media and internet black out martial law had been declared. The District financial was surrounded. The Occupiers and unionists and students and innumerous others well over by then 600,000 demonstrators had over run most of the district and barricaded them streets leading into it.

 

The New York Stock Exchange was set ablaze around 22:00. A massive General Assembly held in Battery Park called for a full blown national revolution.

 

But, most of the country didn’t even know what was happening. The Department of Homeland Security activated FEMA, the Militias and the Guard. Then, just after midnight; sweet repression.

 

The Special Security Services, the NYPD, the Department of Homeland Security, the National Guard, and the rightist Patriotic Militias moved in; they gassed or shot virtually everyone. By the next day, there were corpses all over the streets, blood all over the trading floors and god only knows how many movement people were dead. No one knew. Almost nobody made it out of the district alive.

 

17 days from the initial rising at the Labor Day Parade the U.S. government had massacred over 50,000 activists and leftists, no one knew human many for sure; thousands of students and their supporters all but disappeared in the weeks to come. FEMA and the DHS under the strict leadership of Director Breria fanned out across the country and slaughtered 500,000 plus rebels and supporters, students and people they happened to know. It was as if these 500,000 persons had never even been. Or was it 50,000? 5,000? Or had there just been a storm and a flood.

 

And by the time in early November they finally cleared the streets, the waters had resided and most of the left and progressive opposition was gone. As if they had fought and planned and died for nothing and their countrymen had never even peeled away from the television tuned to sports or tits or adverting.

 

But, Sebastian Adon and most of his friends did not die in the purge, the historically hidden democide regularly committed by states! He survived because he and Dasha were ambushed by her husband and her husband’s friends in the lobby of her building which resided on 77 Banner Avenue.

 

And the comrades of Adon, his dearest friends; many of them survived the next 48 hours by fighting their way out of the district financial as it was overwhelmed by flame and gas; they shot their way out and managed to escape to the borough of Brooklyn via the old tunnels, guided by mole people and Oleg Megved and Mikhail Mastrovitch the Ivorite special operations agents sent to rescue them.

 

And it was young, wispy Adelina Blazhennaya that rescued Dasha and Adon, much to her better judgment; for it was not meant to be that leftists would lead the Great Revolt; it would come from the renewed consciousness of human kind, not old ideas or even new ones. But while Adon and men like Mickhi Dbrisk, Watson Entwissle and Michael Goldbar Allamby would all have great and upcoming roles to play; it was women keeping them all alive with pistols and magic the nights of 17th, 18th and 19th September well until early November when the U.S. Federal Government carried out Operation Garden Plot 2 to murder almost every single important rebel in the country in one stomp of the iron heel. All those years between 1968 and the present or permissive, liberal unabashed freedom of expression, by they were taking names and faces down for when it was time, for when the opposition to empire grew about 2,000 men in any group, the soft cage hardened and there was blood murder in the streets.

 

As so many were fleeing the carnage of revolutionary war and repression in lower Manhattan; Dasha Andreavna with Adon in a grey body bag was hiking in heading straight to the Mehanata Social Club dragging him over her shoulder, until a Green a cab finally showed up to attempt a final tunnel run, up the mountain and into the City.

 

Chapter 27

113 Ludlow Street, 2012ce

Mehanata

 

 

Hanging above the main dance floor across the third floor gallery area is a clothesline and from it hangs a wide variety of female under garments that were not there when the club opened and the evening began.

 

The origin of these under garments is a source of amusement for the casual patron and a source of unspoken shame for a variety of young women hired as trial waitresses and bartenders, also unseasoned patrons left drinking heavily and unattended.

 

Sometimes a seemingly small place can become a vast labyrinthine and impregnable fortress when inundated with a bit of black magic, vodka and immigrant elbow grease. Perspective is but a cheap pair of sunglasses after all, paradigms are but Costco contacts to be shed and quietly replaced at will.

Were you to visit Mehanata on a Thursday you might come to think it only a single story lounge. Friday and Saturday patrons might access the basement Ice Cage and third floor table galley, but when it gets past 400am Sunday morning, not only can carriages change to pumpkins, but the depth and girth of the rabbit hole here can delve expansively into the fourth dimension.

 

Oh yes, the tavern is a vast entrapment.

 

Its 4:09 am. And everyone that isn’t meant to be in the club has been pushed, cajoled or driven out like a herd of drunken cats and those that remain are only staff or spoken for card carrying regulars.

Astika and Corona bottles litter the establishment on any number of table booth perches, the dive bar black piss fluids of spilled drinks irrigate all floor space.

A flurry of activity directed at securing the premises from external assault comes quite suddenly.

Justin Azello bolts the door with the pull of a large metal brace and shortly after James White and James Behemoth begin piling tables against it. There is an urgency with which they carry out this task as well as efficiency. It is not the simple and previously observed urgency of men and women working long hours and just wishing to go home. The three man Mexican kitchen staff lines up and begins stacking crates and kegs and assorted furniture against the storm shutters now pulled down and latched closed over the second exit to the tavern.

Martina the bartender begins placing bottles of liquor below the bar, vigorously. Conspicuously absent is all of her clothing and in the strange new light of the bar her wild black curly hair for some reason appears fire red. How curious, thinks Sebastian through the haze of his own vodka and pilsner soaked observational capabilities, which maintain some attention to idiosyncratic detail.

Ernesto Lynch looks as though he is half asleep, a zombie casually examining his drink seated at the bar on the swing seat, taking dainty swigs his head drooping, intermittent half singing accompanies the dull steady thumping of his palm to the bar. Victoria Lynch is also entranced so it seems, seated beside him on one of the four two-person bench swings abutting the main bar.

The lighting has completely changed. It’s become eerie in here on the eyes. Everyone who smokes is now smoking which is absolutely everyone except the Mexican kitchen staff, the Lynches and James White the Fenian bouncer who used to be a cop and still carries himself like one, except more jolly. The plumes waft about like ghosts of tobacco island taking on shapes most various in the doldrums of the shifty light which remains other worldly, blue tones and greyscale which emphasize reds of Martina’s lick stick, reds of Dasha’s large pocket book satchel, and the reds of the wine.

 

Sebastian without using words makes a quiet Hebraic motion of his hands pantomiming a peace signed puff and his eyes go half black wolf, half-drunk rabbit and so thus alerting Dasha Andreavna that he wishes her to retrieve the packet of Newports out of her deep red pleather purse, and share one with him.

Her hand bag seems as though in contains an endless assortment of things that cannot via the laws of normative physics fit inside it. Were a sledge hammer to be passed out of it he wouldn’t even feign surprise.

As of lately they seem to share all their cigarettes when they are happy with each other and tonight the are indeed happy because she has plied herself with eight types of vodka infusion and he has sipped on enough Astika to be doing an accomplished impersonation of Latin American dancing all evening.

Sasho is watching everyone and everything from the end of the bar, his back to the wall of the kitchen. The boss is wearing a black leather jacket his face stern and commanding; he snaps his fingers and fire takes form off his index finger. From this miraculous flame he lights a long cigar.

An uncanny display of your black magic, thinks Dasha.

 

If anyone else notices this trickster subterfuge, then they hardly seem surprised. Martina takes from below the bar a chalice of usual size, Byzantine even in proportions and pours him off a tall glass of what is presumably a thick red wine, although the lighting, quite unusual as said, makes it appear as though it is thick sanguine blood.

 

But he doesn’t sip this concoction, just leaves it out.

 

Sasho remains at the head of the bar with his unusually large chalice of blood red wine having ordered the entire fortification effort with simple subtle nod.

 

Misha Korovyov with his flowing brown hair and one eyed squint, and playboy bi-winning manic grin with some European designer cigarette dangling out his mouth throws his arms around Dasha and Sebastian. It was a though the eccentric Bulgarian materialized behind them.

 

“Joyous epic times new friends! Where but five weeks ago we were all merry strangers now we are intimate coconspirators!”

 

As if to coincide with the subversions of reality and convention already underway, Dasha and Sebastian although aware of phantom lights, of the mezmerization and stupor of the Lynches; of Martina’s brazen nakedity; now also it appears James Behemoth mostly called “James Brown”, to differentiate him from “James White” the former cop in casual conversation, the sly and charming Puerto Rican bouncer; well for lack of a better description, he has now transformed into a hippopotamus sized black cat! Walking upright still in his leather jacket, James Behemoth is now at the bar and Martina is pouring a pint glass sized frothy frozen vodka shot and leaving him the bottle.

“Are we in the secret company of angels or demons?” asks Dasha in a whisper.

Misha grins, “That’s the spirit! What my lovely Mademoiselle if I told you that the combination of man’s primitive brain with his powers of creativity with his latent albeit savage thirst for self-importance, self-aggrandizement creates an ongoing wildly unstable variable where bye all manners of mythology have been generated turning vastly complex phenomena, into well, cautionary children’s tales?” rambles Misha K, the wild eyed Bulgarian millionaire.

“I’d go even further to say, to caution even the arrogance of making Judeo-Christian spiritual assumptions in this day and age. The utter epitomes of self-absorption most grand that would make you all assume that you were either the center of the universe figuratively. Literally or neurologically; more so spiritually. Even now putting these base ideas into Amerikanski I must use nine words when in my own native tongue I could use a hand gesture, a syllable.”

 

“He speaks a lot while not saying anything,” notes Dasha.

“Indeed.” says Sebastian.

 

“Good, Evil, Angels and Demons! Flabergashy I say. Well I’m sure someone from the former Soviet Union once has explained how there is no such thing. No such thing as either. I’ve never seen an angel before I laid eyes on this woman” he says taking Dasha Andreavna’s hand and kissing it gently.

“Enchante,” she responds facetiously doing her famous micro curtsey.

“To which I attempted to refute that with my American understandings of hope and heroism there are both angels and demons battling everywhere, and certainly good and evil are quite real I assure you,” Sebastian retorts.

“Mere devices in service of the ego sir, you see there may be deeds that cause pain or deeds that cause pleasure, but all of them get accomplished without some god or the devil whispering in the ear of human kind.”

“I’ll believe what I believe and you believe what you believe,” Sebastian says paraphrasing the Prophet Muhammad.

“And I’ll believe what I’ve believed all along which is that you men say a lot of drunk bullshit when you all drink!” Mutters Dasha, “darling tovarish let’s leave now, these wily tricksters offer us little besides their temporary refuge, their wine and some vodka.”

“Darling tovarish, it looks as though they have sealed us in,” Sebastian notes.

The fortifications are very much in place.

It even appears that the enormous vodka drinking black cat that was once James Behemoth is welding the metal door behind the barricade right to its frame. Ernesto is singing some old folk tune in Spanish as he gently swings the bench back and forth. Sasho has not left his standing perch at the bars end.

“It is not to seal you in. It is to keep the law enforcers temporarily at bay when they arrive,” states Sasho.

“Well sit down,” Sasho commands.

There is age as well as gypsy wisdom expressed in the features of this strong man, though his Semitic black eyes burn with casual madness. But, it is also as if he has not aged in ten years, will not age in ten more. Perhaps he has never aged at all thinks Sebastian as a remarkable feeling of dejavu over takes him. He had wandered into this tavern many times over the course of the decade, but when had been the very first time?

 

What had that original indulgence cost?

 

Sebastian Adon and Dasha Andreavna seat themselves on the plank of the bar bench swing closest to Sasho. Martina drops shot glasses in front of them. Her nakedness is ignored by virtually everyone. Dasha notices. And out of his corner eye Sebastian does too. And in this noticing of her pale, curvy and naked Bulgarian body he sees although flawless in her nude form she has what appears to be a subtle ecchymosis of the neck, a hicky perhaps, but black and blue. The only deformity to her naked perfection.

 

“I have plenty of doubts about helping you,” Sasho begins. “Just because you’re adulterers doesn’t mean you came to play with a full hand of cards.”

“They’re not consummated adulterers, just wild reckless ones with intent to achieve adultery,” Martina interjects.

“Please do remain quiet, Hella,” Sasho commands.

“What is it you want from me again?” Sasho asks.

“A trade,” says Sebastian. “A job,” says Dasha.

Their answers came out at once.

 

“You have nothing that I cannot just take, either of you.”

 

“I respect you sir, your powers I mean and this establishment generally, but we are not afraid of you,” Sebastian says, “Unlike many others we are neither enthralled nor intimidated easily. Our regularity has not indebted us to your, tavern.”

Sasho grins and his smoke trails take form before then, out his lips the smoke becomes a floating diorama of urbanity unraveling into anarchy.

Misha K. interjects himself into the palaver with wild hand motions and flailing;

“You ought to be more afraid of your fellow humans. And each also other since both of you albeit human are both vigorously more endowed. There will not be dawn breaking in two hours. Outside lawless mobs are looting and burning, the whole city is on fire. Heads are being cut off as though this were Jacobin France. The police are killing people in the streets. Sheer and total anarchy! And as we speak cordons of police are marching their way across the Lower East Side, heading here! They are after you two who they wrongly suspect of being key players in this bloody revolution being carried out. The Authorities dejour mean to arrest you both for high crimes, conspiracy and treason! In any number of minutes they will be banging on these doors asking for your heads on platters.”

Martina pours shots for them from a deeply frosty unmarked bottle.

“Do you love her?” Sasho asks pointing to Dasha.

“Of course I do,” Sebastian says. “Of course he does,” she responds simultaneously.

She turn to him as if surprised, although it’s come out once before.

“She doesn’t love you at all.”

“I realize that.”

“She most likely and I say this respectfully but with great faith, she never will. Not in this lifetime anyway.”

Sebastian turns to Dasha and takes her hand. She doesn’t pull away from this grossly sentimental display.

“Well as we all know. It’s not as if you only get one try.”

Sasho grins and breathes about smoke.

“I’ve run out of people to help me run and places to hide are running short as you know. If I am not mistaken many of my friends and associates have been taken or killed over the course of this black night. If I am not mistaken, the authorities think I am higher in the non-existent chain of command of this uprising than I really am. If I am not mistaken some rather grisly crimes have been committed over the past five weeks, my alleged role the general uprising not withstanding; it seems that the authorities wish to try us not just for treason but for sick, an heinous offenses committed by some rampant cult in grey.”

“Well it is certainly not Behemoth and I who are the poster children of the uprising or the slaughters of young wayward women,” notes Justin Azello.

“We may be an establishment of handsome devils, trickster Gypsies and seductresses and thieves, but we are not sick fuck murders,” states James White seated now at the long bar with a Corona which is also the neighborhood in Queens that he lives in.

 

“Are you asking me for help?” Sasho asks.

“We don’t have anyone else to turn to, at this juncture” Dasha says.

“Are you saying your g-d is ignoring you?” Misha K. asks with a grin, “are you saying you tried to pray and nothing happened?”

“Imagine that,” says sly Martina.

“Look here,” interrupts Dasha, “we are not at your mercy. Although he doesn’t exactly look the part right now per-say, this man is or was; Vasa the gunslinger.”

“Vasa the gunslinger!” echoes Martina.

“Vasa the gunslinger,” repeats Misha with glee.

“Yes, yes I know the human protégé of Archangel Michael, guardians of the unborn children of potential messiahs,” states Sasho.

“If such fantasies are still believed in,” says Misha K.

“I believe,” declares James Behemoth.

“Me too,” says James White, the injured and retired cop. A mortal and a Catholic too.

“Martina, my Hella, what think you of us assisting agents of, the other side?”

“Well now!” She leans her supple frame over the bar painting up her lips deep blood red as she does, “Well most interesting is that neither of them reports to remember anything of their past lives and associations, in a word, sorcery made them mortal this round, but who’s sorcery? Not ours surely or we’d have known about it.”

Justin Azello with a cowboy killer in his mouth is now also seated at the devils bar table and declares, “We definitely would have known about it.”

Martina continues, “The mystics long believed that in each generation would be born one hundred and four candidates out of the bloodline of King David, house Judah that these candidates would be hidden from the so called forces of good and evil, that then three would reveal themselves by their 33 year as the Tzadikk haDroriim, the three potential candidates for messiah. Only these three; a warrior, a sage, and an oracle might reverse the tide of human suffering and usher in an age of reason and compassion. Suffice to say, a good much was invested to snuff this nonsense out. Many factions have at one time or another joined hands to abort this prophesy as close to the womb as possible. Mostly by killing or corrupting them before the year of their revelation. Often by getting at their mothers before they are born. Have you heard this Old Soul mythology before?”

“Emma Solomon!” yells Justin Azello suddenly and neither Dasha nor Sebastian flinch or appear to recognize the name.

“Who’s Emma Solomon again?” asks Sebastian with a poker face.

Sasho, with a poker face says, “Never mind.”

“If I told you that you were both super natural beings with auspicious births and no biological fathers, at least not genealogically speaking what would you make of that?” asks Sasho.

“I’d say stop fucking around with drunken people and get down to business,” Dasha retorts.

“Alright then, if it is in my power, I’ll make you both a good deal. For a job I require you to follow this man to the cross roads and keep him from selling his third soul to anyone, anyone at all. I will help you escape and you will be in my employ for three years of human time which is considerably more or less fourth dimensionally speaking, though cost no more than three life days here in this reality. As for a trade I will trade you her contract to me and help you both quite literally disappear if you will go on a little field trip on my behalf once you escape.”

“So my job for your establishment is to escort Sebastian on some mission into exile?” Dasha asks.

“Exile isn’t any place to hide. We offer you improved fourth dimensional time travel,” states Misha.

She looks at them all blankly, this cohort and Otriad of thieves, whores and devils.

“What in the fuck are you talking about!?” Dasha asks.

“Let me blunt, before I am specific because time is for once not really on your side tonight new friends,” says Misha, ” Sasho might I be so bold as to lay out the terms?”

Sasho makes a hand motion and a shrug indicating the international indication of; carry on.

“Dasha Andreavna Skorobogatova. We know what your keeper will do to keep you! He’s found Mr. Adon’s letters; he has your passport and Adon’s parents address and your mother’s too. He’s not going to let you just walk away, he’ll make all the people dear to you suffer first, that is the man he is. Sebastian; Vasyli, whatever it is you’re calling yourself this in epoch. Since the little melee on that train and in the district your little band of black brothers has been hunted down and exterminated down to almost the last woman and man. Not only are you all being accused of being of house of subterfuge and treason, when you are arrested they will accuse you and she and your associates in the Z.O.B. of being sadistic vampires cannibals! They will drag you before trial and say that the thirteen of you were kidnapping, raping and vivisecting young girls for sacrifice.

And then they will line you up and execute you all to make an example. Under any scenario your little five weeks of romance have yielded impending catastrophic dividends.”

Dasha shrugs. Sebastian again with a different Bulgarian hand sign often utilized by Sasho and Misha asks Martina to fill up their shot glasses and get Dasha a red bull chaser.

“How now?” he says.

“Most basic. We will hide you in the past and the future. She will belong then to us, and you can auction her freedom with your abilities. You will thus work under a contract with a devil like me for three days’ time. Which will feel to you like three years over three past lifetimes. And when it’s done you’ll both be free and your friends will be alive and your city will be secure and spring time will be near. Instead of torture, prison, murder, death, not just yours and hers but your friends and families, instead of another victory for one side or another, you get freedom. You get to absolve yourself of the burdens you were born into, and in five weeks flirted your way toward courting oblivion.”

“What does he have to do, for us to get that?” Dasha asks.

“Three day’s work,” claims Sasho.

“But three years in the eye of the mind,” warns Martina always quite a fan of Sebastian’s hopeless romanticisms and writing, also the way Dasha moves men.

“What is it that we have to get done in these three days, or lifetimes or whatever to save our families and friends and each other?” Sebastian asks.

“Hella,” says Sasho.

She open her pouty lips and pulls out a tiny scroll and on it reads: “Die, steal the moon, kill a lesser demon, and take good notes of your comings and goings. Return to life.”

“Miraculous levels of detail here,” says Dasha sarcastically.

“If you sign yourselves to me and my gang I will not only harbor you but I will aid you at all stages in getting this job done.”

“How will we convincingly die?”

“I will put your souls in new vessels and leave convincing corpses for the authorities and your husband to find.”

“Dance magic dance. The implications of your voodoo are not as interesting to me as what in past lives and other times you want us to accomplish,” exclaims Dasha.

“I want you to see for yourselves what happened to the man Yeshua ben Yosef in the year 33, I want you to kill a certain demon I compete with in 1933 and to this very day, and I want you to steal a diamond of enormous size in 1996 and trade it with an old Ivory who will give me something I require.”

“In just three days, what the fuck man,” Dasha exclaims, “What expertise do either of us even have for this black magical undertaking?”

“Three days here. Three years there. Over three lifetimes. Understand what you’re signing,” says Martina.

“And what is it you want from the old Ivory?” Asks Dasha as if the notion of time travel and other lives doesn’t perplex her in the slightest.

“I want leverage. I’m bargaining now to open a second tavern and I require a bargaining chip.”

“And on your three day journey you will take care of three variables I need adjusted.”

“What’s on the list?” Dasha asks.

“Names of auspicious women he wishes to employ at the new tavern,” Martina smiles.

“It’s a rather tall order. Infiltrate and revise the New Testament, snuff out a lesser Oligarch, and steal a precious stone to get a list of women’s names. Fourth dimensional mission impossible,” Sebastian says likening it to a great American film. His burned feet hurt even though she injected him with morphine.

“The things a woman will do for a man in the name of her freedom, sounds like Master and Margarita,” says Dasha likening it to her favorite novel.

“We’re going to help you,” says James Behemoth Brown.

“It’s not as if we’re just going to burn the social club to the ground and quietly plant your lifeless corpses about the city and vanish into blue smoke,” says James White.

“Although that was one plan,” says Justin Azello.

“Oh no-no, were gonna to that and transmography the entire tavern down the rabbit hole of time. We’re gonna help you run three mighty-mighty epic miracles,” claims Misha.

“For leverage,” says Justin Azello.

“With whom?” Dasha asks.

“The man who issues liquor licenses and cabaret licenses for the city,” smiles Martina.

“We’re not stupid,” says Dasha.

“And we’re not demons,” says Misha K with a smile adjusting his glasses.

“You’re definitely not angels,” says Martina.

“I am a devil though,” states Sasho, “not the devil, because there isn’t just one anything in a universe so vast, but know that if you two don’t live up to my powers of intervention, then the Bratva your keeper associates with, and the security apparatus of the American state investigating you, and the cult that pursues you will be the least of your problems,” explains Sasho.

“By far the least,” says Justin O’ Azello.

“Why us? Why help us though. What makes you think we can do what you want?” Sebastian asks.

“Because of your reliable Old Souls,” says Misha.

“Because I’m not dealing with paramedic student Adon son of a privileged bourgeoisie, and Dasha Andreavna, accounting student debutante, property of Khulushin Bratva,” exclaims Sasho, “once you leave these feeble bodies I’ll have put two very powerful creatures on my pay roll: Vasa the Gunslinger and Dasha Andreavna Skorobogatova Maccluskey; Candidate 64.”

“Candidate?” she asks.

“Oh poor unfortunate souls, the ethanol clouded all your past lives and past accomplishments,” says Martina pinching Sebastian’s cheek.

“Moonstruck until they can’t tell an angel or devil apart,” says Justin Azello quoting the prophetic verses.

Martina leans in, “Why, you’re Vasa the Gunslinger, Vasa the Sword, main disciple of the archangel Michael, the greatest killer of demons in Gregorian time! And you,” she says leaning into Dasha, “well via the blood line of the house of Judah traced only in part by our little gang, well you have full Ivorite blood, you are candidate daughter of a prior powerful Tzadikk ha Dror.”

“What does that even mean!!” Dasha half yells.

“You might bear the messiah of your generation and he is the man in the grey mask, a historical serial killer. Your blood and your womb and your collective memories will take us where we need to go and his deadly-deadly aim will let us acquire the things we need,” says Misha.

“If we do as you ask we can save our families and his murdered friends and we can return in three days and when we do what we change will set us free?”

“Precisely. And when the new tavern opens I’ll rehire you both happily,” states Sasho.

“Albeit in far more glorious capacities!” declares Misha.

“Absofuckinglutely!” yells Sasho.

“All this for a cabaret license,” mutters James Behemoth.

“For a cabaret most subversive to the elites of this world and lucrative for me. For all of us. So if you would, Hella!”

Martina Hella Dubryska pulls a ball point pen of solid gold out her red lips.

Rising out of nowhere from each shot glass emerges a rolled scroll.

 

Dasha takes the one in front of her written in Russian. Sebastian’s is in Russian too and thus he cannot even read it.

“You trust her don’t you?” says Martina with a wink, “she’ll translate it.”

“What’s it say?” Sebastian asks Dasha not even thinking so hard about the content.

Slowly she translates:

 

“..I will own you and you will own me and the Perchevney Bratva will own us both until completion of our duties to Mehanata which include documentation and surveillance of the man Yeshua be Yosef and his wife Mary Tania Magdalena; the assassination of a demon in the form Mr. Breria head of the Stalinist secret police; the assassinations of Superior Oligarchs Kahn, Talleyrand and Trumpuldoroff; and the theft of the blue moon diamond. Once said duties are in order we are free people and all calamities unleashed by our brief passions will be un-made allowing us at that juncture to part as associates or should love or passion grow strong enough to marry and allow Alexandre Sasho Perchevney the honor of hosting our happy marriage.  It specifies that under no circumstances are you to be allowed to sell your third soul, nor am I to have sexual intercourse with you with results in child,”

 

“Avoid further sexual intercourse!” interrupts Martina, “we don’t care about the rest of it. No babies made between your races.”

 

Dasha without even squinting continues, “And we are prohibited from drinking alcohol while under contract as it will lead to babies being made.”

 

“And what does mine say?”

And she looks it over.

“It says almost the same thing except for a sub clause which establishes that should we fail at our tasks you assume full responsibility for all resulting actions.”

 

“Bro, just sign the thing, the cops are gonna be here to kick in the door any minute now, I have a good tip. You’re gonna get accused of harvesting and eating women’s sexual organs. Just sign the thing. Its three days of work and it your only way out,” says James White, who as the only human privy to the sorcery at work is rooting for Sebastian as a former civil servant.

 

“I love you,” Sebastian says looking into Dasha’s big blue eyes and he signs the contract totally unable to read it.

She marvels at this then calmly signs hers.

 

A banging on the metal doors shakes everyone out of their surrealist stupor.

 

“Welcome to the gang and the tavern staff,” Martina says extending her hand.

The banging continues muffled shouts through a public address system declare everyone must come out before the homeland authorities come inside. It sounds as though a battering ram has been deployed.

“‘James White and my noble Companeros please exit via the roof and see to it that the body doubles are put in place before dawn,” commands Sasho, “Tomorrow is Friday thus this is when Dasha must be found lifeless in Brighton and it must be believed that Adon murders himself on Saturday. And please call the Lynches a cab. Everyone else! To the Ice Cage.”

James Behemoth Brown still in the form of a cat kicks over an enormous canteen of petrol as does Martina. Everyone forms a line behind Sasho and then go down stairs. The stink of petrol is over powering. Justin Azello opens the freezer door. A hatch in the floor is then unlatched and they behold a bottomless pit.

 

“Down the tunnel you go, we’ll be right behind you as soon as we burn this place to the ground,” Misha K. declares.

 

“Remember, no matter where you end up find the tavern and there we will be,” Martina says.

Dasha turns to Sebastian and takes his hand as they enter the freezer box with wall to wall vodka for the very first and possibly last time.

 

“No drinking, no fucking and no selling his soul,” Justin Azello repeats.

“I’m sorry that I’ve gotten you into this whole mess,” Dasha says to Sebastian.

“Did you do it on purpose?” He asks her as they stand at the precipice.

“I did. But I had no choice.”

Contemplating the utter madness of the past five weeks, the misadventures the brushes with death, now the signing of a contract with the devil and a step into the unknowns of the past!

 

“Bze platnee syr ve mishalovka,” Sebastian declares. The only free cheese is in a mouse trap. He pronounces everything correctly this time, for the most part.

 

“If you do a good job, and we get them what they want, then I promise ill make love to you until you don’t even know the difference between your wants and your needs, between lust and loving, I will give you everything you ever wanted from me.”

“For how long?”

“Three days of nearly forever.”

“Dasha, no matter what happens I’m glad that you found me on that roof top.”

“We shall see,” she says with her famous poker faced smile. I’d didn’t find you, death found you, she thinks.

“Is any of this even real?” he asks her.

“No, they’ve just tortured us so badly you’ve muddying the waters and are imaging other lives.”

 

Holding hands they step out and fall tragically into the abyss, a hole in the ceiling, in the floor of forever.

 

 

 

Chapter 28

Stillwell Ave, 2011ce

Coney Island

 

 

The failed double uprising and subsequent atrocities were over after just three days, most of the rag tag resistance forces were wiped out by the third week after except in Southern Bronx and Central Brooklyn. Very few people made it out of the District Financial alive. Blood and bodies were in the streets. The Stock Exchange didn’t open for a week later. A super storm hit the city right before Halloween, washed all the filth, failure and evidence of purge and war crime away. Sent most of the Russian quarter under the black brine of still water. They later found Dasha’s body in the Stillwell Station, over dosed on god knows what. Cold and dead. Rumor had it at Mehanata that she’d left with Adon, last anyone had seen them.

Another dead hooker, the Cops were unconcerned about it statistically.

He had turned up in the Bell House, loony as hell. Totally mind fucked. Got discharged, allegedly. He was unintelligible when Rafael and Victoria went to visit him. Somehow all he knew was that Dasha was dead. A normal Bell House stint is three weeks easy, but then, the wire said Sebastian was also dead. Two shots to the head and dumped down that very same abyss where he and Dasha had almost died.  But, now. They were both confirmed to be quite dead.

As the super storm tore apart the city.

Amnesia and the weather setting in.

As if there had never been an uprising at all. Never been a massacre.

Never been Sebastian and Dasha in the end of summer or at all.

Their funerals of course were very separate, but held on the same day because gentiles sit out on death display, but Ivories go right in the ground.

 

“They’re with Jesus now,” says Victoria gripping her husband’s hand. But didn’t she mean Maya Solomon?

 

Her husband is more a Catholic than she is. But the irony here, in a statement like that, is that if Jesus was now reincarnated and returned to us via a hidden dual bloodline as both a Ayitian revolutionary general and also a Sephardic Warrior goddess; and heaven was to brought to an island archipelago in the Caribbean then the story is evidently going to be harder to explain, and the plot will thicken like blood. Because the interesting thing about an idea whose time has come, when supported by old souls; killing the messengers will never silence the planned intention of their words.

 

The last thing Sebastian heard before his soul left his body after two gun shots was: ‘put them in the memory vats and torture them again and again, and again and again.’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fire On the Mountain

 

 

 

 

(In four ACTS)

 

Act 42

 

 

[The Work Of]:

 

 

 

Adler S Walt

 

Dedicated to:

Elena Antolievna Komarova

 

 

 

 

 

 

ACT TWO:   La Lingre

 

 

Set Outside Boston

In 2013-2015ce

 

 

Set mostly in a concentration camp outside of Boston and in the deep woods of Connecticut;

 

Three years after a failed uprising on September 1^st and 17^{th, a purge put millions of Americans in death and labor camps}. A Russian linguist named Adelina and a half-Hebrew paramedic named Sebastian are about to kiss and liberate each other from the camp they are held in. Their mixed motive passion occurs amid this escape back to Brooklyn Soviet where a new rebellion has fully liberated Brooklyn, Queens and the Bronx from the USA.

Prelude

 

 

Camp Shrakasa Waltham, 2015ce

 

 

The year is winter 2015ce, the setting, a grim gulag hidden from normal sight in the Eastern coast of the United American States outside the City State of Greater Boston. The snow falls so hard you can’t see the roads anymore, can’t see but ten feet in front of you. We are caught in a thick and deadly, white deluge.

 

Adelina Blazhennaya is lovely and petit, but very striking is her sense of presence, when you are with her you have her largely undivided attention. She is completely disarming, you let your guard slip. Which is dangerous as she is lovely, and you are surely mad. The very way she looks at you lingers long after she is gone.

 

“On ne voit bien qu’avec le cœur. L’essentiel est invisible pour les yeux,” she quotes to herself from the Little Prince, “one sees clearly only with the heart. What is essential is invisible to the eye.”

 

  There is a vast spiritual war going on, invisible for an extended time to most people and she has great soul, and is after a very particular soldier. It is still fashionable for Russian elites to know French. She was born of elite White Russian family, living in Zurek, and that is her passport cover story says, hiding that she is in fact

a Grey Russian of a card carrying Red family from the City of Chelyabinsk.

 

Long live the Putinists!

 

She is wearing a blue and mostly white dress and her gold brown hair blows in the summer wind, but is now hidden under a most heavy almost yellow Shirling coat. Her big bright hazel eyes are concealed below some fashionable sun glasses. For she is a perpetually truthful person but has had to lie all day to get through layers of armed men to get at her assignment.

It has taken her half a day traveling from Camp Brighton-Allston to bribe sentries, to take three trains and an omnibus, to flirt most professionally, ensnare the camp guards in false paper works and transfer documents and thus make her way to Shrakasa Waltham, sub-camp Brandeis; the largest Special Engineering Camp built by the Ivories in the Americas, but really one thousands of “special population camps” built for citizens of suspect loyalty after the Great Revolt, a very incomplete revolution that happened four years prior to the events of this yarn.

 

This place that holds the mentally imprisoned and prisoners of this war, mainly Chornay, some Fenian surfs and deranged, crossbred Jeufs with their Christ killing ways and mental deceits.

 

Waiting for her is the “dead man” Sebastian Adon. And he has a feeling of nervousness in his chest. Steel butterflies. The kind of nervous anticipation that does not come from being more than intimidated by a very, very beautiful young woman. It comes also from secretly loving her. Or something about her.

Handsome for a dead man, she thinks. And nothing but fucking trouble, she curses sometimes inside but hardly ever outside.

The State run national television company News Corporation has been running his face and face of his “wife” Emma Solomon for weeks along with sound bites on the “dead terrorist ring leaders of the Millennium Theater Hostage Crisis.”

That bloody three day standoff which ended the union called the United States of America definitively breaking sixty four small city states and territories, Soviets, from the rest of the country including the black parts of neighboring Boston.

She looks him and down and he is not exactly the same man she had met years before, and had corresponded with since periodically. Along with the dreaming they did.

He is handsome but he has dark shadows below his eyes, which though hidden under hazel contacts are grey on grey associated with never properly sleeping.

The eyes of the Old Souls.

He looks recently broken. As though smiling comes with great difficulty. As if the words and beliefs he hides behind are in actuality no true armor.

She wonders what the proper body language to assume is; to cordially shake his hand as a comrade; or to kiss his cheeks has an old friend, or, well they were not lovers or even old friends. And this was their second time meeting. In the world of the real they had met just one single time, on one single evening. But in dreams they had something else altogether.

She was never nervous, but she did regard this man as a certain threat. A threat not to her life or her mind, certainly not to her heart because her heart was numb to all words and deeds done by men. Having kissed his very souls, having spent night, after night in his mind; she worried that he might know her souls a little too. And this was a very difficult thing to accept as a candidate.

Firstly, that this murderer was from the blood of the chosen. Secondly, that he seemed unable to die. Thirdly, that in the real world he might actually desire her. Lastly, that it was her duty to accept him as a courier from here to newly liberated New York City, when his driving, according to all accounts was much worse than her own.

It would be one thing to be killed or tortured by the enemy. This was the constant risk of aiding the resistance, but to die because an American never learned to properly drive; unthinkable.

The way that she moves is not like human women, she has elegance and force in equal parts, and there then emerges a disarming smile and she quite nearly thinks to embrace him. To hold him with a tightness that in dreams is so familiar, but in the world they have but shaken hands only once. She has done it in dreams a hundred times. And so many other things with him. She has raced dragons with him and explored the surface of the moon.

He stands there leaning against his vehicle a white Charger 2009.  Which, for all its lack of fuel efficiency will be worth nothing unless her paper work permits his release for if he leaves the boundary of Waltham Third Perimeter Shrakasa; his aorta will explode. Oh quite literally.

 

And what’s an exploding aorta to a man who has never been able to die?

 

A painful waste of a third dimensional opportunity to transform the human condition, that’s what. He is wearing the grey multiform, permitted to his faction. Her white skirt with blue linear patterns blows in the subtle but refreshing August winds.

Has he ever torn her clothing off in a dream? Has she ever let him reduce her to another conquest, another bedded woman making an excuse of her own lusts and her own physical wants? No not ever once! He has asked to be held and so she held him tight; he has held her delicate and painterly hands. They have danced under the stars in over a thousand and one sequences of brightly colored controlled dreaming.

And those dreams were beautiful.

She strides ever closer and she sees his half smile, the left side of his face mostly. There were so many reasons why a whole smile was impossible to the gun slinging, rebel hooligan Sebastian Adon; but she immediately feels the entirety of his gaze, his full attention brought to bear just to take in her. And that half smile, she knows is the fullest thing to showing happiness he can in this life bear to muster.

I will just extend my hand and then step back for the right hand salute given by otriad fighters to their commanding officers, he thinks.

I will marshal all my best parts, knowing that she is a sacred woman and that my place in the chain of command is now different since culmination of the uprising, since the eradication of my otriad, since, since the debacle of my relations with the woman named Dasha Andreavna Moonskaya, the tragedy of which I have not fully reconciled. And she is all but too familiar with the moving parts thereof. An embarrassment of my judgment.

My goodness, he thinks; I’m must suppress my longing for this woman before me.

She walks with grace and power, she is in control of all her moving parts and in control of the fields of energy which are in perfect coordination top to bottom.

I will never let this man seduce me, she thinks. He is a rough and primitive creature, despite the fullness of his soul’s ambitions. Despite his mother being of the priestly class. What is more, she thinks, how did this warrior get reduced to slavery over a wild woman? In certain circles he is still called the ‘American Shamel Basayev’. And most official circles think he is finally dead. But, the reason he was stashed away into the enemy gulag archipelago was not simply because this was good place to hide him in plain sight. It was because he was being punished by the leadership. He had been on trial awaiting sentencing for 38 counts of infraction including lack of spiritual discipline; conduct unbecoming a rebel Calvary officer; four counts of massacre; three counts of ‘incorrect use of the word love’ and one very serious count of ‘complete self-compromise accompanying jeapordization of mission via liaison with a woman possibly aiding the enemy.’

Enguarte.

The trial had not concluded, yet the full findings were complicated. And, of course his “wife” and partner is a woman with considerable influence with the rebel leadership and the Godhead.

Something tingles in the base of his spine. Like Tiger Balm.

Something glows in the gold brown depths of her eyes.

I will not allow my emotions to cloud my perception of the facts, he tell himself from the Code of the Ayitian Gentleman.

I will not fall for this man and his tragic albeit heroic existence, she swears to the code of her own integrity.

Shake her hand, this is the second time meeting; salute and take her to supper while the transfer papers deactivate the Nanobots in my skull, he checklists.

She will take his hand, this is our second time meeting; accept his salute which acknowledges her leadership over him, let him take me dinner, while the paper works clears and bribes are wired, she thinks. Let him take me what was once four hours, but now is four days drive down the coastal highway from the United American States toward the mile high wall, New York and the Breuklyn Soviet. Where most likely the judges will order two shots to his head. His head cut off. And his soul bottled up forever in limbo as he pays for his roundabout decisions that cost everyone so damn much.

I’m thankful it’s her that I will be working with, he think. If they’re going to kill me in New York, at least I get to spend the last four days with her.

Shake and salute, he affirms.

Shake and begin the road to sentencing she affirms.

She’s less than four feet beautiful from him.

And best the best of preparations yield to passion.

They throw their arms around each other and embrace like two long lost lovers separated by battle and sea and fate and the cruelty, the duality of some very, very bad decisions made during the war. They are locked so tight cheek to cheek.

This is the second time they’ve ever met in the world of the real.

He can feel her heart beating, she can feel him breath. Their souls make love right there on the roof of his car, they don’t let go for what is in real time a hot minute. But time stopped for them both the minute they held each other again.

They step back. He then salutes. And he passes her a note without saying overtly what she knows may be in his heart. Inscribed on his very ventricles.

She takes glance at the note. It is quite obvious that the man likes to write his mind out. There are a thousand tiny characters in Cyrillic, she knows what they will tell her even if the grammar is a mess and the spelling is poorly.

They immediately embrace again. Tighter still. She looks into the note over his shoulder.

It is very poor form to love a man who in four days will be sentenced to a final death.

“Don’t say it,” she whispers. Nearly pleads.

“I won’t. I’ll just show it,” he replies.

“You have less than four days,” she whispers.

“I know,” he says.

“Why did you do all of those things,” she says right into his ear and grips him even tighter.

“My passion overwhelmed me,” replies Sebastian Adon.

She steps away from him, still so close though that that the angels inside of them may still be holding to their ecstasy.

“I find it nearly impossible to be charged with your fate,” she admits.

“The past is a useless story Ms. Adelina.”

“I have read reports of your future too you know,” she retorts.

“The highway to New York is perilous. If my driving makes you nervous we can switch positions ok?”

She now looks him into his eyes.

“That sounds ok. Both sides of you face are smiling at me,” she says.

“That’s because I’m standing before the woman of my dreams.”

“Watch you words little Prince,” she warns him.

“Don’t call me that please,” he replies.

“Sebastian, the road to New York is perilous and I want you to promise me that you you’re going to remain in control of your emotions. That you’re not going to break your word to me on any level. And, that no matter what they do to you in New York I’m going to be at your side and you need to be by mine, in the way that is appropriate.”

“I promise Ms. Val. Appropriately.”

“Ok, start the car. If you don’t make me completely comfortable with your driving I’m taking over and you’re going to have to ride shot gun all the way down. Which isn’t very manly in my cultural context.”

“It’s good to see you again,” says Sebastian Adon.

She nods in quiet agreement.

She never knew him in another life. And that was a little exciting. He’d never dreamed with a woman before. That was thrilling, that kind of investment in him. Even if she’d mostly been in his head tinkering with the wiring.

“Give me your gun,” she declares.

He takes out a small revolver and hands it to her. She checks the chamber and notes that there are no bullets in the gun. She puts it into her satchel.

“Do you remember why we used to take pictures of the sky and text them to each other,” she asks him.

“No. I always assumed you were just artistic,” he replies.

“There’s nothing like a beautiful sky to substitute for love when love is gone, or hope when hope hopeless,” she tells him.

“You’re Russian, you’re not supposed to believe in hope,” he says.

She takes his hand.

“Your American, you’re not supposed to know what the word love means at all but I’m giving you a shadow of a doubt. You have one chance left to make a man of yourself. Otherwise they’re gonna hang you for happened during the rising.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says.

“It’s nice to be appreciated,” she replies, “now let’s get ready for the road.”

 

He almost says it. But she gives him a look.

“Be a real man and check your passion until the proper time,” says the look.

 

The sky above Shrakasa Waltham is pink, blue vanilla and the weather is beautiful because the Ivories have developed cloud seeding weather apparatuses. There are no more open Ivories in the United American States except here in this camp of 70,000 in the Massachusetts foothills outside rebel Boston which, like New York is no longer part of America.

If you’re just tuning in to our frequency; if you want to know what kind of story this is. Well it’s definitely some kind of passion play; a Post-Soviet epic love story.

In the previous Act we learned of man who didn’t know how to die and his tortured love affair with an agent of the enemy. In Act One we learned something of his passion.

How there came to be a full blown human rights revolution in the United States of America had very little to do with those two protagonist-antagonists. And the uprising itself was not the work of men and women alone, but also gods and spirits, monsters and suffering old souls.

We began with loyalty because it is the basis for all good human acts. And now we jump seven years before the event of the first part of our serial; to account for the things which were unleashed by woman and men enraptured by their passions.

This interlude has taken place before Act One and after what you are about to embark on reading.

Adelina was ordered to accompany Sebastian Adon to newly liberated New York City; to a besieged place called the Breuklyn Soviet. It was not purely to keep him calm before his execution. It was also to directly ascertain the very specific particulars of what he had compromised to the enemy.

“I don’t judge you for anything you have done, but I am quite curious as to why you did it,” declares as he puts the Dodge Charger in drive.

“We were all in a most uncomfortable situation,” Adon begins as they take to the road, “there were past lives to account for, there was hope and investment in the future, there were debts to pay.”

“You need to tell me everything that happened in the six months before the uprising,” Adelina flatly tells him.

“Must I?”

“I cannot save you and I cannot fix you or tame you, but if you will tell me the truth and stick to your promises I will make sure that you get what you deserve one way or another.”

There is a dinner at a weigh station on the lip of the black tarmac highway. To get to New York they will have to take a more circuitous route. They will eat there and wait until the sun goes down. They will have to switch vehicles, they will have to evade bandits and other various gentlemen of the road. They will need to grease many hands at check points staffed by rebel and federal and gangster armies. And eventually they will have to fly over or find a tunnel under the mile high wall.

“There’s going to be plenty of time,” she tells him, “You need to go slow and get deep with me on this.”

“Must I?”

“Yes you must. You are accountable only for this life, but it is unclear to me and other interested parties not only what you did in your past lives, but who’s side you’re on now.”

He thinks about it.

“I’m only on your side now,” he whispers.

“Well that is because your old friends now want you dead and your enemies think you’ve been buried already. You have only two allies left and Oleg the Bear is still temporally missing in the Urals.”

Or perhaps at the weigh station just up federal Highway 95.

“My wife sent you?” asks Sebastian Adon.

“Yes. Emma Solomon sent me.”

“She’s not really my wife.”

“I know she’s not really your wife.”

“Does Emma think I betrayed the resistance?”

“No. Emma just thinks you mostly betrayed yourself.”

“And what do you think Ms. Adelina?”

“I think you have a brief window to prove your place in history. As a great hero or a despicable traitor who sold out his closest friends to make a deal with the devil over a two bit whore that he got tricked into thinking was his old soul lost companion.”

“Those are strong words,” says Adon watching the road unfold.

“I’m a very strong woman.”

“That’s why I might…” but he shuts off. You can’t put a timeline on a dream or series of dreams.

“When I met you on my birthday I thought you were a charming scoundrel. But I have come to realize that I believe you innately to be good. I am unclear still on what happened leading up to and during the rising and if I am to be your true friend I must know that in totality before we arrive in New York.”

“When I met you I knew immediately that I must see you again and that you were not like anyone I’d known before.”

“Honey, pick your words well.”

“Ms. Adelina, I’m worried I let my passions get the best of me.”

“Well we shall see and we shall hear,” is all she replies.

The car accelerates, the road unfolds faster. She tells herself he is a most precarious man. There are both merit and dangers to that. He tell himself to review what he knows about this world and world to come.

The highway has many, many perils.

“There were so many nights that I could no longer trust myself and you were there to teach me.”

“Start with the relevant beginning,” she says.

“I am sure that one cannot love another when one hates themselves.”

“Do you hate yourself Sebastian Adon?”

“In another life, because of beliefs I held and reckless actions I took in the name of our freedom the enemy took from me. A woman and a child. I have never slept well, nor lived happy since.”

“Tu deviens responsable pour toujours de ce que tu as apprivoisé,” she says in French, “you become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.”

Again with the Little Prince, he thinks sardonically.

“If my inherited memories are true then I have caused some great amounts of carnage for cause and country.”

“I do not know if they are all true,” replies Adelina.

“I am quite happy you’re here. There is no more preferable a witness I could ask to vouch for me,” he says.

They’re gonna end you in New York, she thinks and he hears.

“I vouch for nothing honey, I know you only as a magical dream. But, the road is long enough for you to reconcile that. Don’t let me down ok.”

“I did many things in the name of our cause. I do many things still as acts of passion.”

She takes his hand right hand which he has extended to her, she squeezes it.

“Both hands on the wheel,” she then says.

It is sad to meet a good man four days before he will die. For no matter what he chooses to tell her she knows what he has ultimately done! And nothing can absolve him, nothing he says or does can save his souls. Oleg the Bear said be very careful with him. She has his gun, but she is not aware yet that she also completely has his heart.

If the mind is a limitless tablet, and his animal soul belonged now to devilish promises made, if his godly soul and hers are still quite playfully holding hands in spirit worlds and dreamscapes; what is left is a mechanical heart. A pounding, pulsing drum fueling his war path and guiding his way in the darkness.

The road unfolds empty as they speed to the diner at the junction.

“You don’t have to tell me everything, but please tell me what matters,” she says.

“Only you own and you rattle my bones, you turn me over and over until I can’t control myself,” comes over the Fire Station on the radio. The dancehall version.

She gives him a small look.

He changes the station to Tchaikovsky set with house music.

There are many people that want this man dead or alive. There are swarms of angry vultures circling above the car, metaphorically.

“I’m not in the business of saving souls or fixing people,” she tells him.

“Well how now, what business are you in then,” he smiles.

“I traffic in language and also dreams,” she softly replies.

“And also evidently me,” he says.

For eight months she has been in his mind and there was little she had seen there that would not make normal people nervous. But, Adelina is not like normal people and very little makes her nervous except the possibility that when she stops being numb for lucid intervals she realizes that this rebel bandit has quite possibly fallen for her.

And were it not for circumstances!

She might let herself fall too?

Impossibilities of fate.

The world of now was unfolding right before them and the world of dreams was inconsequential. She has been charged with a messy assignment and she has no back up, nothing to rely on but her will.

“Will you stay in control of your emotions for me honey?” she asks him looking now at the little note he gave her.

“I have made you promises.”

Seven of them she observes in his micro-Cyrillic scrawl.

“Then in good faith I take you as a man of your word.”
“After dinner, before the road I’ll try and explain myself to you darling.”

“Take your time, go slow. Nobody knows you’re alive in this part of the world and when we get to your city I’ll walk through the job.”

“There’s a job still for me then?” he exclaims.

“What you thought this was just going to be a dark Russian American love story?”

“Well I don’t know what the genre is.”

“What’s a rose to a fox,” she asks him eliciting for the third time the phrases she’s programed him with to access his dreams.

“What’s a jackknife to a swan,” he replies in the code that they have used for eight months on the satellite phone before bed.

“Don’t hurt me,” he says.

“I don’t have it in me,” she replies, “just show me your soul and I’ll show you mine. Try not to kill anybody on the road to New York.”

He wonders if she’s talking about his driving.

“In your culture what is more important; loyalty or passion?” she asks.

“What are you getting at?”

She pulls out the silver steel hand of the hamsa around her hung neck and flashes it for him out the corner of his right eye. Except he had given it to her in a dream.

“Don’t tell me you love me again until you can love yourself as well. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe in your potential for good. But if you break your promises to me you’ll prove your enemies right.”

“Adelina, I…”

He wants to pull over and taste her again like it was in the dreams.

“Don’t say it,” she warns, “keep driving. I’m hungry and as a Ayitian gentlemen you must of course never allow a woman to be hungry.”

She knows his code, she knows most of his story, but there is still a four day window for the highly unusual things to occur.

He watches the road, both hands on the wheel. He doesn’t want to let her down.

“Adhi, I…”

“Honey don’t say it,” she says again firmly.

“Please one time aloud. So you hear it in person as you have it in writing.”

“No. Not yet. Not until you really mean it.”

“I’ve done such crazy things in the name of it, I’ve killed so many people, I’ve invaded three counties, I’ve lost my wife and child, and I’ve died. Over and over again,” he murmurs.

“I know. So don’t say it to me until you know the right words. And you’d better be willing to back them all up with actions.”

“Fair enough.”

“I read your first manuscript, I’m very concerned about your dead wife and child, and also your relations with a certain woman named Dasha Andreavna. It is suspected that your claims to loving have often been subsumed and subverted. It is suspected that you were used. And that your passion over took your word and your loyalty. With most tragic results.”

“Do you believe that then? That I’m a traitor who knows nothing of love?”

“I know we women lead the resistance because we can truly love and you men do most of the killing because you cannot truly feel.”

“You read my first book, you’ve been in my head for eight months. Don’t you know what you’re looking at yet?”

“I’m not clear yet that you can separate your facts from your emotions. And I didn’t read all of your first book, just enough to get a taste of things to come.”

“Adhi, I…”

We wants to say it. He wants to make it into poems and novels and paintings and sketches and thousands of loyal deeds. He wants her to believe in him like he believes in her. He wants her to see that his past can be absolved by his present.

“Baby don’t say it.”

She uses sweet talk sparingly with men she hasn’t gone to bed with. But you go to bed with a man’s dreams, you spend months together in an imagined world you feel a certain intimacy that extends to the physical realm at times.

“We’re almost at the weigh station,” he says.

I will not judge him for anything he has done, she thinks but I will hold him to everything he says so the moment that he says that simple word aloud he will have wedded his cause to me, and that is a complicated and explosive thing indeed. And to repel his advances is a matter of time and orders, but were I to feel again, she thinks, well he is a bit my type.

From the moment that he saw her on her birthday he had known she was a very different creature. He wanted her as a partner by his side. But eight months ago he was blinded still by a distracting influence and reeling from the aftershocks of it. That was when she entered his dreams as the Great Revolt made the long simmering spiritual war a quite bloody contact sport.

Story time again. This time though our parables will draw attention not to violence done in the name of loyalty, but instead the acts done when we are overwhelmed with passion.

“Strast,” she says, passion in Russian.

“I’ll tell you how it came to be that I played my part in the uprising,” he says.

She doesn’t like politics, so she responds, “stick to the parts with passion and allow me some insight and judgment as to if you’re the man I’m looking for.”

“Darling don’t be numb,” he says feeling layers of loving that are impossible to verify the source of in the world of the real.

“Darling just be realistic.”

The sun is down. The stars are up. They park at the weigh station and get ready to fill their bellies with food in preparation for the long road to Breuklyn Soviet.

“One last sentimental thing,” he says locking up the car.

“Go on then,” says Adelina, “before I make you have a heart attack,” she smiles.

“If it comes out of my mouth in the next few days that I have done things that upset you I am sorry. Please understand that we all have complicated pasts, and some of us complicated past lives. I swear to you I did not betray the resistance. I swear I will make sense of all this actions; those in New York, those in Ayiti, those in Israel and Africa. I swear to you that you will have my undivided loyalty.”

“Listen, if you must you can say it one time, as you have already written a song about it and started a war in its name.”

“Adelina, I…” but he does not say it for he knows how little in English the word means to her and what a mockery he has made of the concept too.

  For a second she turns away. Impossible, she thinks. This is the second time he’s met me! What does he know about love at all?

What a ridiculous notion to love another so quickly!

Based on shared dreams?

“I know. I’ll try and not say it again,” he says a bit ashamed at her reaction.

“It’s not that,” she starts.

“What then?”

“Your words have to count that’s all. You need to not say things just to hear how they sound, you need to say things to declare things that will be.”

“Why do I know you so intimately and still know nothing,” he says.

“Because this is our second meeting,” she jokes, “the rest was just a dream.”

“I…” he stammers, but the word is unable to form.

“You have only just begun to know me. In my culture there is a ridiculous arrogance in saying words you don’t mean when you can’t back them up, said only because you’ve caught up in the heat of something,” she says.

“It’s a very traditional feeling and it is backed up by eight months of dreams.”

“I will wait and see if you feel that way this time next week, for there are many things done in the name of passion, but they are not the same things done in name of love.”

Why can’t I say the word he wonders? And the answer is she will not let him, so strong are her powers over him. For if that word was good fuel in act one for poems, and the basis of the Partizan Song; then we must now examine motives of our Postsoviet Protagonist-antagonists yet anew.

“There is incredible power in language,” she tells him, “but sometimes talk is cheap. You’ve loved early and loved often, and that makes me suspect you also love easily, but all these things are beside the point. We have a treacherous four day journey to reach your city, and then you will be put on trial. It is my duty to inform you that whatever feelings you think you have developed for me in dreams, I am nothing to you now but friend and comrade.”

“I won’t use words I can’t back up with actions.”

“Well I suspect that you may try.”

“I’ve ruined myself several times before over the idea of a perfect woman.”

“Well don’t do that again.”

“You’re not an idea.”

“You don’t know me yet. They say that I have what science has yet to prove in the blood.”

“Well that I believe.”

“Your defenses are lowered, you dreams have been invaded by thoughts of me, and you write well and have pretty brown eyes like mine. But watch the things you say, I will make you put your money where your mouth is. I will make you ready for trial.”

“If things escape my mouth that proclaim some newly forming feelings…”

“We’ll be sure not to act on them,” she says.

And with that in mind they went cautiously to eat supper before they took to the road under the cover of darkness.

  And in real time not much longer.

The dinner at the crossroads is empty except for them two.

Though thoughts of her had pervaded his mind for the past eight months, now sitting across from her about to bite into his Ruben sandwich, the gun slinging ambulance man, a wanted rebel hooligan new little of what to say.

“Why is it that you do not speak any Russian,” she asks him.

“I have no talent,” he replies.

“No talent for language?”

“No talent for listening. It’s my most dishonorable trait.”

“No, being a murderer is your most dishonorable trait. Not speaking Russian means you’re just lazy. You’re file says you’ve had several Russian partners. I call it lazy, though I do not judge you for it.”

“Indeed, well then what is that you judge me for?”

“I have nothing to linger judgment upon at this juncture.”

“I am indeed then lazy and also a bit ashamed. For I do love the thought of knowing that which you think in.”

“I am merely surprised that living and working alongside three Russian speakers you acquired nothing.”

“I acquired some fucking and fighting words. Please believe I bring more to the table than my talent with English.”

“You bring a great deal from what I understand from you wife.”

“Not my…”

“I said before I know what you are to each to each other. It is clear to me that you are far more than a murderous American bandit who while trained to save lives spends most of his energies killing people. ”
              “Can you make no small talk woman!”

“Eat then happily and be quieter,” she replies.

He returns to the Ruben feeling vaguely that for one who claims to never judge she has arrived at some rather serious prejudgments and will be deterred from them.

She wonders if Oleg the Bear will arrive on time or make them wait, or whether he will get there early. She wonder is he will come alone, or bring a woman. And she wonders if that woman will slow them all down.

Sebastian is unnerved by silence. It reminds him of sleep, and also of death and nothing about a silent moment makes him feel at ease. It makes him feel also like an inadequate conversationalist. And he begins to second guess his feelings, having realized that when not allowed to speak of politics or feelings, he has little to work with.

“I have a soft spot for writers,” she finally says, “I understand you wrote a book once.”

“I did. A noire, it sold less than a hundred copies.”

“Well maybe if you’d written it in Russian it would have had a better reception.”

“Maybe it was just a bloody mess of a book.”

“If I recall it was about a paramedic and a whore on the eve of the revolution was it not?”

“It had a bit more to it than that.”

“Well of course. To you. I read some.”

“So not your style.”

“No. Not really. A little too violent. A little too sentimental about the wrong things. Your poems are much better.”

“I’m flattered you took the time to read them.”

“You began sending me them four days after meeting me do you recall. Under some pretext of soliciting my technical opinions on airplanes.”

“I was sincerely curious about airplane terminology. I was also sincerely interested in attracting your attention more general.”

“And here we are.”

“So the book was not to your tastes and the poems were all splendid?”

“Some more than others, but I will say that you have a good handle on the English language. Although your spelling is ad hock and your grammar most irregular.”

 

Oleg Leonidovich Medved enters most gregariously.

He is well dressed in various black and gray tones and carries a close cut beard which does nothing to disguise the Ivoryish aspects of his Slavic complexion or the Slavic attributes of Eurasian manly disposition. He is a man twice the size or other men who prefers to break others with conversation not brawn, but can resort to that if needed. Sebastian stands to greet him, they are old friends and they embrace before either man can or will acknowledge either woman, for he goes nowhere alone and with him is the young modal Yulia Romanova, a brown haired slender beauty.

“The American Mayakovsky is much alive! I am glad you are not really as dead as the telescreens now claim. The Millennium, I am aghast at the recent carnage. I only hope with you and you wife officially “dead” the ceasefire holds. Tovarish poet paramedic, glad to see you again!”

“The same Comrade Oleg, the same!” responds Sebastian. And the two men embrace in a gruff but friendly, eastern European fashion.

“This is Yulia Romanova,” Oleg says and goes to embrace Adelina whom he has known for some number of years. In fact it was he who introduced the two of them last April on her birthday.

They all are then seated at the dinner men facing men and women facing women.

“A perilous journey ahead,” toasts Oleg as soon as drink has been put in his hand.

“Cheers,” says Adelina. What a silly British thing to say, to toast well; nothing.

“Is it true they aim to finally kill him in New York?” asks Oleg as if he despises all pretenses or suspense. Which he does.

“There is reason to believe that the revolution’s leadership has arrived at doubts as to Mr. Adon’s commitment to the values of the resistance. There are certain factions that want him put on trial and put to permanent death.”

“Well I say we skip New York, and all fly out directly to lovely Cataluña” interjects Yulia.

“Do you know this man so well you are vouching for his safety on public airlines,” asks Adelina to Yulia with vague scorn.

“No, I simply don’t like trials and don’t like New York now that it has gone communist,” replies Yulia Romanova, a self-proclaimed white Russian.

“I liked New York capitalist, I like it communist. The issue to me is who knows Sebastian is alive and why do they suspect him of treason to the revolution?” asks Oleg.

“Because of circumstances,” states Adelina and as she even says the same she squirms a little inside.

“Fuck Circumstances. Quite literally. I will of course vouch for Sebastian Adon and testify that what he did for that woman was nothing of his own choosing. If anything it spoke well to his dedication to lost woman, or to saving, or to art. But I was there when they met and am privy to the entirety of the tryst, and I know this man did not betray a thing. Except is own heart perhaps.”

“Thank you for that friend,” Sebastian says.

“Ain Davar,” says Oleg in Hebrew having lived four years in Israel once, once when it was there.

“Let underlying facts be placed upon this table then,” states Adelina, “this man is most uncommon. Three years ago he became enamored with a Russian call girl. His relations with her led to the underlying causalities that triggered the mighty revolt. And then, to save her he signed a contract with the devil himself. And then souls left bodies, this man walked his way across time down a rabbit hole. And then became alive three years later. That in the revolt’s eleventh hour he and his wife could seize thousands of hostages and perish in a bloody sand off in Midtown Manhattan. And awake alive miraculously a third time in Shrakasa Waltham!

“His exile,” Adelina explains with a hint of banality.

“Ah, yes thank you both, and you too Ms. Yulia for delivering me out of this cold wretched place,” says Adon.

“It is nothing, droog as we are all fans of your work, and friends of the people and the wider goals of the glorious revolution,” smiles Alan Medvinsky, also called Oleg the Bear, who is paid in cash dollars, billing by the minute for his very tricky work.

He has worn many hats in other lives.

And thus begins our very rocky road running from Brooklyn Soviet to the satellite camps of outer Boston; to the City of Port-au-Prince, then to Santo Domingo and Havana; then Kingston and then Madeira, to the final invasion of Europe; then to Cataluña, then to Moscow burning our way across the great mountain fortress of pale Europe; to the remembering and also forgetting. And finally Burma. To all the places and possibilities beyond the narrow struggle to survive. But on that fateful cold winter day, we four never made it out of that dinner, telling stories to make it through the cold.

 

For before you try to storm the mountain, before you get to build upright human castles, battle white and black demons both and build your grand castell to victory; you must drill. For in the face of indomitable odds and opposition; zealous persistence and ineffable might are your truest weapons. You build your alliance, you ready your team;

 

You prepare for the day it is your time to join the Great Revolt.

 

Chapter 1

Safe House on 38 Prospect, 2013ce

Special Engineering

Camp Waltham

 

 

 

In fast fading lights of sunshine she appears to be my goddess, taking temporary refuge amongst the surely ranks of man. I am meager sinning hapless flesh, and why has she taken my feckless company, why do my trespasses make no rendered judgment?

 

She fails to tell.

 

She found me dying toothless lying on a third hand spring mattress long too used by rootless fuck, hungry, penniless and still sinful inhabiting a refugee ghetto, in bombed out special engineering camp in Eastern Massachusetts. Three years after I supposedly died in a Great Revolt.

I had no mind, I had no front teeth; my face was born mutt like. My mind had been recently lost. I filled my lungs with black smoke and poured poisonous behavior into my gullet; vodka, beer and wine.

She said I was not allowed to kill anyone, myself included and that I upheld. And she said we were to paint and write and adventure and also to heal, and that we did.

She said we might dream every night of beautiful places and things, which we could shut out the vile cold winter by making life between us warm.

She I said wasn’t to hurt her.

And I failed. I so completely failed.

Miserable me. Malicious, feckless damned. Curse me I failed; I reduced her and me to a ball of tears. When she wasn’t looking I again bashed my fists into a brick wall, I threw myself down stairs, I even struck at my own face!

“You are a fucking man without honor or integrity in words!” she wailed and clutched me and I begged and cried and reduced myself to sobs entreating her not to leave.

Well now where is all this going?

Ah.

Every night before we briefly moved out of that camp and into a small clean flat in the hills above town, as I lay in my squalorous dwellings, a place on avenue Prospect 38 packed and sub-divided into dwellings for thirteen Botswanans, Ugandans and Rwandans, Spartan and periodically food friendly; we would use our mobilblats to message back and forth, radio the details of our next dream.

Adelina and I, not the Africans. With them I dreamed in solidarity, not particularly longing for I knew with Adelina I would live forever, but in Africa I would violently die.

The drudgery of my assigned work in Shrakasa Waltham involved a manual of removing of mostly perished corpses from satellite camps and a mental of cataloging various atrocities, in the name of “co-existence studies” happening at that time in the Middle East and Africa.

She was tutoring the illegitimate sons of newly arrived Chinese and Saudi oligarchs how to speak in English. Until I acquired a vehicle she would drive to Shrakasa Waltham from Shrakasa Brighton-Allston which was always a matter of small bribes at several checkpoints.

In the beginning I saw here once a week, then twice a week, then as often as either of us could escape from our respective wage slavery.

Every single night since they dumped me in that wretched Eastern New England camp, since they dumped me raving mad and moon howling, toothless, as I previously said; ever sense our “third date”, really our third meeting; well soon after anyhow each night, right before midnight we’d use the mobilblats to pick a dream location, often in the Caribbean; or in out space; or Belize, or Fiji, or Trinidad and also Togo, once or twice Madeira, Prague and Paris too.

 

A small beep or vibration, a red light and I’d see a small message on the mobilblat:

Adelina: Hey babe, where are we dreaming tonight?

I’d pause from the Castaneda book she gave me which I never understood. Or perhaps the Incredible Lightness of Being I was reading on her recommendation, or from my human rights agitation propaganda work online, or if I wasn’t reading, maybe I was drawing her something colorful albeit unremarkable. Or, hidden away in that 13 way sub-divided slum on 38 Prospect perhaps I was beating myself to smut; if I was self-fornicating, normally to some big breasted sex slave bent over taking two or three men in all the holes of her body, and I’d turn that off without finishing myself off if she messaged me, because I couldn’t be in both spaces, I could also realize how much she felt the world’s energy.

You don’t text message sweet talk of dreams; razgo vorchiki to a goddess while you beat yourself, mentally satiating, participating in a vaguely closed case version of voyeuristic gang raping.

In this recollection I was just reading a book, trying to grok Castaneda, and failing to.

Adon: I was reading more Castaneda. I’m a little lost. They’re taking a lot of magical plants and smoking them.

Shortly after, beep; red flash.

Adelina: : ) Keep at it.

One weekend in late November we escaped the camps for a weekend to a small, desolate island off the coast and she gave me a bag of roughly used paper back and hard cover magic books by Castaneda and Pavel. I’d been trying to follow a path of healing she was intent to keep me on. Putting healthy things in my mind, not the violence, hate and smut.

Adon: I will. How are you?

And the two minutes of pause meant she was either getting ready for bed, or thinking about what to respond. Or whatever else I was darkly projecting happened over in Camp Brighton-Allston.

Adelina: Tired. The message comes in.

And I always want to tell her I miss her, but she lectures me all the time about it not being manly to be overly emotional, proclaim all kinds of things you don’t mean, can’t back up or validate. But I wrote it anyway.

Adon: I miss you.

Adelina: I miss you too. I’ll see you in dreams in ten minutes babe.

Adon: Burma then in the Bagan temple complex.

Adelina: A picture of rows of gold temples pops up on the mobilblat. She has imaged me several pictures of Burma to focus my mind on.

Sludkeh Snov. See you soon. She messages.

That means sweet dreams in Russian.

I want to just type, I love you. But I don’t for she had earlier threatened to break things off if I said it. I had not hurt her yet, that was much later, but I had kissed her several times, and we’d also made love and she put me inside her and I had and wrested her from another lesser lover, I had intentions shall we say of being her man, but then she broke things off over the “I love you.” No, it was not only that,  it was that she also hadn’t wanted anything serious after Alexei had lead her on and crushed her, last summer. A month before we reconnected in the camp.

Adon: see you Burma lady.

Adelina: Don’t keep me waiting ; )

And for the evil I think I did, and would later probably do, for all my brazen broken promises, my dashed high minded beliefs hiding a wretched core; I never kept her waiting for anything. And I almost always brought a gift; and I suppose that could count for something.

No.

Clearly not.

 

This went on throughout the first year of my internment in Camp Waltham.

Scene 2

Safe house on 16 Kings, 2013ce

Shrakasa Waltham

 

 

Adelina arrives in the cold of night.

 

Sebastian, oh Sebastian! Your nothing but trouble to all you claim to love. He called out for her and begged her nightly to acquire him.

 

He was always awake deep into the night, writing his shall we say; a manifesto, or a love poem. Deep in the study of maps and charts and reports from the killing fields; grim and boring. Her maroon KIA Soul Ranger from Korea is steaming from the thirty-eight minute drive from Brighton to Waltham. They’ll have to dig it out in the morning as it never seem to ever stop snowing, for the past three years blat. Over the river and through the woods she went to avoid the various checkpoints and bandits. Here was a scene that happened for year without getting tired, a night journey based on endless amounts of needing, some pushing some pulling, some romance the promise of love, but far too often something violent and degrading, masked as, well masked as longing.

 

One astounding thing about her was the variety of looks she wore. The way she carried her out worldly self, as well as her firm control of her surroundings via her deliberate metamorphosis from often carefree nymph to a severe and serious instructor of social etiquette and use of language. This perhaps this was the result of being born into the tender firm and earthly body of a non-aging and listless school girl, while her memory of events could trace its analysis across four centuries of wax and waning hardship. Her analogue disposition was that of vast kindness. It was the temperament best suited for dealing with savages and bonobos alike. For she was not descended from monkeys and her soul was not like any other he’d encountered.

 

She rings the doorbell of the Waltham flat he’s just rented for them in the hills above the camps. A strong improvement from the sub-divided fire trap they’d nearly set on fire when she let him sex her for the first time. She’s wrapped in a long black fur coat and improbably balanced in heels despite the level of snow fall. She’s coming from a work party.

 

He kisses her hard before she even closes the door behind her. He thrusts her against the wall clutching her tight and he smells like Burberry cologne. She likes his taste now that he’s quit smoking. She can smell on him the desire to have her good and hard. He’s tender until he drinks a little, or gets her ass in his palm. He keeps on and off drinking, but he’s on his way of the bottle and into full and total recall, she hopes.

 

She pulls him in and tells him, “You miss me a lot baby?”

 

He always misses her, it is said all the time but need never also be said!

She’s all he thinks about. Her stunning baby face. Her smile. How she fits in his arms. He hangs her coat and she grabs his ass.

He carries her up the stairs. All he can think about is how tight she is every single time he enters her, how hard she kisses him back, how much he loves her, loves every single thing about being near her and just how long she can take his madness, well it remains to be seen for he is mad man indeed. He’s insatiable for her. And she can occupy his mind and body for many days. The flat has off white walls, poor lighting and smells like scented candles. But it’s better than the one before. In the room is a new red desk they picked out for his studies and writing and queen sized brown wooden bed with posts. Nothings on the desk at all. He lays her on the bed and kisses her hard again.

“Slow down,” she whispers anticipating his hungry lust, “we’re gonna be in this winter for years in this camp probably forever,”

“Slow baby slow” she whispers.

He breathes deep. His mind can’t stop running ahead. Running into being the past and future all at once when he’s with her.

The text in all day long on the mobilblats, they’re almost always in constant contact, messengering about everything and anything. She works in an English language tutoring camp near Newton for newly arrived affluent ones on their way to university; lots of Chinese and Arab. He works day in the Special Engineering Camp for Poverty Alleviation, every Saturday for 24 hours he works as a paramedic in a place called Wonderland; a camp in Revere Beach testing new control cocktails, opium derived on white surfs.

He plays with her gently. Whispers in her ear, “I love you.” She moans and say, “Please, please, please you love the whole world.” She hopes he is gentle, because it isn’t hard for him to go from puppy dog eyes and pillow talk and poems, to well, being brutal in the bedroom.

He looks up and she’s her happy almost forever childlike beauty, her never aging face.

She looks like a sexy little school girl, as cliché as all that sounds. She can also be anything else, but always-always beautiful and dignified and pure. He wants her to be his boss outside. He wants to be her servant and student he knows she’s wise beyond her years by a hundred. But in their inner apartment he wants her to let him break her in. He wants to tie her wild ways and fuck her so ferociously that she cannot remember another man but him.

 

When it seems like she is about to cum, which is charade for she can cum on demand, her whole body contorting in ecstasy; he picks her up and pushes her over the red table. She knows there are both hand cuffs and a loaded gun inside that red desk. And he is a lot of things, but he sure as hell is not a cop. A cop like her ex-husband. He fucks like a cop though, well most of the time.

Like he wants to break you in, like he wants to hurt you somehow. Like he’s not mentally fit to be a father. He’s gonna be in this camp forever. Even thinking about handcuffs and she flinches. Many years later, later after the camps the only thing that could make him filch was seeing a Red KIA Soul drive by somewhere, sometimes it was all fairy tales. Sometimes it was base animal behavior.

 

The difference linguistically speaking between Horashow, which in Russian means ok or doing well, and ‘horror show’ in English, well it’s not a fine line at all. But he was a man that make seamless transitions.

Between being ok, and suddenly very not ok! But, I’ve read all his books so I know how the story will ultimately end. He kisses my neck he whispers her will get us out of this camp and to the freedom of the Wild West Indies; be tell me he’ll give me children and safety and his forever soul.

 

I peel back the false skin over each wrist and reveal my fully tattooed hands. He bows to one knee realizing just what I am. He drops to his knees and he kisses my feet and pledges himself to me again.

 

And again and again, for two years it was mostly like that.

 

Scene 3

Warehouse 32a, 2015ce

Charlestown

 

                                                                                                                         

  My name is unimportant, and you as a barely literate rabble of foreigners could hardly ever seem to pronounce it; so now my papers say Ilya Lubov, IL-YA LU-BOAV. I’m at my inner office auditing a company my firm just acquired. This office is listed on a website of tech firm I founded, but honesty you’d never be able to find it on your own. You’d need help.

You’d need to fuck me until I wasn’t paying attention to you, then you’d have steal some key cards and somehow even know where to find it; then you’d need a raiding party to shoot your way past both drones and Fenian hooligan mercenaries, then go down a trap door.

Good thing that didn’t happen, yesterday. Because what that bitch helped them steal was a list of people and places and assets and ins; well, I just got double penetrated!

Well, the quarter began well I was buying and I was selling and I waking a killing. I flew one girl to Mexico and had my way with her and blew her little mind, then left her back penniless in her mediocre life, they fuck you so much harder when they’re hungry and unsure of their future. That was fun. Things were going really well, at all my layers of finance and I was up for a promotion, was gonna get into better levels of club and higher heights.

I took another woman to Spain, she me met me in Madrid and we went to Barcelona. She was happy little school teacher, honestly not much to hold on to, but she looked perpetually 19, like brand new, even if she wasn’t all that un tested as they say. I think I just wanted to tear apart a school girl, and frankly when you’re getting around my age, 780 years, well you’ve done the real thing, gotten it out of your system, you need more. Like this one I heard on the wire was actually, possibly the, or a messiah of Chelyabinsk. Yes, imagine the thrill, I could buy an underage girl on the market, hell sometimes I sold them without even testing these days, I was busy; but imagine to break a chosen one, break a real life angel on the wheel with your own cock, how could I refuse that.

My standing at the club would rocket, my net and my shares all of it. But you have to be careful, you never know what will happen when you fuck with magic, with Russian magic in particular. There were not many of these woman left alive.

A little history, a little back story. My name isn’t really Ilya Lubov and I am 780 years old. How could I be that old, well because I pay my health insurance bills, which are different in caliber than yours. I pay for new parts, new livers new kidneys, new bones new skin, I have replaced almost everything since I began. I was born in Russia to a Mongol invader and the sorcerous he ravished. I am aware therefore of many things you are not aware of. So many things, like for instance that the human species is much older than you think it is and we have been much more advanced and much, much more egalitarian in the past than the present.

For instance when I was born for instance, in parts of Africa space programs had been in existence before the Gregorian calendar. For instance, by the time the Golden hordes sacked Moscow and Damascus, and killed all of the men, and raped every single one of the women inside; well humanity had been living in a general state of equality and fraternity for 8,000 plus years, except for three large quarantined zones in modern Europe, the region of the Great Lakes in Africa by the source of the Nile and the region of Modern Japan. Now this is all very, very well documented, there are holographic films on it. But go ahead, trust you national history book and your internet. I’m sure you were taught the world began in 1945 when the Allies defeated the Axis. I’m sure you were taught the Cold War was about nuclear weapons and ideology not breeding rights. I’m sure you associate the Holocaust with killing “Ivories”.

I could teach for a living, but instead I buy and sell things. I own all kinds of intangible things that allow me to profit off tangible ones. Like, the barely listed internet firm that offers web solutions to companies around the world, but just try and find our physical office in the mostly derelict Charlestown loft warehouse. I mean you can call and you will eventually reach a flesh-bot walking around claiming to be me, and someone will eventually provide you a technical solution, but that is honestly not the purpose of having a shell company.

Sometimes artists try and capture what we are, we old ones. I’m not even near the oldest. They make vampire movies or science fiction so maybe the public grows so tired of media magic they can’t fathom real, old dark technology and old dark magic. Which is real. And let me say, that sense we forced the Ivories to build us the World System; well we have sucked you all dry and frankly imposed a kind of manufactured poverty and scarcity that never ever existed before. We’ve build military machines that never, ever existed before. You may have heard about Hiroshima and Nagasaki, but you didn’t hear about all the other times we used an earthquake, or a flood or dropped a bomb and called it an inter-ethnic genocide.

You might read this in the West and think civilization is advancing or declining, I will tell you that you have no idea just how much we pray off you all. My favorite time of year is when we stage election in various countries and so many of you think you have options, think that it all matters. You actually have developed loyalty to your owners, you hang your plantation work camps flag as some symbol of pride.

780 is not that old, I’m called a baby in certain circles. I’m not invited to Bohemian or Bilderberg events, the Masons and the Order of St. John frankly freak me out a little. I’m not even on a Forbes list by proxy, for instance Gates and Buffet are just flesh-bots, pawns of people you’ve never even heard of. Let’s just say our own ‘Forbes list’ would have to calculate in human heads and land, not make believe currencies we use to impose the scarcity regime.

I did a vacation recently in space, you have no idea how fun it is to screw in space, but you need enough room and also a large cabin, if you’ve ever screwed in water and you liked that well try space. The earth, for your information is not the only habituated world, nor is it as salvageable as you think. Preparations to leave began in the 1940’s Gregorian, disguised as the World Wars, but that is a very long story what happened in the World Wars, because one it would blow your mind too much and two, well its dark even for me.

They, the humans, because when you can live a thousand years you do evolve are actually multiple species that look almost the same, but act markedly different. Generically speaking some come from Bonobos, and some come from Chimps. And, there has been marked evolutionary diversion into more loving and more war like breed. Chimps and Bonobos look similar, almost the same as German and a Russian naked, but! But they are different. Chimps will rips your eyes out and gang rape your chimp wife. Bonobos like cuddling and feeding each other. This is science man! What you learned in school was proll feed.

I’m a little drunk, that’s why I’m making this video. I have reason to believe that someone very, very close to be has sold me out to a peasant rebellion. I have reason to believe someone ran off with my latest girlfriend. And, my hard drives. And, they have client lists and they have old soul network lists and they even have aces codes to the floating fortresses and moon bases. Basically, you don’t actually evolve in 780 years to point where a young hot girl with a real tight pussy can’t still set you up.

Blat, I’m have to kill so many people to make this right. What a mess. And I take my 34^th shot this time from the bottle, this time not even commanding my liver to work faster.

The phone rings, rings, her voice mail. Blat.

“I’m gonna kill everyone you ever cared about” I tell the voice mail, “and I’m going to make you suffer indefinitely. And I’m going to keep him alive, forever, and torture him until he cannot even find noises to scream, for I know you didn’t think of this plot on your own bitch!!”

I crush the mobilblat in my hand.

In 780 years, and I’m young, I have tasted almost every major wine, eaten virtually everything including human flesh (tastes like Pork), I have climbed almost every major mountain, experimented with all know and some unknown drugs, I’ve done horrible, horrible things with female bodies. I’ve helped organize ethnic cleansings, for sport. Sometimes for profit, but often for sport. Like the time I bet the Koch brothers whether the Tutsi’s could beat the Hutus in a machete war. I’ve basically helped sell the majority of the human race into a reserve pool of parts and labor. I am a lesser Oligarch.  And I’m not sure how yet, maybe because I wanted to fuck a school girl not a horse this quarter, maybe because even after 780 I’m half chimp, basically. I’m gonna rape her to death and cut off her head. I’m gonna torture all of them! If I don’t move fast and ruthlessly, there will be serious repercussions. Because 72 hours ago a new rebel group voted to declare war on us, which is not new or exciting. But, that they could lay a long game clever plan, and steal from me names and numbers and places of old souls, that this band of rebels could go hard as motherfucker on dozens of lesser oligarchs all over the world and I’d be blamed, that troubles me a lot.

 

Scene 4

Safe House on 16 Kings, 2015ce

Waltham

 

 

She was sacred and crying and I’d never seen her this uncompromised.

Thinks Sebastian Adon.

She was curled up under the covers of three comforters, crying and shivering on my big red safe house plush couch. And I was holding her hand, guarding her seated on the floor of the apartment, a blaster in my other hand filled with bullets, bullets that kill. Everyone was on red alert.

The night before she had arrived back in the United States with Ilya Lubov who had done god knows how many depraved things to her in Spain. Made me want to throw up, imagine him leering over her panting.

Forty eight hours ago delegates from forty nations signed a declaration of war against the oligarchy in mountain bunker in the Western hills of Mass. The delegates signed and hugged and saluted each other, as they knew it would be the last time the 49 of them would likely see each other alive again; and then via numerous and multiple routes proceeded to exit the country and by the time Ilya arrived back, ‘Ilya the lesser Oligarch of the North East sector’ the majority were safely out of the country, only a dozen remained including Sebastian Adon & Amitai Ben Gurion, the Israeli delegates, the two Ayitian delegates Watson Entwissle and Tiputti Capois and Arelene Daly of Erin, Charlotte Kamande of Uganda and a unit of six Americans.

Her hand was wet with fear and she was crying unstoppably and this was a poor sign if this was indeed the woman sent to lead us in the coming uprising.

I don’t know what Ilya did to her body and mind. I didn’t ask her about that. But I’ll tell you what happened, it happened really fast. And I’m sure everyone is mortified we moved so quickly.

A year ago Adelina Blazhennaya, the warrior marine Pete Reed and I infiltrated the Republic of Ayiti and working with Tiputti Capois to drill hundreds of new medical guerrillas. After the rendezvous with rebel leadership in Santo Domingo and Havana I returned to the gulag camps in Waltham and Adelina left for Moscow.

As per the plan we would fake our brake up, declare tumultuous hate for each other, and via electronic correspondence build a plausible portfolio of distance and hate. And in when in Moscow, on behalf of the rebel alliance she would bed who she had to find the identity of the lesser oligarch who ruled North Eastern states, the greater one too hard to hit, and she would get us his name. But she got much further, she got this pig, this scoundrel oligarch to meet her in Spain.

Let me say that this was not my plan. Let me tell you that while I have been staff sergeant in the rebel movement since 2001, and as an old school myself it has been told to me that I am very old; well under no circumstances would I have colluded to send the mother of my only living children into danger, into heavily occupied Russia, to the fortified zone of Moscow (known to be the current summit of the great world mountain) to BED OTHER MEN! Never. But it was the orders of my ex-wife Emma Solomon that she follows, not mine.

 

Emma Solomon had come into her life and told her to put me back to work, to take me out of the camps and ready me for newer things and bigger battles to come. She flew to Moscow in September, she came back to meet me in New York in November.

 

I begged her in the Empire Hotel, I begged her on my knees to escape with me to the relative safety of the Wild West Indies or Cuba, or space or anywhere. And she told to shut the fuck up. She told me in that hotel room that there was no future for our children while the oligarchy ravished us all like this, there was no future for this species unless we carried out our directives. She told me I knocked her up long before Ayiti and she took the child to Russia to give birth, that out first child, a girl was already born, safely being raised by her mother in Che, I told her I would give up my rank and I would cash in my chips, I even begged her to collaborate with me and be done with this war, and she told me to go fuck myself, called me weak. I cried and I begged and yelled and I called her a whore and I broke a mirror with my face. And she took me sobbing and bloody off the floor and made love to me for the very last time, and pregnant with our second child she left for Moscow this time breaking contact.

The camp, the Special Engineering Camp 44; Shrakasa Waltham was built in the foot hills West of Boston by half an hour in a vehicle. When the Blizzard of 2014 came in, we were cut off from the outside world for the rest of the winter; there were road closures, curfews and even to get into Boston took days. The camp held nearly 4,000 prisoners, several hundred in the graduate development program for ‘sustainable development’ studies. The resistance in New York had ordered me to infiltrate the camp in 2013 and capture tradecraft, and make international allies.

Although most of the world lives below $5 a day, most were not aware of the many uprisings which rocked the United States of America in 2011-2012; that rebels and leftists and unions and partisan fighters had captured cities up and down the coast from Miami, Florida to Bangor, Maine. Most of the world was simply informed by the media that hipsters, the homeless and various communists were participating in failed urban uprisings in the USA. Arab Spring protesters, Islamists and the underground had by 2012 knocked out the governments of Libya, Egypt, Tunisia; and major uprisings were launched in Syria, Yemen, Bahrain, Iraq and Saudi Arabia, all of which are ongoing in various degenerations of violence and civil unrest. However, no one ever was allowed to know that uprisings far up the mountain, far closer to the World System Core happened in Hong Kong (suppressed), Chelyabinsk (successful) and thirteen rebel Soviets were established between 2012-2015 in Brooklyn, Queens, the Bronx, Newark, Hartford, New Haven, Boston, Miami and Detroit. And while the events of these uprisings never reached the world, by 2016 there were 13 Confederated City States autonomous of the USA.

It was long believed that the resistance was much stronger abroad and in the ensuing years numerous attempts were made to find the rebels in other nations. But a heavy quarantine sealed the 13 Soviets from most outside contact and in the subsequent war of attrition between 2013-2016 million starved, tens of thousands defected, Boston was recaptured and Detroit was obliterated completely.

The events of those tumultuous years are recounted in a variety of journals published as ‘The Partizan Song’ fictionalized and ‘An Oral History of the US Separatist Wars’ a more critical account by historian Michael Goul-Wackowsky. Though the second is disputed by many because Goul-Wackowsky was widely believed to be a petty bourgeoisie arm chair revolutionary at best or a police spy, at worst.

She was crying now for several hours, I had never seen her cry except once I made her cry when she came to believe I had an affair on the eve of our deployment to Ayiti. The lights were off in the safe house and Irfan Khan, one of the two Pakistani delegates was downstairs with an assault rifle. Tiputti Capois had left with Saadiyan Usmani, the Sheikha of Karachi via a cab to bring a brief case to the home of Ricardo Veshanti, the Rastafarian Chief Liaison Officer of the Union; his home a long time rebel base and meeting hall had a hatch in the floor which descended to the sewers where a courier team was preparing to copy the contents of the brief care and shuttle the contents though Konnecticut to the nearest rebel Soviet garrison in Hartford.

I have a gun and Irfan Khan has a rifle, and Tiputti and Saadiyan have the brief case and in the brief case is all kinds of data that we need to unleash anarchy in the finances and logistical control systems and social clubs of the oligarchy; and Ricardo Veshanti is ready with his courier team and the messiah is sobbing.

 

Adelina will become the Dror ha Tzadikk, candidate for messiah in about one hour, when Ilya the Oligarch retaliates as hard as he can.

 

My portable radio goes off, it’s Roj Zalla the only Kurdish delegate, “they’ve mobilized a very large contingent out of Charlestown. I would estimate you have an hour. Copy.”

“10-4, we’re gonna leave the safe house and head for the hatch.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she declares.

 

 

Scene 5

Safe House on 16 Kings, 2015ce

Waltham

 

 

Irfan and I had to the best of our ability barricaded and taped up the windows of the safe house which overlooked the parking lot and street. We had dropped the Ayitian and Israeli flags off the balcony ledge which was a flag signal on our part that all positions were to be hardened and the volunteers were to be called up. There were only four roads of approach into Camp Shrakasa Waltham, and the safe house was amid a large cooperative housing development on the Western upper most slope of the great hill the whole camp and village rested upon. Thus, a spotter could see the flags drop, confirm via radio it was an activation, and then, climb one of the three massive radio towers called the three Eiffel’s of Waltham; and hang the flag of Zimbabwe; which was the signal for ‘get to your position, mine the roads, this is a call up’.

And it was just after high noon when we dropped out flags, and 12:15pm when the flag of Zimbabwe went up the tallest structure in town, and then it was no going back.

Saadiyan calls me on the land line, “We are at Malcolm’s, are you all safe?”

“Roj called.”

“I know Roj called, you should get in your car and get down here to the hatch, I’d estimate we have 55 minutes,” the Sheikha Saadiyan Usmani has a British accident.

“She won’t leave,” I tell her.

In the next room Adelina was taking a shower.

“Sebastian, we don’t have a lot of time. Tiputti, Ricardo, Botchello and I are almost done moving the files onto the inter-web and into the drive, when that’s done we’re heading down the hatch and heading to Hartford or Dover, the couriers won’t tell us.”

“I realize that. You may have to leave without us. She’s very stubborn.”

“Sebastian, I realize that you are sleep deprived, and may not be able to hear me. But I order you to get in the car with Irfan, and make the rendezvous. Or, as you know Ilya’s men will burn this whole place down and many of our supporters will die for nothing defending you and her, when we could make this painless.”

“Sheikha, what would you have me do?” he mutters.

“They’re coming with many violent men. We need to get all the delegates out of Waltham, we need to put all the supporters back to sleep. If you can extricate yourself in a timely fashion it could save many lives.”

“Sheikha, I’m trying. She’s in the shower right now.”

And Saadiyan Usmani the prophetess knows that perhaps this the last time she will hear him alive.

“Don’t shoot until you see the whites of their eyes,” she says and puts down the phone.

I put on tea. Irfan comes up the stairwell; the safe house is a rather large two bedroom apartment with a now heavily barricade balcony overlooking the parking lot and main road called Kings Way. I can see the flag of Zim still fluttering, Kudzai the biochemist sure got that fast. The enormous IED’s that will take apart the two largest bridges into town were his doing; cooked up under Ricardo Veshanit’s home. If it comes to that.

I hand Irfan a mug of black tea. He’s of medium build, an older man who ages well, classy with thinning hair a heavy drinker and analytically minded. He’s former Pakistani military, before he was sent to the camp used to provide security for the present there. Alongside Saadiyan he makes up the other half of the Pakistani delegation.

Where he had acquired a fully loaded AK-47, in this camp, at this time of the year under this state of affairs, who knew. Such a thing from Irfan Khan was not hard to believe, he had connections for worse things. Getting them and moving them for sport and for fun or for the welfare of country, his country of origin.

He sips the tea and slings the rifle over his shoulder. He too has a British accent.

“I have three clip and four hand grenades. I have placed an IED near the entrance to the house and on the first approach to the road. We can set them off by remote. Where is she?”

“She’s taking a shower.”

“A long shower.”

“She’s a dirty girl,” I tell him.

He winks, he has a good old boy sense of humor.

“Saadiyan told me that I am to again order you to pull out of this position and head to the hatch immediately. She said if you refuse because you think you’re protecting the girl; I am to pull out,” he checks his gold watch, “in ten minutes.”

“You know I’m not going to leave her side.”

“I anticipated that you would say that.”

“She’s my wife and the mother of two of my kids.”

“Yes, I anticipated that you’d claim that.”

“I’m a Captain too, Saadidya can’t order me to do anything.”

“Look it’s a fully volunteer outfit, no one can enforce any of these orders. It’s about respect. Respect for the total fubar mess you’ve landed us in less than just two days out of Congress. Two days! I thought we had more time to run and hide.”

“I’m sorry, she came back.”

“You’re the fucking general man, you’re the chief. The top most leader really! You fucked up. You’re not allowed to play with other’s lives like you have, with hope like you have. They trusted you, I trusted you. In forty five minutes a private army will over run our position and obliterate this camp. Burn down every structure, kill anything with a pulse. I estimate that this entire encampment might, might be lightly defended by forty students with small arms.”

“Are those real bullets in you AK?”

“Do I strike you as man who would have not real bullets in my AK?” Irfan asks.

“No. I didn’t think you in the peace camp of the union.”

“And I am not.”

“And your gun, are those real bullets in your gun.”

“It’s not my gun. I took it from Ilya after I broke his jaw with it.”

“Your commitments to non-violence are thin, eh comrade captain Adon.”

Irfan grins, he grins a lot when he’s nervous or drunk.

“Is she really your wife?” he asks.

“In a very biblical sense.”

“I thought more like a mu’tah marriage.”

“Well it began like that. Then certain things were made clear.”

“Is it true she has two children by you squirrelled away, hidden in a fortress deep in the Urals, somewhere between Yechateranisbourg and Che?”

“The ISI doesn’t fuck around, do you?”

“I don’t know anything about that Captain Adon. I just know that if you reported to anyone besides yourself, and your idea of your God, well; you’d be shot.”

“Can I smoke?” he asks.

“Yes, but on the balcony, she can’t stand it.”

“Who pays the rent here eh?”

“The US Federal government is paying the rent, and they don’t like the smell of smoke either.”

They go out on the terrace into the freezing cold of June, it wasn’t almost ever cold in June here. Winter has carried on in the Northwest for three consecutive years now. Allegedly it has something to do with ‘climate change.’ In reality, there have been three years of non-stop snow because Ilya Lubov and Dmitry Khulushin, the two major lesser oligarchs of the Northeast sector lost a bet to the Koch Brothers; the two lesser Oligarchs of the Midland sectors; and the brothers shut off the heat, quite literally. Full climate control has been a technological reality for many hundred years.

I ask him for a smoke with my hands and my face.

“Well, what now?” he asks.

“You finish your smoke, I finish my smoke when she gets out of the shower we clorophorm her, roll her in a sleeping bag, booby-trap the house with a hand grenade and get in my car and we drive fast down the hill on the rum roads, we get to Ricardo’s we all go down the hatch and Kudzai orders a stand down, and the camp goes back to sleep, and we end up in Dover or Hartford, eventually ensheallah Breuklyn Soviet.”

“I like when you’re rational mind kicks in. I thought you completely whipped.”

“I just needed some smoke.”

“She’s a wonderful woman. A fierce, indomitable warrior.”

“I know.”

“That thing she stole, you stole; that information will blow a hole in the side of their system. Names, places, pass codes, license plates, and bank account numbers. Anarchy.”

“I had no idea she’d come back with his head on a platter like that.”

“Well he’s gonna to terrible things to you both if he catches you, and he may.”

Irfan looks at his watch.

“Who’s left,” I ask.

“Virtually all of the leadership has escaped. Jefferson, Refilwe, and Saiph Khan left last. Only Sultan plans to hold his ground here with the supporters. Ah, and the Afghans of course will not retreat.”

“So it wasn’t always snow in June,” he asks.

“There was never snow in June.”

“As we have perhaps a minute more before we take care of the businesses of rapid egress, as of course all three of us might be killed just getting to the hatchway; would you mind paraphrasing, what exactly the fuck happened between the day after Congress, and this morning.”

“The short version?”

“We don’t have time for a soliloquy.”

“My unit stole a list of names and bank account numbers of the fourth richest American oligarch. He was fucking my ex, who is also my wife, things flew off the handle in a violent rampage, and here we are,” I say.

“Um, more.”

“My wife infiltrated the close company of one of the richest men in the American lesser oligarchy then living in Moscow. He fucked her into a million pieces, god knows what else; he made her his concubine. She copied his hard drives, she identified where his data cache was in Charlestown. They went to Spain, my brother took procession of half of the data, but the rest was secured in Charlestown. They flew back, Ilya and Adelina the day Congress ended. He flipped on her and locked her in a room in his facility there. I raided it yesterday morning with forty volunteers. I broke his face with the barrel of a gun, I stole back my wife, I also stole his Russian and America hard drives. We got pinned down by his enforcers and private army. So I called in an airstrike and that sort of changed the color of the sky above Boston.”

“How much of this did you pre-meditate?”

Irfan asks knowing exactly how much of that story was in Adon’s head space, and how much was real.

“Very little. I hadn’t heard anything until she popped up in Barcelona a couple weeks ago. All I got next was a call from her friend Lana telling me she was in trouble, early yesterday.”

“Did anyone in the union know you were going to conduct a military raid, supported by bombers and artillery from Boston Soviet?”

“Roj knew.”

“Of course he did,” Irfan smirks. That sneaky Kurdish plotter/ patriot always does.

“So look,” I say and toss the butt over the barricade, “I don’t know where her head is at. She’s been through, well sinister shit. She’ll get out of the shower and sort of pretend everything is cool and Lana is gonna meet in Cambridge for dinner, and she’ll just kinda mentally detach herself from realty.”

As we’re all trained to do, Irfan thinks.

“And that’s when you grab her, drug her, wrap her in a sleeping bag and we carry her to the car?”

“Precisely.”

“Carry on.”

“It’s just a fifteen minutes’ drive down the Rum Road down to the home of Ricardo Veshanti; then we stick to the plan.”

“You realize this realty you and her have created are both deviant and unstable, you realize that if anything other than that; you, me she and the rest going out of this camp and the hatch closing behind us, you realize he will skin her alive in front of you and keep you alive for a thousand years for torture, for this set up. For this epic mess.”

“Listen, if I wasn’t afraid for her and these children I allegedly have I’d be less inclined to believe in her magic.”

“Brother, listen. All of us were brought to this place to report back to where we are from. You have orders, I have orders, we were sent here to network, and that we did.”

“Irfan, things happened very quickly. And got a little out of control.”

“You burned down half of the towns between here and Cambridge in the largest mechanized artillery battle anyone has ever seen since maybe the Battle of Brooklyn. You stole a list of lesser and upper oligarchs. You pistol whipped American Capitalisms equivalent of a duke. You made off with his property. You did all of that 24 hours after the single largest coordinated meeting of rebel fighters in the last 100 years met four hours from here. They’re going to kill us all Sebastian Adon, there is not going to be anywhere left to hide.”

“Well we can get as far as the hatch for now.”

Adelina Blazhennaya comes out of the shower in bathrobe, ignores us both and heads to my bedroom to change.

“What’s that beeping?” Irfan asks pointing to my open black Lenovo computer.

“Drones,” I mutter and look over the terminal.

“Lots and lots of incoming terra drones.”

 

 

Scene 6

Highway I95, 2015ce

Brighton-Alston

 

Thinks Ilya, a lesser Oligarch of North Eastern American sectors:

 

I underestimated these fucking Americans. And it is easy too because they have so little education, they have so little collective bargaining power, they’re completely deluded about their political system and they’re all mostly over weight.

But then out of the blue, they do wild cowboy shit.

I’m going to keep this man alive for a thousand years and torture him like he’s never been tortured. He clearly loves Ms. Adi B., so I’ll have to keep her alive in incredible suffering too to get at him properly, can’t just skin her on sight. Jesus I’m in a bind.

Our convoy of forty black bullet proof sports utility vehicles, jeeps and half trucks is plowing its weigh up Highway I95; anticipating that these terrorist bandits have the capability to blow up the bridge we need to take to get into the camps.

Waltham is basically on the top of a low lying mountain, there are four ways in that we can expect them to booby trap. We are not going to take any of those ways in. We’re not going to run right into a typical Chechen trick; convoy ambush. We are about twenty minutes from the camp perimeter. They’ve already killed or disabled all of the police guarding the town and camps. It’s very hard to control myself right now. I’m very emotional.

My mobilblat rings, it’s Dmitry Khulusin, probably calling to mock me.

“Faggot Piederass I told you he’s a sneaky Ivory bastard,” Dmitry says.

“What do you think will happen when we get to the camps?” I ask him.

“Niggers will shoot at you, bombs will go of left and right, they’ll burn down the whole place before you get your hands on anyone, and they also always seem to dig tunnels.”

“Right, and I need him and her alive.”

“Why? Bomb the whole fucking place. Kill as many as you can! They’re mostly niggers and Arabs and Ivories; nothing incredible is coming out of that Shrakasa anyway.”

“Dmitry, I need to take them alive. And I need to get my hard drives back.”

“Ilya, baby, droog. They already have copied your data to the interweb and foot shuttled it down the tunnels to old New York. Even if they can’t crack it all open yet, they will. It’s gonna be ready for anonymous decryption at every one of their terrorist bases by sun down.”

“Well, what would you do, in my shoes?”

“Kill yourself. Before the Kochs, the Slim Helus, the Buffets, the Bezozs, the Ellisons, the Bentleys, the Biggalos, and the Upper Oligarchy realize what you lost, set up over some tight pussy talking trap. And she doesn’t even have any tits.”

“You lost most of your best lands to this man and his friends, will you not help me?”

“I don’t have the energy to play with their Black Magic anymore.”

“Fuck off then blat!”

And I almost throw the mobilblat out the window.

She betrayed me, they used me they fucked me good. As soon as the other peers realize I’ve compromised half of the cream of the North Eastern Coast, Air Strip 1, Saxony, Normandy, the Spain Lands and frankly quite of bit else in Upper Europe and the Gulf Colonies; well they’ll cut my head off. And play with my brains.

I lived for 780 years, what I learned; humans are violent selfish monkeys that maximize pleasure and minimize pain, except for a small sniveling breed we’ve killed down to almost nothing that move and think collectively.

I wanted to fuck a chosen one up her ass. There all kinds of rumors that the Upper Oligarchs keep these witches as pets. Some of our best hunter killers are of Hebrew blood, I mean all of the white Ivories are working for us now one way or another. But I thought I bought and seduced her for a reasonable price. I thought she wasn’t awake.

We all read the reports that the Muslims and the niggers are protecting the last of the chosen. We all read about how many bonobo descendants are left. We all hear that stupid fucking word Dror haTzadikk! Dror Ha Tzadikk! I mean it’s outside my jurisdiction by from what I know most of the human slavery campaign was to sell as many of these witches into brothels as we could to breed ourselves a deterrent to various incarnations of the resistance movements in the colonies.

They’re going to cut off my head. I misunderestimated the Americans.

The phone rings again. The convoy is getting close to the underground tunnels we can enter the camps from below.

It’s Dmitry again.

“I pity you. So I’ll sell you a secret.”

“Go ahead then.”

“I want 50 million Bit Coins for it.”

“If it’s that good I’ll may in Swiss Francs.”

“You can wipe out the primary rebel leadership in one shot, you can hit the submarine black freighter with Emma Solomon and Avinadav DeBuitléir when it surfaces to rendezvous with people fleeing this camp.”

“I’m not sure that will save my skin.”

“Yes, they will skin you for this. But maybe killing Solomon and DeBuitléir will earn you enough credibility to be allowed to come back to a body.”

“No one is so hated as those two heinous scum, why would you do that for me? Why not advance your own station before the high peers?”

“Because I hate Sebastian Adon. I hate him so much I’d sell my own birth mother to spit roast him. And anything I can do to hurt him I will always do to hurt him, and to kill his leaders. That could hurt him a little.”

“Why do you think the two most important rebel leaders are on a black freighter submarine coming to rescue these bandits?”

“Because unbeknownst to you and your cock was up the ass of the highest powered candidate there is next Solomon, Adelina is her immediate and direct disciple. By killing Solomon she is next in line to be their new messiah.”

“I fucked the messiah up the ass! Amazing.”

“You’re a pervert, but that’s expected. Being very rich and powerful is scientifically proven to breed perversion as you know.”

“I’m going to put their messiah on a chain and break her completely.”

“So pay me bitch. And I will have a war head fall on them the minute they land on their stupid little island they value so much; the block and New Shoreham.”

“Alright. Done. But I’m going to take them alive somehow before they reach Block Island.”

“You need them to get close so they radio their friends to come get them. Which means just bomb the camps into the ground you know they’ll sneak out some hole into a tunnel and make their way according to their protocols? Yesterday’s truck rocket battles made you look like you’ve totally lost control of your serfs. ”

“You’re one to lecture. Half your city fell Soviet!”

“Route the money. Bomb that Ivory camp with drones and just wait for the informants to report strange things happening in Konnecticut on the roads to New Galilee. We can mop this up by the end of the weekend, and maybe you’ll just lose your skin privileges.”

 

 

Scene 7

Chelsea Garrison, 2015ce

ISLE OF MAN

 

 

There are only several places where they cannot hear you, see you, record you and file you by number. And these places are not one hundred percent secure, they only make your detection harder and prolong your date of capture.

 

Bathhouses, fitness clubs, loud electronic music venues, camping & wilderness activities, dancehall parties and in the back of municipal ambulances.

 

I’m not fully happy with some elements of my life, thinks Siegfried Sassoon the actor. I cannot exactly say that I am satisfied, though I do have many elements of a good life going; I am not using my human potential; not as an actor and not as a man.

 

I take to the woods; there are so many things we forgot to do when we became civilized; we lost innate mechanisms for our self-preservation; we became reliant on government, on governance on divisions of labor so infinite that we no longer possess any intrinsic individual use. Well, a great deal less any way.

 

I am following a new serial on Netflicks and Chill; the premium film station now that we get all out television from computers and cell phones. I have no stomach for film or TV! I was classically trained in Moscow for the stage! For the fucking stage, but that is a dead medium now. I have bachelors in philosophy, I wrote my thesis on the history of time travel. I work as bar tender at an elite supper club in the Isle of Mann. I have a pleasant and attractive girlfriend, she is not as amazing as my last girlfriend, but she makes me happy and keeps things mostly drama free.

 

My father works for the military industrial complex, I rarely see him. My mother is a hippie. It’s pace love and light, and then you marry rich; it’s good for your future, your children’s future. My father has a job I don’t know the details of; his company holds patents to space craft and commercial airlines, it builds them for thee United American States; the UAS has been the name of the 87% of the USA that was not lost to socialism during the Separatist Wars of 2012-2015; the Capital is in Chicago. The 13% lost is called the Confederation of Autonomous Soviet Republics, the Isle of Mann is just over the river from Breuklyn Soviet; which is one of the most heavily armed hot beds of the sedition. The Bronx and Queens are confederated with it; Staten Island is an enormous military garrison, it got very blood for three years, now it’s all quiet. The rebels threatened to use atomic weapons and took hostages, I will tell you what appears to work; terrorism it seems to work every single time.

It is actually understood to be far less bloody than conventional war, and a lot less expensive. Who fundamentally funds these rebels is a subject of great debate in the high class circles I run in. Oh yes, the upper classes are composed of big brained thinking men.

My club, like many of the establishments in cash rich, high stressed Isle of Mann, high tower living; caters to the millionaires and billionaires that compose what you might call were you to site rather populist rebel propaganda; the 2%. Wealth in the United States of America and subsequently in the United American States is a mal-distributed slope like absolutely anywhere else in the 206 Sectors, ehm, countries. In virtually all 206 national harvest units the distribution is about the same; though there are sharp gradients in the peripheral and semi-peripheral zones; social welfare systems and trickle down economies have enabled most of the 46 Core nations to eliminate all obvious forms of extreme poverty; life below $1.25 a day. Underclasses of course exist; the Muslims in Europe and the Blacks and Latinos in the U.S.; but they are not volatile, starving underclasses, but observe the slope; same in peripheral zone Kenya, as Semi-Peripheral zone Brazil, same are core zone France; a slope of the underclass and “middle classes” that in raw net wealth and assets are not radically disparate. Suffice to say you could call much of the middle class, the working poor. And in any society the distribution of REPORTED wealth, emphasis on REPORTED wealth would show that with welfare, with subsidy; the majority of the citizens of any county; 80-90% are all on slope that tapers off at its highest mark at annual earnings of $100,000 per year; then you have a 5-10% of the Bourgeoisie, the Upper Middle Classes, white collar managers, athletes and celebrities with earnings let’s say between $100,000 to 1 million per year. This still is not a radical accumulation of wealth, not in the scale needed to exercise power. Control of political and productive mechanisms. And then you have a class in itself, what they called in Occupy the 1% is actually 0000.1% of the remaining population; a kleptocracy; more appropriately called; an Oligarchy. Organized into clubs and factions that see national boundaries as brands, or more appropriately the names of various large scale mega plantations.

I did not come to any of that by reading the manuscripts or hearing the speeches of Adon, Solomon, DeBuitléir and other famous rebel leaders. I am no prole, nor were their Partizan songs written with my class in mind.

These men do not come to my club. But I pour their managers drinks, I pour their entertainment drinks, I stay sober sometimes while their supervisors drink and I know about things like robots, clones and the great salt mine. I knew that the ‘new Panama Canal’ had already been built in the 1980’s, I knew this from the mouths of babes; the call girls these lackeys bought. I have smoked joints with fellow help and shared what we’ve heard.

Adon tried to recruit me no less than twice to three times a year in round about and direct appeals to my level of awareness. I long suspected he would ask to spy for him, or something trickier. I’m a man of privilege, but not impervious. My father is well connected because of his company’s trade in trains and planes and missiles; but if the secret police took me there would be not very much he could do. I have friends too from the Club in which I work; but honestly when they take you they take you away. Your body is found in a tragic accident or a suicide, but that’s not your real body; you end in a container ship and then in a secret prison and that’s all she wrote.

I once wondered if Adon would analyze his own privileges being white, being raised upper middles class from a family with land; well his father is no lesser oligarchy but still they were the House of Adon! An esteemed house allowed into certain elite clubs, given land in both the District Financial and the Hamptons. Well suffice to say that house was outlawed and obliterated after the Great Revolt.

They stripped his Ivory father of all his land and ranks and executed his entire family, this is all I read. Sometime in the 2013.

The world is not a much changing world. There are always barbarians at the gates, slaves in cages and unrest in the colonies. It has always been this way, it will always be this way; who am I or Adon or any to clamor for a new way. Adon and I used to sit in the bathhouses and I would hear his yarns. I could hardly believe much of it was real. We were in university together, though I never joined his movement officially. Never took the plot outside the steam room. The House of King and House of Adon were of relatively equal social stations. He seemed to disregard my sympathies to him and grow angry as we got older that I didn’t wish to die on some barricade like him; but there are not barricades now; there are only strange events. Strange changes to reality that happen to keep up with the future science and black magic making war.

Nothing is what is what it seems. Are these vast plantation camps; or are they developing nations? Is democracy about speaking freely or is about governing together? Why has the winter not ended for three years in Massachusetts? Why do proles take trains to serve others in the Isle of Mann and those trains take 45 minutes, but I know and Adon knows that to get from Manhattan of Breuklyn Soviet you need a plane or a 40 mile base jump down a mountain. Are you a citizen or are you a serf? Did America win the Cold War? Why is it half of the lesser, and one third of the greater oligarchs all have Russian names? What is a Princlings? What is the Bohemian Grove? When is it time to smoke a joint and join a conspiracy theory, or get your cock rubbed via Netflicks and Chill? How much is a human life worth?

 

Make us a damn good price!

 

I came to much of these realities during my senior thesis called ‘A History of Time Travel’; which explores the metaphysics behind parallel reality states, fourth dimensional travel and such themes of Pre-Soviet parapsychology.

My ex, I can’t say her same as it was so painful to lose her. Her father is a Greater Oligarch, from her and from Adon and from the whispers at The Sly Fox; I learned that truly nothing is as it seems.

Sebastian Adon, before he embraced the Baha’i nonviolence teachings of Sheika Saadiyan Usmani and was inducted into the Blue Lodge; well he was a killer, I watched him evolve. I saw him go between talk and action over a period of ten years, he was changed by his experiences in the colonies; Palestine first then in Ayiti.

I will not speak to what did or did not happen during the Millennium Theatre Hostage Crisis, there are wildly different accounts. I never saw him again after that night when the whole country first learned his name. They say he died. As did thousands of hostages being held all over the country that night! And then a calm. And then, a great gold mist blew over North America. The internet turned off. The world outside our country was blacked out. And in that gold happy mist changes were made, and there was no more Adon. There was no more United States; the entire population was put to sleep.

And when we woke up out of the dream, out of the week following the Millennium Hostage Crises. 13 % of America was a wild rebel free zone, and 87% was called the United American States, had always been. And you couldn’t take a 45 minute train to Brooklyn, no this violent anarchic thing called Breuklyn Soviet was a 40 mile drop off a cliff where the East River used to be. There was mile high wall between the edge of that cliff; and I was still in the UAS, which had always been the UAS; but Brooklyn, Queens and the Bronx were not. These were now autonomous zones we were prohibited from traveling to.

I got a letter in the mail from Adon, I guess a courier moved it. The letter stated he was interned in a special engineering camp not far from Boston; another liberated City State. He told me that shortly his compatriots would be taking him out of the camp ad returning him to Breuklyn Soviet, which was of course (he claimed) now ‘free.’ And what did he want, why had he written?

Of course he wanted something. He never was capable of just having a friendship. He had taped a micro USB chip to the letter; it contained god only knows what. Nothing would shock me. He letter asked to go to 7^th FDNY EMS Outpost in Chelsea, find Anya Drovtich, buy her a drink and give her the chip. Just commit treason, matter of flatly.

I had met Anya Drovtich once before the letter said; the sexy Polish chick with the dreadlock and red Hijab. That narrowed it down a lot. What the rational person would do, despite having knowledge of a highly irrational world, even sympathizing with the resistance secretly. Having bathed and been friends with supposedly dead public enemy number three, behind DeBuitléir and Solomon, ahead of famed Jamaican Rebel Commander still at large in Breuklyn Soviet Mickhi Dbrisk. I remembered Anya, I let them both in The Sly Fox on night against my better judgment; they were planning to take hostages. In the end they were ordered to stand down, Adon got drunk and pole danced for her in a private room.

 

He wasn’t humorless.

I look at this letter in my hand and I wonder what I should do. Turning it in means incriminating myself. The televisions have said he was killed in the hostage crisis along with Solomon; this is proof of sorts he is alive; maybe his prints are on this hand written letter. His security culture is sloppy I know. Maybe throw it away? What’s on the micro USB chip? Should I open it? Maybe this all a setup, maybe the Joint Terrorism task force is looking at anyone Adon used to know and I used to Banya with him twice a year, he’s been to half my theatrical openings. Maybe it’s another purge. And why would he send this to me, all of these years later. He’s been officially dead for three years. Yes, the hostage tragedy happened in 2012? I think so. 2013? Maybe, they say never forget but I do forget. So much happened, so much changed. SO many people died in the Millennium Theater Hostage Crisis. I know, what the public doesn’t know which is that the rebels were very close to using nuclear warheads against major Americans cities. Leveraging that was what allowed the Separatist victories. I know that Department of Homeland Security pumped gas into all of the hostage points, four if I remember and that gas killed most of the hostages, not the rebel small arms fire. And I know the official story is that Emma Solomon, a citizen of Spain and Sebastian Adon a dual citizen of the USA and Trinidad, some allege, also Israel lead some forty terrorists into a packed showing of a new Broadway play and held hostage some 850 people, mostly the crème de la crème of the lesser Oligarchy in New York and celebrities; and then coordinated seizures of buildings happened in Los Angeles, Atlanta, Houston and Chicago; and then there was 48 hour five site siege; and the terrorists called for an end to the three year Separatist Wars and independence for 13 Soviets; 13% of USA’s territory, including all of Puerto Rico.

And then, blood, fire, gas and then as if nothing had happened all. Just like a mass shooting or a bombing in Baghdad.

I ask myself, I ask you; what would you do? The world is falling apart, the wars are closer and closer to the top of the mountain; no one is safe. What is on this USB could be highly consequential, or could be a test or a set up. Plot upon sinister plot.

Anya Drovtich who I have met only once. How consequential is her role in the Resistance, how close is she to Adon. What should I do? We all know at The Sly Fox that the Secret Police are cunning; 17 whole agencies spying on us. You never know when you’re being filmed only when you’re maybe not being filmed; we carry these fucking phones everywhere like the mark of the beast.

In the woods I am free; there are of course cameras in the woods too, there are even cameras I read inside dogs and cats; inside bees! It can make you a little insane to keep reading. There is no conspiracy your rational mind declares! There is no oligarchy! There is just the high, the middle and the low classes; a product of their merit and work ethics. Whites are on top because they work hardest, we all know that! And life is certainly better in the United American States, which has ALWAYS been the name of our country; then anywhere. Definitely better than that corrupted, vile violent mafia federation of Russia. Which I do live dearly having studied their as an actor for a year. And evil red China with its pollution and one child woman killing polices, which I do love dearly, my ex the love of actual life being half Russian, half Chinese. I digress. Well most of the proles have never left America. Most of the upper middle class if they have left America they’ve gone to Europe or the tourist garrisons of the Caribbean. Or banal Costa Rica; the eco colony. Who can say they’ve seen the world! Who has laid eyes on the Salt Mines! On Kandahar! On the night train of Beijing to Moscow. Almost none, and thus they cannot believe the things the resistance says are happening, are even real.

On year, maybe 2011 Adon and I went to the bathhouse on 88 Fulton, now called Bath Tip Gym; and maybe he liked the Banya so much cause we can talk freely, no phones no hidden mikes, you’d hope, no cameras, you’d hope. Or at least the illusion of privacy in the stream and sweat.

He took out an envelope and showed me pictures of the atrocities in Syria; told me they were preparing to send fighters and medics; would I go? Would I raise money? Well I feigned enthusiasm but ultimately contributed nothing. Like when he’d asked me to carry out some operation on the trains they were planning.

 

Well anyway, everyone they sent into Syria was killed. He was shortly after arrested and tortured for sedition. And by September 1st, Labor Day 2012 the Great Revolt had begun and the rebels soon took Brooklyn, Queens and the rest.

 

History will absolve almost everyone. I have looked this man dead in the eyes in the steam of the baths and heard him say seditious things and never informed. I am still absolved. One day people may look back at their uprising and say they committed atrocities, they were extremist, anarchists even! They tipped the arch with their fuckery! If you showed me video of Adon executing four men with a shot gun, like the one they played on TV. If you tried to tell me Adon was really an Persian sleeper; a Shi’a tripled agent. Like they said on TV. I wouldn’t believe it. I wouldn’t believe he’d killed a single person.

I ask myself again what on this USB? I could bring it to China Town, they would tell me for a small price. Or maybe I’ll bring it to Anya Drovtich. Hand it over to the Banshee underground to get it where it need to go. Those people can move anything.

I want this last thing clear. I am an actor. I am here to capture the human experience and make it relatable. But the craft on stage is dying, it’s a bourgeoisie fringe event. That Hamilton brought back black face/ white face, claiming to empower people of color, forgive me while I quietly vomit in my hands. I am making the last round of drinks on the Titanic, and knowing what I know, seeing what I saw; you cannot escape the coming war. Too much was accumulated for too long and now, well now I need a drink.

A whiskey maybe. Something Smokey. I’ll just head to work and if I can think of a clever way to get Ms. Drovtich this token of our mutual friend’s appreciation, I’ll do it not for some cause, not because of the atrocities, not because of anything. Because if Sebastian Adon is alive, if he’s passing women notes again. Well a loyal droog, and I think myself a loyal droog to him; I will pass his note along.

I am not an old soul, but I do remember the past. I did write a book on time travel; I know that Sebastian is a serious person who has suffered a lot. That he is also a mad man and possibly a terrorist, well cheers he is also my friend.

Comrade, I know you cannot hear me. I know it is not safe or prudent to hand Anya your calling card. I will either follow her after her shift ends on the ambulances, or I will call 911 fake a medical emergency have her take me, or some accomplice to the hospital and in the back of the ambulance where we believe no one is filming us; I will hand her the USB.

They used to say on the TV; ‘if you have nothing to hide why do you care if we watch you’. And then there was Snowden who defected to the Russians and testified that every single cell phone call, text, email, even ToR and snap chat was stored in NSA server warehouses, filed and linked to social security numbers. Even when Patriot Acts I, II and III came out; basically cancelling out whatever proud rights Americans thought they had; we said we were not terrorists, who cares, drink booze, and watch Sports; Netflix and Chill! They used to try and tell us on TV Democrats and Republicans were different somehow. Well they things they say are different, but now both parties are suspended under the War Powers Act of 2013. Who’s the President of the UAS, that’s what Anya the paramedic will ask me, or my accomplice after out name and maybe if we know where we are. The orientation questions.

But if she asks me who’s the President of the United States of America, instead of asking me who is the President of the United American States; well that’s resistance code.

Adon told me in the letter, ‘when they take you pretend you’re very drunk.’

I wonder if I will see my old supposedly dead friend ever happy. What would make a man like him happy, a nice girl; a year on the beach? A fast car, a published book? Well everyone has a price do they not, we all have a price.

Sadly, what I think will make my old friend happy, as happy as he can be at this juncture. “Falsify a medical emergency, avoid detection by using some proxy you seduce and pass off that card to the underground. That would make me happy.”

 

Well he said as much in explicit writing:

 

 

“The aim of the entire Great Revolt therefore is to take full control of the means of development at the most localized level without using violence to do so and harness our collective might to secure our human rights entitlements once and for all.”

 

 

 

Scene 8

Baha’i Outpost 443, 2013ce

Cambridge

 

 

Let us digress slightly into the divergent past. Two years back perhaps, which is to say Common Era 2013 or AR 1, one year after the beginning of the Great Revolt; but still in the satellite camps and shanty towns outside Boston.

 

We, at times are too enamored in our literature and film with the theatrics and heroics of men, thinks Adelina Blazhennaya.

 

They are most unstable creatures! So easily aroused and so readily violent. Hark I will tell you why I was flown all the way from lovely sane and stable Chelyabinsk; Tank City, to be building boiling plots in the North Americas; amid their anarchy. They were hardly tame before the Great Revolt, but now! And any little thing can trigger a mass shooting or an ethnic hysteria. Anything.

 

I did journey from Philadelphia to Boston on horseback, (yes horseback) and I wear the elegant and more importantly insulating fur of the Siberian Black Bear; I with my lovely brown locks falling out from under look like where the wild things are. There was no other way to travel, except by horse because then, and then was 2013ce; the Separatist Wars were raging. There was a no fly zone down the east coast imposed by the United Nations; New York City was burning to the ground and the rebels were one day winning one day facing decimation and massacre.

 

There was no longer Fung Wa bus service; there was Fung Wa horse-donkey convoy and believe me you me it cost more than $25 American. But I was not paying to be sure, the management was.

 

They offered me a bold Dmitry as an escort, but I adamantly declined. Robots and clones are a sign of the times; and the princely warlord cum lesser Oligarch Dmitry Khulushin, lesser oligarchy of the Tri-State area is both a sadist and serial philanderer turned himself into a product line called Epic Escort, hire and program your own Slavic prince as body guard, or whatever else you need. Having a second of third, or hundredth Dmitry in this world was a serious array of problems onto themselves. It will one day lead to a crisis of Dmitry’s.

 

With the rebellion clearly forcing the United States of America into the behaviors of a maldeveloped country; well the roads between New York and Boston were so bad we of this Chinese lead convoy had to move four weeks atop animals to reach the People’s Republic of Cambridge; for in 2013 Metropolitan Boston was largely in rebel hands excluding some of the Satellite towns to the South; Quincy Center was still part of the USA, but North all the way to Salem was the Rebel Confederacy. My quarry, the man I was send all the way from Russian Federation to find was interred in a concentration camp called a Shrakasa, held there since 2013 near a town called Waltham; where with a bomb stitched to his neck was both designing the rebels technology for the revolt and via his dreams giving the Oligarchy shockingly accurate predictions of the rebellion.

 

This man, supposedly dead since 2012, has been locked in this camp with his mind wiped out. He has forgotten a great deal about the past and future and he is being used.

 

What a game we all play. Everyone a serf to someone, and I suppose you will ask who is my master? Well you’d have to burn me alive like the others! I am from an old order, older than either the rebellion or the oligarchy. Older than anything. I serve women who are wise, and that is all I can say at this juncture. My paper works gives my name, as Adelina; thus must be my name! My profession is that of an apparatchik to an education firm; teaching English is the pretext. Which one I cannot say, I have signed a non-disclosure agreement, but a big one!

So in October of 2013 I arrived in the People’s Republic of Cambridge and arranged to be brought to the Baha’i Temple Outpost 433, at the home of some Persian Harvard & MIT professors. They plied me with hot sweet tea and cherry juice and gave me hugs. I would never openly say what my birth religion is, but I am certainly no stranger to Baha’i’ events and customs.

 

The Baha’i’ of Greater Boston, like Baha’i everywhere are apolitical, hyper-educated, hyper-diverse and explicitly always non-violent, charming but often boring. That they are also much massacred has driven them into their long standing alliance with the Israelis and thus, have entangled them messily into the Great Revolt. There are many Baha’i in the Breuklyn Soviet and that they are so protected by both the clandestine services of Iran and Israel speaks to their importance in events.

I am a delicate flower, but I have managed to cross the Ocean by steamer-sub and make this four week ride north to the outpost. Because of heavy fighting near Newton there is no reason to believe I can meet Sebastian Adon soon. But they tell me that he will travel in a fort night to partake in the Night of Power, a 19^th day feast. And I trust these people are they are sober and sincere and blessed heavily by the one true manifestation of Allah. Yes Allah, the part of a name not the useless conjecture of a noun, or worse using a listing of qualities to describe a majesty instead of thing who loves us and wants us to win.

 

If this pretext doesn’t work then Oleg the Bear my friend will bring Adon to my birthday on 12 April, which will work; as he seems too infatuated with Oleg, looks up to him in some strange way. Like an older brother he never had.

 

After a long hot bath and much tea and delicious food I sit with the Sheikha Saadiyan Usmani who while they have no clergy is a prominent local leader. A shapeshifter they say, I have just arrived so I don’t believe in magic until I see it.

Saadiyan is a magical woman, she is barely four feet tall and moves as though there were no fixed joints, she moves as though her vessel is pliable. She is a Pakistani and speaks with a British accent. But she moves and thinks like a Maagi, a so-called white witch. She has been here in Boston for some time and has been elected one of the nine Baha’i; of the local assembly.

“Welcome to Cambridge, it’s a little more tumultuous since the war broke out last year, but we have for some time been out of harm’s way because of MIT’s missile shield system, and the minute men,” she says to me calmly in her British accent.

“The minute men?”

“Yes, the paramilitary irregulars of the Libertarian Party trucked in six months ago from Burlington and the Vermont Free Zones; they are far better organized than the militias from BLM and the Ivoryish partisans; very little of the fighting has affected us except for shortages.”

She opens a map.

“As you can see the UAS Military is concentrated in Quincy to the south and on the Brighton-Alston line to the West, and there in district Charlestown is a massive Bratva garrison, because of all the smuggling routes. The People’s General Assembly is located in lower Boston; on the Jamaica Plane; the four biggest factions running the operations here are the BLM Alliance, the Democratic Socialists, the Freemen and the Libertarians. Other than us technically it’s a Muslim free zone.”

Enough small talk my eyes say.

“Where is Adon?”

She points to a mountain to the West of Boston by four days convoy. Waltham.

“And where more importantly am I, Adelina Blazhennaya to make my home?”

Saadiyan points to a town called Brighton-Allston, on the Federal side of the demilitarized zone. And with her powers asks Adelina who is actually more important to the cause then Sebastian Adon we can’t get both of you out alive; Adelina responds silently, with her powers; I don’t know, probably we leave him behind.

“Is he awake?”

“Not in the slightest. We’ve just begun a liaison of letters which indicate he remembers nothing before being brought here.”

“What’s you pretext for being here in the camp?”

“Teaching English.”

“And him?”

“He’s studying and designing training modals, he believes them to be cutting edge, but it’s all recycled Cuban technology that we’ve had for years, maybe decades. He’s applied for a para permit to move bodies around as a paramedic in Revere, he’s get cleared in November.”

“Why do you think he’s still asleep, a rather dangerous liaison this could quickly turn into. It doesn’t seem very random at all they sent you; who sent you Maya Sorieya Emma Solomon? As she someone put you together.”

“An Israeli agent absolutely put us together.”

“Well who is more important an asset to evacuate, in the event of outright nuclear chaos’ you or him?”

“We’re both important in different ways. We need him out of the camps and back in the bosom of Soviet safety. This area’s security is highly artificial. We’re not so much in a free zone in the same way New York mostly is; we’re in a strategic buffer zone where the oligarchy is conducting a great deal of, shall we say research.

“I have read that there is a train under the Charlestown district that goes all the way up the mountain.”

“Up the mountain, all the way?”

“Yes, this is what I’ve heard. And I have heard that neither Adon nor any of his colleagues are really sleeping, I’ve heard they’re very much plotting how to get on that train and take it all the way to Moscow.”

“You presume that Moscow is the very top?” asks Saadiyan Usmani.

“I know it be.”

“I am not sure if there is really a train, but we believe there is a hatch their up the mountain as you suggested.”

“Who is the main oligarch running this sector, before the Great Revolt began?” Adelina asks.

“He is called Ilya Lubov. He has a fortress in the Western mountains by Mt. Greyloch. He lost a bet to the Koch Brothers in 2009 so they turned off the geothermal weather grid, that is why it has been hard winter here ceaselessly for 6 years.”

“I heard 3.”

“6.”

“So it is possible that below Charlestown or perhaps Quincy is a hatch to a tunnel that may lead all the way up the mountain?”

“Yes, as you know much of the Great Revolt was a pretext to capture control of black freighters, space dirigibles and fourth dimensional weapons.”

“Who does Adon work for?”

“That’s a tricky question, his ex-wife we can only hope and not Perchevney the great devil.”

“Not the Baha’i World Congress?”

“He’s more of a card carrying Baha’i than a real genuine practitioner. He contacted us a month ago stating he had some complex case to resolve. He had formally resigned his membership and faith under Israeli direction attempting to make Allehya in 2009. It is my understanding he is coming here to ask for re-admittance.”

“Who does actually work for then?”

“We can really only again speculate.”

“Can he be brought under control somehow?”

“Well that’s what you Adelina Blazhennaya were introduced to him to do. Who introduced you?”

“An Israeli sleeper, a photographer named Oleg Medved, also called Oleg the Bear.”

“So the Mossad is assisting to get him out of the camps?”

“Well, people who speak Hebrew are trying to get him out of the camps, I can’t say of this is a Mossad job. They have their hands full.”

“Adelina Blazhennaya are you a Russian national from Chelyabinsk?”

“Soon a dual citizen.”

“Your mother…”

“Yes.”

“You been here for quite some time have you not, since age 17?” Saadiyan asks.

“Yes, but I go to Russia once a year to see my family.”

“But you’re not linked to Oleg and the Israelis, via shall we say by payroll?”

“No. I was contracted directly by Emma Solomon to work on this unlimited operation. Having a direct liaison with Sebastian Adon is new news.”

“He’s been seen with Oleg Megved all over the twenty towns. He can’t pass the ring road or the aortic bomb in his neck will kill him. He may, or may not remember the events of the Great Revolt and Millennium Theater hostage crisis. He may, or may not remember his wife.”

“Emma Solomon?”

“Yes.”

“The…”

“Yes, we think so.”

“That mercenary, that brutal hunter killer was actually married to the Tzadikk HaDror?”

“Yes. But they’ve haven’t consummated the marriage with living children and they haven’t seen each other in over twelve years. And Emma is rumored to be a clone, as the woman actually he married was slaughtered by the Israeli Oligarchy on request from the Order of St. John’s in 2001, a day before the Towers fell.”

“Which was so long ago, I have almost forgotten that that even had happened!”

“So much back story!”

“You’re coming into the story during an intermission, but there were many acts and many partisan songs before you were destined to meet this great anti-hero.”

“So if Oleg was sent by the Israelis…”

“It’s not actually clear that he’s been sent, or if he is setting Adon up for either greatness or murder, they may well be just be connected by a shred of Chosen blood and common interests in their life of night,” Adelina states.

“What are you here to then, make him great or try and kill him?”

“What am I here to do? I’m here to try and make sure he is serving the cause.”

“Well since your people built his modal maybe you can get him to turn off.”

“He’s not just a robot,” Adelina says flatly.

“He’s not a robot per say. He’s an old soul inhabiting a fleshpot drone your people designed.”

“And who do you think my people are Saadiyan Usmani?”

“People of Old Slavic Majik,” she says with a wink, “he’s occupying a mechanical person your combine designed. He did in fact die in the Millennium Hostage Crisis. He’s died a good many times before. So we are using deductive reasoning to assume he is not a flesh and blood man any longer.”

“Well if that is so why does he worry about the bomb in his neck?”

“Have you heard of the Greater Oligarch Alexandre Perchevney?”

“Yes of course. The devil.”

“A devil.”

“Adon if he serves anyone, he serves Perchevney.”

“Was not Perchevney an architect of the Great Revolt alongside Solomon and DeBuitléir?”

“That is believed now to be true.”

“What bloody games are these? What is it all for?” Adelina asks.

“The Baha’i World Congress believes that for Alexandre this is a power grab, but I believe it is much more. I believe he is seeking to annihilate the bloodline in a roundabout way. He is making sure that his seed is impregnating the candidates. He is annihilating those with bonobo blood and he is readying the entire house of Jacob for another big purge like in 1943.”

“All hidden up in this populist uprising around proletarian human rights demands?”

“Well just like Beria did. Or Hitler. Stir everything up and wipe out more of the bloodline.”

The both pause, touched by the bloodiness and gravity of collective history.

“I have read there’s nothing left in Israel. That it’s all been obliterated with atomic missiles. That it’s a clever illusion that the State of Ivory is real, that the Congress still meets in Haifa; but in truth it’s a blighted nuclear wasteland,” states Adelina.

“I cannot confirm or deny such a report,” Saadiyan smiles, suffice to say I’ve never been there. I was born in Pakistan and trained in India & Burma, I arrived here via California and was soon after captured and sent to this camp.”

“So Adon will come here to the outpost for the Night of Power Feast, and then what?”

“You need to find out if he’s real or a just robot. Killer, zombie, hero, hooligan, freedom fighter; you have to get it out of him. You need to make him do, what we need him to do.”

“And what is that then, to you?”

“Bring his army of shadows under the actual direction of the Congress, move that army to link up with the larger divisions in Jamaica, Hispaniola, Trinidad and Cuba; move those armies to the hatch in Madeira; invade Europe. Obliterate the second peak of the mountain. With no guns.”

“How will I get him to do that? He doesn’t even remember his own birth name, he is not even aware of what has happened back in New York.”

 

“You’re a linguist, white witch and engineer. Just use your training.”

 

“Engineer, ha.”

 

“Or whatever other training you might have,” Saadiyan says with a wink but not a smile.

 

 

Scene 10

Safe House on 16 Kings, 2015ce

Waltham

 

 

Adelina had been originally introduced to him first on the 12^th of April, 2012 which was also in fact her biological 26^th birthday, how auspicious. She was and is quite baby faced while strikingly attractive and slender like a modal, maybe even more than the Euro-American conception of impossible physique. She has auburn hair, but it was dyed blond in Russia while she was gone.

She lovingly smiles without much hardship, but is always a real smile coming from a place of actual enjoyment to share company with others. Her physical life span at birth was over two hundred years, but she was irradiated in Tank City, like everyone in Tank City living in a closed city near the nuclear arsenal and testing facilities.

She might have lived indefinitely in her body as it was born, but she’s actually dying slowly of cancer. Her spine has bulging disks and has developed scoliosis, though she hides the tremendous pain with mediation and constant yoga. She in the meantime has looked 17 for a decade.

Sebastian Adon had been interviewing for acceptance at Shrakasa Brandeis; you had pay your way into the camps after all; and had become a correspondence and bemused ally of her casual friend, a Ukrainian Ivoryish fashion photographer named Oleg Megved; also known playfully by his modals as Oleg the Bear, which is exactly that which his name means in Russian.

Oleg and Sebastian had met a year prior at a Gypsy Festival, called the Bohemian Festival in the borderlands between Brooklyn and Queens. Their post-soviet bromance revolved around Sebastian’s incredibly reckless pursuit of the girlfriend of a ferocious Russian businessperson named Dmitry Khulushin Koch.  A manipulative and tragic digger of gold previously mentioned named Dasha Skorobogatova. Sebastian proceeded while perusing this quite taken woman to compose upwards of sixty-four poems. However, most of them spoke more to his suffering and poverty of agency rather than any particular thing about the woman he sought to steal.

 

And shortly after the revolution called the Great Revolt in the United States began.

 

By the time she was really done, he defeated  her with him he would composed those sixty four odd poems and several hundred-page novel, though the novel too like the poems were not really about her, they were about his suffering demons and tragic  beliefs. You need to have more than five hundred American in the bank to carry off a Russian woman from a well-resourced man, even if he cracks her face once in a while with the ultra-violence. That then said this literary courtship impressed mostly Oleg Medved who took to calling Sebastian “the American Mayakovsky”, and introducing him to Boston’s many Russian women.

 

Moreover, that was how on her birthday, still very much “in love” with Dasha Skorobogatova; Sebastian met Adelina. And they began texting each other just perhaps two weeks later. Texting him daily words in Russian. Tring to educate him and get in his head.

Later, perhaps six months of texting words in Russian later, well then it was the Fall of 2013 and Sebastian Adon, in an effort to overwhelm her skepticism of any amorous or literary thing he was capable of producing.

 

He wrote her a new kind of Post-Soviet love poem; one that didn’t even cause him any suffering and he wrote for her alone, and performed it on a gaslight street corner of the Waltham Camps near Prospect Ave.

 

She beamed, and he recited;

 

“She Sometimes Amazed Me; How much!”

Сама иногда поражаюсь как меня много.

 

To my love: Adelina Anatolievna Blazhennaya

 

Every time we kiss it takes me out of this place!

And there will be more time for kisses!

Hold me fast and take my tongue from me as well as all my new found essence.

Absorb for me and let me then carry you further than ever before.

When man is submerged in the flood water of his longing,

When the rapids break the legs below him,

Voluptuous folds of over powered temptations yielding bed sheet utterances, belonging.

The desire to muster his best qualities,

His full works brought to bear for that singular woman thrust before him.

As my rough parts are made a puppy faced rabbit!

And my soul into a naked exposure,

Your hands, hips lips a flush of all endless ways to bring the winter to better closure.

And then tight ripped verse.

To chainsaw the rough cut marble of composition, to bash apart the inadequacy of poor form which might hint that all done for you was not unique.

Depart.

Comrade Blazhennaya! You sometimes amaze me how much.

Such, I shall tell you what rights mean to me, dare we be glutted, yet so cold in Babylon make plain your wishes, I will get us free!

 

I see you not judging, or hiding well judgments!

From my past escapades or the demons in me!

Not judging we! I am beyond aleaved that we is now two and has been cleaved down from three.

Yet, wet lips still spout insurrection.

They bite the tongue, I bite my tongue in only one language. And lips which once from words but strike keys into bloody history, misconception.

See the melee!

See the thrill of “to us impending victory”

She asks:

            “How many of your poems sound close to same? The want of affection of a daughter from Russia, the toll of such women, the toll of your struggle, the playing too hard of no rules at the game!”

She says:

            “Take a short blade and cut the warble off the words, trim the American vernacular down to half the size.

Surmise, drop vanity, your chornay like use of countless profanity. Make again proud form, verse you rehearse until we’re ready to perform.”

“Make language a beautiful thing!”

No instrument to bludgeon about thy demons an enemy’s down with the Winter and up with future, the coming of Spring!”

“And who,” she asks “art thou biggest enemy? Thyself-Thyself Comrade, squandering don’t you dare, stare, look in the mirror see the source of past troubles, he’s laughing at you or crying at you! Comrade take care.”

 

“Thyself if so untrue is pleasing to no one, not one single no one, not even the darkness in you,” she declare.

 

I respond; “Comrade Blazhennaya, my sweet Adelina I will moan every moment touching you and beside you render myself a smiling man with a past of no great countenance, you’re not like other woman we can’t be labeled by our continents!”

“Our consonants!”

“Most wanton. Touching you or looking through!”

“I long every day for your touch!”

She sometimes amazed me how much!

Сама иногда поражаюсь как меня много.

 

Scheming into dreaming, another bridge called Karlov!? I love to dream beside you, separated by nothing but desire, but happy always for the dreaming we do.

The duct tape that when I lived impoverished I used to patch my dressing shoe.

Take that blade that you were offered,

Cast that thing aside!

Seize control that vessel, bleed it red or bleed it blue.

What mean that Ayitian flag to you?

 

“Talk of love or talk of sin or talk of rights;

You are too happy now to die before winter has finished setting in.”

I want nothing more or train robs, nothing more of winless fights.

“I want us to dream of ways to win!”

It’s all or nothing motherfucker! She imitates; “For a Baha’i Russo-Ayitian fighting Fenian you sure still like to make your dradel spin.

 

“What’s now not haunting you ought make your words more beautiful,” she says, “No more Victor Gin.”

“And are not small beautiful moments, dreams and things, smells and tastes and landscapes also dangerous to make tunes and tomes too?” she asks.

“Are not sad barricade ballets just belligerencies to thine enemy self?”

“Do not invite fire into your home, the Victory Gin is for self-murdering men, who don’t know how to begin the sniff of a win. Onto the shelf.”

“Your guns and your bullets your lies and worthless desires of dueling with devils!

 

“DREAM CORRRECT! You command my respect, your humor in nightly visitations to Burma to Paris to Trinidad; you call that all love, your love is forever suspect!”

When I see the smile of Comrade Blazhennaya, I know her as a plural woman.

I profess her my longing and I take her commands.

A woman who like I is disconnected from aspects of realty so she might better love the place where she lands.

A pause again, cheers to now and cheers to never again; might never loving trysts rip out hearts asunder, might never ideals take needless lives, cost rivers red of blood, denying life all grace or wonder.

I cheers to total truthfulness, a pause’ I’LL SEE YOU; WHEN?

Again and Again and Again.

I speak freely before you, I dare.

Until fireworks over Bagan’s skies are but a symphony of promises kept to me and you, and Blood red balloons of the Banshee insurrection not a spark compare.

She asks:

“What for then comrade! When you kiss my lips and write your poems on the softness of my stare; what is you’ve set yourself to do?”

 

“If you promise we, or the entire Breuklyn Soviet our liberation true then mark my words your words will return to stab a blade in you, and dash yourself and burn apart for the emptiness of the promises you sew.”

My hand overtakes her finger, her hand on the clutch.

She sometimes amazed me how much!

Сама иногда поражаюсь как меня много.

How much she knew my heart and yearned to know the plots of my soul. And perhaps I could amaze her too, not with all the adventures to come or the tall orders of deeds I had promised her and the world I could do,

I say.

“Just remain by my side and all of the happy you put on to me, I’ll reflect it actions right back on to you.”

 

Fini.

 

She smiled and smiled and smiled, and we kissed and kissed and kissed; and when her Red kiawagon tumbled off in sputters into the night back to the settlements on the Brighton-Alston line, I loved her and missed her immediately though we would dream together every night for nearly two years. Yes, doubt my claims to love, but I did love her and she did me under impossible conditions!

 

But woe is me, for I have said such things before to many lesser women!

 

 

 

Scene 11

266 Bigmar Street, 2015ce

Charlestown

 

 

Everyone up the mountain wanted to know what had happened in Charlestown; wanted to know if their name was now in the hands of the terrorists. Wanted to know and couldn’t seem to get the answer; was the hatch compromised? Did the rebels know about the train up the mountain to London, Paris, Berlin and Moscow? You need another train for Beijing. The rails are just different.

Dmitry had dealt with Adon and his ilk for years. You never knew what you were dealing with for the man was/ is a lunatic; he was simply not grounded in this realty. The reality of the way things ‘actually are’.

They had served in the Frontier Calvary together for two years. They had been unlikely but rather seemingly chummy friends for before Adon become a Muslim, or releveled himself to be a Muslim; he was hard drinking, womanizing Calvary Officer.

We digress, what the fuck happened in Charlestown on the afternoon of 28 May, 2015?

Sebastian Adon, wearing a grey battle dress multiform, and a weathered brown leather jacket parked his grey charger mod in the mostly empty parking lot. It was just before dawn and snow fall was light for late May; light for the fact that it almost never ever stopped snowing in Greater Boston, it had been like that for as long as anyone could remember. The charger steamed in the tundra of the warehouse district and many people were watching this dawn raid, though none could be immediately seen. And there was urgency, it was in the air.

Urgency looks mostly like smoke.

On a small red pad was an address and a room number and he had hardly taken an indirect route. He was about to barge into 266 Bigmar Street, into a multi-site warehouse which housed thirty to forty shell companies and trucking firm; barge right into a front company called Solutions Comprehensive LTD; and planned to shoot Ilya Lubov in the face. It was the very early morning of 28 May, 2017 Gregorian; or common era as is normally marked. It was also AR 5; five years since the uprising began in New York. It was two years since the bloody murderous chaos of the Millennium hostage crisis. It was 48 hours since the founding Congress of the Development Union; it was just one day since Adelina Antolievna Blazhennaya messaged him; “I’m back.”

According to Adelina’s friend Lana, Addy was strung up in that warehouse. And Ilya Lubov was thus a dead man. Sebastian Adon, in his own mind alone was carrying a .45 automatic repeater. In his deranged mind he was about to violate primary standing order #1; do not take human life and primary standing order # 2; do not destroy property; because in his mind, his mind alone right now union members and affiliates were positioning truck mounted artillery launchers in the hills around district Charlestown, and on his signal, they’d light the whole vile traffic point up.

But in reality the gun he grabbed was empty air! He gripped nothingness, firmly. The forty fighters thought to have his literal, lateral back, there were none. None at all. The death trap toward which he was barging, was fully loaded.

No one stopped him in the perimeter, though a bead was on him since he got out the car. Which did transform in the eyes of all other beholders from a Grey modified Charger; to dinged up puny Honda Civic. The district was eerie and silent at this hour, 05:04. This was a place of whores and truckers, bunkers and tunnels and spies.

 

He made it into the dim lobby the front doors were not even locked and the buzz board had the listings of dozens of fiction based and highly questionable compiles; there was what he wanted ‘Solutions Comprehensive Limited’; on the fourth floor, but probably anywhere. No one had mopped the floors in a decade.

It was all just a shell, just a cheaply lit cover story for nefarious transactions. Did anyone even actually believe that it was a real business, which ‘real’ things happened in this barely warmed ghost town called Charlestown? All these trucks coming and going from the ship yards, all these containers on these trucks. What was in them? No one ever asked certainly not the Boston police department, in the pocket of the Fenian Mob. When your circle of existence is small, you never know the names of the underbosses. You never wonder what’s in the trucks.

And the answer was that mostly banal things were in the trucks. Consumer goods, agricultural products. Women sometimes, but really that wasn’t anyway to get a woman you planned to work the bed on a contract into the country.

You just paid for her to come and married her off to someone. That was more cost effective then getting caught somehow with dead hooker asphyxiated in a shipping container. Solutions Comprehensive, according to the website was a tech support maven & global supply chain logistics fixer. Big words to say nothing. Sebastian tries to find the floor and office, but the place isn’t really designed for anyone to find anything.

 

He just pushes it all along, follows long poorly lit hall ways past big locked doors. He walks a very long time, covers three floors it seems, the lights flicker. This place is built to deft perceptions. His hear is beating faster. Where is she hidden?

A man put his hand on Adon’s shoulder, makes him jump. The man is a Fenian foreman dressed in coverall, he has a thick brogue.

“Eh, whatya looking for lost?” he asks.

“Sorry, looking for Solutions Comprehensive.”

“Eh, well I know thinking yer lost.”

“I’m sure it’s at this address.”

“I’m the superintendent, I know every nook. I don’t know any Solutions Comprehensive paying to lodge here.”

“The super?”

“Super.”

Adon takes out a smart phone and shows the man the site. The man nods.

“I think ya have the wrong building, brother.”

“This is the only building on the whole block.”

“Above the block yes, but what about below and beside the block. It’s a tricky area. People are lost all the time. Trespassing by accident on the turf of the others..”

“You’ve never seen this man,” and Adon shows the super a picture of Ilya Lubov.

“Never seen that bald bustard.”

“He’s a very bad man.”

“Is it?”

“I’m gonna kill him.”

“Eh now, listen, ya can’t say things like that here, no kills here.”

“He’s holding my baby’s mother hostage in a blue duffel bag.”

“Is it? And yer here to find her, and subsequently kill him; in this very building?”

“I know she’s here.”

Tricky fucking Fenians.

“Maybe she is, but I never seen that man, never seen the blue duffel, on this floor anyway.”

“What’s your name, brother?”

“I’m called, Ian Murphy, Superindenant of facilities, card check time then is it?”

“Card check away.”

And Ian Murphy hands him a green badge which identifies himself as Ian Murphy O’Grady O’Connell McMurphy, Superendeant of facilities, Teamsters Local 240. And Adon hands over a blue card which identifies him as Walter Sebastian Adler, paramedic, Uniformed EMT & Paramedic Union, Local 2507.

He then takes this all more seriously.

“And ya have no front teeth then?” Ian asks.

“The rumors are mostly true.”

“Is it true you once murdered forty men with a ball pin hammer?”

“No, that’s not true.”

“Is it true you decapitate and then drink the blood of Slavic prostitutes?”

“Not true, slander even!”

“Hm. Well, Mr. Adler. Should I call you Ilya Lubov today then?”

“Yes, that will do.”

“Welcome to your new office, sir, looking for a big blue bag with a young Russian girl inside it then are we, at Comprehensive Solutions?”
“Yes, that is what I’m looking for.”

 

“You seek a Russian girl in a blue bag, bound and naked?”

“Well I have no idea. I just know she’s here. I know she’s in the office.”

“I have to make a quick phone call, I need to check in.”

“We’re still good? You and I?”

“Oh yes, pull out your teeth a second,”

And Adon drops out his tree front teeth with his tongue.”

“Thick with madness, its maybe really you.”

“You can never know a gift horse, but to look it in the mouth, old Russian saying.”

“Mr., eh-hm, Lubov, we all know that isn’t an Old Russian saying at all,” he says with a cheeky Fenian grin.

Ian Murphy takes out a clunky phone to call the Secret police.

Sebastian Adon takes out a mobile phone to call the regular, normal person Boston Police and they both make the calls reporting suspicious behavior in the warehouse, give a precise location and ignore each other and put down the phones.

 

Adon notes, the battery on his phone is suddenly only 2%.

 

Ian McMurphy he puts down his phone, as if one hold, “You should go, you’re in imposter. Place will be flooded with the constables soon, ya ain’t gonna get out alive, not that ya care, but the girl might care, the one in the big blue bag.”

“Listen to me Finnegan, where the fuck is she?”

“Haven’t the foggiest. You’re a trespassing deranged EDP,” he then whispers, “take fucking salt and go to sleep, or they’ll get unruly on the Gulliver, put you down again.”

“Ok. I’m going to shoot you in the heart in you don’t tell me where she is,” I say and take out a make believe invisible gun.”

 

“You know you’ve got nothing in your hand man, you’re in a world of psychotic make believe, dancing a mad jig on a hatch way to the other side.”

 

“Is that even a real brogue, or do you put that thing on to get chicks cause you’re ugly,” I ask him putting my inviable, invisible blaster to his chest.

 

“Boyo, you know not what dark forces you toy with today and yesterday,” Ian says, “there are not ghosts or gods only dark sciences you do not understand.”

 

“Bang,” I say. And a hole rips open his chest, how curious.

 

I hear my baby screaming, screaming down the hall at the top of her lungs and I leave the body of Ian McMurphy on the floor dying, and run towards her. De ja vu, the horror of my loves screams disappearing into some vortex where I am completely powerless.

 

 

Scene 12

266 Bigmar Street, 2015ce

Charlestown

 

“The rain in Spain is mostly Champaign,” Ilya Lubov says.

 

I tell him he’s a dead man and he won’t leave this room alive. So many break out a gun and the result is deadly, I aim to hurt him bad, rearrange his ugly Russian Ivory hybrid bald disgusting face.

Nonviolence can suck my cock. Stupid nonviolence I’ll break your ugly face too!!

 

The dull wet noise of fists on his face. Did I even flinch? I hate him so damn much.  So I forget nonviolence and keep trying to kill him, as hard as I can, this vile rat won’t die. The best I can do is murder the biological host.

 

I’ve dealt with these demons before, for I am one. Everything is bleak and disempowering, everything is useless. I continue to beat him and I hear the thud and rupture of shells coming down outside. I guess Roj finally called in the air strike. I guess I don’t have much time with this snake.

 

Of all the pain and humiliation I have suffered in this life and all the ones before it, all the snuff and torment. Its worse that they wipe me, they make me forget, they manipulate me into doing things I didn’t agree to, Emma and the oligarchy both; they prey on my fearless immortality.

 

But I’m awake now! Bombs are lighting of outside I can feel it. Roj has ordered artillery strikes to level this township apart.

 

You bald snake, you yellow rat bastard! And I threw myself upon him, I fly tackled him and brought the butt of my gun to his face, frack!

 

His desk was kicked over and his papers his useless front papers covered in dust got a coat of blood from his oozing Gulliver.

 

Fwack! I brought the barrel down again and Ian Murphy must’ve just excused himself into Irish death, kept out of this bellicosity. I beat Ilya’s face with my fists and the gun, the dead thudding of cracking open his face, sitting on his chest brainy him to death. Could you even really kill these animals? Wasn’t that too good. Too easy.

 

Sometimes, when I’m killing or I’m saving at a high enough intensity I can remove myself from linear time into some hyper sonic Zen, it’s actually not very different muscle memory patterns I use to murder people or save lives. I am sad to say.

 

The building shakes, the Chechens have been seriously improving the range of their rockets and the force of the war heads. Roj either assumes we were killed, or assumes we are impervious to arterially bombardment.

 

There is Adelina’s big blue bag, she’s in it, still screaming. I take out a big knife Trickovitch once gave me and I scalp Ilya Lubov.

 

Then I run to the bag and I take her out, and she looks hysterical. I’m covered in his blood. And the building shakes again from a shell landing nearby, Chechens don’t really aim. I carry her outside, all kinds of things are on fire, and there’s my Charger, and I put her in it, and I drive like hell toward the bar lev line; where hopefully we can reconcile.

 

Chechen rocket men are hitting this town with everything they have. My phone is dead, I can’t tell Roj to have them back down. Light it up then, den of pimps, traffickers and thieves. Whatever we do to their property, they have more property. Whatever we do to their bodies, they have more bodies.

 

 

Scene 13

High Tower Complex, 2015ce

Isle of Man

 

 

So, that little red flashing light on the starlight map on my smart top; it tells me that serfs are storming the hatchway in Charlestown, pushing the line demonstrating that my associate Ilya Lubov has lost control of his section, that the serfs might seize a train or compromise the hatch or worse still march an army through it toward Moscow. So completely unacceptable, even if the rebels and the serfs don’t know the hatch is there.

 

My name is Dmitry Khulushin Koch, the real one, the darkest little prince; 2,000 years an Oligarch. I have dirty blond hair and smug un-aging grin. My father is one of the Upper Oligarchs of the Pan-American sectors and the East Siberian plain. I once won the city of New York in a card game, then lost most of it to fucking niggers and communists. Sometimes I am unsure if I live in the last ‘free’ city on earth, or rather I live free in earth’s last real city.

 

By that I mean such a violence has over taken us, such a clear and present danger to the power centers that maintain the global core; the inner 46 zones are threatened. I say “free” not like the commies do, free to do what I want to whomever I want, now that the war is declared.

“Let me begin this yarn by telling you something about my little rugged feudal homeland that the local leaders like to call the Big Apple, the control room of the rest of the country even still. First, let it be said that a small place one has rarely left seems like a big place, a central place, a world of mythology springs from it, one’s first love is always the best love, if one never had the opportunity to love after.”

 

The place we, in the inner locust circle; myself, Khan, Brera and Perchevney; the call the ‘Republic of Man’ is something of an island on a hill, a mountain fortress we disguise with holograms and such; but made so not necessarily by virtue of being surrounded by the sea. It has only two major adversarial population centers on two colliding sheaths of rock we call the North and the South Isthmus: ‘Isle of Man’ on the North Isthmus which in hologram looks like it has a very large harbor, but few seaworthy boats as all the water has been cluttered with increasing multitudes of various war machines; if we turned the illusion off the Isle of Man would be 64.2 kilometers sharply above sea level; the third highest point on the mountain of the Core. It has very tall wrought iron buildings, but no respectable jobs: everyone is some kind of serf or some kind of prostitute, or overlord to service. It is built on a sloping monstrous hill where all the richest citizens congregate near the top, right under heaven but never, ever touching it and still even in those heights the rich need air purifiers. On the South Isthmus, which is much lower to the water and much-much larger is the city of Breuklyn, or the Breuklyn Soviet depending on parlance of tabloid of faction. A micro-republic with two sectors Breuklyn Soviet to the South shore and Goddess (once Queens) Soviet on the North Shore; they both absorbed part of the rest of Strong Island out all the way East to the anti-nuclear defense facility in Montauk, and the hatch there to Space Dirigible 718; one of the largest crafts.

 

This is a place largely populated by the non-white Ivories, Noires and Chornay which are known for hording gold, stealing cars and copious amounts of handgun violence, as well as worshipping all the incorrect old deities. There is deep and heavily mined valley in between the two cities and the toll of the single bridge between them is very high. It appears due to hologram that there are many bridges and that the Isle of Man is level to the Breuklyn Soviet; but that is again an illusion. It is impossible to get across the bridge without the proper papers, and completely impossible to cross the shield Wall on Wall Street without six degrees of multipass on your mobilblat and a UAS approved pass card.

It is perhaps incorrect to describe our micro nations as two grinding, mountainous Isthmuses connected by a single bridge; there’s those by the water, living in six story bunkered poverty like cock roaches and us like gods in great towers. An Isthmus geographically connotes a narrow winding land corridor between two larger land masses. So called North Isthmus certainly is just a small mountainous island of indiscernible size made highly vertical by towers of glass and steel. South Isthmus is certainly a considerably larger island: called Strong Island; one could say is quite long. Both islands are surrounded by sand, not by water so to call it a sea or even an island is a misnomer. Grey rock drops off into red sand. There was once a great ocean, but like many other things: it dried up.

The hologram allows the serfs to imagine that seamless travel is possible to all parts of the United States of America; but that is not true. They go where we direct them. The “Manhattan” of “Brooklyn” they see is just a mind game.

Our historians sometimes say that the calling of the two departments Isthmuses was a play upon the idea that at one time the North Island was very prosperous and highly connected to the world of the future, while the South Island was connected deeply with the old world, the old country and the forgotten past. So in truth, neither was a proper Island lacking water, nor were either truly an isthmus because they were equally isolated connected to nothing, but in a country where only 5% of the population can truly read, well such nuances are truly lost to the rubbish bin of words used correctly.

As said, the United American States is 87% of the territory of the old USA; which crumbed out of being in 2012; the Republic of Man, nominally part of the New York State plantation is based in a land of high of mountains and deep sand. Roughly 100 hours’ worth going easterly from either city and the wanderer will encounter a very high steel and concrete wall cutting the south Isthmus into the Administrative Department of Breukland Soviet, independent and isolated now for three years; and presumably over the wall some worse and treacherous place. There are no gates in the wall, and it is to be thirty bistouries high. There are also many landmines and un-exploded bacteria crystal bomblettes. The only thing I know for certain is that to the west there are mountains and a vast and impassible desert, and to the east over more mountains a very high and completely impassible wall. And then it’s all plantations and suburbs and factories and prisons; I fly over it sometimes to reach the other citadels.

Our leaders zealously fortified the boarder against our enemies in the “Republic of Brooklyn” which presumably lies over the wall to the East. Our people and the Brooklynites, Brookynians, or perhaps “Brooklyneers”: it changes within our three newspapers periodically as well as nearly interchangeably; well we and they were at war for a very, very long time. Before terrible shortages of just about rumored everything began to drain our once proud nations’ resolve generation after generation of our youth will be sent to engage in large scale, bloody and always indecisive skirmishes with Brooklyneer youth over the borderlands between the two states of being; there are 13 such breakaway zones and we have been unable to crush them; they seceded in 2012, the Separatist Wars went until 2016; there was almost a nuclear exchange and a boat load of terrorist attacks.

Our leaders never attempted, and our history books never explained why we were always killing each other, humans I mean; but there are many credible rumors on the subject largely related to theft of women, also the eating of pigs. Back when there were pigs. Which taste like people, so we eat people now cooked to look like old pigs, oh well.

I have never met a “Brooklyneer” I liked, and I only seen a picture of a “pig”, but once a very old man, a veteran of the thousand year war, or at least the very end of it gave a lecture at the local canteen about when the ‘Former Great Space Powers’ decided to help us build the mile high wall.

He had told us, in between shots of Parv Blue Label and long swig swells of Barlakh, that roughly a generation or two before his time there was something called the “Roman Empire” and they were a very powerful empire and we were one of their most important economic satellites; then called the Empire State. An outpost really. Maybe a rich city-state on the border. The “People’s Republic of Han” was another great Empire, far larger in population, also apparently handier with crafts and known for their sly looking ‘chinky eyes’, whatever that meant. The “Republic of Brooklyn” then called a “borough” was their landing point of invasion, their beachhead in the UAS or occupied whatever. There was also a rival hegemon called Eurasia; or the “Russian Federation”. Sometimes I let these drunks old men try and process reality, then I’d drain them of their blood.

We Slavs were poorly understood until we shed rhetorical socialism and conquered Europe. Except for the rogue elements like Putin and Navalny who want to bring the USSR back!

For a very long time apparently both the People’s Republic in East Asia and the Russian Federation helped pay for us to be at civil war with what conceivably had once been our own people living in occupied Brooklyn, so that they wouldn’t have to fight a far more costly war with each other, they being the States United and the hordes of Eurasia. And that’s about the extent of what the old man at the bar had known.

I am not interested in politics; I am into cars and rape.

Oh, and at some point “peace” became briefly fashionable so the Han, who the proles call the Chinese helped the Brooklyn separatists constructed a very, very tall wall between our small micro-Republics and that was all before the known world imploded and we took our local leaders very, very seriously.

The Administrative Departments of Brooklyn and Queens had, until 2012, an official census population of roughly 8 million subjects; 7.8 million are serfs who could leave their masters land some several hundred thousand are mulattos, they are some part Chornay but are land holders, card carriers and have valid points of the multi-pass. Across the bridge in there were Administrative Department of Man there are 2 million free citizens, and no Chornay except as house slaves.

Here a man can be a man, they say.

My mother, a Russian Slav of Kazakhstan said you can always tell a Chornay because he neither prays correctly, nor looks symmetrical physically. My hair is very blond and my skin is very white, so I know I look correct, and I pray to the one true god Jesus King of Christ, orthodoxly so I know my religion is the right religion, wink.

The Republic of Man is very logical actually, and it has to be being perhaps the only true free city left on earth, I keep saying that because Han Oligarchs and Slav Oligarchs have imposed strange systems that make doing business hard. There are now many new small wars waging far and near because of the competition of the great firms within the three power-bloc. I have not ever been anywhere else on earth besides the mountain tops, once Mexico; but this is what our leaders tell us our free press. The higher one lives on the hill of man, the more one has contributed to things surviving efficiently around here. The biggest contributors are the financial planners, medical scientists, the law-makers, the magnates and the senators. They all live high up above the Financial District, the Mid Towns, the Park and the Sides; one side for white Ivories one side for white protestants and above the labor reserve pools of Harlem and Washington Heights and certainly very high above Breukland in a pleasure castle called Fort Washington Acropolis; the Citadel. The more Chornay you are the lower on the land you live, the closer ultimately to the security wall and the sea and the terrible raping, murdering hordes of Brooklyn that if not for out hydrogen bombs and bacteria cluster rockets would surely storm the wall and kill everyone. So we’re told.

 

It is mostly terra-drones that go in to fight the rebels. As it should be. In 2016 there was an incident in the Isle of Man called the Millennium Theatre Hostage Crisis; in a newly opened hippodrome showing the Opera Carmen; rebel gunmen took the lesser cream of our city hostage along with thousands of international heads of state at the UN General Assembly. It degenerated into a blood bath; many foreign leaders and great local lesser oligarchs perished.

 

Is that the future? It’s like I know the future.

 

While it has been said the terrorist leaders Adon and Solomon were killed, I know that not to be true. I also know the Persian Revolutionary Guard Corps furnished them with intermediate range thermos nuclear warheads and we only gave independence to the 13 separatist zones because they nuked Washington DC, yes indeed they did.

 

A tumultuous couple of years.

That was the decisive moment in the three year war, when we could no longer kill Brooklyneers indiscriminately largely using bacteria crystals and robots. Or perhaps it was only a thousand days. New metrics have been introduced clarifying old fallacies of Gregorian time. The latest multi-dimensional poverty index assures us that Africa’s average 33 year average life span is far ahead of the international curve; even though there is now longer a UN we still try and measure things in their rhetoric.

Our minds have certainly expanded since those primitive days of globalization when our leaders had though the world was getting smaller. And for some reason flat.

So there you have it, my micro-country, and my brave little world. And it belongs to me! Perchevney lost it in a card game in 1998ce, a very long time ago except to us.  The Senate has announced that comparative productivity is up, vice is down, serfs are happy, Mulattos are quiet about their political ambitions and Blan on Chornay violence is down from last year. And human rights indictors in all sectors show our sustained societal progress.

 

Aided by high science, bacteria crystals and hydrogen bombs there have been no skirmishes with the People’s Republic of Brooklyn in nearly three weeks.

 

 

Scene 14

Box Night Club on Christie Street, 2015ce

Isle of Man

 

 

The Sly Fox Night Club, on Essex Street still in the United American States. Enter Siegfried Sassoon, a Cuban Actor who reads alone aloud on a dark and smoky stage from a ZOB Pamphlet, distributed circa 2012ce. The drunken Bankers, the new money the celbritards are all under the influence, and he’s supposed to insert a large onyx dildo into two twins dressed like maids, that’s the “scene”. But the curtain comes up, and there are two young girls, from Eastern Europe.

 

And he drops the dildo to the stage, out of his back pocket he pulls out a widely circulating pamphlet, and he reads:

 

“The Enemy of Human Rights & Development is called the Oligarchy!”
The Enemy of Human Rights and enemy of the people is a disciplined, and vicious network of elites. No matter what nation we are referring to, we refer back to these elites as local branch of a Global Oligarchy.
They are our certain enemy and the enemy of humanity generally.
Learn the word for it is what we call our abject opponents and should always be used appropriately and with discerning discipline.
At all times they empower themselves at our expense and exacerbate the high crimes and violations caused by the more powerful oligarchies and highly entrenched elite in each nation. While these are numerous mass human rights violations of our day, all Human Rights categories and entitlements under attack in every nation on earth.
Questioning the source of our misery and combatting the resulting mass poverty like we were in fact waging a people’s war for the survival of vast segments of our human kind is the core of our methodology.
Our enemy, once again, is called the Oligarchy.

 

A transnational global elite that not only controls supply routes and natural resources; they affect all of the inequity of distribution that so perpetuate poverty.
They do so completely selfishly and with little to no common ground other than their total greed. They share no creed, color, ideology of belief. They simply are united in their excessive and wanton power.

 

And what it, they, perpetuate is the exact mass poverty that is greatest killer of the poor and three quarters of the human species that has ever existed.

 

Our enemy is the Oligarchy and resistance to it must be strengthened in every nation. We cannot measure human progress in narrow and banal economic terms. We are far more than numbers. Statistics of productive workers learning to read and having our children survive birth. More than wage slaves or chattel slaves. Human progress to the Oligarchy is about securing their position indefinitely at the expense of the rest of humanity. Sustaining our productivity measuring our world in GNP, infant mortality, and literacy.
We demand the fifty eight human rights entitlements as ours to be enforced and safeguarded just as our baseline measure of that thing called freedom.
Our demands are not only directed at the U.N., the confederations of the NGO’s, or the political leaderships of Core Hegemons.

 

Beijing, Washington, London, Paris, Moscow, Geneva and Berlin.
These are not the only seats of their power. There is an aristocracy in every ghetto, a kingship of every slum and of course bosses on every plantation, camp and factory.
They have everything to lose because they have mostly everything in their possession and we are asked to give our lives to get them even and ever more. This is not just an indictment of the wealthy and insatiable. This is about organized traffic of slaves, guns and narcotics. The manufacturing of genocide and war. This is about competing power centers, perhaps thousands of Oligarchies that all functioning without coordination will eradicate us.
And many of them are completely insatiable.
There are those that ought to be tried as war criminals under the standards of the International Criminal Court. There are other that are just mega-criminals. What makes an Oligarch part of this Oligarchy is not only his or her sheer power over the lives of regular people, the masses. Us. It also involves to what degree do they violate our rights or turn us into a productive or profitable resource. A slave, a wage worker or an uneducated consumer!

 

 

Exit Siegfried Sassoon, to a nervous applause, if any. (What the fuck was that sill shit?)

 

Surely someone has already called the secret police, if they are not already here. There is an App for that! There were no tits! No Jazz and no tits, no evil sex monkeys? What kind of performance was this to be! For this shit they bought 900 American dollar bottles of vodka!?

 

A bouncer he knows James Brown, a big black cat of a fellow, James tells him he had better go out the back door and ‘run for his life’. So foolish to pick convictions over tits and cash and work. I would never, ever do that, thinks James Brown. I would never gamble on the unseen or the impossible, or the possible unverified by my own eyes.

 

 

Scene 15

Highway I95 near Newton, 2015ce

Massachusetts

 

 

Ilya was really pissed that I scalped him and stole my woman back. And that the Chechen Minute men rocket razed his warehouses and such. So he ordered his private army to level Waltham Special Engineering Camp, kill everyone there, and take us alive so he could violate and torture us. He was also of course after the list of names and numbers and places that so exposed him and the lesser Oligarchy to attack should it reach the resistance, which it did immediately after I tucked her into bed.

 

I ran her a bath, I bolted the safe house doors, I called up Irfan Khan to be my wing man/ gun man; and in under an hour of the Battle of Charlestown; Jefferson McIntyre, Refilwe and Saiph Khan were already moving down the hatch tunnel to Hartford with the list, and we’d successfully uploaded it to secured drop locations on the interweb.

 

And then with Irfan Khan watch the roads with and a Carmelite repeater and an AK, and Kudzai’s team mining the roads; and then the motherfucking robots swarmed us.

 

Lots and lots of drones bombarded and rampaged into the camps; we held them off as best we could with rocket bombs and electromagnetic pulse burst cannons. These metal monsters soon over ran us, and we retreated into the tunnels blowing up, or lighting on fire most of the Shrakasa research facilities in sub camp Brandeis, Bentley, McCullum and the (testing on) Children’s Hospital.

 

We retreated back to the GHQ under the home of Ricardo Veshanti; and then he wished us luck and he took a team out towards Dover along with his family and we took a team out towards the parking garages where we hoped to steal some cars and run the highway after dark.

 

Oleg and Yulia rendezvoused with us hastily.

 

The Interstate 95 Highway, barely visible due to heavy snow falling upon us! A weigh station on the road South to New York, the City of Many Many Lights. Enter Oleg the Bear, Sebastian Adon, Yulia Romanova and Adelina Blazhennaya running from a hail of law man bullets! Bang! Bang Bang! RATATATATATTATTRTATTATATTATATATATATATATATTATATTA! RATATATATATTA.

 

Thinks Sebastian:

 

Everything was on fire and my ears were ringing. I could smell black smoke of our vehicle on fire struck by the rocket from a drone.

It did not take us very long to get noticed. It occurred at rest stop in Konnecticut. For all the bribes that had been paid to allow the four of us to depart in certain quiet, sometimes you miss something critical, like an outdated registration on the vehicle. Or, an expired Easy Pass.

 

And then a gun battle erupted in that weigh station, between the broken glass of the McDonalds, the spilled coffee of screaming patrons fleeing and everyone got separated. Yulia pulled Adelina under a car to hide and Oleg the Bear and the local police shot it out for a bit, until Oleg’s gun ran out. Adon didn’t have his gun.

 

Thinks Sebastian:

 

The two local cops unloaded their shooters on our position and we were unable to see where the women went to.

 

The sirens were very loud, the terror sirens that go off when accused terrorists are doing anything, and Oleg and I are running into the woods. He’s limping like he took one, but that doesn’t slow him down much.

I’ve gotten slower, I used to move so fast when shot at back in Palestine. I don’t have my gun, Adelina took it, blast! Where are the women? It doesn’t really matter now. I’ve seen this before, I can’t seem to escape from these camps! We get pinned down, Oleg runs out of bullets. The Secret Police, the department of homeland security show up. We run through the woods for a while. I’ve been smoking for two years in the camps and I can’t run like I used to.

All that talk, all those bribes, it didn’t matter. They catch us using helicopters and drones and flood lights.

 

We’re both pinned down somewhere out in the woods.

But, we die on our feet not our knees! Little consolation really.

 

The bodies of the four “Red” terrorists are displayed on all the leading channels of the evening news.

 

Exit Sebastian, Oleg, Adelina and Yulia too from this version, this episode of the world. I was killed several hundred times in this way, sometimes in cars, sometimes in planes, sometimes shot to pieces, sometimes burned alive, sometimes lost lonely and lethal she tried hard to keep me together, keep us together, but I always came back and she was there waiting. What a keeper.

 

Her auburn eyes blink, just for a second and there we are, reborn in another time and place. Another possibility.

 

 

 

 

Scene 16

Sheffield, 2015ce

Konnecticut

 

 

The Woods of Konnecticut, near Sheffield stand thick and green even in this wild winter. Enter Nicholai Mapfre, a film maker from the South roads via modest Zip Car. Enter Adelina Blazhennaya, a Russian linguist, from the North. Enter the brothers Eric and Joseph Ruhelman, Franco-German bikers, from the West near Buffalo. The first unit was lost, but the body of Adon is still warm.

 

Nicholai Mapfre, who has sleek straight black hair like the beautiful mutt that he is had to zip-rent a car under a fictitious identity and drive three hours into the plantations of tobacco country Konnecticut due to a misunderstanding about the pick-up as well as the state of comings and goings. His contacts in the underground told him the Israeli team were all killed.  The pickup was the corpse of Sebastian Adon. The year was 2015, and the world revolution, the union, the events you may or may not have read of had and hadn’t all happened yet. You see reality, is not like a corpse. It doesn’t need to be bagged and tagged. It happens for different people at different times. The body was warm, and it needed to be because the South bound car dispatched because of the confusion around to whom the body should go needed to be resurrected by a sorcerous so she could testify on what it saw.

We are not banal, pale monotheistic Christians, so we do not live in the reality of black unchangeable static metaphor. Sebastian Adon died when bullets stopped his running, and then when electric currents stopped his heart. He was tied to a gurney and they were giving him the juice as per protocols. But with a kiss and bottle of vodka that corpse could tell many things to us. So Nicholai sped Northbound and Adelina sped Southbound, and she hated him so much now because he had betrayed her so many times before he died. In ways that made her livid to breathe him again.

Everyone was now dead. Everyone that have ever known him had been put to death in the jealous rage of young Oligarchs Ilya and Dmitry. Also Laurence Koch. Nicholai Mapfre was alive because he had never joined the union and mostly stayed out of Adon’s cell records for ten years. Adelina was alive because she had the power of a coy young god. And Ilya wanted her badly back for fuck and conquest. So badly he cracked her jaw and Sebastian had changed the color of the sky above the City State of Boston.

He’d ordered Charlestown razed and rocketed into the ground and fire dust, simply because Ilya worked there. That was just 45 days ago. 41 if you counted the interruption of the Bangladeshi Wedding.

The Franco-German Ruhlmann Brothers had paid 9K in bribes to steal the body and switch it out with the body of a homeless lune from Buffalo, NY. They didn’t affiliate with anybody but Princess Akhtar, the newly Muslim wed where they’d shared a table and rounds of juice with Adon, a day before his second capture. But, we’re jumping around too much. Too many names and places and you were raised on TV. It’s impressive you’ve even reading this. Words are so boring.

On 28 May, Adelina Antolievna Blazhennaya returned from Moscow. The day after the ZOB came out from fifteen years of the underground and formed a trade union with about eighty other delegates from dozens of international partisan groups. What did the ZOB stand for, shut up, say the Ruhlmann Brothers; Eric and Joseph. Eric is dark and Joseph is more Nordic looking. That guy Adon was a dead man. And had we not been well paid and respected his general odd character we would not have converged with our muscles, Catholic icon tattoos and fast cars to steal a dead Ivory, excuse me, a half Hebrew, half German Fenian terrorist.

 

The sky was still black above Boston.

Thousands; almost a ten of thousands had died over one strike to the face of Adelina. Ilya slapped her when she walked home with a bag of groceries Adon had bought her, that was one story. Adon moved her out. He tucked her into bed. He had every reservist called up by the 29^th rockets blew away Charlestown with everyone in it. Ilya lost three days earnings and a hand and an ear. Most of the camps around Boston were put to flames by the serfs. This was not the old Adon, the peaceful-nik. He killed a small City over one hair on the head of his intended.

Intended? Yes, Adon had long proclaimed he would marry the high priestess Adelina Blazhennaya, but they had been separated by Moscow. By Moscow? Yes, but Moscow she had fled for Moscow after witnessing so many things she could not explain in Hispaniola, in Ayiti the heart of so much darkness and raw ambition.

Well it was 17 July now. 45 days later. The Akhtars were married and on second honey moon. Charlestown was a crater. Ilya was missing an ear and a hand. Adon had been brutally tortured, and was evidently now dead. That’s what the certificates said. Nick was speeding, except until Konnecticut; Northbound. And Adelina was speeding, except in Konnecticut South. And Kudzai Chikwamba was back in Sharashka Waltham because he was too black to bring anywhere. You’d get pulled over driving the actual speed limit. But of course Kudzai, being a believer in the prophesy was a supporter of the companions of Adon.

 

And Adon, well he was quite dead.

 

So the Ruhlmann Brothers stole the body. And Nick brought a video Camera, and Adelina in deep wooded hide away poured the Vodka over the corpse. Reached her hand into his chest via the mouth and pulled out a black, black heart. It was still, then it was again ticking. And she wound a small lever upon it. And miraculously the bullets feel out of his body. And she quickly, quietly made the three men turn away and she kissed him. And he came again to life, his 14^th incarnation.

 

“You bastard,” is all she said, in Russian, “You damn cheat.”

The dead man Adon, he may have blushed.

 

Scene 17

Camp Stafford Springs, 2015ce

Konnecticut

 

They all sat there wondering what this man could possibly know that made him so valuable that were running around this tobacco ginger bread village country waiting for him. And, yes Adelina Blazhennaya, the daughter of messiahs could answer that. The ‘there’ was firstly, the nifty trick that Adon didn’t die as other men did, he became reborn with only some tinkering and his corpse no matter what degree of harm came to it; reformed, slightly overweight and slightly burned yes, but a knock around guy who doesn’t die was hard to come by. More importantly he possessed a certain more interesting trait. He drew people to him how were awake and had their own Allah given abilities.  And doggedly, sometimes with guns sometimes with speeches he had for over 4,000 years been protecting the bloodline of the prophesy.

 

The bloodline of prophets, messiahs, high priestesses and the Mahdi; Emma Solomon. Now, this was a dying reality. The Great Revolt had not happened. The Union had gathered great partisan factions, then inadvertently set them all up to die. Or be assassinated as Ilya and Dmitry had ordered and ordained. That meant, that in protecting Adelina, his intended wife’s honor he had finally incurred the wrath of oligarchs he couldn’t give a heart attack to. Whose money wasn’t tied up in the burned out semis and blackened sky above Boston. He had fallen for a Queen Helen; he’d burned out all his closest allies over a woman.

 

Wouldn’t probably be the first time. Just the most self-destructive time.

 

“Not, because I was in danger, or because he had to, because he slipped up,” Adelina reminded the camera being welded to the moment by Nick Mafre, rather Nicholai Mapfre Bruckman, the last living friend of Sebastian Adon. They had even captured the Bear Ivory Alan Oleg Medved. And cut him into little tiny pieces to feed to dogs. He couldn’t talk or fight his way out of that one. Because Adelina was way more than a friend and the Princess Akhtar was the Princess Akhtar; royalty. You couldn’t be friends with superior species. You could be rooted for and root for them back; fighting!!

“You fucked up chicken, and you just got fried like suicide,” notes Joseph Ruhlmann the big French German Viking with both arms tatted.

“They even got to your man Mickhi Dbrisk,” noted Adelina.

Sebastian just assumes that cannot be true.

Sebastian flinched, his life energy moving throughout the body the Buffalo boys had stolen and Nicholai was filming and Adelina had turned her back to.

“Will she ignore me forever, or just for all of this life?” Sebastian asked Joseph.

“The words that Princess Meftahul Janaat S Akhtar Khan told us; you’re the best killer the world has ever seen, the gunslinger of Tel Aviv and Be’er Sheva. She’s the daughter of an imprisoned high priestess. And since your so called ex-wife Emma Solomon is dead, and Avinadav is dead; well the candidacy for savior is nigh. And we’re Catholics so we get behind Miracles when we see them,” states Eric R.

“Indeed,” reverberates Joseph.

“Is anyone paying anyone to be here?” Nick asks.

“My brother and I were paid by the Akhtars to be here, but since home boy came back to life and the birds above us circle above Adelina, we’re here to learn,” says Eric who has a black brown beard and a picture of what could be the Virgin Mary, or could be the whore of Babylon, or could be Adelina Blazhennaya shifting eerily on his right forearm.

“Your tattoo is moving,” says Joseph.

“I can hear you think man,” states Adelina, “I’m no whore.”

“Well how now new friends, what are we doing out here supposedly so hunted in Tobacco country?” asks big blond Joseph R.

“Wait for it,” says Sebastian.

“What?” asks Nick Mapfre the tragic little filmmaker?

“Now we are five, but soon we will be forty,” Sebastian says.

“The dead man talks in useless riddles,” says Eric.

“Wait for it. Wait. Now.”

Out of the thick green bush erupted men on all sides with hatchets. Ugly toad like men. Planters sent on a scavenger hunt for five heads. Four marks and one young brunette slim lustful capture. ‘Do what you want to the men, lottery tickets for all hacks!’ had smart phoned in Ilya. ‘You bring me the brundinite young lady, unmolested if possible, but things happen in a hack fest I can’t control. One million a body, 10 million for the girl alive,’ these were the orders than sent all forty of Dany McFadden’s planters, hookers, hangers and bangers into the woods with their hatchets to flay four and take one sexy, young, auspicious prisoner.

“Blat,” was all Adelina said.

The Ruhlmann brothers drew their side pieces and mentally counted the bullets in the clips and chambers. Sebastian, who was not fully here yet drew his index fingers out like pistols.

“Wait for it,” he repeated.

The grim mob moved in, but as the lesser, lower base prophet JZ says, ‘what’s a babe to mob, what’s a mob to a king, what’s a king to a god, what’s a god to a pack of non-believers, who don’t believe in anything, make it out alive!!’

“Make it out alive,” Adelina whispers as the hatchet men move in and the Ruhlmann brothers get the itchy to pump clips. And Sebastian looks looking crazy and Nick just keeps filming.

“Make it out alive,” and suddenly plant roots shoot up to hold their paid assailants in place.

“Don’t waste you led fair escorts, brothers Ruhlmann, Sebastian; hold fire.”

“The roots squeeze them until they tangle above shoulder level all forty bandits. She seems to guiding the roots with her hand.”

“A second most auspicious miracle,” notes Nick Mapfre. Three to be a saint, four to be a martyr and five or more; the Tzadikk ha Dror; female candidate for messiah.

The mother of nature squeezes until they have all dropped their hatchets.

“What now brother, shall we dispatch them as they would have us?” asks Joseph.

“Nay. They will know us for while they have slaughtered our people, we will not kill.”

Sebastian looks lovingly to the woman her calls his God, the manifestation of his God as a Valkyrie; a warrior angel, no more. If he has woken from the hands of hospitaliers and Emma and Avinadav and all his brother/ sister allies are dead; then how now, she is Mother of Messiahs now.

“Who is this Ilya man your now feeble friend here has so slighted? What kind of gods are we warring with in assisting you?”

“He is an old god, a creature that has managed to survive very well through all the transitions. And Sebastian burned out one of his major American trafficking points Charlestown, and he thinks her stole me.”

“Think,” smirked Sebastian and the brothers laughed at that.

“Let’s just keep it moving,” Adelina says. “I have made a rendezvous with Arelene Daly of the Fenian Republican Army on my mental. It seems if we just keep moving two of Adon’s choice collections are alive. Arlene of Erin and Tiputti Capois the Ayitian sensation; in the protection of one very loose cannon Watson Entwissle, also a Ayitian. And then we will number eight. And Watson has a plan to steal an air ship and bring us to liberated Ayiti out of this Babylon slave farm.”

The wrenching faces of the over nourished hatchet men grimace as they pass through the woods. The Ruhlmann Brothers help Sebastian who can barely walk. Nick keeps filming everything. Keeps filming the miracle miles to come. For as they pass through the woods, these chosen five; the birds circle overhead, the birches bend toward her, the path opens itself to them; 44 clicks south west to where Watson is hidden in a tobacco barn watching after Arlene and Tiputti. Make it out alive. Make it out alive.

“Had you not said all my friends were dead?” asks Sebastian.

“They are my friends now, and I don’t let my friends die for silly causes. And you ushered in a world of death and killing to avenge Emma and then me, but my efforts are towards art and meditation. Singing, dancing, healing and dealing with the misery made by men. Can you dig it, blat?”

 

“I can dig it,” is what he thought in her general direction and she heard in her magnificent head. At that very juncture he could dig just about anything she said.

 

 

Scene 18

Camp Enfield, 2015ce

Konnecticut

 

They moved through the thick forest woods as best they could Adelina advised Nicholai Mapfre that there would be nothing good to film, but the half Indian-half Russian film maker told her they needed what was called B Roll, and she didn’t fully see why or even in her vast powers completely get why they even needed to make movies of these happenings when so many would get to live it.

 

Sebastian was slow to his new body and the brothers Ruhlmann had to carry him most of the way by slinging a branch under his shoulders and lifting him on theirs. And they gruffly nearly asked why the messiah couldn’t get dear or birds to do it. Or just levitate him.

“I’m ignoring him until the time I feel he is penitent for what he has done. As G-d has done to man, but not to woman,” she replied before they could get the words out.

“Why are you still filming us comrade,” asked Eric, “nothing very miraculous is happening. We’re just carrying your mildly heavy droog.”

“I’ll carry him awhile and you can film,” Nicholas Mapfre suggested.

“Is it Brick Man, or Bruck Man or Mapfre,” Joseph asks.

“It’s both and all. Bruck when I film and Brick when I shoot, Mapfre when in Europe as it’s my step fathers name,” he replied.

“Are you a guns slinger like this man Adon? A righteous killer across reality and time?” Eric asks. And then it damn near escaped him but now he realizes, he is a Bruck-man and we are Ruhle-men. And Adon is Adon. What serious stuff to be named a name Adon and not be a man, be someone’s man. To be independent born. How curious.

The forest opens before her but remains thick. It is the hot-hot heat of mid-summer and they are traveling North by North West following day stars only Adelina sees, they march as slow as the Ruhlmann brothers can carry the resuscitated corpse of Adon and Mapfre can b-roll. Where are they trekking; away from threats and towards beloved comrades. For after the merry holocaust Sebastian unleashed on Ilya; came Ilya’s reprisal; death and lots of it. He had wanted to degrade Adon to nothing and keep degrading the daughter of prophets and kings Adelina as was the oligarch way. Rape seduce and befoul all women that might become champions. Turn them to lovely irrelevant side pieces or just level them to whores. One did not keep power for 6,000 years as they had by not knowing to get their potential enemies young.

 

“Tell us a story as to the how now Ms. Blazhennaya,” Joseph requested.

 

She begins in her stalwart, commanding voice, “Now, we are not Christians so we need not make brief basic story telling. We can divulge mystery and divert to camp. In the beginning there were two races of monkey; chimpanzee and bonobo. The chimps were selfish and violent, the Bonobos were loving, calm, cool, and collective. They both loved sex but the Bonobos asked for it and chimps just knock rock took; like the later Neanderthal men then spawned. Now we all are educated rebels, so we believe in evolution. The Adons’ are half chimp half Bonobo; as are the Mapfres’ and the Ruhlmanns’; you are lovely and sensuous mutts.”

 

“She did indeed call you sensuous,” Joseph said to Eric.

 

“And the other men too, mixy mutts. Now around 6,000 years ago, remember that the Hebrew reality is now only 5775 years old; just shy of the Mayan B’ak’tun calendars; 26,000 years of servitude came before they came from the sky; aliens guys. It’s all very real. Superior alien military that in also two dichotomous species crashed hear and also liked sex, liked continuing their line and there ways. And then there were four species here all making love and rape, war and compromise. And more arrived because something was so interesting about woman and man; bonobo and chimp kind; they were veritable energy bags. They carried energy much more seriously than the aliens did and this allowed all manners of things to be powered. Great ships and hanging floating gardens. Pyramids and great walls. Are you following me; you are the sons of waring apes and benevolent and exploitative extra-terrestrials.”

“No stop for now, it seems like a silly movie script. Easier to believe you’re the daughter of King David, 28 generations or more removed,” Eric says.

“Well I am of David. But David was of something and I tell you that he was of gods, but what are gods really? Have you been to space? Have you at least seen all these stars and not known each was a sun that could produce the life forces we have here and did?”

“Yes I believe woman, but how now? What mission are we on?”

“Well I will tell you this; the oligarchy plans to obliterate Adon and befoul me bare foot and pregnant and materialistic. They plan to wipe out you all clearly and take me as a toy for the likes of Ilya Lubov; Ilya ‘I Love you’ as that demon goes on about, Sebastian too, to often.”

“Why were you dating him then this Ilya?” Eric asks. Eric was the brash one and Joseph the strong silent type. Both could do what they had to do in uncomfortable situations.

“Don’t make a martyr out of me yet,” she replies, “I have human wants and human needs. They hold my brother in the thrawl of opium demons. My parents are entrapped in Tank City with no will or way to leave. Adon was my man and he gave me adventure, but Ilya held a key to my family he had potential to help me free them.”

“You collaborated then and Adon made a jealous holocaust,” Nick suggests. These conversations are worth the lithium batteries.

“I am a woman of bonobo breeding. My mother was a high priest and my father a Pararescueman and flying fortress pilot.”

“The best men to the airships and the best women to the pilots,” Adon mumbled.

“What did he mumble?” asks Nick.

“I heard nothing,” definitively says Adelina Antolievna Blazhennaya; which means in English; Lena daughter of Anatoly, the Holy Fool.

“Why are you such a holy fool,” demands Adon.

“Speak not or I will close my ears and eyes to you and you will be left as a mad man in the wilderness howling on about your love Adelina who runs with the stars birds and moons while you turn your back on love peace light and guided meditation. Cease talking to me now for you wound me up and caused much useless hardship. I had almost wooed that king to give me my family back passage to Babylon where they would be safe. KNOW YOU how much plutonium glows in or near Tank City. KNOW YOU what happens when the opium demons get into my brother with dirty re-used needles and aids. Quiet please Adon if you claim to love Adelina be quiet.”

 

“Told him she did,” Joseph tells the video camera.

“Did I tell you that should I be made the candidate of choice for Messiah, now that the choicest candidate Emma is dead; should I survive the hassle and ordeals; we will all lie around naked, make art and meditate. Will you follow me out of Babylon?”

 

And many were watching. Because Nick Mapfre, was live streaming hoping it could make someone watching from home care. You see if an Ivory dies in a forest and no one saw him die; you can break him into parts, and eat him as a cracker.

But if a Bonobo warrior woman and her resurrected gun slinging paramedic ex-boyfriend do magic on camera; then in Babylon, the Eagle, the Dragon and the Bear have a clear and present danger to contain.

 

 

Scene 19

Camp Mansfield, 2015ce

Konnecticut

 

Nine is an auspicious number and that was the number of their little band once they came upon Watson Entwissle carrying a sub machine gun filled with plastic bullets. Watson was a true gentlemen and gangster, and also a paramedic, and he had saved and killed alongside Adon in the days before and during the Brooklyn Soviet, the “Breuklyn Soviet if you wished to spell it correctly. He has seen Adon die several times and gotten his light skinned freckled Ayitian ass tortured by Russians before over Adon and his flirtation, constant fucking flirtation with Russian women. His Bent Uzi can flight up eighty men before he has to reload the clip. The plastic bullets will break their ribs and drive them to his boot strap. He’s wearing a thick leather jacket and had a grey beret tucked in the inner pocket. He’s never wear that queer shit like a French fuck.

 

Ayitian baby, Sak Pasay!

 

Nap Boule bitch, all of Charlestown was on fire over this latest Russian woman. According to “the prophesy” the most important earth Chakra lay in Moscow and that is why such dark power is harnessed from there. The vampires, I use that name exclusively for these blood sucking white oligarchs we war with; they used the blood of their own people to water the holiest ground in existence. And “the prophesy” says that when the Moscow ground is liberated the other chakra points will radiate peace love and light. The so called Age of Aquarius, on us any day now. Water being brought to us all for long time poor people have struggled. So went the wonder words of prophesy.

Charlotte Kamande is the buxom, beautifully placed together and quite Ugandan lover of Watson Entwissle so-so much does she care for him that she put on a leather jacket too and loaded up a Bent Uzi, and jumped out of a container plane above Konnecticut miles high above to rescue Arelene Daly, a blonde and Fenian and Tiputti Capois, the famous Ayitian revolutionary commander of the GAI; these four were the sole survivors of the 1^st Union Congress. All forty-four major other delegates were tracked down and cut down. Had Watson and Ms. Kamande not so valiantly jumped out the sky, and her strapped to him in tandem having never sky jumped before; had not holograms and a barn been used to hide three blacks and one blonde in Konnecticut; then Adon would have been the sole survivor, no wait they got to him and had killed him too.

 

“Do you know the cross he bears, the Ivory one,” mentioned Watson. “I say Ivory meaning Hebrew because he sure as fuck ain’t a blan no more.”

 

Charlotte Kamande she preferred him to be European sometimes than Breuklyn ghetto fighter. She once read that he and Adon had killed over 100 men in Europe; hunted out and used Voudoun, their secret powers to wipe out 100 slavers, traffickers, petty oligarchs even a Russian general named Budanov; wiped out a whole wing of the lesser Oligarchy as a Brooklyn Good Evening!

She preferred to think that at the 1^st Union Congress Watson had transformed from adjunct to a murdering band of underground rebels; to respectable politician. They were good and naked an on leave in New York, just outside the Soviet in a village called Yonkers when Watson’s bat phone went off and it said the Oligarchy was wiping out delegates as fast as they had come out the underground; like a set up. And Tiputti called him and said he was hiding in a barn in a place called, or just outside of Sheffield, Konnecticut. Lord have Mercy!

And Adon was dead, again.

“Do you know how many times that man has seen the oligarchy kill his friends, he isn’t ashamed that zealot, maybe he should be. Do you know these beautiful eyes of mine are grow backs, they cut them in another life in Moscow? Why do I follow that man? No I don’t we follow each other we are all following god. You a Catholic, that’s cool. There’s a lot of books and a lot of gods, our god is one true god.”

“Adelina?”

“Who?”

“Sebastian’s new woman.”

“She ain’t his woman. He is just worshipping her like he’s supposed to.”

“No, I disagree,” interjects Tiputti Capois, the young Ayitian general with his piercing inquisitive eyes that dart about the room, “When they were last in Ayiti, just this summer, I could tell he loves her.”

“Friend, you’ve only known him in Ayiti,” Watson responds.

“That may be the case, but I know him well enough to know that when he cries her cries for us sincerely and when he sings he sings for us sincerely, and he is Ayitian in certain ways as he is Hebrew in others. And the rebellion here has been suppressed with the blood of his closest. The Oligarch is switching things. They are erasing people. I hope Ayiti is still there when we return to her.”

“Don’t worry this bad motherfucker will steal us a plane,” says Arelene Daly in a thick Belfast Brogue.

“That’s right I will and the little Messiah can fly it for us and make the fuel not run out, imagine that.”

“What makes you so sure she’s what she says she is,” Arlene asks.

“She didn’t say nothing,” says Tiputti.

“It’s the prophesy,” jokes Charlotte.

“It is the damn prophesy,” Watson replies.

“She arrives from the East on coffin of eighty eight good men. She brings the dead to life and she moves the world around her with light and love. That ain’t here well we’ve been tricked behind enemy lines into Sheffield Babylon for the last time. Because no planes I can steal without bullets and men will take us out of Babylon on just jet fuel. I need a messiah, and she’s from the east and bat phone said they stopped Adon’s heart noon yesterday with electric current.”

“Is Jefferson dead?”

“I don’t know. I just know that Ilya went after just about everybody. People Adon had just had polite conversation with, his family, his brother, people he used to causally fuck. Ilya wiped him out in just three weeks over this woman and the Charlestown rocket siege,” Watson reports.

“Why are we alive?” Charlotte asks thinking of all the murdered faces of the 1^st Congress.

“Because I’m Watson’s lady,” she smiles.

“So you’re saying a living breathing Sebastian Adon is gonna walk through that barn door,” Charlotte asks.

And then the barn door swung open and walking nearly on his own now a living breathing Sebastian Adon, smelling a bit like sulfur, almonds and Vodka walked in.

“Tricky devil,” smirked Watson.

“How now gun slinger,” and the two embrace. And followed into the barn are Nick Mapfre the film maker, the Ruhlmann brothers and of course Adelina Blazhennaya securing the tobacco rafter barn door behind them.

“I don’t know none of ya’ll but Ady-Lee, nice to see you and Sebastian; you my Ivories.”

“We’re Eric and Joseph,” Eric says pointing and they shake hands.

“I’m Nick,” says Mapfre, “we met once upon a time in Brooklyn Soviet the last time these fools disrupted the stratosphere. We filmed it for posterity.”

“Can you walk yet,” Watson asks him, “we gonna have to bum rush a plane.”

“We’re gonna fly a train into a plane,” Adelina states.

“Are we now, well as long as you can fly a train I’m your gun slinger,” Watson says.

“How long have you been here,” she asks.

“Two days,” Tiputti says and she embraces him very happy he made it out alive.

“What have you eaten?” she asks.

“MREs and Gatorade,” Watson says.

Adelina gathers up the hanging tobacco and she piles it, then begins rolling it. And it changes slightly. The tobacco rolls become midnight sushi from the sea and she serves it out to everyone. A fuck ton of midnight sushi.

“Of course the Russian messiah can turn tobacco rolls to sushi rolls,” says Joseph Ruhlmann.

“And then there were 9, I didn’t know you’d bring a girlfriend,” Adelina says, “I’m Adelina.”

“I’m Charlotte Kamande.”

“I read about you, you’re an oracle.”

“Tough men with non-lethal guns guarding two candidates from the East,” she smiles.

“I don’t like it when they call me Messiah, so far these are just parlor tricks. Sebastian and Watson once killed 100 men with needles and voodoo. I just came online. Four weeks ago I thought I’d marry rich and move my parents to Southern California. It’s very hard to know Adon, but he’s loving when he’s able.”

“Ladies I’m not dead anymore, I’m standing just right here.”

“So a train into a plane, that shit ain’t subtle,” Watson says, “you big guys give me your guns I want to see if they’ll take Afula specials.”

“We’re more than happy with real ammunition thank you,” Eric says. Having seen too much magic in too short a period.

“Fine, but don’t kill anybody it’s against the rules of management and also the new covenant,” Watson says.

“We didn’t make any new Covenant,” Eric says.

“Brother, and I rarely use Muslim/Union talk to strangers in front of Adelina, she mocks me for it, but you’ve all see a dead man come back to life, the woods swallow our aggressors and before long a flying train; can you just empty you clips and fill up with non-lethally. I’m sure Watson has a few extra clips of Afula Specials,” says Sebastian Adon.

“Says the greatest killer the world has almost ever know,” Tiputti Capois.

“That man is the pale Dessalines,” Watson says, “but I’m Petion.”

“Jacobins be at ease, fill your bellies with Sushi, they will kill if they have the need to kill. I have often decided not to make great men good or bad men great. I have faith in my own powers,” Adelina says.

 

“I’ll give him my gun if you can turn water into wine,” Joseph says.

An audible grin from all.

She touches an open canteen and it turns into white wine and Joseph and begrudgingly Eric hand Watson their burners to tinker into heavy handed, non-lethal toys.

 

 

Scene 21

Camp Sterling, 2015ce

Konnecticut

 

Now that there were nine of them they were very powerful, especially protected by so many guns and so much magic. Marching slowly South East in the deep woods toward the coast.

 

The woods were thick and they waited out the day in the cool of the vertical tobacco hanging barn. You may not know this but one of the largest production sites for cigar tobacco is the American Babylonian state of Konnecticut. Now what’s with the Babylon? What does that even mean a civilian might ask. You see, the Hebrew; the Ivory had twelve tribes; thirteen if you counted the divided tribe of Joseph. So these tribes were descended of 12 brothers who sold their brother Joseph into Egyptian slavery which triggered the events of the later book of Exodus in the Torah, or Old Testament. The word Old seems to imply that that the New One; the one about Jesus and his fine work somehow abrogates or replaces laws that are so exhaustively laid out in Leviticus and Numbers and Deuteronomy.  613 sets of laws for The Ivories; and 7 Noahite; laws of Noah for the Gentiles; everyone else; like don’t rape, rob murder, covey and kill. Basic shit for non-covenant observing people. Now you can’t buy into a covenant until Jesus and Muhammad come and Muhammed one of the first things he does in Medina is restore most of the laws the Romans pulled out. We’re jumping around here but I’m sure this was written for Gentiles and Ivorites that know how to read and can handle dissonant, abstract thinking.

Babylon was ancient Persia and Iraq and more. It was the place that 10 of 12 tribes; well all buy Judah, Levi and Dan never came back. It just offered more than endless tribal wars to extinction with Canaanites and Philistines. It was a modern, pluralistic, developed ancient empire and ten tribes just stayed put. Lost like an American Ivory. America is called the Eagle in Rastafarian tradition to show its prowess as an aggressive empire; one of the four horse men is another allegory along with the Hawk; Europe, the Dragon China and Russia the Bear. We call America Babylon because once you manage to get and stay there, as long as you’re not the black race; you forget where you came from.

“You might send money back,” mentions Tiputti Capois.

You very well might. Remittances make up a tremendous source of livelihood for the people back home. But the longer you stay in Babylon you learn not miss war and ethnic tribal Chimpanzee purges. You learn to not miss Cossacks and the pale of Settlement. You get a house, you ante up in the debt game; you work until you die. You die until you get to work.

This is called a Reality Shift. Like the one that happens every time Adon gets his life so foolishly taken, or kills his damn self. He once shot himself twice and fell off a roof over a call girl that made him write boat loads of meaningless poetry.

“I don’t date Russian women exclusively. I date tough women that might be able to keep me from reality shifts; needless dying.”

“So you used to date that hot little Messiah,” Joseph asks him.

“I did. She never committed much to anything until Ayiti.”

“What’s so important to you about this Ayiti place, and why are we trying to get there,” Eric asks.

Watson and Tiputti raise eye brows knowing the shpiel of Adon quite well. It is a good shpiel. It tells of the historic nature of the struggles for the fate of the divided Island and its people.

“We are so interested in that island because its people were the first to defeat the Oligarchy. Others had tried. The Greeks took on Babylon and held them back for some time. The Hebrew Roman Wars went on for over seventy years. We were massacred and decimated and turned into sex slaves. The French defeated the worst of the French, but it didn’t last long until Napoleon began empire building and marching on Moscow. Whether anyone knows it or not they are all marching on the Chakra points and all trying to march on Moscow. Genghis Khan knew, he’s the only one to take that sacred ground and now we’re all a bit Mongolian. I would say the Russian Oligarchy with its Ivory advisors is about half Mongolian, a quarter Ivory and a quarter slave; that’s where the word Slav came from. The Tartars used to round us up and take us back to the Islamic Empires. So much history they never teach you. We’re going to Ayiti because in a people in land is power, and if we are captured here they will kill all of you and make me a slinky court jester happy house wife,” Adeline explains for him, she isn’t in the mood for his yarns.

The Ruhlmann Brothers take in all the comings and goings in their Franco-German burly way. The leather and blue and grey clad paratrooper, paramedic Watson Entwissle paces without smoking. The bullets he gave them from his bag of strapped clips expand on contact and break bones not flesh. Afula Specials because they were designed in the Israeli town of Afula to keep the Canaanite body count low, well until 2009 when a high degree of who gives a fuck set in after the Sudanese and Russians genocided their own citizens and the DRC mineral wars broke the Ivoryish body count of 6-7 million in the Holocaust; you round up because no one counts babies really. Anyway the Israelis have a whole line of non-lethal weapons for putting down a lesser armed enemy. After the great purge when the resistance wiped out about 104 lesser oligarchs then foolishly lost all its own and more in ruthless civilian kills it was acknowledged that an eye for eye will make everyone blind, but a tooth for a tooth; the oligarchy takes more teeth.

“What is this Oligarchy you keep thinking so much about; these men that killed everyone that mattered in the resistance that Adon ever even smiled at,” Nick Mapfre asks.

“Before we talk about them, let’s talk a bit more about the island we will escape to during the night’s fall,” Adelina says, “Tiputti, would you and Adon like to give us a history lesson on the Peasant movement called The Waterfall Family. Now that the Z.O.B. maybe but we nine; and the Brooklyn Soviet may or may not exist and the resistance maybe over, but for we nine and the forces on that island. You see in another life Adon twice brought forces to defeat the Ayitian oligarchy and their murderous collaboration with the NGO Class. First in 2009 he brought medical worker. But it wasn’t enough. In another reality he raised a guerilla band and out of Brooklyn Soviet brought 1,800 fighters to liberate the place. But it was a blood bath and million, literal millions died and the Dominicans all but conquered the place and tricked 200,000 into leaving D R for Ayiti never to return. When it was done, again Adon had gotten many of his closest killed, this time perhaps for a cause. The resistance took 1/3 of the Country, but the Dominican influence made sure that nothing changed. Avinadav Butler was arrested and deported, and executed in the middle of the Atlantic. This was a reality not meant to be. So we re-started it,” she explains.

“There is way too much magic going on for us, I’ll speak for me and my brother. We are simple, brutal tragic, god fearing family loving men. We have a rock band. We drive motorcycles. We break skulls only when have to and we only have these guns because Princess Janaat told us that once we stole Sebastian’s body we’d be hunted like dogs. I’ve seen plants attack hatchet wielding white trashlings, I’ve seen you bring him back to life; hold his very heart in your hand. I’ve seen bullets that don’t kill and heard all kinds of interesting mythology. You even told me you’re going to steal a train and make it fly. We, are appalled by the magic seen here. What use have you for us, or even video cameras?”

 

“Because no one is going to believe in our candidacy if we just leave another trail of destruction along the road to Zion,” Watson proclaims, “I was the only one besides Sebastian there the first and the second time. Ayiti is nearly impossible to hold.”

 

“It is truly impossible, which is why we love her so much and are so invested in here candidacy,” states Capois.

“How do you, ‘restart reality’?” Joseph Ruhelman asks.

“We go into the Great Temple and we ask the great and only true God to let us leave our bodies and go back to a marker point. A place where we agree to meet when we die. Adon does this as easily as he draws or writes Russian women poems, almost with glee. We love life more, it is almost traumatic. So we store our best fighters and compatriots in a Temple under the tallest mountain in Ayiti. And when we fail, and we have failed so many times it is irreproachably taxing on all of us; we pull back to the Temple and there we emerge. Something has gone wrong though this time it’s all a mess.”

“Ilya wiped out the temple, he wiped out the bodies and maybe the spirits. If you don’t hear one of America’s most talkative revolutionaries yammering on; it’s because I’m cold shouldering his corpse, but it’s because he fucked up. He fucked up real bad,” mutters Adelina.

“He fucked up so bad because he exposed the Z.O.B.s list to Ilya when he moved against him without authorization,” Watson explains.

“We pledged not to kill. At the first Congress most of the awake ones were getting ready to pull the underground out of hiding and fight in the daylight. We had just lost Avinadav and Emma. Ayiti and Brooklyn Soviet never were. It was as if we gambled a whole arc of our loss and struggle to wage a struggle with no violence and then; a major leader wipes out Charlestown over an injury to Adelina that is problematic at best to understand,” Watson says.

“I was never even any threat. It was pure jealous rage,” Adelina says, “I was tasked by the late Emma Solomon to ascertain why Adon seems to fight losing impossible battles, concentrate incredible forces, and then lose. For like 3,000 years. He even fought Xerxes once at Thermopylae as an Acadian.”

“I determined that he doesn’t serve the enemy on purpose. He’s just simple insane.”

“I am not insane, I am in love,” comes a voice that is more used to talking in other yarns and realities.

“He is in love with an idea of himself, as all men are. It was our curse and blessing that he both cannot seem to die and he so attracts such mighty defenders, lord knows even as a daughter of Russia I believe humanity needs defending from itself.”

Scene 22

Camp Griswold, 2015ce

Konnecticut

 

Before the barn structure caught flames and they found themselves locked in a ring of fire our band of heroes waited out the day and they all took time to reflect on what was inevitably coming from inference and from prophesy.

 

Now allow us to recount the events of the previous books, but those transcribed by and about Sebastian Adon and the big books too; the ones people make religions around. We begin big unto little as Adon would die many times before anything he wrote made print.

 

The Old Testament is a collection of writings chronicling the rise fall, temptations and betrayals and massacre of the Hebrew people. Abraham the first Hebrew has two sons; Yitzhak and Isa; the Ivories all descend from Yitzhak who has twelve sons; and one day the Prophet Muhammed will descend from Isa. The tribe of Judah which returns from Babylon with the Dan and Levi tribes gives rise to King David. Fourteen generations later Jesus is born to Mary. It’s about six hundred years between when the Romans pretty much martyr Jesus, fight three wars with the Ivories between 60 ce and 135 ce; then take on Christianity and change everything. The New Testament is pretty much written over ninety years later by Roman collaborators that drop out the laws of Moses. Now in 646 the Prophet Muhammed arrived in Medina and begins working on the Qur’an, although he is functionally illiterate. This book reconstitutes most of the stories in the Old and New Testament; he also raises and army of slaves, whores, peasants and orphans which will conquer about 1/5 of the earth in the name of Islam. Both Islam and Christianity are taken over shorty after they are propagated by the biggest opponents of the new faiths. In the case of Christianity the Romans, in the case of Islam the Yazidi tribe that butchers the biological family of the prophet Muhammed including his grandchildren Hassan and Hussain. The Seal of the Prophets remains for the most part sealed until 1864 when the Baha’i faith emerges based on blood descendants of Jesus and Muhammed; Bahaullah and the Bab. In 2001; based on prophesy Emma Solomon and Avinadav DeBuitléir carried out the warrior work foretold in the Baha’i prophesies, but they did it much more violently than had been written and some say they invalidated their mandate. Now, Christians think Jesus is coming back. More educated Christians except that it’s a blood descendant, not the actual original guy. Most people on earth don’t know how to read. About 1/3 of the species is Christian or Catholic; a Christ follower. About 1/3 is Muslim. The next biggest faiths are Hinduism and Buddhism. Hinduism is highly problematic in that it reduces hundreds of millions to chattel caste slavery. Buddhism is more like a philosophy that everyone could use a healthy dose of. Most problematically is that there is no “J” sound in Aramaic or Hebrew. So Jesus was certainly not his name. His name, agreed by non-Canonical sources was Yeshua ben Yosef; Yeshua son of Joseph. There could also be no word Ivory; which was pretty much a Roman invention after they fought three major wars in Palestine against them which resulted in total Hebrew defeat in 135 ce. They leveled the temple in 70 ce. Ivory was Latin or nigger. Jesus got his whole name and race changed. It was impossible someone born in Palestine could be white. Muhammed tried to correct a lot of that but he too was used for empire building. The Baha’i almost 1,700 years later came with unity peace love and light. But no one was paying attention until a Mahdi[54][55], Muslim Messiah of Muhammad’s like named Avinadav; and Meshiach[56] of the house of David and “Jesus” named Emma conquered the Eastern Sea Board of the United States after an event called the Great Revolt.

It began at the West Indian Day Parade and spread out into most major cities of the East Coast. The largest most successfully held was the Brooklyn Soviet, which perhaps fell or perhaps still stands.

The Ivories, which still call themselves that are still waiting for Meshiach. They reject everyone who has come. Their leaders betrayed Jesus, their leaders betrayed the Brooklyn Soviet. Emma and Avinadav spread the uprising to Hispaniola, and for some time even conquered Ayiti as said. But there was so much blood. And this blood tainted the houses of Emma and Avinadav. It was agreed to return to the Temple and restart reality, abandon this one and begin again.

 

But something has gone wrong because here we are, nine of us in a barn. A barn that is now on fire! And where are our messiahs now? We have a pale skinny Russian brunette that does periodic miracles. We have two Franco-Germans with muscles and know not fear. We have a dead man who all heard was dead, but he walks better each hour fueled by unrequited love. There’s an Indian-Russian film maker. There are two Ayitian freedom fighters one black one Mulatto. There’s a sexy Ugandan, priestess but no one has seen her full power.

 

You notice I keep saying nine, but it’s really eight. Nine is the Holy Spirit?  But as the smoke roles in and Adelina Blazhennaya freezes up, as they get ready to think of plan b, c, and d. The thick black smoke brings death, and the Holy Spirit doesn’t suggest anything useful.

 

Scene 23

Camp Griswold, 2015ce

Konnecticut

 

Very satisfying at first, the smell of smoke.

Thinks Adon;

Yes, something was burning down, but I couldn’t think anything about it because I was so love sick, so broken so totally down over this girl that I couldn’t bring myself to stand and fight. I will tell you that if unrequited love tastes like almonds, well when it goes on longer as it had it isn’t like almonds at all; it’s like punching yourself in the face and then it tastes like your own blood. Because love is supposedly self-less so when you’re eating yourself up over a woman, like Adon had done for two years well it’s all your own fault.

The barn was burning and they just stared at each other for a bit.

I hate you, she thinks. You brought me out of my basic American life and you thrust me into the revolution in Ayiti and I lived in squalor for what seemed like a year and now, now I just almost squared myself away with an ok guy, fine a major oligarch and you ruined it in jealous rage. You completely fucked up and got fucked by Ilya. You tried to burn him down but you’re just not big enough. That’s the damn problem; why can’t you be a man not some ghost not some martyr not some space creature.

They stared so long everyone else began getting a little nervous because they seem to have distracted each other from the hairy business of impending death. Ah, death. Everyone mostly feared it but they and this Mexican stare down was a product of that kind of bluff.

I will say this, he thought; that there may be only a couple things I took into and out of the hill of Waltham. And the one thing I cared about it very much gone. What know any other person of this kind of self-loathing, wondering why she could not see in me my worth? Had I not been through hell, had I not offered her everything? But she truly doesn’t believe I can deliver and it is breaking me worse than the deaths I die. I never have feared death, but I fear that I won’t get over this woman nor can I afford to get out from under her.

You see, if we were meek un-orthodox Christians we’d never even fathom that the daughter of the Messiah might love a hooligan like me. And yes, that is what I am. I reckless knock around hooligan that in every life have acted more like a Barbarian than a child of God’s people. The name be named; Yahweh must often wonder what to do with me. Smite me and bring me back to fight some more.

I wanted to lay down all my fighting when I met Adelina Blazhennaya. I wanted to not die. I wanted to not fight. I wanted to forget about Congresses and Unions. Even the glorious higher power of the cleansing flames of revolution! About uprisings and the struggle itself. She made me not want to struggle; she made me want to have kids.

 

Yes, you who know we know I am a hooligan and a zealot and all kinds of unstable things, but Adelina made me want to have babies. More than two, well maybe just two to start out. I remember catching the garter belt at a wedding and then like a horrible ass when she caught the flowers I denied that marriage was impending. I’m a horrible person, a total self-absorbed miserable person that will certainly die alone. And have before.

The building continues to burn and Watson rather stoically assesses that the door is barricaded so some party is looking to burn all of our heroes alive. A nice group of nemeses they’ve acquired since Charlestown burned down, as if that were the only thing this band was linked to.

So look, her look said; I can’t love you anymore, you took too much and now I have to live my life now, which may involve super hero shit, or maybe I’ll sell out like I was about to. That’s all my choice you know you bastard, yes bastard, you underground man; you delight in your own suffering but not I. I want peace light love and flowers, lots of flowers. I don’t want to hide guns in my purse, see everyone I know die. I don’t even think I can get us out of this flaming mess. You’ll have to do it.

Me, he thinks? You want me to do it? You want me to kick some ass for you again. No you don’t care. You don’t want to burn up, but you don’t want me to do anything. That’s the hall mark of unrequited love; it doesn’t matter at all what I do, you don’t care.

Well, thinks everyone else I hope the super naturals do something or we’re just gonna start shooting.

Look, thinks Adelina, there are things I admire about you. You’re super committed to fighting for your crazed zealot beliefs. That might make good father material, scratch that, might have made. You might have been a good father and it might have changed and matured you and maybe you’d focus on me and a family and not the god damn cause, your impossible vile cause.

Watson almost says, ‘could those of us that have been invested by god with certain super natural powers could you perhaps jump in before we are choked and burned alive, and I shoot up the door trying to bust out.’      

He thinks, I’m in so much pain. I’m being punished for what I said to her in the Empire Hotel in November when I called her a you-know-what. And then I bashed my face against the mirror and begged to die. Because she wouldn’t come back from Moscow and she wouldn’t trust him that he would quit the game for her.

And neither did anyone else. Their stare down was like mind sex with their clothes on a horrible tease. He wanted everything from her and she wasn’t going to budge. And what happened next, Capois, Watson and the Ruhelman brothers opened fire at the door ‘til they could kick it in and then they burst out the barn with the others in tow; they unloaded clip after non-lethal clip at farm boys, hatchet men, bangers and hangers on the payroll of whatever local farmer was now after Ilya’s golden ticket; but had forgotten don’t toast the main prize.

Eventually they shot up everybody, bang, bang; bang!

And eventually Sebastian grabbed her by the wrist and they got up out of the fire and he said, “Maybe you’ll never love me. And maybe I’ll destroy myself over you for everyone else’s amusement horror and sport. And maybe I’ll got to an early or a late grave actually thinking you were the one! I caught the garter like it was a fucking movie! Maybe I could have been a father! I don’t know anymore. I was in a hospital. My heart exploded and I died.”

This little tif is going un-filmed because Nick is watching a non-lethal fire fight conclude with more bang, bang, and bang!

“Sebastian. I need you calm, cool and collected,” she says.

“I may in fact have to rise to the occasion of greatness and I cannot, will not have you like a puppy begging for my undivided attention. What if I have to part a sea or move a mountain?? What you will be all sad faced and bush tailed? No, get it together. We may be over but I need you to act like the child of a god who will never turn his back on his people so I can act like the daughter of a god who turns trains into planes and gets us back to Ayiti in one piece, can you do that man?”

“I love you.”

“Shut up.”

“I love you.”

“Stop saying that.”

“I love, you.”

And she picks up the entire flaming barn and all of the remaining henchmen and she flings them 100 miles into the sky. So, she pretty much got pissed and killed like fifty people in a ball of fire. Boom.

We’re making this up as we go, thinks Watson.

“They’re so tumultuous,” says Charlotte Kamande.

“So is the Old Testament and also the many parts of Star Wars,” says Eric Ruhelman.

“I don’t care what you blow up, what you level, what you save or don’t save. I love you and I will follow you until I die and give you my life gladly. And I wish, I wish my destiny was with you,” Sebastian proclaims.

Watson grabs his shoulder, “be way cool man. She stopped loving. And you gotta respect her because she’s the candidate now ‘cause Emma is dead and she’s not the lost, lonely and lethal miss thing you fell for. She’s a growing god.”

Sebastian drops his head and the pound he gives Watson says, he’s not the man he used to be. Watson remembers once telling him over a phone line, tapped into his prison cell; telling Sebastian a lot of people look to him for inspiration, so don’t fuck up.

“Adelina, Yulia, Oleg? What happened to them after the drones and the shoot out?” he asks Watson.

 

“They probably died, this is the effect of your friendship on many.”

 

Scene 24

Camp Voluntown, 2015ce

Konnecticut

 

They aimed to capture a train and somehow make it fly off the tracks.

 

It was easier in those days to hijack trains over planes. They would then take this flying train over the Sea of Galilee, Rhode Island out of Konnecticut and to a place called Block Island; 16 miles off the eastern seaboard, a fallen star ship; and there a powerful woman named Ms. Lisa Star could arrange their submersible transport to Ayiti, re-fuel, take on fighters and then, who knew what things were possible, hopefully many.

“Why can’t the levitating train just make it all the way to Ayiti,” Eric Ruhelman asks.

“Don’t be greedy with my magic,” Adelina says.

They had survived two serious onslaughts of hatchet men. She’s basically murdered the whole second batch fighting with Adon and that was what you get fighting with a jealous ex; nothing but useless black, emotional and real time death.

The 1^st Congress had declared ‘all killing is a crime against humanity’; a violation of the noble human rights. But she, had not signed shit. Her candidacy was based on three things. One, she was one of the last people to see Emma Solomon alive, had served her will well as ‘the steel hand of Emma Solomon’ so many took that has an anointing. Two, she was from Russia so the likelihood of her being a candidate was way up anyway, as most other nations had murdered all in the houses of prophesy by 2016ce. Three; she could turn water into wine, make plants attack people and she brought people back to life and also turned them into butterflies. Which is what she did with all the henchmen she threw fifty (not forty) miles into the air, as to be in solidarity with this new Congress covenant, although all its signatory delegates were dead, except Charlotte, Adon, Tiputti, Arlene Daly and Watson Entwissle .

Had Adon not decided to go after Ilya so flagrantly perhaps none of that would have happened, because oligarchs don’t make trouble needlessly; they don’t do show big dick/ little dick show things, they just have big dicks and use them to fuck. They don’t fuck to show their dicks, they fuck when they feel like fucking and there was not great reason for Ilya I Love Everyone Lubov to go on such a colossal killing spree except Adon had just spat in his face and fucked with his money too, in the same five minutes.

Now, what did or did not happen between the oligarch and Adelina; who only knew. A girls sometimes gotta do what a girls gotta do. But Adon, a few days after Congress got it into his head that she was in bad trouble. And he was used to his women always being in trouble because he dated a lot of beat up whores, trafficked women and the abused mentally ill; I mean real pillars of stability so he basically in his mind’s eye could paint anyone a victim.

Whatever, before we get to how trains are made to fly with magic it’s important to remember how alone Sebastian Adon felt when he came back to life. Other than Nick and Watson these were all mostly strangers. Adelina was giving him the total cold dead shoulder and the others too, were like; weren’t you just in the hospital? Didn’t you just die?

Ilya got his money fucked with when Adon ordered a brigade to torch and level Charlestown where Ilya did all his this side of the Atlantic dirt. Adon also ran off with Adelina which flew in the face of his ego as well, though she was a side piece.

 

So he came down real, real hard. The smoke cleared over Boston and then Ilya send goons flying in all directions. Gunned down Congress delegates, gunned down old friend. Killed his mom and dad, killed his brother; killed and killed and killed until no one was alive that knew Adon. Even Brooklyn Soviet was gone. It was just this man and his Ayitian generals left to kill and he’d thought he’d wiped out their temple too; no more tricks. No more fourth dimensions. But no, the bitch brought him back to life.

“It’s a terrible place to survive a massacre you provoked,” Watson states.

Adon put his face into his hand. So much loss over a woman that wasn’t even that wronged, at least not by Ilya Lubov.

“You don’t have Perchevney to protect you either, they locked him up for some spurious offense,” said Watson referring to Adon’s oligarch protector antagonist.

“What do we have?” Adon asks.

“Two Ayitian generals, a film maker, two hooligans, your ex and her powers and my girlfriend from Uganda.”

“What have I done?”

“You took for granted your power and you anted up everything and you lost almost everything over a woman who won’t even look you in the eyes.”

“I thought she was in trouble…”

“Will be printed on your god damn grave.”

“I didn’t realize who Ilya was.”

“I don’t think you cared.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know you are.”

“What do I do?”

“We get on the flying train she plans to hijack and levitate. We fly that shit to Block Island. We get blessed, we get on a black freighter submarine, and hopefully Ilya hasn’t managed to killed Lisa Starr and sink her submarine fleet. Then you pray, you pray hard. They even killed Mickhi Dbrisk and no one loved you more than him, maybe your parents. I didn’t even know they could kill that bad motherfucker. But they killed him real good.”

“Do you hate me now?”

“I can’t hate you. I was pretty pissed in Moscow when they took my eyes, but I got new eyes. This too will pass. She’s very powerful your old lady. Even Emma didn’t so easily move magic.”

“What about Ilya?”

“He’ll kill and capture us, or he won’t. We’re going to Ayiti to raise another army and then we’re marching on Moscow. Even with nine of us we are a force.”

“Such a force.”

“You don’t die man. Do you have any idea what that says to the rest of; god or devil we need a friend like you son.”

“What am I?”

“I know you’re basically a good person, but you get very reckless over these young Russian girls and you forget they are all perfectly capable for taking care of their own bad selves. You are a colorful side show.”

“I wanted to kill Ilya, purely because he touched her. Good or bad touch I didn’t care.”

“You got reckless. You burned his shit, you ultimately took a house wife and set her off down the path of the fire minds. You got Emma killed, but strange shit happens, how many times have you died and was it always your fault? You are always mostly to my knowledge on the side of human kind. Ilya is an oligarch, you pissed in his soup. He flipped out and was a lot less loving than his name implies.”

“Don’t believe his lies,” Adelina says dispassionately, “he isn’t clear even in his own mind who he serves.”

He sometimes let’s her be cruel, I mean he did before fly off at her sometimes when she went too long. But he was man and she was Russian, which means she had a loyalty tree. Around a tree was a circle and in hard times up into the tree she’d go waiving anyone not of her blood or feeding her. Which made it curious what she would do now.

“I’m going to stop a train. We’re going to storm and evacuate it. Then I’m going to pick it up with my mind and fly it.”

“I don’t doubt for a second she can do that, but can they be separated once it’s in the air so she concentrates only on the flying and not how angry she is at him,” Joseph whispers.

“I’m fine, the flying train will have my undivided attention,” she nimbly replies.

I wonder, wonders Charlotte what she will do if she has to. That is the question to ask will she turn us all over? Will she drop us and secure herself with Ilya if he allowed it? Why does a beautiful woman spend time around bald men; everyone knows bald men are either evil or have poor genetics. These were the things Charlotte Kamande wonders.

What I want to know is what she will do if she’s backed in a corner, if we can’t clear these rolling woods or if she gets distracted. She has so much power and we are just perhaps play things; what loyalty does she really have? She brings a man back from the dead but won’t even look him in the eye. Won’t even kiss his heroic cheek.

 

 

 

Scene 25

Barn Island, 2015ce

Konnecticut

 

I will tell you what a palaver is; it is a serious sit down talking to; it is a scheduled tune up for the mind. We take perhaps a break from the over stimulation of intrigue and great escape to have one right now.

 

A palaver is needed when reality breaks. It is you needing to affirm with another person that you’re centered, that you’re still there. Because when reality shifts the people you were with are not going to be there with you anymore.

I give you my word before G-d everyone will freak out and abandon you as soon as things get a little scary, even your blood and you will be a loon howling at the moon and no will care. That was always what Anya Drovtich always warned would happen, he’d just break and he’s be a zombie a walking dead man howling at the moon and the young ass punk kids would ignore him.

 

Sweet palaver, a heart to heart to heart like Watson and Adon used to have in their cell in the fire house; when a white officer called Watson nigger and Watson broke that white shirt crackers jaw. And Adon went AWOL to help in Ayiti during the great big killing quake and the FDNY jammed him up. And they used to sit locked up in that cell and make big talk on everything, that’s how there shattah bromance first began, before they went on their great big hit of bad men in Europe. Before the world ended several times and began again. Before the second invasion of Ayiti.

 

Because when you got to live a few times, fuck it, live right, live hard.

 

It had been a very long time since any of our heroes had a palaver and honestly where could they have found time, they could only just gawk at miracles and strange happenings. Charlotte had tandem dove out a plane to end up in this fire fight, now there was a lecture or two later about following those you love into wild adversity. The Ruhelman brothers were knock around guys, but they hadn’t grocked it all yet. They hadn’t certainly sat to talk it out. The palaver was a great talk out. It was a sit in the dirt and unload the realness off your chest about that which was killing you, and this crowd, well a lot was.

Charlotte Kamande had only been dating Watson for less than a month when he informed her he had to go on the warpath, board a drop ship and jump out over the sky of Konnecticut and that if she followed him there would be greatness, but most likely death and she hadn’t even gotten a small piece, not one small piece of affection since the drop and pall mall here. Eric and Joseph wondered was the paying price for this high enough. Would there be really weird shit differential in the future, and how much more. Was this super natural Russian babe a goddess or did they die in a moto cycle accident and wake up in the LSD realm of heaven and hell. Watson being a stone cold mother fucker was not even for a second going to put his gun down and breathe, not even one second. There was very big bad wolf trying to murder them all. Much worse than usual, that wolf ate up all his partner’s friends.

And Adon, he felt guilt and shame. For he was coming to terms with his reckless actions. He felt like he’s done fucked up. But there was raw obsession eating him each breathe he took and each step be jostled out. He was walking dead this time for real. He was empty because she wouldn’t speak to him or look at him she wouldn’t even pretend he was special, that he had touched her well.

Had he touched her well? Had he done enough? Had he given her a better or a worse life getting her all missed up with tumultuous vagabond change makers that didn’t have the resources Ilya did to safe up parents or wipe out tribes. It was like the eight of them were coming out of this fiery dream. A dream which kept trying to kill them.

And what was this about a flying train, really a hijacking of a train? When oh when was anyone on in the leadership of this little outfit; Watson and Adelina going to sit down and say; here’s the plan, Susan. Here is the meaning of it all. Here is what we are out to do.

You heard things like raise and army in Ayiti and march on Moscow and you got palaver fatigue, like you didn’t even want to hear the whole thing. You didn’t care to. Wasn’t there an easier way? Wasn’t there a job to get to? A house to save up for? Didn’t the old god just need you to sit in the Church every Sunday and talk out your sins in The Sly Fox? Didn’t you just get to keep calmer. No flying fucking trains? As if that was something more outlandish than the midnight Sushi trick or the water into wine. This was appearing to be very scary and real. March on Moscow eh?

Not without a Palaver to top all Palavers!

“I am sorry that everything is happening so fast. I’m doing the best I can. My mentor Emma Solomon was bit more tightly with her tradecraft. I’m a novice. If it looks like I’m feuding with my ex-boyfriend in the middle of our latest emergency it is because I was deeply hurt by his lack of discipline. You have no idea how much training was poured into this man. You have no idea how many times he came so close to victory and then it was like a laugh in our face from the devil, he is a most tragic man,” Adelina explains.

“But I cannot love right now, certainly not him as he has acted badly and most of all, unaccountably.”

“Are we all having a group Palaver? Can we palaver by group?” asks Joseph Ruhelman.

“We are having a sit down, this is not a true palaver, because right not my whole essence is racing and I can’t really comprehend anything you all might tell me. It’s all very one sided and I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok,” says Watson, “you have sick crazy powers, and we all just want to know our part.”

“Is there a plan?” Eric Ruhelman asks.

“We’re going to hijack a train and get out of American airborne, then cross to Spain by submarine,” she says.

“Yes. I’d caught the flying train part. I meant more existentially. Like is there a divine plan you are adhering to, or are you making this up? Are you going by Old Books, books we haven’t seen, it’s all disconcerting. A little anarchic really,” Joseph says.

“Sorry. I’m totally shooting from the hip with all these new responsibilities,” she says.

“So there, responsibilities, that word sort of connotes a plan,” Joseph says.

“No, I assure you there is no plan, per say” she says.

“Well raise an army and march on Moscow is something of a plan you must admit,” Sebastian Adon says.

“I don’t fully endorse that plan,” she says. And Arelene remembers an old quote from the history books, something about the Third Rome never to fall.

“Well we’re gonna stop following you unless you make us bit more comfortable with the ways you make decisions,” Eric says.

Nick Mapfre films the whole, not-a-palaver.

“I want a word,” Sebastian says.

“Wait, before you go on a heartfelt soliloquy putting together words she is not going to hear I think we are all owed an explanation as to what exactly is happening,” Eric says.

“Ok, big fucking time out,” Watson says.

“There are. Not. Going to be easy happy answers given out. We are also not at this time about to stomach Adon, who is a good man hurting himself with unrequited almond spread love. Big time out. She has even said she don’t have THE PLAN, she has a loose plan it’s a good common sense plan. It involves getting to Ayiti where our enemies are less and raising an army there ‘cause we can do that, being Ayitian generals, “Watson takes full control.

“Emma had great five year plans and they seemed very thought out, but Emma is dead and we’re never gonna find her body. Avinadav was cunning military leader and he conquered almost all of Ayiti and half of Africa then lost it in under a year. So plans are plans they get fucked up. This little smoke stack here is powerful and we are all here to help her and if you don’t want to help her go home. Go home to TV and porno and beer and whatever the fuck, shit,” exclaims Watson.

“I just had to ask because it was already weird and to my knowledge I die, I am a man. I don’t come back. I die and hopefully go to heaven,” Joseph says.

“That too is my world view,” says Charlotte Kamande.

“Well I can’t take that away from you,” Adelina says, “but I can tell you that it is a narrow view. One that might not be so glaringly in your face like Adon’s powers, but I would suggest there are many lives to live before and after.”

It was clear that this is what they were after to make them less afraid; a message.

“If I am to be fair with you all, if you follow me we all may die and the lives you end up with will be very different. But we are after the great liberation if I am not mistaken, we are after the creation of human events that liberate the great mass of long abused humanity from war and poverty; and these events take a mighty army; where ever that army may one day emerge and march to; that I cannot totally plan. But if you follow me to Spain and then to Ayiti I will keep us safe as I can and use my powers for awesome.”

“Aye, we’re all with you don’t worry,” Eric states.

“Good, cause I’d have to shoot anyone that disserts,” Watson smirks.

“Can I get a word please, for the love of the gods,” Adon says.

“No, I’m sorry. I can’t! I can’t have you begging for me right now. I need you to be a man independent of my woman-ness and power. I need you not to beg, not because there is some horrible ignobility in begging, but because you don’t need to. And it won’t get you what you are after. I can’t give anything but myself into my work, because the stakes are too high.”

“For the love of Emma one word,” he says.

“Fine for the ghost of Emma take your words and then we must get some rest before make a great train robbery.”

“I’m here when you need me,” is all he says.

There was no other woman he wanted in the world to impress so badly and it wasn’t for her powers, he loved her before she had powers. People sometimes get the powers of the gods they forget where they came from, but no.

This was an issue of trust.

 

Scene 26

Camp Misquamicut, 2015ce

Konnecticut

 

We were not far now from the beach, only a nights walk.

At times a person in life, like a great and epic story cannot decide what kind of story it wants to be, it has to find its way into its true character. And you all seem to have forgotten in all the melee of hatchet men that this is a very character driven story, although the characters are very different perhaps than you.

The stuff of miracles is how this began, but we must draw a noose around it and reign it in for you will reject reading too much more of these miracles coming from the hands of a lonely, lost and albeit fearsome Russian teacher of English as a second language; there are some other variables to square away.

For one thing, who paid the Ruhelman brothers to be there and was it enough money? That is a serious question because it is not so often you are pulled off your bike, barber tattooed punk rocker ways and asked to steal corpses that get resurrected and then march off to foreign lands on flying trains. What if they were not paid enough, would faith sustain them?

What of other whats’. We are told Adon has had many lives, but how has he used them? Has he squandered or has he done what he could with a lot against a lot? Has he just basked in the privilege of reincarnation and used it to awe and fuck a laundry list of Alina, Natalia, Yelizaveta, Alina II, Maria and Adelina; a list of six cold but loving Russian women, was that what he used all those lives for? No, periodically he also fought evil doers too.

What of Arelene the quiet when sober Fenian Republican who was also at the 1^st Congress? She was mistaken with the Holy Spirit she was so quiet but she had seen terrible, terrible things in the coal country of Australia. She’s survived Ilya the butcher’s blade because she’s flown home to Belfast out of his reach, and now she was here. She woke up in the barn after a long flight and short flight a jump out with Watson; she two was in the blue and brown; blue uniform and brown leather jacket and she also had a gun but hadn’t gotten it warm in the fire flight. She was just stunned, what in the holy fuck were they all getting into?!

Now the Ruhlmann’s being Ruhelmen were not going to die without being well paid and they weren’t going to follow this fuck train of preposterous magic much further because the contract, albeit the oral contract over the pay phone with Princess Akhtar was, get the man’s body and wait. That period of waiting was over days, at least two days of walking ago. And their phones were dead, no one had asked the aspiring messiah could she charge phones; only could she produce Sushi out of midair and turn water into wine; they got spoiled.

And the Ayitians were taking it as it came because anything this powerful had to be respected and implored; could it be utilized to save their people. Watson and Tiputti had lived several lives enough to see this as a great game and they as soldiers in a great old war. And whatever could make a train fly could unseat the musician, the president for life of Ayiti, and burn the Dominicans, and this time for good.

And Charlotte was following Watson because she had this fire in her and she didn’t know when again a man like that, a gentleman and gangster would be her part of the world again. The film maker Bruckman, we he made films, because if an Ivory dies in a forest, you know how the old saying goes.

No one cares if he dies even if he gets caught on film, but you have to keep a record of all these people dying so nobly in all these forests.

I’ll tell you what will happen before they get to rob a train and levitate it, this isn’t X-Men or the New Testament. Things are going to burn down and out gang will thin. Because no one, not one person trusted Adelina Blazhennaya. Not because she was Russian, but because she kept clearly doing what she had to do for so many years to survive. And how would that translate now that she had powers, no expected her to keep burning for them much longer. When Ilya caught up to them she might really be tempted to just do her, become some kind of trophy with some magic and get her parents safe.

Adon, since he woke up from being dead was having a harder and harder time remembering what the Great Revolt was for. He basically woke up feeling emotionally defiled because that who had been his one, well latest true love well she had lay in a bed with that bald Russian oligarch and professed her love for him.

That’s all that mattered to Adon, that he was no more to her. Since she pulled his corpse back to life, and she should be thankful, but he wasn’t. She had left him for another man and he was mortified and the cause, well the cause was going to have to wait a day or two more because all he could think of was pain, the pain of rejection. Of not being good enough, no matter who lives he’s lead, no matter how many saves he’s made, villains defeated, battles one; he could not get this woman back; Adelina; who he loved so much.

They were sitting in the woods a nightfall. The Konnecticut woods are very thick and very hard to break through without a path finder. They were all still following her. In their own ways, for their own reasons, even though no one trusts her at all.

 

Sebastian thought back to something Avinadav DeBuitléir once told him when they used to preach on soap boxes in dusty Be’er Sheva, “In the days to come we will have to be our own Messiahs.”

 

He hoped they would be up for all that.

 

 

 

Scene 26

Camp Burlingame, 2015ce

Konnecticut

 

There came a point when it seemed like they all had to rest because even young Adelina was having trouble making the fabric of the forest comply with her beck and mystic demands. So they all sat in a small clearing back to back, deep in the green hill country of Konnecticut, perhaps eighty clicks from a place called Stafford Springs where Adon had been pilfered from the Catholic Hospital St. Francis of Assisi. Surely he’d done some miraculous things in his day.

They all sort of crumbled to the ground unable to remember when they had last slept, but Arlene knew; she hadn’t slept since Belfast. Which was about four or more ago, she was good on little to no sleep, she kept positive, which was vital to surviving life.

Eric and Joseph were snoring. They went out cold, no one had really agreed to take watch by Tiputti Capois slept with one eye open, which was the Ayitian way when danger seemed near. Watson slept with an arm around Charlotte Kamande and Bruckman snoozed on the ground, the camera finally dead and off. Well he had a backup battery but figured he’d wait for great insight or fire fight, either or. Adelina wasn’t sleeping, just sitting and meditating, and Adon wasn’t sleeping, because being dead is like a very long nap. And a satisfying one.

Then there was no one left to count, nine renegades.

There were all these variables that Adon and Adelina could see because of their powers. He wanted to trust her, but he didn’t. Emma had been so good a proving she was the boss. Adelina was making this all up a she went. She had little to formal training it seemed. Emma had tasked her years ago to get Adon’s head right before the Great Revolt; the 3 million black man uprising at the Labor Day Parade on September 1^st, 2012 that was the precursor to national revolutions that had sense all but taken the USA out of the Great Game. The dismembered United American States regime based in Chicago was lead for Barak Obama for three terms before he was assassinated. Was that real? Since the massive shift in the consciousness that took place on December 21^st, 2013 what was real and what was illusion seemed very hard to ascertain. That was because lots of conscious people recruited at Burning Man festivals and TED talks had just out right sided with the oligarchy. Lots and lots of them, yoga doing, meditating, healthy eating tech and sorcery that just one way or another stayed out of the Great Revolt.

The power of the Revolt had been that it broke American as a hegemon, but certainly not as a people; there were as of 2015 about twenty micro-states mostly on the East Coast; the biggest one had been the Breuklyn Soviet. After a lot of fighting and terror many were brought back into the UAS; but Brooklyn held out because it acquired nuclear missiles from the Russians. Detroit and Boston fell. When this happens in Africa, which it does all the time; do people hear or think about it in China or the US? No, not really. It just wasn’t real. So the fall of America didn’t mean a lot to a lot of poor black and brown people, because Europe still exploited them and now so did the People’s Republic of China. There were just more English speaking whores now it seemed, maybe less English speaking pronouncements for democracy. Actually it was quite a lot like what happened to the USSR in 1989, and what happened in Brooklyn in 2015 was often compared to Chechnya to the glee or Russian commentators, the chicken had come home to roast.

But was it real? Who knew; what the fuck was happening in Syria since 2012; no one really knew; Sunnis killing Shiites killing Alawites killing Druse killing Christians; Islamic State some other groups like the Turks and Kurds; who knew. Just because the Age of Aquarius was steadily bringing consciousness; it didn’t mean you could make a chimp into a Bonobo.

Adon was soon  on his feet deciding to stand full watch, not one eyed Ayitian half watch; though he did trust in that. He wanted Adelina to see him vigorously in the game. But she would not see him because she did not care.

Every man would like to imagine himself a real winner but not Adon, for every time he died he took it as a colossal failure. This time was worse because he so underestimated an enemy that caused so much carnage.

I don’t think a lot of people understand what a bitch reincarnation is, what a curse it can be made worse by remembering your past lives quite well.

So Adon was thinking about that. How much he hated disappointing his tribe, getting people killed without really changing the game.

There were bonobos, there were chimps and there were aliens and the mythologies of trying to cover the chimp bonobo wars, the alien proxy conflicts; well you had to be creative. When millions of people had their consciousness way upped in 2012 it shed no new light on the genetic and species level wars for this diminishing return of turf.

You have to take a deep breathe sometimes and realize you’re not wired the same as the other ones. You’re not as risk adverse, you’re not as easily tempted by wealth and flesh, though flesh is always a temptation. He looked on her and felt her grow colder just the small act of that.

He looked on the merry band of rebels here and wondered which would make it all the way to Ayiti and when they got there what exactly would they do. Moscow was so far from Ayiti. If Brooklyn Soviet still stood maybe some fighters would come, unlikely as most everyone he knew had been killed.

All of a sudden he wanted a cigarette, it was just his default way of remembering pain. Why had acted so stupidly? Why had bitten off a bigger bite than he could chew. The answer was that he loved Adelina more than he could recall loving anyone else and he was both horrified that she was in danger, and horribly jealous that a balding oligarch would take his woman.

Maybe that was his worst fear, maybe which is what kept the war going for him all these lives and all these years. His worst fear was that a woman that he loved would leave him for a man who had money simply because she wanted security over love, and that had happened a lot it seemed in different ways. Another way to look at it is that no woman wants to be with a fourth dimensional revolutionary who seems to wake up yearning to get himself killed again. No one is into that at all.

And yeah, he had some issues with women. He didn’t really trust them, he pretty much other than Emma had never met one that he didn’t equate with being something of a whore; at least in the idea that it seemed all women basically slept with how would feed them. That’s crude but a t some point he turned to Russians because they were more basic about the whole thing; there was romance, there was affection, but really the triple bottom line of dating one is why he did; they never judged you, they always improved you, they always walked away with a clean break almost like surgery if it got crazy, and with Adon it did a lot.

 

The mark of an insane man is doing the same thing and expecting different results, but it also shows persistence, which is attractive in the Russian world; dogged single minded pursuit\ of what you want at all and any expense.

 

She looked asleep, Adelina, but she wasn’t. She wasn’t judging him. She wasn’t missing him or dissecting what could have should have would have; they were done. Done a year ago. She had brought him back because Emma would have told her he’d be useful. And she didn’t hate him that much. Enough to not speak to him, for a while. It was torture to be alive next to the woman, the latest woman of your dreams and she wouldn’t even hand you midnight sushi. She wouldn’t turn his water into to wine. She wouldn’t cuddle. She was done with him.

That was their way Russian women were. They could just turn you off with no lingering. They had no sentimentality that perhaps made relationships linger, when their mate was no longer a viable partner the deal was done.

In the cold forest twilight, the forest spoke in tongues and moon had gone out at some point. The little otriad band was puppy piled and most happily snoring. Adelina was meditating on what was about to happen and Sebastian Adon was trying to keep guard, stay awake and stop thinking about her, which was impossible. He’d have to shoot himself to stop.

Which could be arranged if one thing had to come to another. All he wanted was a soulful and understanding palaver; but he wasn’t going to get one. She was making a point and her point wasn’t a Russian or American point; it was a simple human point.

You are unstable. You brought danger to me and mine. I can’t pretend you’re going to get better, that there is going to be a happy wedding and cute kids. That thing I used to say about you being a changed man once you got me pregnant; a real man made from a father; it isn’t going to happen. You caught the garter and I caught the bouquet, but I’m sorry Sebastian this is not an American movie; this is a Russian American noire. You’re gonna die in a hail of bullets for a ‘cause you didn’t have to believe in, I’m gonna marry on older richer man and if push comes to shove jump in front of a train.

No, no it could be so different he thinks. If I only have just one more chance, one more life to live let me use it to make proud this woman I love so dearly. They tell me what of me? What of my individualism. I know it not so well. I am a merely a gunslinger with a cause who like the sound of his own voice making rhymes, likes drinking, likes riding horses likes fucking as often as he can and likes painting paintings of women with large breasts. I’m a classic man.

 

But if she is a pragmatic Russian collectivist take on new, potential Messiah, I’m just the guy who won’t die, holding the gun with all the rubber bullets. Put the non-believers on their asses if we have to. I’m just at the end of the rope.

 

If she won’t love me, can’t love me, after all this struggle all this ado about her and only her; then I clearly have very, very little to live for. I did not say that makes me wish to kill own self, simply returning to the realization that I am unafraid of impending death. For they will catch us.

 

Scene 27

New Galilee, 2015ce

Shores of the Atlantic

 

It’s sad when seemingly smart people don’t learn from their mistakes, ever. It’s a true measure of the breed of animal we come from. Chimp or Bonobo; from the earth or from the stars. It’s also not fair to push your alien cultural values or even our beloved universal human rights on people that have had so much bad hard vile gritty shot happen that idealism is an afterthought. I don’t think many people know any of their rights, so they sort of begin praying and plotting and grinding; and they just say, “Ship is sinking boys, get to the life rafts. Climb over everyone you have to.” Well the biggest, brightest rafts are called England, France, Switzerland, Germany and the United States. Maybe all of Europe really.

But, when you get there by any means you find that there are countries within countries, plantations within plantations. You don’t get free that easily, nothing is easy. The white people are cruel and they take a lot out of you. They don’t really want people there that don’t look like them, they make you work jobs that aren’t really very dignified.

 

The sad thing about people, the idealists that keep trying to get the bonobo out of the chimpanzee; get the holy spirit back in the howling mobs; it’s that they are fighting against something they don’t ever really comprehend the evil of, the thing the whites call the nature. There’s no proof to all that nature; but humans act poorly indeed.

 

Adon had talked a lot about not being violent, but really it was all just talk. It was as if he assumed everyone else came back when they died as well, which was incorrect.

 

I will tell you what the raid on Charlestown looked like; about one hundred men surrounded it and parked pickup trucks on the surrounding hills and then the shelled the industrial district from homemade mortars attached to the back; like they’d learned in Lebanon. Then like two thousand rocket propelled grenades rained down on a lot of things that Ilya Lubov owned, warehouses full of guns and coke and spice. And they shelled a bunch of houses too that had nothing to do with it. Overall it was a cowardly raid, but Adon himself drove down to the office that was listed on the company website as 87 Roland; and no one was there because a Russian Ivoryish businessman never had the true address of this office on the internet; but Ilya watched his whole payload go up in flames, not his empire; just his American weigh station. Adon kept his promise to change the skies above Boston blue to black; and you could smell all that drugs and software burning.

As he drove in with so much hate in his heart, jealous hate; he forgot that he hadn’t picked up the tab on Adelina Blazhennaya since November around the Indian Turkey festival; and in her culture that means he was burning down a whole lot of things he didn’t have rights to.

She called him early in the morning the night before crying, saying he needed to get her and that’s what co-dependent American cowboys do best; charge off trying to be heroes where they are not needed.

Well he’d picked up the tab for late lunch one more time before he foolishly ordered the raid; left her with her friend Lana before going on a needless war path.

He never found Ilya, he never saw Adelina again in that life. Charlestown burned for three days then Ilya tracked down everyone he knew and had them killed to make a point; stay away from all my shit. Stay the fuck away at pain of death from breaking and burning my things over a whore. That’s what Ilya basically assumed all women were; varying degrees of whore.

Well 40 days later Ilya had ordered the deaths of around 4,000 people; friends, family, people Adon worked with or had recruited; wiped out most of his outer and inner, outfit. And Adon died too in a Konnecticut psychiatric hospital, Ilya didn’t count on her bringing him back.

Everyone was dead, and they were alone in the deep woods of Konnecticut talking about turning trains into planes or some such fuckery.

There was now growing suspicion and also doubt. It all seemed like magic tricks so far, no matter what they thought they had seen; everyone knew the world contained magic, but when you see it you doubt it; it isn’t at all like the movies. I will tell you how the human brain deals with things it cannot accept, it refuses to believe, it invents perfect doubt or then it shuts down. It shuts down so that it has no obligation to absorb big thought.

The forest was quiet, it contained big black bears and evidently men with hatchets. It seemed denser than many American forests, it seemed to over good cover from birds and drones. It didn’t rustle but at night it made eerie noises that forests make. Like there were animals out there lurking and circling and moving in for their kill. Which was correct in several regards because Ilya had paid very large amounts of green money to turn over gun and axe in Greater Konnecticut against our nine protagonists and slaughter all but one; of course he aimed to turn a potential predator into a sexual house pet.

 

There was something very underage looking about Adelina, although in the years of man she was 27; she looked mostly like a pre-pubescent girl. Nothing slightly curvy about her. She had endless men after that attribute, in order to defile it. Sebastian included for he was part Cowboy part Barbarian as well, one was needed to be one to fight them.

 

She looks like a ‘miss young thing’.

 

Suddenly there again the smell of something burning. The crackle of flame and they were all up out of their huddle; the whole fire smelled like napalm. Ilya was apparently going to use a less surgical approach. I know not if you have ever been close to a ring of fire, but it is not catchy like the song is, it is terrifying and it sucks the air out of your lungs. From vessels above goons were burning the forest down.

 

It was suddenly so, so hot, and we were all choking in the smoke from the rising flames. And where was magic now? We were clearly now going to be burned alive and die horribly!

 

 

Scene 27

Port Galilee, 2015ce

Shores of the Atlantic

   It was suddenly so, so hot, and death was upon us, we stayed together best we could flushed out the forests by flame. They must have dropped napalm on us. I remember Tiputti Capois and Watson Entwissle take point and rear respectively; and guided out band to the coastline, out of a choking hot death, the trees were all on fire. I could hear the terra drones, the grinding of metal men charging us, I remember the Ruhlmann Brothers opening fire with their pistols, emptying clip after clip into these killer fucking robots! Adelina Blazhennaya picked up man with her mind then shattered them, but there were thousands, endless waves of running metal skeletons bearing down on us from all sides. Nicholas Mapre filmed it, he never flinched, never got involved, but never stopped filming ever, and well I suppose someone had to. The Terra Drones made a screeching noise as they swarmed, they emitted a shriek to deafen us. Arelene and Charlotte were back to back firing Uzis into the robot hordes. Mapfre filmed on, believing in his hear this was the last stand for sure. Watson lobbed a regular grenade and bunch of robots blew up. There were too many, so Adelina drew a force field around us, a barrier they could not pass, but it so strained her magic, she sweated, she groaned, there are a million metal men trying to dismember us all. And there I saw Watson and Tiputti reloading, saw the Ruhelman brothers cross themselves and load the last bullets they had, thinking about boxing a machine, or a swarm of them, and Arlene and Charlotte they took positions, Mapfre looks finally afraid. What was I doing? What could I do? I had no blaster, I had no weapon at all. I just stood near Adelina should some robot hunter killer get through.  To one side, a burning ring of fire and to the other side the sea and metal men, killer Terra drones bearing on both sides. And then, I looked up and it was too late, an Ariel drone fires a concussion rocket into us; Adelina threw up her palm and it went flying into the drones; woooshe, BOOM!   She is so powerful, is Emma dead is she assuming the thrown?! It can’t be, this isn’t what was written at all. I have to do something, I have to help my……..friends. Yes, these are my friends are they not, only the brothers Ruhelman were paid, all these other were sent to rescue me from Waltham. “The Black Freighter is close, stay tight and we will wall get off this beach alive,” Adelina proclaims with power. The robots howl, I keep looking above scanning the skies for Ilya, this is all wrong, it isn’t like this at all in the New Social Gospel, no dying on a beach, no losing Emma. They’ve been hunting us for weeks, for days! If the Black Freighter surfaces it is vulnerable. And then I realize what they’re doing. Using me as bate to kill her. To kill Emma Solomon and Avinadav DeBuitléir, the leadership. I don’t know how these drones howl, everyone is tight back to back. Adelina looks determined and tired, but weakening. “As soon as they surface everyone follow me into the water,” she commands. The skies are black with vultures, more drones, and a helicopter way up, high enough she can’t bring it down and hold off the sea of metal death all around us. They’d rip us to shreds if no for her, the band is virtually out of ammunition. I smell fire, I smell impending death no matter what happens. I can’t remember seeing this before. Mapfre films for history I guess, Charlotte and Watson clutch hands on each other and their semi-automatics. Arelene prays quietly, Tiputti too. Adelina watches the water, and the black freighter begins to rise the enormous behemoth; the Israeli nuclear submarine which moves the movement leaders around. And my worst fear comes true; rockets hit that ship from all over above, below the tree line. They strike at the ship blowing it to bit before our eyes.  Was Emma on the ship? Was Avinadav? `  “NO!!” yells Adelina and the force field drops; and the drones rush our position. I see Eric Ruhelman fire point blank and punches a robot in the face, it hurts his hand a lot.   The Black Freighter sinks back on fire, a ruined ship and failed rescue. What a botch.    “When I say go, everyone follow me!!” Adelina opens up the sea like Moses. She opens up a 16 mile corridor out to Block Island and we run down it as fast as we can, the eight is us just barreling into the canyon of water held open with her mind.   “Whatever happens keep running!!” she bellows in Russian, then English course no one speaks Russian here.   A metal tentacle grabs my leg and yanks be back to the shore, we had not gotten far even. “KEEP GOING I YELL,” and I didn’t need to tell anyone twice. Except Watson and Adelina turn back, the others run they run as hard as they can with all they have left running through the Atlantic seawall being chased by drones, the water held up by a powerful young woman.   There is a big flying Ariel drone dangling me, it is hundreds of Red eyes, it tightens its grip and shatters my left ankle.   Adelina with one hand motion hurls hundreds more drones into the brine, “Watson keep moving,” she commands!   I’m like forty feet off the ground being strangled.   “Watson, run.”  But he doesn’t know how. It’s not in the Code to run. That thing is so big and I have no more bullets, he thinks no powers like these ones. I hope Charlotte gets clear, and Charlotte runs back firing an Uzi at the Ariel Drone, and when the bullets run out, her eyes go Grey and hit it with fire ball of kinetic fire, it explodes and drops Adon to the ground. Watson didn’t know she had the old majik too.   “Guys, go now. I can’t keep the sea open much longer and it’s a sixteen mile run!” Adelina says. She looks less in control.     “We can’t run that quickly. Let’s just grab him and let’s go!” says Watson, declares Watson.   But before they even get to me hissing green gas hits us, we all fall down, choking. I can’t see where the others are, running like hell, not looking back at all. Mapfre, the Ruhelman, Arlene and Tiputti. And the sea crashes in on them, drowns them all as we choke to death on the beach. And more drones bear down on us four, holding us all down. Merciless metal arms and steel tentacles.   A helimonster lands, and there is Ilya and Dmitry, grinning. The drones force me and Watson prone and jerk our heads up.   “What a chase bitch, what a chase,” says Ilya in Russian.   He then immediately executes Charlotte and Watson; two bullets in each head. Then with me watching he takes out a knife and he cuts off Adelina’s head slowly while I just bellow in sick black helpless rage, seems familiar. He throws her pretty little head into the sea.    “You, you shit, you worthless devil shit,” he says, “no matter how many times I kill you, I never forget how much it hurts you when I kill all your family & friends first. I love it! This time I’ll torture you for a hundred millions years, it will never end your torment!”   He kicks me in the face as hard as he can.   “Behold the bodies of your companions, behold your latest dead messiah, another whore I ravished first.”  He puts his dagger into my eyes, pop.  And then he cuts my eyes out, my blood and the blood of my latest and most durable love tether crimson on the sands of Galilee.

Scene 28

Time Traveling

The past

 

 

Every time, that I am killed, I return immediately to the past. I have died many times, each is quite painful. It is very painful to inhabit the world so powerlessly and so indefinitely.

I always think of a woman, I always try and hone in on her face, remember what she felt like sleeping next to me, or what her smile looked like on the face of my un born children.

I have never died a painless death. I remember my suffering, my families suffering. My people’s suffering. I remember what they did to my woman.

 

I’ll tell you what time travel feels like, it feel like jet lag. It feels like getting a shit night’s sleep before a big day, or clearer still, a big new opportunity. You wake up knowing something went wrong.

 

When I first saw this woman, I knew only but two things! One, was that she was very attractive, exuding high class and the second that she spoke her English with an unusual accent indicative of either speaking Czech, living in Germany or have a Swiss lover; all of those things made me vaguely uncomfortable. For I am highly prejudiced to Europeans. While I was unfamiliar with her physical and also mental terrain, I had come across the woman architect in a Baha’i meeting in the People’s Republic of Cambridge, a liberal bastion of the separatist movement; a pocket of tranquil intellectual flatulence loosely north of Boston Soviet about forty and some five checkpoints to West to Sharashka Waltham, the prisoner camp I was being held at in the Winter of 2014. Now say you, there are no prisoner gulags in the United States of America; nor are there Soviets or free zones; is not that fat and happy place a great giant tranquil cream puff of make some money and gain some weight? Ha, well it was for some time. But by the time I met the lovely little architect, a civil war had been raging for two years, it’s very epicenter the city in which I was born New York, New York! Her name, yes what was her name it was also unlike a usual Russian name, but she was vaguely unusual woman with her accent as I said, but also her name, Adelina Blazhennaya. And she was a linguist and vaguely interested in my work so we exchanged our information at her birthday, just two days before the Chechens blew up the marathon and I didn’t see her for over a year. These were the years of the civil war, the so called Great Revolt and I was in this miserable prisoner of war camp, under a fake name with bomb embedded in my chest in case I chose to leave. I quite hated and still hate provincial Massachusetts, quite despised the chill of just three hours north. Despised my duties in the camp. And my ghosts, I was playing dead about to be shipped overseas in the service of the revolt. I was an agitation propaganda officer working as a paramedic.

 

My death had been arranged in 2012 to assist my companions and we were bring a certain system of training rebels out to places abroad, but then I was ensnared.

 

A bomb was placed next to my aorta or somewhere besides! Whatever technology you think brings so much innovation to your life via the internet and smart phones is nothing compared to what the ruling elites and oligarchs and real power brokers have. I was forgotten in this cold dead place of purgatory while in New York and in Ayiti my comrades and family, my lovers and friends thought me dead, and Great War raged inconclusively!

 

A great wall went up around Long Island cutting Brooklyn and Queens off from the USA. Heavy sanctions and drone raids and state of emergency.

 

I will tell you the worst thing that happen to a man is to forget his face, to forget who and what he is. What he is doing in life. Worse still, for him to wander so far from his companions that none no him and anything he thinks he could be, he is. That was me. Trapped in that special engineering camp walled in my highways and radio towers. The bomb that was put into my chest come with special instructions; build us a training system or you die. Die alone and forgotten. Your city burning yonder will be the fire under your feet, design us a system to unleash whole societies against the oligarchy.

For you see, while I served the rebellion; I was also a serf to the Oligarch mad man Sasha Perchevney who told me that if I did not design him a system he would sell my former lover Dasha Andreavna to the soldier brothels on the Western front. Powerless me, a scrappy intellectual and Ivory what could I do but what that mighty war lord wanted. And I was thought dead so no one came to look for me in Waltham at all.  And it seemed to snow in that place nearly all the time. Like American Siberia, manufactured with great hidden machines.

I’ll tell you what, I was thinking! That’s never been the problem, not at all. And the snow was falling hard, compared to what? I have no idea. Seemed hard for America anyway. What I was thinking then was that I was late, again.

That’s a terrible look in every single culture, except for chornay culture; it’s normal and expected. If a black friend shows up early, well, don’t worry that won’t. But I am not a Chornay, I am a part-Ivory half caste and it is quite cold in New York now, quite over snowing, quite utterly miserable and you wonder why people even choose to live in this country except for the ability to make some money. It’s worse in Boston, I can tell you first hand. Some better money is made here evidently, and they build a family and mythology around that.

I think I know some things about some things, but I don’t know anything at all about women, Russian women in particular. I can’t tell you anything of substance about Slavic culture, only stereotypes and inventions based on being around them so long. I would say with certainty that I’ve never met a Russian idealist, never met a Russian man at least not overtly claiming he’d commit any kind of high or low crime for some rubbles or better still Renminbi or Euros. There are perhaps over one hundred reasons Russian and Americans should or should not date; but they come down to aesthetics, culture, balance and improvement. This too, a stupid mythology because its’ all banter and barter and pheromones and fuck; it’s just about attraction to what you’re told is decadent or, self-improving.  The Cold War is not after all fought between individual antagonisms; but over politics. Most so-called ‘Russians’ I have met in New York City State are not actually even Russian, they are every type of other former Soviet Ivory; or Ukrainians, Uzbeks, Tajiks, Georgians, Moldovans and Armenians; most Slavic Russians stayed in Russia. The Americans call anyone who speaks Russian, the Russians; but quite frankly outside the tallest of Manhattan towers and the highest of the high end; well there aren’t that many Russians here. For whatever it matters, in the scheme of the story.

I have met causally only a few in greater New York and Brighton, Boston, most in Brooklyn Soviet’s Russian quarter and all but one forms or shades of a Jeuf. Dmitry was born in Uzbekistan, but was Slavic Russian Orthodox as could be and a scheming hoodlum. I shot him and he wounded me in a duel for insulting the honor of Maria Parsheva, also a Slav but born in Ukraine claiming to be a Ivory. He lived together for two years she and I; a quiet geisha mostly. She was afraid of blacks, wanted to leave Brooklyn. She sucker punched a hooligan one night and pulled me bleeding form under a sixteen person pogrom. Yelizaveta is she half Ivory, born in Ukraine but her mother was Slavic Russian. She never loved me like I loved her, I chased her for over a year. It was more sentimental until they locked me up after the blizzard, for an unrelated series of events. I was then abandoned on Mondays and fucked apart on Fridays. I have no regrets, her mother didn’t approve of my condition or my profession. And, then there was Dasha Andreavna Skorobogatova from Penza; who looked at me with bright and completely fascinated alien eyes who I rallied my mighty little Otriad around her suffering and declared war to the death with the Oligarchy to avenge.

 

She was carried away into night. And the rising that occurred on the 1^st of January, 2012 was violently suppressed its supporters killed, imprisoned, driven underground or into early exile. Made to have never existed to the outside world.

 

I was transferred to exile in Shrakasa Waltham in the fall of 2013 and spent two years in that Special Engineering Camp. I met there perhaps the hardest and most glorious woman of my life then so far Adelina Blazhennaya, the coy brunette from Chelyabinsk; we fell in and out of love and finally escaped together to Hispaniola, D.R. and Ayiti to train young partisans participating in the Great Revolt there.

But I owed a debt to Perchevney, so he took her away from me too and said finish your mental toils, finish your system or both your women will be sold to the Western Front to fuck Germans and U.S. troops. If you run again I’ll explode your Ivory heart! Little did I know that both my lovers were perfectly safe and Sasha Pervechnvny the Voorhi just liked to manipulate my weak American emotions!! But, it was for the best because by 2016 the rebellion was going quite poorly and the rebels were being massacred and encircled in both New York and Port Au Prince, and here I was complaining about the cold!

Why trade one cold place for another, when people will treat you like an enemy alien, a whore or a criminal, or both. Maybe if I repeat this story enough times it will take on the veneer of recreational anthropology. For I had read their books and know their leaders ideas, and know their history and studied but failed to comprehend their language multiple times, I and my countrymen have no gift for language. I waver at times between extolling the hope and idealism my land cherishes, and denouncing the Americans as hypocrites and man babies, silly violent monkeys. I artistically and rhetorically paint with a wide brush, but I would not think any high civilization comes from the interior and the provinces. I am regularly accused of romanticizing the Soviet Union, but frankly not everyone on earth has a human right to television, two cars, two homes, a two course, four increment meal 2,500 daily calorie diet; and to get as fat they wish then die of heart disease. That’s not in the UNDHR. I’m sorry it is not. Nor is it a human right as I see, or have read to enrich yourself well beyond need on the backs of others; and the Americans have certainly done that.

 

While on leave twice a week I managed to see the Russian linguist three times even sometimes. Once for to paint together in Chinese restaurant, once to ain’t together in a Canaanite restaurant. Sometimes for personal poetry recitals, sometimes to hear jazz at the Bee Hive; I was unimpressed with my choice of eating, had wanted to be charming, but I was distracted. We kissed for the first time at a masquerade ball on Halloween. Eventually I took her to fancy fish restaurant, we drank a bottle of white wine and made love in the attic of the hovel in Waltham I was then living in.

 

The candles set the bed partially on fire and damn police towed her car.

 

I should keep all these views of mine more cards to chest. I should not paint myself into a cliché, or my lovely new associate into a cultural strong hold. She has a strange cute accent, so it’s not so clear that she is shaped by Russia, well of course she is, but she has been here since 18. It is not a passport or a world view it is a way of being. Like being a New York Ivory; but I and she are nuanced by experiences and by interaction. Every time I kiss a Russian I tighten myself, I tighten my circle I fight inwards, clasp closer to my family and associates; I learn about my failings and correct accordingly. Does every time a Russian woman kisses me; do they become more fiscally savvy? Do they earn more wide beliefs? Do they see a Slavic face with an American mentality; or do they fuck me and with me, one me and about me mostly because I am so curious, or just a curiosity. Oleg Medved the photographer, the Israeli Ukrainian who is most familiar with my artistic and agitation work he doesn’t try and answer questions like that; he just assumes I have an exclusive taste for Russian women, he doesn’t see anything peculiar in that. They are fearless, hard and very beautiful. As well as highly educated, combatively non-judgmental and quite literally rolling off planes and boats since 1989ce.

 

They being Oleg and I had once tried to have a series of talks about the so-called Russian mentality; but we were both ultimately Ivories. The Ivory has never ever found an empire more long term hostile to it that the Russians, short of the Germans gassing everybody 1939-1945 and the Spanish inquizitioning everybody in the 14^th-16th century perhaps Iran as well. The Pale of Settlement and Siberia were cold places where Ivories were sent along with others to starve and die. It’s just that when a Russian says Ivory, their skin crawls a little. Americans have learned to suppress that twitch, publicly.

 

It was in the Fancy Fish restaurant in the fall of 2013 that I found her smile most assuring and she blushed several times, and that was incredible because he didn’t know they could blush. “We’re human too you know”, she smiled so much they stayed much longer in the French restaurant than either had though and then it was a bit after midnight. He wanted her clothes ripped off and to taste her all night.

 

All his people were hostages. In Ayiti and New York, the military and secret police were cutting down his friends and family. He felt at times that he was worse than dead; he was alive and inanimate. Allowing by doing nothing the oligarchy to slaughter all those he ever cared about. These were his dark thoughts; that instead of courting this young woman he should shoot up the place; should kill these chubby junior banker around him in the streets of the District Financial; gun them down helter skelter like the police did his friends and associates.

But he was no terrorist! He had taken an oath of total non-violence, though he knew and so did his god that in many other lives he had been a killer.

The lovely linguist was so completely charming, it came so naturally to her and so incompletely to him. She was teaching petty aristocrats in a small school in Newton. What made everything so much better than almost any dinner he’d had in the last several years was that one thing flowed to the next and it was all small talk. Which he didn’t even know he could make.

His 29^st birthday had happened the day before, it was his reason to be back in New York and confer with his associates, approved four days leave from the special engineering camp signed off by Alexandree Perchevney himself, Sasho. She had given him an art book on New York architecture for his birthday which was classy. And he had found a short and debaucherous story within it, about a playground for underage girls some robber Barron built on Madison Square Garden.

Now, from her perspective it was only medium small, but the dinner was nice and he was medium charming and medium handsome and reasonably intriguing because he was designing some kind of training system in a medium famous Sharashka, was a Baha’i and evidently a petty bourgeoisie based on his family living inside the District Financial, but what she liked the most was that he was educated. He was mildly funny. And she might have had a few drinks with him and seen where it went or maybe not. He was a little surreal. And normally they parted a little after midnight with a soft kiss on her cheek and he thought to himself he’d like to see her again, or a few times. It was happy to feel things un-extremely, to not be made into zealous creature about every single thing. But she leans in and makes out with him, tells him they’re going back to his place in her red KIA Soul ranger.

 

“You’re gonna name love for me ok,” she smiles.

 

I will tell you what the loneliest thing on earth is, it is to feel you are insane for seeing something as evident as the sky being blue or the grass being green. To believe that poor people are poor because of the decisions of the powerful. To feel like you are incapable of being a participant in a great crime.

 

The third time he saw the last queen of Russia, he was late. He was getting his hair cut. He was about to load a small crew of internationals into a car, get in suits clear fifteen check points and make contact with the Cuban special interest section in the heart of Washington D.C. He was late. It was rude and third impressions are really important. And he promised her dinner the night before but had to change plans because one of his crew was losing her shit, an Egyptian doctor, she kept talking about suicide. And he had really wanted to see Adelina the last queen of, not over morning coffee but over an intimate dinner. He’s wanted her to make a good blue print of his chest, use her keen eye, ask her to utilize her engineering skills to take him all part and remove the bomb and the heart too perhaps so he could stop with all his sentimental feeling to his species. He wanted her maybe to take him apart down to base components, dismantle all his usual malfunction. She wasn’t certified as a human architect but he knew she could do it, if he earned her trust.

 

They met for less than twenty minutes, he bought her some crappy green breakfast truffle candy and a coffee. Promised he’d write a story and take her to dinner. He didn’t tell her that the Egyptian doctor was brutally raped during the 2011 uprising and her parents were dead. That as they spoke an Afghani named Farooq and an effeminate fellow named Juan Mishanga from the Republic of Congo were loading several large bags of simtex into his Honda civic. Of course not, she wouldn’t understand why the National monument was a superior alien military weapon and needed to get blown apart. That wasn’t third date style talk. No not one bit.

She was annoyed and he could tell that easily, being an expert in women being annoyed. Should have gotten up earlier. Should have gotten a haircut on the road down to D.C., let barbers of Baltimore have a cynical go, the Cubans didn’t care what his hair looked like, just that he was not a spy for the wrong side. Should have said to the Egyptian doctor Mayaada, ‘bitch be cool’ we have to bring 500 pounds of simtex across fifteen check points and three damn states. He should have just made the time, social engineered things to get her ass to dinner. Oh well.

There was a small nano-explosive wrapped around his aorta. So Alexandree Sasho Perchevney could blow a tiny whole in his heart and send him into a horrible stroke. And he still thought Alex, Sasho as most called him was going to send his two ex-girlfriends to a German brothel, which truly to an Ivory is worse than personal death. I’m not a terrorist at all.

But I will tell you what the worst thing in the world is to feel; that you were built of different stuff than others, constructed of other parts. I remember some old phrase about that which does not kill you makes you into stranger form and now here was I, a relic, an antiquity. He wished he could make the Russian architect understand all that fuckery. Maybe run away with her for a week or two to Cuba or Israel one day, the only places he didn’t watch his own back much. Had others to do it.

It was better sometimes to live in a world where you didn’t have responsibilities to others, or at least only one or two others. It would have been nice to be able to write poems and paint and listen to jazz music and see the wave’s crash on the sea wall or the shore, every single day before and after work or play. Sometimes, sometimes he wished that he could be renovated like a building, brought up to speed with the rest of the monkeys. He had so much he thought he could offer, but time had taken a gristle toll not reflected on his face.

He suspected maybe she’d see him again a fourth time, unless the short story was so outlandish that she might question the validity of his thought process and mind. But what of it, he had very little these days to do but write and tinker on that what he was building with the field trials approaching as soon as the white walls of winter subsided and he would be released from this cold and miserable place.

He had wanted when he was younger to be an architect, but now he was convinced that before anything might be built that was of use to those he answered to, well first he’d have to focus on knocking a few things down. There’s a dream I have, he told her. I wander down the board walk and end up in the White City of 4,000 Bauhaus structures, the golden age of Tel Aviv. And the war is over and we won, and the justice and rights are real. And everyone is ok, and I’m working on my third major book, and I see you again after all these years of struggle and I say, you wanna get a coffee with me? You wanna hear jazz over dinner? And nothing else is on my mind because it’s over, we won.

But there’s a bomb in my chest. The Bratva took some hostages I care about this time. My mother and father have high Ivoryish expectations about my medical education. I’m locked in an American gulag, at least three more timeless. I may have just helped some foreign agents bring a large IED into the Capital. I haven’t slept well in days, I haven’t gone to yoga and all this blatnoy with my case officer about this system I’m designing, well fuck it. It leads a man to smoke and drink, this vast and evil game.

You’re beautiful you know, the way you smile. I hope your stadium gets built before the rebels take Atlanta, which they might in 2017, all a matter of Afula Specials. We don’t have a lot of use for stadiums, but I bet without knowing you know that there are things you can build that won’t get swallowed up in the war effort. Like the Greeks, like the Bauhaus school. If form follows function, trust me that what’s in my blue print will keep us all building another ten thousand years.

 

But I would like to see you again, and I’ll make it happen. Somehow, despite the prevailing factors weighted against me. The commons sense to ask you to not see if you knew what were better for you.

Disjointed, that’s what time travel feel like. Bits of this reality, bits of that. My soul trying to hold into a corpse with duct tape and zeal, a zeal for something.

 

The bus ride on the Lucky Star Express cost $28 American and sandwiched him between two gay Canaanites or really, he was the outer crust to their love sandwich. American had just made gay as American as Apple-Cherry pie and mass shootings. The Empire State building was lit up like a rainbow. It was one of the new reforms to slow the separatist movements.

 

He caught the 8:45 out of South Station evading a small man hunt for him after he pried the impediment off his face and squirreled down an tunnel it took him 32 days to dig with a silver spoon in his mouth, well he was covered in filth in a blue kibbutzinik shirt, grey pantaloons and the bandana of Adelina Komarova, his now cold as Chelyabinsk steel ex-partner. She was working for the Germans now. He alliance with him most tenuous. He washed the tunnel dirt off at South Station, in rubbed into his dirty brown main a little Choco Latina General Product and he saved with a two blade razor to look more like plumped Ivory writer and less like a stone cold assassin, and Israeli killing machine he was sometimes written into being.

 

Before he swiggled down that tunnel his cell mate for a time in the camps, a Zimbabwean bio chemist yelled; “the memories are not real! YOU HAVE NO DEAD WIFE! YOU WERE NEVER AT THE DOMLPHINARIUM BOMBING! You’re ABSORBING THE TRAUMA OF OTHERS MY DERANAGED ASSOCIATE! MY DEAR PALE DROOG! You are not going to get any answers at that wedding in New York!! Take your damn salt!”

 

But he left Kudzai prying at license plate machine and got clear of Sharashka Waltham; the Zionist Internment camp they had been toiling at for over two years in winter and worse winter. A hell.

 

I would have the young dvotchka professional teacher know that I had to chisel through a plastic cage and with a hair pin remove from my face the mask that was keeping me speaking soothing words of poetry. Eyes glued to a telescreen unveiling world horror after horror! I would have her know I then had to tunnel nine hundreds aquariums, yes aquariums the bizarre system of measurement that is used in Gulag Camp to say just under three kilometers, in civilized measurement.

 

She smiled at him. What was real and what was so surreal about Sebastian Adon, Hebrew named Zachariah pronounced Zechariah with that kh-h-h should only Ivories and Arabs make. He would write and he was almost never one time. And he had designed her an eighteenth wonder of the world to honor her Mother Russia on the Apple of the Empire.

I would have the young, elegant and truly stunning dvotchka linguist know that for 35 days I was a captive. To my ambulant planation surely but then to a fiercer master that of Sharashka Waltham which seems to hold me in its thrall and not let me leave it’s westerly prison for what how now-pow! Two long years, nearly three.

How now, she replied, still grinning. She was at a new work site now the fearsome dome completed. The gladiator thunder dome of Atlanta, or Chinese internment camp deepening whom one asked at FEMA, those fucking people. She remained a happy optimist.

Well then she says, “All that escapery had in fact taught you to be on time!”

And he blushed. For it was true.

What did they make me a Master of he wonders? Sustaining International Development or sustaining himself for unrelenting struggle. With some coexistence thrown in there as if he didn’t play well with black and brown people.

“What was the last thing you remember, that made you happy, she asks. Ultimately settles on.

“I remember being at the Baha’i meeting and catching the eyes of a beautiful woman, so I spoke more. And I remember they had cherry juice, juice of every kind and it wasn’t too cold in Cambridge, so it was leather jacket season and I felt quite cool, and intellectual, and like you were watching me.”

 

“You just wanted to draw me like your other Russian girls,” she replied.

 

 

Scene 29

Port Galilee, 2014ce

Rhode Island

 

 

Her decapitated body is lying on the beach next to mine.

 

  I’m still dead. My head cut off on the shore of Galilee, they my body dumped ingloriously into the ocean. I knew we’d never reach Brooklyn, I think more in death about the past. Then I can remember when I’m alive.

 

I think about her all the time, even when I’m dead.

 

  I wasn’t very ready to see you, all of the times you were able to see me but you should not confuse that with apathy or disinterest, for au-contraire I have been interested in you in ways that have propelled your full being into the near pinnacle of my desire. But on several times I was unable to break away because I have been pursuing my work at the expense of my sanity. I was also kept in the course of our contact in the arms of two women that neither loved me nor knew what to do with me, neither encouraged my work nor bettered me as man, they just took what little was of my time and rewarded me with more nothing.

 

Sex sure is something, but it is really quite not that much of something when there is no passion or mutual respect. By my best count I saw the lovely little linguist; one in a Baha’i meeting, once for dinner, once late and briefly for coffee, and once for a picnic and some theatre, so four times, she had popped into my dreams on occasion, nothing pornographic, just smiling happy Adelina asking me something about skiing and the meaning of happiness, and once she brought me many books by Castaneda. She was such a classy dame, and I was somewhere in the middle.

 

I can count the number of times she cancelled our dates; about three times and I on her only once, annoyingly so perhaps because she thought I was getting her from a bus stop.

So that was the balance sheet, but I still found her so interesting. There was clearly the hard of elegance, class and sexy of a former Soviet woman to her, but she smiled, and while superficial there was something to her that seemed completely out of the mortal world, as is she compelled fierce power, as is she was an aristocrat?

  Flattery gets one no-where, I’ll have you know that in May I sat in a café and made you may lovely sketches of our plan for central park; to impress you as you impressed me, but a hard rain came and you cancelled and I put those sketches in a green trash bin. They were silly, I am talented I think I bit, but we have very different talents. I was vaguely hurt, as perhaps you were vaguely annoyed each time I cancelled or was late.

I find you fascinating, in a better setting we could be classy and dance all night and I could dance and you could understand me, which is hard because I’m not really form here, I just play the part well. You teach so patiently, well I’ve written nine books no one reads. You are very, very elegant, and I can be only sometimes. What I want is to write you a good book and you tell me what you like and don’t like, I want to make you art but have you never feel muse like. I want to know a lot about you and I want you to know the real me, not the many me’s I play on the streets. I want us to be very old school and I want you to feel fundamentally desired.

Well what would this little book be about then?

It could be about whatever we want it to, this is America!

Adelina so many people bore me because I don’t know how to speak their language and I don’t know why they see the world from so low down, but if this is to be great story, a story about more than a mad paramedic American falling, or jumping or leaping toward a lovely Russian architect, then their must clearly have to be plot twists and robots. Yes, robots and while I had thought I was interested in writing about our plan to build a pleasure dome over central park, that might just be a center piece.

I will write you a page or so every day, but you have to encourage me, by telling me whether this thing I’m building is enjoyable to your continence. If the game is no longer fun tell me to stop, If my emotions become un-understandable, tell me to stop, but if you like the thing I want to build you, a book of your own then just tell me where you want to go to dinner and I will attempt to be the very best American writer you can handle, and great man as well.

I want you to see a greatness and cultivate it, but I have had a very hard five years in a variety of fields. So, I am very vulnerable and very manipulative and I will hide nothing from you, but I can’t write alone as you can’t build alone, and I am not suggesting me need each other, not all. But I’d like to make you a damn fine novel, and I’d like to see your smile and Russia and also China and I’d like to have a great life, you know like everyone.

What’s this book about then?

Well for now it’s about a brilliant American writer, who writes books no one reads falling in love with a fearless Russian linguist. But he doesn’t know if he loves her yet, as they’ve only been on a four dates, only two of which were real, and certainly they know nothing about each other really, can only speculate. So beginning in the fourth chapter as this takes off, this is about building a floating pleasure garden over central park, about building, blue printing people, that’s where the robots come in, and probably there will be references to other things.

“One time we said good night and I wanted to kiss you, but it wasn’t there, you know, the magic,” he remarked.

“Well only in your culture is it four dates, kiss and marry. My culture we take as much time as we need, you know to make sure you’re good for kissing.”

“See me again as soon as you can,” he says.

“Don’t be late and don’t let me down,” Adi replies, “I’m clearly gambling with a few things dating a Ivory, a paramedic and a writer. None of those things is in the American dream.”

“I want you to understand I’ve always, always wanted to spend more time with you, but there were other women, there was exile, excuse, excuses.”

“Well write for me then, make me somehow immortal in an age where none can read.”

“I’ll do as good a job as I can, for a Ivory writer paramedic.”

“Don’t pigeon hole yourself,” she smiles.

“Do you believe you can miss a person, if you don’t know them, miss the idea of them, and miss the potential?” he asks.

“You think I miss you? I don’t know you well enough, you’re a curious character courting me, irregularly and also inconsistently.”

“Is that what I’m doing?”

“Well I think so.”

“I won’t make any more excuse then, I find you very captivating and dagger sharp, I want you fully interested in me and my work, and yes I want you all to myself, want to earn that. But for now just see me as often as you enjoy and know that 4 times in nearly three years is very weak game, so we have to both try harder.”

“But be on time, be decisive and no excuses.”

“Yes, I’ll improve.”

“See you Tuesday evening then, before we fly away.”

“Where are we flying off to again?”

“Me to Moscow and you to Barcelona, to inform the underground of the things we have seen here, the rumors of miracles in the North woods, the liberation of Brooklyn, the approval hopefully soon of the Grand Castell; my masterpiece soon to be built in central park; if we do not tell them these kinds of stories they will believe the news, and the rebellion will mean nothing.”

 

Kiss me again I beg her with my eyes. And she does, happily.

 

“When you wake up, you’re gonna be back in Breuklyn.”

That makes me happy I guess, If I can’t be back in my country, if I can’t be with the woman I love because Ilya just killed her, well dreams of Coney Island and the Brooklyneers I guess will be lesser nightmare. I’ve been in these camps so long. Haven’t been home in a while. I read in a letter things have really changed, I may be irrelevant.

 

Scene 30

Ave H, District Midwood, 2016ce

Breuklyn Soviet

 

 

My heart skips a beat sometimes, it’s called a congenital abnormality, non-pathological, my heart just is irregularly irregular, and really so am I.

 

I was at the gymnasium, disguised in a flicker mask, the skin tight back to hide my ace from cameras and people I know, who think I’m dead. Might be dead, it all might be just an afterlife.

 

The Spartan Gym on Coney and H, near the Kent Theatre where the fifth Ivoryish Quarter of eleven in total meets the Pakistani district, the only one, a den of cab drivers and spies of the ISI and well, I work out with them. I was closing in on mile three, I want to look good naked. I have over the years gotten drunk and taken most of my clothing off, but this is different. There’s finally going to be an EMS calendar and I kid myself I can get diese fast enough to be Mr. January, but realistically speaking I want to be desired. The calendar is a running joke. The firemen have had one for forever, twelve beef cakes raising money for vets and injured brothers, but they blocked us all the time when we wanted one. Without a long story interesting only to ambulance people, the FDNY EMS and the Fire Suppression side are very different places to work and be. And, again they have separate paygrades, EMS far lower, and also the EMS don’t have a calendar.

 

It was kind of a running joke I’d be Mr. January. I am not fat like most Americans, but I have some terrible burn scars on my chest, a small bullet wound in the right lower quadrant and I wasn’t gonna beat out a number of actually fit people to the slot even if I had a whole year in Spartan gym, I don’t look terrible naked, but I hate how I look naked or clothed in any mirror. Because in a mirror I see so much that isn’t real, or should I say I cannot prove I real, I see a madness in me. A squandering of potential. A million voices whispering; what the fuck are you doing in this shifty gym on the borderlines of the Paki-district; trying to get your body in shape for the next time you see Ms. Blazhennaya, that is when and if she ever wants to see you without a shirt. You’re in this gym trying to be Mr. January; but really out of 13,000 Ambulance workers, surely 12 are hot and fit to shoot. I’m running myself in circles to dancehall music, covered slick in sweat, and the voices, the allegorical voices and the face in the mirror say; that woman doesn’t give a flying fuck about how you look naked, the very minute she learns what you really do; you’re wasting your time. She designs stadiums for Christ sake. You put bombs in buildings and give speeches, there’s no future in that.

 

What did the voices say?

 

A mad man, except as the Rabbi Moishe Klein once said; “a sane man in an insane world is what?” And he really-really loved the same 40-60 dancehall songs, now some electro-swing as Oleg Medved was still trying to make a Slavic man out of him, for whatever reason, pity.

I’d been working all of Saturday into Sunday morning on the ambulance, but no one died. Two were sick, one was going to die eventually as she was very old, but we are all going to die eventually. I was one of the original voices for the EMS Calendar. Because I helped found the only EMS newspaper that fought for our living wages and rights, but that was before the Great Revolt, my exile, my faked death and my time in Russia and then my time in Ayiti and the camps.

I’m an old/old soul and when I run I feel something take hold. Telling me to do more than I’m doing here, in the safety of the shadow of the mountain top. Even in this Ivory-Pakhi ghetto of Midwood, I’m just a stone throw from the man in the high tower, the men.

She’s an architect, it’s been a few months, I wonder if she remembers my face. I don’t really know anything about her, I just want to impress her. I want to be able to look her in her dreamy eyes and say, “my love I may have to lead commandos into the United Nations building and take all of the delegates hostage, hopefully without much violence, but I swear to god if you invest attention in me I’ll be very dear to you and one day, one day I’ll calm it all down and be a business man or politician and you and I can have beautiful exciting international life, grounded in Manhattan of course.”

 

She won’t buy that shit. Write her a poem, start a war.

 

Now, across town in the Isle of Man, which I’ll remind you is part of the United American States, not the sixty odd breakaway rebel autonomous zones; such as Breuklyn Soviet, Bronx Soviet and Goddess Soviet (once called Queens), the Isle of Man has very tall steel glass towers and Federal troops pointing rocket batteries over the East River, and the mile high wall still stands even after the 2017 major breach of the ceasefire. The towers took some fire and several went down during the 2017 War but really, they just build them taller and taller. Now how do you cross from liberated rebel territory back to the U.A.S.? With money and passport, real or fabricated of course, you can still take the subway from the Atlantic junction. Between 2012 and 2017 there was pretty rigorous attempt to quarantine the zones. But Russian and Chinese intelligence services, and the cunning of the Zionists shorted that up. There was the famous 2015 Millennium Theater hostage crisis that turned into a bloody gas choked flaming debacle. There was the 2017 War where Detroit Soviet was wiped off the map and there was nearly a thermos-nuclear exchange.

 

But things have thawed, a little. He met her in the People’s Republic of Cambridge in 2013, when he worked in the special engineering camps for the rebel alliance. Now, he was in fact seeing someone and she was too and none of their four meetings had what you would call sexual tension, but there was very lively banter and she charmed the living hell of him.

 

Now as he toiled in the Spartan Gym post shift official, thinking about what was coming soon, a very un-wieldy assignment. She was working late on a Sunday, drawing up the latest job. Her job was legal. Well mostly legal as she was not technically speaking in the United American States legally, or legally allowed to engineer sky scrapers and stadium, or even really certified as an architect, she was just talented enough to have her skin in the game. They call her a solution specialist, but she was doing the work of four architects, paid quite a bit less. She had real and unvarnished talent, and she came here to build.

That he existed to largely level almost every institution that funded her building; the wealth, the powerful the developers of what was left of the American dream. She didn’t know that yet, and he wanted to hide it very badly. But it would never take so long to discover that his paramedic work was a highly cynical ruse.

She was in the office alone, not always but on Sunday she was. She was using a computer program to tell her how much weight the structure could bear if she made it twist in on itself getting wider and wider as it rose, she was designing through a proxy of her companies highly paid architect a new citadel on the West Side near the latest portion of the Skyline.

 

She was building a staircase to heaven, once pylon at time. She was raising steel bouquets as offerings she was making herself immortal, even if in someone else’s name. And building on the West side was more sensible because the rockets mostly ended up East of Second Avenue.

She sometimes invented that she was going out town. And sometimes her lovers took her out of town, but most often she was drafting monoliths. She was late night in once office or another and she was trying to make sure she left her mark on this country, before it further unraveled into civil war and fading importance.

 

Adelina was all about her work because it was a means to an end and that end involved two very important things, and you will not easily guess what they are, but trust they are most unconventional.

 

 

Scene 31

Ave J, District Midwood, 2016ce

Breuklyn Soviet

 

 

  Even masked off my sleep never found me, I rolled around in the small, dirty Breuklyn safe house wondering exactly what was coming, as the way time moved for me was different. Let me explain, it’s vaguely unnerving.

 

I was living my entire life all at once, with a reckless disregard for boundaries. I had accepted a world view in which there were many lives to lead and while this one was important so were the ones before and after it, which made death seem a trifle, danger a thrill and awake I was living in the past and the future together, I was in other words wholly distracted.

A woman once told me that when I became a father I’d be grounded, but I wasn’t afraid of that, I just wasn’t fit yet to be anyone’s anything.

I don’t wish to come across like some mad Hebrew prophet; no not all I was remembering things that were not objectively real and envisioning things that were unlikely to happen, happen soon anyway. So let me speak to that. I was unable to sleep because I truly desired this woman in a very real and total sense, but I was completely aware of ability to shall we say, well not be what the modern man is supposed to be or what I presumed she wanted. I just found her totally engaging. And beautiful, which is wonderful, but she looked kind and also fun, and I needed fun because I’d been doing very not fun things for the past few years. Not all, but quite a lot of not fun looking into an abyss.

When I was little I used to build. I used to build wood cities and populate them with soldiers protecting women and children from, well I guess Imperial Storm troopers. My brother would build an equally elaborate citadel of blocks and tinker toys and populate it with soldiers, as of course eventually we would invade each other. But that didn’t happen as often as you might think, him in one room building, me in another, sometimes high, sometimes wide; often we’d build cities all night long, fill up two rooms at least of the dascha, country home in Russian, we’d never even bother to talk, we’d just build bigger larger cities and fill them with soldiers and tanks and fighter planes. NO PLOT, just tale of a rebel city and an imperial city and we were always forever at war. Troop engagements were limited. Eventually, we’d go out of the dascha into the cold and we’d wrestle and I’d always win because I was two years older. Very civilized wars, the two generals would just wrestle, and house guests to the dascha would see what they wanted to see; two young savants building cities, but the cities were only a vessel, they were just high walls to hide princesses from storm troopers, I’m sure my brother had his own internal mythology. As we got older we’d stop wrestling, we’d assume the form of ground troops and we’d raid neighboring Dachas dresses in green fatigues. We’d blockade roads, we’d capture American flags, we’d burn some, we’d level football fields, we’d lob water balloons at cars, and we’d make hooligan terrorists of ourselves. I think the local cops were involved only once, may have burned something down.

But we kept building those cities until I turned 13 and he was 11, when we discovered girls and alcohol and marijuana cigarettes, raves and hip hop. And it was really all downhill from there, no more pretending. No more time for bourgeoisie make believe.

You see the reason I became a subversive and worse, instead of becoming an architect was not because of math and science. It was because I got involved in a host of questionable pass times. And that’s a whole other story.

I lay up all night worrying about something that seemed outside my normal worries. I worried stupidly that I wasn’t good enough for her. Which is the Ivory in me, always secretly a nebbish. Always worried that he’s not man enough, not strong enough. That’s the shit that got Israel into so much house of violent crazy.

But sometime after 3 am, when it was dark and the CCTV grid went blank for just fifteen minutes. After he’d done some writing for her, done some writing for him, tried hard and failed to not look at naked girls on the computer, waited and then at 03:05; down the five stories out the back ally, quietly West on J. taking advantage of the just fifteen minutes when the Yiddish mafia wasn’t watching the grid officially anyway.

He made it to the garage door of a very big Sephardic house on J and 8^th. A big thing of beauty, of self-acclaim, not he can’t really say what the style is, it’s a little old world, a little Tel Aviv suburbs he wraps on the sub-basement ramp garage door, about ten minutes before the cameras will go back on.

 

“Nice of you to join us boobala,” says the Rabbi Moishe Klein, “you look like shit, it’s bad to never sleep.”

 

“I can sleep when I’m dead,” I say.

Moishe grins, knowing I’m dead.

Moishe is a little over weight, pudgy is the word, brown hair not in uniform tonight. And clean shaven and this is not his house, it belongs to some Sephardic doctor, but we use the basement, its Kosher. Someone told the Syrian doctor it’s a Mitzvah to let the rebel Alliance use the basement. The room is a big steel death trap.

“You used to be a real boss, now you’re confined to a shitty two bedroom on house arrest and you have to sneak around. It’s sad. You need a new face. Gonna cut some hair off you, well not me, you know who, she’s a vet.”

“I have a date on Tuesday.”

“You don’t have bupkuss. You’re gonna do a nasty job that no one wants to do, you’ll do it cause you don’t fear death and you got no real attachments.”

“I have a loose, date on Tuesday.”

“You need a new hobby, you need to remember the stakes. I should slap you around some time! You need to be a team player. You need a shave and a new car and a new face and you need to get out of Breuklyn, where nobody trusts you, nobody believes in your shit. Well I do, I do!  But it’s time to do some more work, you were in the camps too long, you let the Russians fuck your head too long, you put on weight.”

“I’m gonna be on the calendar!”

“You aren’t gonna be on shit. The camps they messed you up. They got you mixed up between Breuklyn and the Isle of Man, between Ayiti and the Promised Land. What did you even build for them?”

“I built a new mental system.”

“Well my fine Golem, off with your clothes. Yelizaveta is gonna fix you up with a new identity, some new papers and we’re gonna wait right be for dawn and we’re gonna get in a nice car and drive you to Manhattan, and tuck you in at the Empire Hotel. And you’re gonna be German tourist. And then rest, well you know the rest, you’re gonna have to do another job.”

“And my date?”

“You have absolutely no business leading on civilians.”

“She’s a linguist.”

“Yes, and you’re a paramedic.”

“I am a paramedic.”

“Yeah. Well you know a lot about drugs, needles and electricity.

“Moishe, you‘ve changed. You used to be funny.”

The lights flicker, and a robot walks in, and she’s really quite a lot like what he remembers Yelizaveta to look like. He wonders if Moishe tried to fuck the med-bot.

“Wow, superior alien Military?” Adon exclaims, “you look pretty much just like her.”

“Spacebar. Please disrobe, we have to get this done in four hours. I’m an android not a miracle worker,” says the blonde robot in the white lab coat, with a green Soviet cap. She opens a huge medical valise pack of drugs and knives. Sebastian, me, he takes off his coat and drops down to his naked and lies on the steel operating table on a blue sterile field.

“You look like my ex Yeli,” he says.

“I’m designed by people owned by her father.”

“Moishe, you’re a married man with two kids, don’t fucking sex harass my robot ex-girlfriend when she puts me out.”

“Yelizaveta isn’t your or my type, she’s a skiksa fembot.”

“Lie down Mr. Adon,” she says, and Moishe gets an IV set up in my right arm with an 18 gauge and she knocks me out with some gas.

The last thing I think about before the blackness takes me out and they shave me and alter my face and die me blonde and make my eyes blue and make me in to German tourist, so I can get to my targets in the City; I think, what life is this? I just want to walk. I just want to be dancing with Adelina in cocktail jacket and I want to make love to her and I want to work at some basic job and not do, this, this work. That I do with my needles and my speeches and my electricity and my drugs and my, well Baraka.

 

She’s gonna think I’m a…….mad Hebrew prophet, a loon.

I go out like a light. Thanks to the gas, and robot, excuse me, an android replica of someone I used to know with world’s most dangerous man as a father. She cuts up my face and makes me ready for prime time.

Maybe also some time travel.

 

 

Scene 32

The Empire Hotel, 2015ce

Isle of Man

 

 

I awoke in a hotel room, rested, reasonably; and interestingly not hungry. It was the month of November I’m fairly sure. The room smells like Burberry cologne and crushed boysenberries.  I have used hunger to wake myself for years, unfortunately. I step off the big California king bed, obscenely more bed than I at this time need and I feel my feet crunch a pristine white fluff carpet like bunny grass. In the mirrored ceiling I know I have a new face, and with it new and tragic obligations. I awake in the Empire hotel and the year is 2018, is that really the year, there are many systems of time if you ask a mystic. I am now a German businessman, great success! Reborn as a man named Tillman Rheinshagen on my documents, of Frankfurt. And anything I ever was before is now ash. The year is 2015 and I am nominally in the United American States to earn a passive income. And unofficially I am to call a contact of the ZOB underground and begin the preparations for a hostage taking exercise. I flex my fingers and note that my nails are maneuvered they are not ground down from tearing. I note that I have blond hair. And blue eyes and all of my wounds are gone! This is a new body! The rabbi and the robot did miracles indeed.

 

I’ve never been blonde and blue eyed and muscular in my entire life.  And the year is 2015, which means as I flex my mental that Maya and I are about to lead a few dozen commandos into a highly perilous siege.

 

I may have stood up my fifth date (in this life) Adelina Blazhennaya, as honestly I had gone back three years in time down some Ivory rabbit hole. I’d not be taking her to the Russian tea room after all and enjoy smoked black hop-song-oblong in all its glory amid Romanov chic.

 

And watch what a magnificent giggle she has and her curious ways. I’m three years in the past. The revolt has just occurred and the siege of Brooklyn and Queens tight. The barrier wall had just begun going up along the FDR and a very-very nasty Third World War has erupted in Syria, Iraq, and elsewhere.

 

I’m an aberration! In the past of an alternative future and I’m still alive and there are several things I know will happen, but a date with Adelina Blazhennaya is not one of them.

 

There were of course so many things he wished to do on a fifth date with Adelina besides drink smoked tea in the Russian tea room, it was actually limitless. He’d put some thought into a lot of angles, but he mostly wanted just to sit near her and watch her body and her eyes dart and Rivet and see what a smile she had, it was a real smile not an American one. And whatever darkness she was hiding she hid well, but delight she was delight. And had he not been turned surgically Aryan, been sent back in time. Well he’s have gotten to the Russian tea room Tuesday night at 10 pm sharp. He’d have opened every door for her as she would expect him to. He’d tell her about his ambitions and contradictions and try and see was she really an architect or was it. Cover. A front for other ambitions and motives.

 

If things had been different he’d have laid more of himself on the table so she could begin examination of his body of self. Fuck, but then there this small duty he had to his comrades and the cause and the Brooklyn Soviet Free State.

 

Monday he’d not slept well at all because if it were possible to anticipate things that moved fourth dimensionally he had wagered that the rabbi would send him deep into oblivion. Had he been able to die like normal men or sleep like normal men or make valid small talk he’d have not feared her. Not feared the fifth date.

 

Not real the first three times were not dates they were rendezvous. Coffee in the district financial. Only when a man had gumption to choose venues buy meals and dance is it a date in a true sense. But anyhow logically she has lovers, and time is a commodity here.

 

She wouldn’t even recognize his face anymore.

 

So he looked into the mirror and he removed the top row of his teeth, separated out his two front teeth and pulled a tiny USB and put it in his cell phone a Black Berry 2008.

 

And the names now in the phone were just a bunch of colors and one name; Adelina Blazhennaya.

 

Curious. When had he met her? What was the objective year? Curious questions. Anytime he left his body he also left behind parts of himself, aspects of his more universal being.

 

There were now only little flashes of memory. The year was, 1014? What had happened then, no nothing he’d objectively lived through? 1410? No this was a most futurist postmodern urban hotel. It was 2015. It was November. The day was day number November the 18 this was a smart phone, smart phones know the real date, of course thy do. Especially Black Berry which is the product of choice of the Superior Alien Military.

 

I stand, and the room shakes. No have not been drinking last night. I was in the basement of a big Sephardic Ivory Doctor townhouse, and there was a Russian designed android medical robot and she was allegedly doing plastic surgery on me while my Lt. Who I call a rabbi reminded me all the Ivories were dead, I was a Martian one of the last real ones, and it was a shame to turn my pretty brown hair golden and pretty brown eyes blue, but this was it. Another big job. Not my first or last.

 

What was this sureality all about? Are robots even real? Is time not linear? Are not there over 14 million Ivories?! More Ivories than anyone needs? I wobble again looking at my pretty Aryan face in the mirror. What year is this? 1943?

 

The smart phone says 2015, another feature says is also 5775, very future! Also 1410, for the Muslims pretty past. But in my back parts of my brain where I keep a picture of my dead wife and child, my scorched farm and my real name; it is AR 3. Three years after the beginning of the Great Revolt of 2012, quarantined into little pockets and ghettos supplied irregularly by the Chinese to spite the fading empire of America.

 

The smart phone begins to ring. Curious. I look again in the mirror to remind myself this is not another perverse dream.

 

The call is from Adelina. Which is even stranger as she never calls or texts only messenger or emails.

 

“Sebastian, listen to me darling you are being manipulated again. You’re being taken for a ride, again. They are riding you like a horse I should say.”

 

“Adi, I don’t know what to make of that.”

 

“Don’t say anything, all the lines are recorded. I want you to listen to this song. Put on your clothes. Check out of that Hotel and meet me in the Tea Room.”

 

“Adi, sweet Adi I don’t recognize myself.”

 

“Darling, you’ve been asleep too long. Now close your eyes and think my loving eyes on you and listen to the song, and get of that hotel as quickly as you can.”

 

The song plays “Hello, it’s me

I was wondering if after all these years you’d like to meet

To go over everything

They say that time’s supposed to heal ya, but I ain’t done much healing, can you hear me.”

 

And I begin a quiet wearing out via quiet weeping of my new pretty Germaine Azul eyes.

 

And then I know. Instinctively as I know I am no robot, no alien, no Aryan no mad Hebrew profit:   I can see clearly. That if I don’t get out of the Empire Hotel and make it to the tea room ten minutes before her, 10:10pm, then I’m not ever going to see her again.

 

And I almost throw up. Contained in the lyrics of her partisan song were recollected data of my past 3,000 years of memory. What have they done!? The bastards. To us and me.

 

A dark grey suit is ironed and ready and I strap what appears to be a small caliber fire arm, a seven millimeter loaded with non-lethal ammunition to left ribs and comb my new hair and I run out the door and out in the 2015 city, Common Era. And from this point out I suppose it will be largely her narrative because she’s the only number in my phone besides strange colors.

 

Inside the suit is a business card. “Call Watson it says. You’re no Sherlock.” And a number for ‘fire base 18’ is written. This is all a wild dream and I’m sure that soon it will not be over.

 

Not looking anything like my old self I run out of the Empire Hotel and flag a yellow cab and take it to 57th and 7th.

`

It is 10:15 pm when she arrives under the red awning of the Russian Tea room and she smiles and kisses me on the cheek and takes me under her arm and we briskly switch the rendezvous point to another venue.

 

For someone I know nothing about, I was surprised she could pick me out so easily.

 

“I think you were sexier as a Spanish gypsy, but I was raised to love people for their inner most parts. Again, don’t speak yet. Your words too will betray us. We will go to a more private place and talk of things we plan to build together.”

 

There are things I wish to tell her.

 

“Hush, my darling, nothing is true and everything is possible.”

 

Her smile and her ways lead me to believe I should trust her. What choice do I have? If she hurts me I won’t feel it. If she learns to need me I will never leave her side. Who is she again and for whose cause does she work for?

 

 

Scene 33

Wolfgang’s Supper Club on 57^th St, 2016ce

Isle of Man

 

“It’s important that you for now minimize your personal shall we say, underlying cultural mythology. What you suspect is happening, right now is either a powerful thing far beyond yourself, or degenerative mental illness and late stage alcoholism, only you can decide. If your mind is unraveling. I have already decided for you, as I would not have allowed you to enter my orbit if you were a bad man, murderer, a loon or a drunk.”

 

There is something about her accent that is clearly a cultivated fabrication. For I wish I was less primitive and she would make hard love and interrogation of me in Cyrillic.

 

“I must question you, because it is you who are idiosyncratic not me. I am spoken for as they say, I have an apartment in Midtown rented to my name, I have a middle class, maybe even upper middle class job at a prestigious firm. I am not suspect, you are. I can see past the skin you wear, the body swap, I can know your inner parts.”

She smiles and I smile back because there is great affection I have built, in knowing and being denied her.

We are seated in the reserved upstairs area of a bar called Wolfgang’s, on the corner of 57^th and 6^th Ave, no one has offered us drinks and no one has asked us to buy anything, and no one is here but us. I had suggested we simple seat ourselves, as the Russian Tea Room is a more scrutinized place. Wolfgang’s has a smart phone and weapon check and it is found that she is carrying an exotic hybrid from China and I am carrying a Black Berry 2008, and a nine millimeter, unloaded except for two blanks and two/two rubbers, ‘what happened’ to the rest of the clip the negro bouncer asked me and shrugged.

And she picked the Tea Room and I like that place in principle, but it’s owned by Albanians and a real bourgeoisie haunt so it’s totally wired, and Wolfgang’s is a neutral place, and whoever has a phone check has an eye to privacy.

“There is no such thing anymore as privacy,” Adelina states. “We didn’t want the terrorists to win, true but privacy is for people who are hiding. We could well have conducted your interview, our date, in the Tea Room, but yes, I have some sensitive things to ask you. I think we have to assert a right to privacy sometimes, like the oligarchs do, like made people, make it fashionable to hide your hand behand tinted glass, don’t you think, no wait, don’t speak.”

The first time I laid eyes on her I had brown hair, brown eyes I wore a suit. I was speaking at a religious meeting, in the home of a Baha’i leader in Cambridge. A most pluralistic creed. There had been many debates happening at this assembly of forty odd souls and cherry juice and pear juice and tea. There was a woman hurting me at the time, she was keeping me as a lover and telling me I wasn’t good enough to be a more primary man, and my only recourse was that when any other women were to catch my I could offer only my card. And there was this spirited, sexy wonderful woman; Adelina saying little, but looking kind. And I had just begun my two year interment in Shrakasa Waltham, so I was just beginning to taste exile, and she had papers to move between Boston and New York. She was something of an architect. My childhood dream profession. And she was in town for only the weekend, but I hoped she would see me again and I told her I write, because what else was there to say; I do not paint well. My drawings are vaguely pornographic. And no woman in my 3o (then) years of life have ever told me my political theories make them wet, because this is not life. And I am nearly penniless, then and now, and was interred in a camp with bomb surgically placed in my hear tif I left.

I said then (now three years ago), “I write.”

“What do you write about?” she had asked.

“I write powerful and tragic ballads and poems and plays about the Russian and American dialectic; the mentality of our historic 100 year war.”

“Who won do you think,” she winked.

And I wanted to make love to her so passionately and with such force that she wished to read everything, wished to make me a better man.

“I think no one won but the nameless oligarchs of either.”

“Interesting.”

“Can I send you some poems and make a critique? They say I’m going to be the American Mayakovsky.”

 

“Do they say! You should blush,” she told me.

“I don’t know how.”

 

And she gave me her card and for three years I was with two women who never liked my writing and never read my theories, one who thought I should be a business man, the other who thought I should go into Democratic politics, and or join a hippy commune. And I mostly, mostly had to work in the camp, designing a legitimation of my life.

 

Adelina and I saw each other often, weekly even sometimes more, and I was allowed visas periodically to New York for Ivoryish holidays; I saw her immediately after twice for coffee and coloring, one for fancy fish and white wine dinner, once for a picnic and a play. It felt, each time like I was stealing her from her plantation, or her other lovers, but it always seemed like a slight haggle to keep the date going over an hour, but the dates were always lovely.

 

 

Scene 34

The Sly Fox Nightclub, 2015ce

Isle of Man

 

 

And the last date which was in May of 2015, on the eve of my exit for miserable barren cold windy Massachusetts we went to go see the actor Siegfried Sassoon in a bit part of Cool Hand Luke at the 59/59. I like him to weigh the energy of things, of people or persons I would like to drink from, would like to taste, I would like him to tell me if they are good for me, that’s what your close male friends are for. But he was surrounded by admirers and Adelina departed before he could make anything but a post play introduction, and all he said was “She is different, but a beauty, and I hope she understands you.”

 

He took all that in in two minute handshake post-play, and then he, me and the four Russian and black modal pretty bar tenders of The Sly Fox Speakeasy; we all drank on the company’s expense until 5 in the boker.

 

That night had ended with my face between some lovely breasts, and they were beautiful naked breasts and Siggy was making love to a co-worker, a sexy mulatress, and then the young women we’d bedded were asleep in his house and it was him and I on the roof and he said, “You really liked that woman, or you wouldn’t have brought her. Why did she run away into night?”

 

“I’ve seen her only three times before, I’m very taken by her. Adelina hurt me very badly and then left again for Moscow. Alina cheated on me, twice before the Congress told me after. Then she left for her hippy commune, some weird sect in Guatemala. Maria was boring.”

“Those names are very similar, your exes. Was that deliberate?” he asks with a smile.

“Shut up.”

“Why did Adelina run off, we were clearly going to go drink champagne with beautiful people for free all night in top end clubs? Maybe you bore her with politics?”

“Maybe your acting is trite?”

“No, clearly neither.”

“I have no idea?”

“Did you like Natalia?”

“She was very beautiful, and yes. It had been awhile since I enjoyed it. Neither ex had much passion compared to her, or endurance.”

“I hope you will not be offended.”

“I worry when you say things like that Siggy.”

“I paid her to sleep with you, you have a right to that disclosure.”

I didn’t know what to say, I just opened up my Newports and lit up another, I felt like I needed a mikva.

“I mean I’m sure she enjoyed it too. She’s not a prostitutkah. I just though you needed it. That we should celebrate your coming emancipation from the Shrakasa, my new play! It was more like she won a bet, then I paid a bribe!”

Natalia had fucked me for several hours, she had made love to me and rode on top of me with her blond hair falling all over my scarred chest, and really it was beyond nice being fooled into being desired. My two recent exes were terrible in bed, one she had apparently been brutalized several times in her life so she was only capable of making love for under twenty minutes before she claimed my manhood hurt her and needed to be cuddled or played with. And my more recent lover, the cheat Alina; she was into things that struck me as vaguely masochistic She used to have me choke her with a belt when I entered her. Was I even into that, well maybe a little I was?

 

“You shouldn’t do stuff like that,” I tell him, “It upsets my integrity.”

“Come on, your integrity is never under question by me.”

“I don’t pay women to sleep with me, or accept paid for sex from a droog.”

“I don’t know why Adelina Blazhennaya departed, but I do know she had aimed to depart after the picnic on the high line, and changed her mind. Thank you anyway for comping us.”

“I wish to make you feel like a respected man my droog!”

“Don’t pay your female friends to fuck me then, brother droog.”

“Alright, never again.”

“You are a beyond rowdy character Siegfried Sassoon.”

The phones are in the Chelsea apartment he rents on the side to disguise his families actual wealth, like his bar tending job at The Sly Fox or his BA in Philosophy from Columbia University. He’s the son of a lesser Oligarch.

“Having not seen you in two years, what is it then you’ve been getting up to. Being that I have not seen you, you have not asked me to do any real work for you,” he says.

“I’ve been living in the confines of a Shrakasa camp, designing a means to train medical workers, cost effectively.”

“How was Cuba? I heard you found a way to escape to Cuba and the islands, doing research of some kind.”

Siggy is Cuban, was Cuban one half at least via his mother.

“It was magical, and also un-understandable without speaking Spanish.”

“I’ve never been. We should go together in the winter. Try and buy property somewhere! You can drink and write and I can act, you can make new friends, get that bomb cut out, we could be freemen!”

He is already a rather free and untouchable man.

“I would like to figure out a pretext to get back as soon as possible, I find their current operations well in synch with my own theories and aims.”

“How does Natalia fuck?”

“Can’t you be serious?”

“Tell me, for I paid her damn well!”

“She fucks indifferently, as though she is neither here nor there, but she has hips and she uses them well and I have not had that much physical pleasure in two years, she was amazing then. Though your game has cheapened me.”

“I offered her too much money, which was all. You’re not some Wall Street pig, you’re a bohemian, an intellectual! A revolutionary and poet. She was easy to grease. And the seven of us put down perhaps over 20 thousand milliliters of vodka, white wine and Champaign.”

“I hope to go back to Havana in January if I can find the means.”

“Good, I’ll come along. We’ll have a good time. You can get up to new things. It has been two years since we did that job on the train. I know you’re connected to new and nefarious plots amidst the separatists surely. I am a free agent.”

 

But Siggy was not a free agent, for as radical as his impulses were he was an actor above all things, surrounded by wealthy, famous people and beautiful women. We had met in university years ago, but when push came to shove he’d refuse the call of the underground, he’d never risk the resistance. And I was forever uncomfortable with beautiful women and free things of any kind. I shuddered to think what this son of lesser oligarchs had paid his co-worker to fuck me. I felt disgusting. I have a clear line about these things.

 

Adelina had wanted to make me into a very different man, she refused to be seen with me intimately in Russian Boston and hid we were dating from just about everyone. She left me for Moscow after our deployment to Ayiti. Alina was young and crazy and to my knowledge wanted little but to live on a hippy commune and have dirty sex. I felt tired, tired from things I had seen and had read in the camp. I’d wished Adelina had been there instead, maybe not naked writhing in fuck in my bed on the fourth date, but I wished she’d stayed out with us and prevented this meaningless thing, this needless gift from Natalia and Siegfried to me.

 

It would be over a year before I saw Adelina Blazhennaya again, and here she was in red light sitting before me timelessly smiling into me.

 

 

Scene 35

Baths of Air, 2014ce

Isle of Man

 

 

And then suddenly, interrupting my afterlife, she came back to me and invited me to the Russian Tea room and then a fancy bath house it was December of 2014, we were back in New York and dating!

 

I need to work hard, and I need to get distracted in this woman. I need to pull this blond hair out and eyes and remake myself as the day we met, and assure her with my actions she can depend on me. I’m not a frivolous bourgeoisie, nor am I blue collar ambulance serf, nor hipster artist. I am complex as I hope she is.

 

“Why you are still all dressed up in German skin?” she demands.

“I had nothing else safe to wear.”

“And you’re boots are made of Italians?” she asks me.

I have on tall brown leather boots that barely match the futurist grey suit at all.

“You’d have to ask my Albanian tailor.”

Quiet silence.

“Is it true that you and your friends drink the blood of Russian girls and throw them off roof tops for sport? Because that’s what the paper says.” She doesn’t bat an eye.

 

 

So after her bold accusation she informed me she was doing some research for a German Intelligence Service and I ought to come with her and make a report “on my intentions” in the quiet dim light of the Air Bathhouse, where she at least believed the secret police had no wire.

“Ok, so now that no one can hear us. Let’s make real talk,” she says, basically whispers. We’re completely naked in the dim banya, in the Baths of Air, we’re back to back in a blue pool of lukewarm salt water barely touching. The place is empty besides us, a wonder cavern of steam and tepid pools.

“What year do you think it is?” she asks me.

“It’s 2015.” I tell her.

“No it’s not. The correct answer is that no one knows what year it is.”

“The smart phone says 2015.”

“But you’re smarter than the average man, so ask yourself again, what year could it be?”

“Ok, I don’t know.”

“How many hours are in a day?” she asks.

“24; that is my scientific guess.”

“Why do you believe that though,” she asks.

“My watch says so.”

“Who built the watches?”

“Probably the Chinese.”

“Does it improve your life, the watch with 24 hours?”

“I need to arrive on time to my meetings do I not?”

“Why?”

“It’s polite.”

“What’s your real name?”

“It’s Sebastian Adon.”

“Why do you think that?”

“That’s the name my parents gave me, it appears sometimes on my W4 forms.”

“Where are they now, these alleged parents?”

“Spain, I think. What are you alleging?”

“That you have parents, that’s what I’m alleging.”

“Look, darling. We make up mythologies every day. They help us cope with uncomfortable reality. Like Orthodox Christianity, and what it does or does not have to with one of the biggest historic betrayals of the Christ. My mythology, which helps we get through the day; is that I never die.”

“It’s 2952. That’s your real name. The serial number on your mechanical heart,” she tells me.

“I’m a person, not a robot babe.”

“You looked very different in Cambridge. What’s the name on your new documents?”

“It’s Tillman Rheinshagen.”

“I know that’s not your real name. Who’s Herr Rheinshagen?”

“He’s a German businessman from Frankfurt, currently living in Cataluña.”

“Do you have many other fake names?”

“I think you know most of them. I’m no robot.”

“Humor me, as this is my first official interrogation.”

“I write noire books as my hobby, I write about a fourth dimensional gun slinger named Sebastian Adon, a heroic hyper-masculine version of my residual self-image. I think I was also the Warsaw Ghetto fighter Zachariah Artstien. And a Chechen gangster named Vasili Pveada.”

“What year to you believe it is, in your mechanical heart, in your most inner database.”

“I’m not a robot.”

“I built you, shut up.”

A pause, I can smell rose petals and hear the strings and chants of gentle Sufi melodies. She thinks I’m a Robot. She thinks she built me. I’d still just prefer to make love to her on a beach in Cuba. A good beach, not a populist beach.

“It’s 5775 on the Hebrew Calendar, I believe the Separatists call it AR 3, third year after the Great Revolt,” I tell her. It’s a line from a book no one ever read.

“Do you think that with over 2,000 extra man years to figure out how to keep slaves working the masters didn’t get very sophisticated in their technology?”

“What are you? And who do you work for” I ask sweetly. I’ve always wanted to be in a B movie, get interrogated by a sexy Russian lady in a bathhouse.

“No, I’m the one asking the questions for now, sweet thing.”

She turns and rubs my back. This is the greatest interrogation I’ve ever been privy to. I recall I was pissing blood in Moscow once. But, I have said that before. I’ll tell her almost everything.

“The technology they have can be defeated by going even more back to the source, although even as here we lie naked underground in this Mikvah; we cannot ever be sure how much technology they have,” I tell her only what’s plainly written in the New Social Gospel.

“Well, all human made things have limits, no matter what adverts claim,” she tells me.

I want to turn around and see her being naked and amazing.

“Don’t turn around,” she says.

“What year do you think it is,” I ask her.

“It’s 2015, as this is what not just smart phones, but International calendars and government planning ministries say. People who pay and collect taxes. The 19^th of November in Common Era 2015. Americans place the number after the month, but that is not common in other countries I will have you know. If you don’t trust that, you’re a mad man, or worse.”

“You just said no one knows, you’re being confusing. I am certainly smarter than the average man and I know that I can hold contradictory beliefs in my head at the same time believing either to be true, or have elements of the truth. It is both the year 2015, and 5775 and also the year no one really knows.”

“2015?”

“If they tell us it is.”

“Have you been to the mountain tops?” I ask her.

“Are you trying to be gay and poetic?”

“Have you seen how they live at the very, very top of the mountains?”

“Did you and your gang kill Natalia Skorobogatova, called Dasha Andreavna?”

“I’m not in a gang. I’m in a political organization. We have uniforms and a chain of command and therefore under international law we are not a gang, we are the nucleus on an army.”

“Yes, well, the paper says you’re in a most terrible gang, perhaps so a sect or cult as well. It says you killed many women for sport. That you’re a rapist, a pederast and a sex fiend.”

“You and the papers have me confused with Dmitry Khulushin and his people, I only killed men, and frankly men who deserved to die and were sentenced to die by a tribunal court. And that was another life, in this life I’ve killed no one.”

“Well No One has set you up and the papers are saying you’re a dangerous, murderous sex abusing terrorist, who has bi polar and takes drugs.”

“The State owns those papers.”

“So you allegedly did not kill her?”

“I certainly did not.”

“But your associate paid her to have sex with you, is that correct?”

“That was my knowledge, after the fact. If it was real, Siegfried is the son of a lesser oligarch, he has protection and powers.”

“So she was a whore then?”

“I think she was mostly lost lonely and lethal, like most modals right. I don’t know very much about her except she was and pretty, and that he paid her cash.”

“Who killed her then?”

“It’s a mystery to us all, probably famous Breria and the secret police.”

“Do you want to see me naked again?”

“That’s a forward question.”

“Tillman, that’s the name you’re using now is it?”

“Tillman Rheinshagen, yes that must be me, as my papers confirm it. Also my nice watch with its 24 hour time keeping features, my watch is Swiss but I am quite German.”

“Tillman, do you want to turn around and see me completely naked,” she repeats.

 

And oddly. Most disappointingly, I wake up back at the Empire Hotel. I suspect she major tazered me, or perhaps subtly injected me with a form of paralytic. I don’t leave my drinks lying around.

 

And then, my imagined future was gone.

 

 

Scene 36

Bryant Park Rink, 2015ce

Isle of man

 

Enter Adelina and Sebastian, awkwardly into a happy crowded ice rink. No snow at all, not even a hint it was coming. Bryant Park, late December 2015 common era; it isn’t very cold at all, and Adon couldn’t really skate. He tried to bluff it. He was skating after her figure, she had done it before clearly. She owns her own skates. They were squirreled away conveniently in her old office overlooking park. Conveniently Adon found parking in Manhattan.

 

It was nearly winter in the Wilderness of North America, but this time the machines had been running for so long that it was neither cold nor impassible, nor even vaguely uncomfortable. It was still leather Jacket season just a week before the Christ Mass. And Sebastian Adon, this time in his own body and grounded in reality was humming and strolling with his hands in the brown leather jacket he’d owned for fifteen years. It sowed as much.

Alkaline, the Jamaican philosopher says ‘Everything in life just takes time,’ and that was the song in his head and that song sustained him. It was the water to parched lips and limbs and it was the kiss before jumping out a plane into the black sky of night.

In Hebrew, ‘he’ means ‘she’ and ‘who’ means him. And right now though, for the first time in a while since he became a civilian again; he; was Sebastian Adon and wasn’t using any fake papers, faces or nationalities. And she was Adelina Blazhennaya, aloof and whimsical and strangely interested in checking up on him.

 

He hadn’t heard from her in four and some months.

After the scary episode of fourth dimensional travel, her accusations in the Air Bathhouse, the wearing of the German suit for the first time. He was shook up, and even deleted her social security number and cell phone too. He knew he was gonna get out gunned, out spent, out classed and quick too. She was so real and so powerful, he had not been near magic like that since, and well dare he even say.

 

Curiously the next time Adelina Blazhennaya popped into his life; it was via an email inviting him to go ice skating in the globally jeans and t shirt warm late December in Bryant Park; filled with those who skate fast and those who dash their booties hard on the ice for all to see. And Sebastian Adon remembered that he used to roller blade when he was young which could not be conceptually much different. He hoped.

 

It was only her smile and little hand clasping his that prevented him from becoming a casualty of the ice and hoypaloyik mobs flying by all around them. She was so patient, she let him take her hand and slow her down and they spun by, several times he almost toppled them both. This was nothing like sky diving, nothing like gun play, nothing like painting, nothing like giving public speeches, nothing like evasive driving, nothing like hard fucking; nothing at all like several of things he believed he was good for. This was so pleasant. And it wasn’t very cold at all, and he genuinely felt that Ms. Blazhennaya didn’t judge him. Didn’t have man expectations at all.

Around they went. He was happiest holding her hand though she pushed him to find balance on his own, as many women ultimately did. There seemed like hundreds of people watching them, pointing waiting for people to wipe out. He’d give them a run for their money.

I’ll tell you what the strangest part was. She couldn’t read his mind so she didn’t see him scanning the crowd for a suicide bomber to blow apart all these happy people. She didn’t hear him ask himself were they being watched, all the paranoia of all his other work.

She couldn’t hear him being crazy, basically. Because this was the temple mount, this was the top of the citadel. There weren’t gonna be any bombings here. This wasn’t a backwater colony on the edge of the empire, like say Tel Aviv. This was a hard an monitored place.

“You know” she says, “you can buy a pair of skates on Amazon, we can make a little habit out of all this,” and she smiles at him. And he breaks his mental train of thought about wondering what year it was.

 

“I should, I mean I like it,” he replies.

 

The skate on and then she heads to the center of the rink to practice her precision amid some little cones. He mostly watches. The war is so far away, it was maybe like; there was no war?

“I love skating so much, I love all winter sports; do you ski or snow board, maybe we can make a trip later on, when I come back.”

She was always coming or going this little architect. She was supposed to have been visiting family in Russia, but had ended up in Hong Kong. She was soon to be off for Moscow, but who knew it was all so effortless her various movements. She had changed her architecture firm about four times since they met, maybe that was normal. She was an artful dodger, filled with wanderlust like him, but perhaps with more means to act on it casually. She was either wealthy herself or had a patron, like everyone else in this city.

A massive airship was moving directly above the city New Jersey bound, these ‘floating fortresses’ were massive cold fusion powered leviathans. They could wipe out whole cities, they housed vast drone fleets and terra drone soldiers for mop ups. Actually no one could see it seemed, but him. He’d seen on brought down over Strong Island two years before in the Battle of Brooklyn Soviet.

“Stop day dreaming droog, look at me, look at my moves!” she says and executes a little spin twist, twirl.

“How now!” he smiles.

Was it real? The airship and the Battle of Brooklyn? Can his soul be loaded like a wetware microchip into a German businessman’s flesh suit? Was that real, did that happen? Did the map that he had seen in the bunker on avenue J indicate that the elevation of Manhattan, therefore the entirety of the Isle of Man citadel was actually almost 40,000 kilometers above sea level; therefore like a veritable mountain above the mostly flat Brooklyn Soviet? Was it disguised by hologram?

“You’re doing it again Sebastian,” she laughs, “you’re spacing away when you should be here with me. Are you having fun with me?”

“I’m having more fun than I’ve had in a year,” he says, which is true as this is very fun and you cannot line up tantric sex and ice skating, because they are not even the same category of fun. His last couple ex-girlfriends were not that ‘fun’.

“I’m happy too, this is great,” Adelina says and they return into the fray of clockwise movement, dashing, darting, moving fast and slow.

Had he ever been ice skating in this decade? No, he doubted it. This memory pops into his head suddenly; of the ice cracking, or shattering and his falling into a frozen lake and then, black.

“We could try more places too,” she says. She notices he’s taken her hand again even though maybe he doesn’t need to, she lets it go, and he is a sweetheart. A beautiful minded Amerikanski, so rare.

The Bryant Park rink closes and they’re sitting in his battered white Civic sipping tea.

There are these rules the Resistance codified called the ‘Security Culture’ it’s an understanding that you can be recorded almost anywhere, but cars, homes and public places are always recorded. Cell phone microphones are always on, even though most think it wipes out your battery quickly to real time record. Sending anything electronically is all recorded. Searching for anything unorthodox is flagged. Public libraries are all flagged. You basically can’t have a secure conversation except on a hike, with no phone, in a bathhouse, except the ones already wired up, you can have one by passing had written notes. Was he going to pass her the note that he wrote, not this time.

 

All smiles and tea, all free loving and also quick to block him out for months on end with no explanation other than she was busy, or a family emergency. What were they going to do with each other!

 

He offered to drive her home, and she said simply, “I’m not sleeping at my home tonight.” And that broke his heart a little that that was so overt.

 

Boyfriends and husbands never stopped him much before, but it was 2016 soon, it was time to have a higher opinion of oneself. Stop being a thief of a side piece. He’s never even thought to try and kiss her, it just hadn’t been appropriate, and wasn’t now. They sipped more tea.

Waited to part company soon, the white bent up, economical Honda Civic faced East on 42^nd street, parked next to the Grand Library where he used to study medicine with Ariel El-Malay. Just several clicks ahead was the United Nations building whose big white tower could be hit by almost any errant rocket fired from the coast of Breuklyn Soviet, visually speaking but in reality to hit that tower would require Persian fire power, not made in Brooklyn basements; because it was an illusion that the World Trade Center, the UN Building and Empire State building could be seen from places like Dumbo or Williamsburg; an illusion! Rockets couldn’t easily hit these edifices because they were high above, higher than third dimensional perception allowed. He knew that to be true, like he knows he is a lefty.

 

Maybe he’s drifting so far away because he knows there isn’t anyone to center him back, no one who cares to take the risk to do that work. Certainly not her.

 

“I wonder what you’re doing with me,” he says.

“I enjoy your mind a lot.”

“What if I didn’t want to see you again?”

“I would discourage that, we have fun don’t we. Don’t cheat me out of clean fun.”

“You make me feel marginal you know, you’re real busy. I for the very first time have too much time to know what to do with. But I don’t have anything to offer you, I have dirty job, a shitty car. No money.”

“You have a lot more than most. Your mind is exciting and I would never encourage you to not see me, but you need to respect my time and my; shall we say circumstances.”

“I think I will develop feelings for you and ruin the little magic you might feel.”

“Take whatever risk you must.”

“What am I good for?”

“Remains to be seen.”

“Do you remember the last time we were together?” he asks her.

“Live in the moment Sebastian, droog, wake up, this is all real. I go to Brazil in 5 days, there will be no time to see you before I go, its not personal. I’m working on a complex teaching structure at work, something like we always talked of. Exciting right, as we always talked about.”

They had been on four or five or six dates, some were not really dates some were just sweet palavers, maybe they all were since she had a boyfriend or a husband or a patron or a keeper and they’d not even done more than barely hold hands on ice.

The second date he told her an idea of building a floating pleasure garden above central park and it stuck in her head and now she had done it; she had found the backers to erect such a thing and political will bought to uphold that plan.

“You’re so impressive,” he tells her.

As long as he’s known her he’s though so.

“Wonderful that you think so, I think so too, about us both.”

“Well what now?” he asks, “when again will I see you?

She hands him a little envelope and inside it is a picture of her looking blonde and ravishing shot by a professional photographer. There is a red lip stick kiss on it. Some numbers are written on the back. There’s a lot of reason to believe he shouldn’t call those numbers. But he will.

 

“I’m worth so much to so many, just go slowly,” she says.

“I don’t know when you’ll see me again, but I know you won’t forget me,” she says.

“You’re sweet,” he says.

“Don’t get a cavity,” she replies.

 

A great Rabbi once said ‘in love don’t ever come empty handed’, but he did. He didn’t have anything to give her before she left, just a letter he wrote in the glove compartment, but he wasn’t gonna open it now. It wasn’t even sentimental like her photo, although a few guys probably had that photo for Christmas, whoever she was going to Brazil with something better still. Maybe, but maybe that was all a story in his head. Maybe she was sweet. Honestly, who knew?

 

The things I might do, he thinks.

“The things you might do, is why I keep coming back to you,” she says.

“Can I take you on a real date after Brazil?”

“You can try.”

“I’m going to think about you a lot when you’re gone,” he says.

“Not too much,” she says, “just enough so a smile forms on your lips and then it passes. Not like your other girls, not like anything before. Think about me until it hurts, and stop there. Think about your future.”

“When you come back from Moscow, it will be the future.”

“That’s true. I must go, please know that I have never had any intention of hurting you.”

“Good bye, have fun in Moscow.”

“I will. Have fun wherever you are.”

And they kiss professionally on the cheek only one time, and she get out of the car and takes of briskly into the streets and the night.

 

And he is sure he will never see her again. But he’s thought that before. The Civic takes off down 42^nd street heading to the FDR where a bridge, an illusionary bridge between two words or a tunnel, a paid tunnel will take him back to the tiny Brooklyn safe house he is staying on Avenue J and Coney Island Ave.

 

His body hurts, he’s uncomfortable in his own skin, no matter in what life, or its color this time around. He’s beginning to remember everything in bursts of total fourth dimensional recall, the salt is wearing off and everything as they say, is illuminated.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Scene 37

Karaganda Camp, 1934ce

Eastern Siberia

 

Phillip Dastagirzada and Dato Koreintelli were the first to notice that there were two foreigners dumped in the camp in the snow from the trains, covered in blood and shit. Watson and Sebastian had literally been thrown out of a moving train passing through the Siberian tundra, they had been tortured and dumped in the snow to die.

 

This was the way most people arrived in the gulag.

 

“Help me, brother please,” Watson had yelled in gibberish to them, the two convicts spoke only Russian, Georgian and some Azeri. But they could see the white one was bleeding out of his eyes and the darkie was trying to bandage him, but had been badly beaten. Had had all his finger nails pulled out.

 

“We have been badly tortured, please assist us!”

 

They do not understand what the darkie is saying, but they get the gist of it. They yelled for the camp doctor Dominick Asbunovich, they then buddle the new arrivals in bear skins and burlap and help carry the eye gouged, tortured new arrivals to the shelters.

 

“What year is this,” Watson begs, demands. They don’t know what he’s saying. And then both of the strange broken traveler go unconscious.

 

Adon and Watson awaken in long cabin bunk house lit by gas lights. They awake to the sound of Russian arguing, light arguing over what and who these men are, what duties or not the camp has to them, what is correct procedure. They have been mauled before and will be again.

 

The act of thinking in Russian comes back slowly, and Adon with third degree burned feet and Watson with no eyes; they are not in great shape.

 

“What year is this,” asks Watson in Russian. He speaks it now, he had to remember where and when he was.

They are amazed to see a Chornay speak Russian, not sense Pushkin!

“It is 1881ce,” Phillip Dastagirzada replies.

“We are in the wrong time,” Adon tells Watson.

“That is quite true,” Watson replies.

“Where are you both coming from, I mean before the Czar’s police took hold of you?” Dato the Georgian asks them.

“We are coming from the future brother, from the source!” Watson mutters.

Dato says something gruff in Georgian which translates to ‘the yellow nigger lost his mind in the cold.’

“What my friend means to say is we are from America,” Adon says.

“America!” Philip says and a whispering in the bunk house of the camp internees goes out, there are Americans here.

“Where are we?” Watson asks.

“You’re in a Gulag camp in Siberia, a special camp for Jews and scientists where they build special ships and futuristic contraptions for the army of the Czar.”

“It seems I can never escape,” Adon says.

“You have only just arrived American,” says Dato, “I’ve been here five years!”

 

The doctor Dominich Asbunovich arrived finally and rebandages Watson’s bloody gouged out eyes and Sebastian’s very badly burned feet. They have clearly both been tortured for many days. Eventually they are seated in a long house clear of the evil snow, eating some meat and drinking some borsht and passing about a bottle of home aid rescue Vodka.

 

“So you’re from the future you say,” asks the Doctor, “what’s it like?”

“It’s quite a lot like the past. There are still serfs, there is still misery war and grinding massive poverty, though most of it among the non-whites.”

“Is socialism triumphant or is democracy,” asks the doctor.

“It’s a mostly bloody stalemate when we left,” says Adon, “Pretty evil things happen for the next several hundred years in the name of both ideologies.”

“How did you get here,” asks Philip, “This is the year 1881, you’re in Siberia, in the middle of fucking nowhere blat!”

“What’s the last thing you remember,” the doctor asks.

“We’d just murdered the Guards Colonel Budanov, when the FSB seized us in Moscow, maybe one hundred plus years from now,” says Watson.

“No I don’t remember that,” Adon says.

“What do you remember,” Watson asks.

“I remember us all being massacred by fucking robots on a beach in Konnecticut,” Adon replies, and puts his hand to his face to not cry in front of all these Pre-Soviet gentlemen.

“How did you come to the past?” Phillip asks what all are drunkenly wondering, unsure about whether these men are just mad crank pout broken fools, or purely mad time walkers.”

“The last thing I remember is they trapped us on a beach and cut off the head of the woman I loved,” Adon mentions, feeling like he’s sick, feeling like he wants to cry.

“Well how will you get back to where you are from,” Dato asks them.

“We will probably have to die again, doing something stupid in your present,” Watson says.

“We were told you were coming, that is why this is not sounding so mad,” the Doctor says.

“Told by whom!” Adon asks but knows.

“We were working on the ridge one day when we beheld the Virgin Mother Mary, she came to us out of the trees and was herself on purple fire, and she said we should anticipate you. She said that you have a list of names memorized. People we should help to save and people we should try and kill for their treacherous crimes. The Virgin Mother Mary came and said you were both mutilated angels, that you’d need black bread, and borsch and vodka. She is a magic apparition, she comes to us all in your dreams and places ideas about the future in us here in the camps. This is how we knew the exact day they would fling your bodies out of the train.”

 

“Her real name is Emma Maya Sorieya Solomon,” Watson says, “Mary is an entirely different person, that was not the mother of the man Jesus you saw, that was his great great great great many times great granddaughter, who hides us in time to save our souls for more struggle.”

“Yes, as I said, Mary mother of Christ,” says the Doctor with a wink, for the doctor is a Sufi Muslim and knows well of the magic of the blood line of the chosen.

“Have you some names, for friends of the people,” Phillip asks.

Watson takes a drink, “yeah we got a long list of names.”

“Well before your soul should leave your corpse again weary fellow travelers, we will sit by the fire and you will instruct us how to best protect the unborn candidates.”

 

This was novel, to them, but banal to me a sit had happened numerous times before.

 

 

So, without further ado, after I died in the Millennium Theater hostage crisis of 2015, I woke up on a beach in Ayiti, and then I went back to my tedious sometimes even evil work. The smoke didn’t even wait to clear.

 

My old body, the body this group of friends mourned was lowered into the ground but I was soon in a new body, grown to look just like the one I prefer, with brown hair, and brown eyes and white skin to get into where I need to go.

 

And there was Watson, waiting for me to wake up. He showed me the televids and the newspapers, and I said, where’s Emma; he said she’s already back in Jerusalem, which is to say deep in the bunkers, because the old place called Al Quds, or Yerushaliim; well that went up in a nuclear blast in 2001. All the Ivories are white Americans, all the Ivories are now underground.

 

I woke up in Ayiti, they had laid my body on the beach to hatch out. Watson handed me a glass of water, my sicarii dagger and my kit. The kit we can use to heal or to steal or to kill, my red paramedic bag.

 

It wasn’t a dream, it was time for killing and I was certainly good at killing having learned to kill perhaps as far back as the beginning. I can, or should I say I have and probably can skin a man in under four minutes. That’s really a thing in war sometimes.

 

 

Scene 38

Safe house on 16 Kings, 2014ce

Waltham

 

 

Adelina arrives in the cold of night.

 

One astounding thing about her was the variety of looks she wore. The way she carried her out worldly self, as well as her firm control of her surroundings via her deliberate metamorphosis from often carefree nymph to a severe and serious instructor of social etiquette and use of language. This perhaps this was the result of being born into the tender firm and earthly body of a non-aging and listless school girl, while her memory of events could trace its analysis across four centuries of wax and waning hardship. Her analogue disposition was that of vast kindness. It was the temperament best suited for dealing with savages and bonobos alike. For she was not descended from monkeys and her soul was not like any other he’d encountered.

She rings the doorbell of the Waltham flat he’s just rented for them. A strong improvement from the sub-divided fire trap they’d nearly set on fire when she let him sex her for the first time. She’s wrapped in a long black coat and improbably balanced in heels despite the level of snow fall.

He kisses her hard before she even closes the door behind her. He thrusts her against the wall clutching her tight and he smells like cologne. She likes his taste. She can smell on him the desire to fuck her good and hard. He’s tender until he drinks a little, or gets her ass in his palm.

She pulls him in and tells him, “You miss me a lot baby?”

He always misses her.

She’s all he thinks about. Her stunning baby face. Her smile. How she fits in his arms. How he barely fits in all of her tight little spaces.

He hangs her coat and she grabs his ass.

He carries her up the stairs. All he can think about is how tight she is every single time he enters her pussy, how hard she kisses him, how much he loves her, and just how long she can take his cock. He’s insatiable. And she can fuck him for days. The flat has off white walls, poor lighting and smells like scented candles. But it’s better than the one before. In the room is a new red desk they picked out for his studies and writing and queen sized brown wooden bed with posts. Nothings on the desk. He lays her on the bed and kisses her hard again. They make out and she rubs his big cock through his jeans wanting to taste it. Wanting to suck him off twice. Takes off her jacket and realizes she’s wearing a short skirt and black lace panties; a black short skirt and tight tank top which makes her small and supple body look lean and quite perfect. He’s already rock hard thinking about taking her.

He wants to rip off her panties and fuck her brutally until she screams. He wants to take off his belt and put it around her neck and fuck her over the red desk until his hot cum fills her pussy. She’s so prim and perfect. She’s young and luscious and graceful. He wants to put her on her knees.

“Slow down,” she whispers anticipating his hungry lust, “we have all forever. Take your time baby make me a few times cum and extra hard.”

He starts rubbing her pussy with his fingers while she sucks his thumb. He likes her to take him all the way down her throat to gag on big cock. He’s looking up a voodoo spell to double himself so she can suck him while his twin fucks her on her knees from behind. She’s not sure if she can take two of him. It’s hard to slow down. He just imagines always the tightness of when he enters. Like she’s fucking for the first time. That tight. That tasty and pure. Once he’s in thrusting all he can think about is pleasing her. He loves her amazing pussy. Its taste and its shape and its fit. She always shudders when he goes in. He wants to fill her with hot cum and break her in. He wants to fuck her hard and everywhere, put her legs on his shoulders and ram his cock as far as it will go make her beg him for to empty load after load inside her…

“Slow baby slow” she whispers.

He breathes deep. His mind can’t stop running ahead.

“I’m going to suck you cock dry tonight baby,” she whispers, “I’m going lick that cock and stroke it so well. But first you gotta play with me.”

She takes his index finger and shows him how she’ll suck him. He’s beside her. Takes her panties down and puts a finger in her pussy. So amazingly tight. He rubs her up and down and wants her to be his baby forever. He wants to please her so well that she can’t even remember the faces of other men. He can’t think of anything but her all day at work. She sends him pictures sometimes in her lingerie and asks him to tell her what he’ll do when they get home.

He plays with her gently rubbing her pussy. Whispers in her ear, “I’m gonna fuck you hard tonight.” She moans and say, “Please daddy please.” Put hopes he is gentle.

Her shirt is still on and she’s rubbing is cock thorough his jeans. He licks down her leg and rolls up the shirt. He grabs her thighs and licks and licks licks. She moans and tells him again what she’ll do on her knees. He’s got one finger in her working back and forth, can barely fit a second. He looks up and she’s her happy moaning face.

 

When it seems like she is about to cum, which is charade for she can cum on demand, he whole body contorting in ecstasy; he pick her up and pushes her over the red table.

“You’re gonna take my cock everywhere tonight baby.”

She looks like a sexy little school girl. She can also be anything else, but always-always beautiful and dignified and pure. He wants her to be his boss outside. He wants to be her servant and student he knows she’s wise beyond her years by a hundred. But in their inner apartment he wants her to let him break her in. He wants to tie her wild ways and fuck her so ferociously that she cannot remember another man but him.

 

He lifts her skirt and guides his thick cock inside her. He moans, she’s incredible to taste and even more so to ride. He likes her to keep sucking his big fingers while he tries to go slowly back and forth pushing deeper. She’s bent over the desk and can feel him thick inside her in the candle light in the mirror besides the bed. She wants to civilize him. Make him her slave. For sex and smoothies. He can be taught. He slowly pushes deeper and takes her hands. He begins going faster. “I’m gonna fuck that little pussy baby. I’m gonna you beg.”

 

But she loves to beg him. Beg him to serve her. Beg him to make her cum over. She likes him to treat her like the goddess she is. He begins pumping faster.

 

When he comes she waits a little longer and she punches him hard in the face, as he has no respect for her body or her time.

 

He barely winces. Savage barbarian American male. Psycho fucking killer, fresh out the camps. They cannot be civilized these people, total chimp blooded barbarians and I will write as much in my report back to Moscow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Scene 39

Bagan, 3000AR

Burma

 

It is nearly dusk and there are more colors in the sky than he or she had seen in their lifetime; painted in the heavens, buttressed by the mountains there from the lower ledges of foot hills they can finally see the 2,000 plus gilded spires of Bagan.

 

“It’s not called Burma anymore,” she had informed him and he absorbed, but persisted to call it that in his mind for the naming of new names was the work of men and to him this was place of dreams associated with monasteries, monks, magic carpets, hot air balloons and great escapes.

 

He clutched her small hand as they take in what they had planned so long to see for many moons. It was nothing like the photographs, in appearance true, but in had epic majesty, nothing you could capture in rendition. And everything like a world in some place to come, or place that was.

The train ride from the capital had been a tumult of shifting moving humanity but they were unaccustomed to judgment or complaining for he saw the world as it should be and she loved the world for what it was and the people here they see as two travelers here to bring more than we would take away.

He remembered his first attempts at yoga, all the sweating and aching and some cross between moments of mind blowing tantra and at the same time, an Israeli head fuck work over for mind data. A little like sex, more like torture in the beginning then later like neither, a happy work toward Zen. She remembers his early art for her, its primitive pastiness that was also from his heart but not his soul, that would be later. And past lives were left in Babylon and with earnings they scraped together for an escape they find themselves at the spires of Bagan as the heavens unroll flame into blue night.

She squeezes his calloused hand and smiles at him. And that is by far his favorite thing on earth to see. This epic magical place making her smile and that reflects into him deeply, the accomplishment of her happiness. They are taking in the wonderful present together.

A magic carpet suddenly shoots past from the tallest gold Temple to the outlying hills.

“AH ha! I told you it was real,” he exclaims in glee.

One thing about them was that if he was wrong, and certainly he was wrong often, she was patient in correcting him. He was so dear for her so early because she cast no judgment about his previous life as a train robber.

“So you rob trains,” she asked once him back on a date in the basement of the Andalla Café in the People’s Republic of Cambridge, “well I can’t be with a train robber.” She had sipped her mint tea and thought about the risks there. A woman must have limits. Although he cuddled quite well and his lips were soft, no one in Russia or the American States can stake her love life on train robber.

“It was long ago I did that work, but I promise no one was ever hurt.”

“You used guns?” she asked him.

“Well of course but I never used any bullets!” he replied.

“Well I still can’t be with a train robber because I have to think about my family and my future and robbing trains is very risky business as you well know.”

He paused to sip his mint tea way back in Cambridge a year ago.

“Could you be dear for a retired train robber if he robbed no more train and only drove ambulances?”

“Well in Czech literature they say once a train robber, always a train robber.”

“But you are not Czech my dear Adelina, you are able to use discretion. I am Retired.”

“You have a very beautiful soul. If you won’t rob any more trains, not ever again, then I’ll see you next week for more painting.”

And so he began to paint ad write for her and ask to see her as often as she would allow without ever asking her to love a retired train robber, he simply made persistent his original argument that even a retired train robber could strike balance between feelings, fear and future.

The map says they are about two hours from the Hotel which is nestled in the foot hills approximately twenty kilometers for the train station. He is doing a god job navigating and she is doing a good job watching over his steps.

It is warm, but moderate and there is gentle breeze. The jungle has sounds and smells they are unaccustomed to, but neither of them has any fearful parts in their bodies or their souls. There are now twenty eight billion stars in the sky and the moon casts a glow over the temples and shrines built over a thousand years ago for each and every major deity that could raise a cohort.

“If you’re tired of walking I’ll carry you,” he tells her. He has been carrying people for many years and has good form. She is so dainty and graceful, her auburn hair flutters over her shoulders and she replies, “or I could carry you, but then we’d be breaking your code of Ayitian gentleman wouldn’t we?”

She doesn’t believe that the code is anything more than his chivalric improvisations which she does like, so she humors his parables about some Caribbean male honor code that she can neither confirm nor deny was ever set into a real list.

 

“You have the dearest and happiest of smiles,” he says, “especially when they are mischievous.”

“I challenge you to a race to the Hotel!”

“A gladly accept! But, while your powers are greater than mine, I have secretly perfected my Cobra Three fourth dimensional flying techniques. Not only can I turn my little prayer rug-towel turban into an airship I can loop that great temple three times.”

“Well my happy retired bandit I have tricks too. I will fire my inner bioenergetics and through my heart chakra call a rabbit of enormous size to bound through this jungle and right to the hotel bed!”

“I’m already jealous of this mystical grey rabbit,” he laughs.

The moment stops for a minute. The huge yellow moon casts glimmering beams that hit the towers and precipices of the temples. She remembers momentarily his first and last jealousies before he learned to accept she was a partner to be played with and delighting in freedom was no object to woe or win. He remembers the very first time he told her jealous nonsenses and stewed and stormed and wasted energy over nothings.

“Stop wasting energy on your past misconceptions and let’s race. First one to the hotel will bath the other in lotus petals and perfumes and also sing. Though if for some reason I win, which I will, you can bathe me and perfume me and improvise poems because still your singing is a little suspect my dearest.”

“Listen sweet teacher I have many hidden tricks. I have sense learned enough Russian to sing and dance for you in Russian. But I will be the one to surely win.”

“Tak,” she smiles and kisses his cheek.

She kneels in prostration and then extends her hands and erupting from her bosom is a red yellow light.

He throw open his sac and pulls his grey blue carpet.

A rabbit the size of an elephant gallops out of the jungle and she blows him a kiss and the creature on its hind huge rabbit legs darts off into night.

She is gone before he is even airborne. Summoning all his magic, mostly learned from this woman who is his companion and the subject of all of his latest writing, but still never fully his. He asks Allah to make lighter his burdens, then he asks the universe to propel his craft.

And next thing he realizes he’s flying through the night sky. He can see the enormous rabbit crashing through the jungle path. She waves to him. At ten thousand kilometers an hour he shoots past the hotel turning road and dashes toward the biggest temple, the gold spired monolithic center piece of their new wonderland.

She and he have little radios and she whispers to him, “I you show off I’m sure to win!”

“We shall see,” he replies. And with terrific speed makes the first loop of the temple.

And with a manic burst from his third eye he propels the carpet right across the temple face, right over the valley and right into the hotel bedroom just as the enormous rabbit courteously olds the door for Ms. Adelina  Blazhennaya, the subject of his undivided passions though still a very independent woman.

“Your rabbit is a Ayitian gentleman like me,” he says.

“Will you invite him in for tea then?” she asks.

The Rabbit gives him a knowing nod, and politely declines in Bamar dialect. In fourth dimensional ESPN the rabbit and the retired gun slinger following the code of the Ayitian gentleman are on the same page. A man or a rabbit Ayitian gentleman knows when not to be a third wheel.

“Poker and cigars tomorrow though below Temple 1,006 though when she goes to meet the high priestess,” the huge fucking rabbit says, “Sak passe?”

“Nap boule,” the retired bandit replies meaning that “they’re on fire.”

And the rabbit departs. The hotel room is massive and decked in gold silk finery and a massive indoor bath pool and mahogany panels. They are the only guests in the hotel because Myanmar has sealed its borders the day after they arrived because of rumors of another Buddhist monk uprising against the military junta.

“Well who won?” he asks.

“We both won. We’re here,” she smiles dropping her bag.

“Welcome to Burma,” she says.

“I’ll think of the poem and you run the bathwaters my dear teacher.”

As the story was about to become a highly erotic tale of rose petals, the flying lotus position, eastern perfumes and cuddling for many hours our heroes the retired bandit and the cunning linguist fire priestess are blinded by a vast white light.

 

Flares are in the sky and helicopters are flying over the valley. From there hotel rooms they hear the grinding of tanks and the marching of the army.

“But it wasn’t prophesized to happen until Friday,” she utters.

“How could they have known,” he exclaims.

“Darling your highly erotic rose petal bathing escapade will have to wait. We have to get to the high priestess before the military seal this place down!” she exclaims.

Bringing ourselves back into a world of magic and dreams, hope and the conquest of hearts. The Hotel Mandalay has nine hundred rooms, but only two are occupied. One by large Cuban cigar smoking rabbit, who’s name we have not learned, a retired gunslinger named Sebastian Vasil Adon and a woman who’s beauty steals the air out of train station, where men fall down staring via the spin of their heads, she is also a fourth dimensional fire priestess from the order of Shabazzni Calfraian, or called in Ruus-American Ms. Adelina Antolievna Blazhennaya.

“Lock the doors,” he proclaims.

“Run the bath water,” she replies.

“What about the army?”

“We shall see about the army in the morning. There is no reason for them to come here now and we are far more likely to get into trouble crossing the jungle at night to where we know they are heading.”

Man guided by passion seeks confrontation and swipes and stabs toward heroism while women are rational and that rationality is the best defense we have for the continuation of our species.

“Indeed,” he says hearing her think.

“I suspect that with your wild daring the army will be most under prepared, but right now I have uses for you.”

The bath basin is made of silver and sit above the floor or aquamarine and gold tiles. It easily accommodates her small frame and will when infused with warm waters, honey blossoms, rose petal and his hands all over her body make for a premium implement of relaxation.

 

“Why does calamity follow you where ever you go?” she asks sweetly. She has placed a white rag over her face and he positions himself behind her first kissing her neck five time on each side and the reaches into his 84^th mind chakra to grow a kinetic battery of other hands. With his eyes closed his magic sprouts twenty four sets of hands that will with care and delicate intimacy rub Ms. Adelina’s back and arms and all other places that she finds pleasing to have so many hands work adamantly upon her.

  “It feels amazing, as if you are massaging me with twenty four set of hands!”

“Ha. Well that is because I am. Fourth dimensionally.”

“To respond to your question about calamity. I didn’t bring them here. They were coming to find the chosen ones working under the high priestess, despite what you sometimes worry I am not a trouble beacon.”

Push harder she order his twenty four spatial projections. And she transmogriophies herself behind him so that she might surprise him by kissing his neck and biting his ear, licking the side of his face and then before he can react; disappearing.

“I find that sense I fond you my objectives have shifted substantially,” he says.

“I think you bring calamity, I don’t mind because you are well equipped for it, but I think that you drew the army here with your aura. That had I been the first to come we’d have had more time. I appreciate your new fond devotion for me, but we have to tread carefully with you change making, war mongering ways.”

“I’m here to learn under your guidance teacher.”

“You’re also madly in love with me.”

“It’s plain as day that I haasansi tulibot ti”

“I think that just means love.”

“So many types of love, so as you know I have to invent words from languages that never were or still could be to elude your training as a cunning linguist.”

“I still don’t think you know me well enough to love me, even if you are a most tender kisser, a prolific scribe, and very good with your hands, devoted as you may seem to be, love AS the universe intends it is not yet what we have.”

“Tak,” he says and dissolves his twenty four massaging part.

  The aroma of roses also of lotus blossoms and also of cherry wafts over them, as low burning candles, hundreds of them dart from mirror to mirror on side panel and ceiling alike.

He climbs into the bath his black bandit sash removing nothing but his hat and boots.

He clutches her toward him pressing the naked ness of her body to his proximity he kisses her with the very same force, t ever same total and utter longing as he had Halloween night under a year before in the parking lot of the Crystal Restaurant. She kisses him like the great man in the well of tragedy he is. She kisses him with such compassion that she forget even for minute that he still must prove his love.

 

They sit across the bath tub palm to palm.

“You have orders to be back in Breuklyn Soviet you know,” she says.

“I don’t leave the safety of a woman I cherish up to the abilities of enormous grey rabbits,” he replies.

“You still write about a lot of woman who aren’t me,” she says.

“The past is painful pass time, but I never got into psychotherapy so I just had to write the whole thing out.”

“I like your all your poems. I like all your pictures. I need you to tell me that they’re all just for me now.”

“Everyone else is over. And to no other inspiration do I draw my power except from you.”

“You’ve known me less than a year. And don’t give me some old soul line, I’ve never set my eyes on you in this life or another until my last birthday.”

“I’m here ok. I’m not anywhere else. Every story and every painting will be for you.”

“You’re said that to other woman before!”

“Well I cannot be apologetic if I love loving and can do so early and often! But I must declare that each love is a different love, almost needing its very own word. Each time passion washes over me life a tidal wave and I pledge to you my fierce loyalty know that it is acts that prove it not words or, poems or art. I beg you to understand me. These other women, your other men are a pastiness. And here I am ten million leagues away from Breuklyn Soviet pledging my sword to your cause, my lips to your use and my glory to your every need.”

“Wow, when you learn to speak Russian there will truly be no end to your pontification on emotion!”

“Ms. Adelina I beg you take me day by day and never find my emotions misguided.”

“Have no stupid jealousies then. If you are good to me, truly god to me, as you have been then never think my eyes deviate either from your unruly retired gunslinger countenance.”

“No take off your damn clothes retired Bandit,” she says.

Completely naked the sit across from each other as explosions can be heard from the valley below. Screams and tumult abound and her eyes say, wait until dawn.

I’ve never know such peace he thinks to himself. I’m so far from what I know, I’m in Asia for fuck sake. I swore I’d never go to Asia until everything was settled back home in the Soviet. And his friends’ faces flash before him, the battles ongoing in Ayiti and the United American States, the wars in the Wild West Indies. He’s so exposed out here. Not just without his Otriad, no just no speaking the language or being a novice to the weirding ways. He should be back in Waltham finishing his training, back in Ayiti leading his men, or back in Breuklyn safeguarding the revolution; BUT NO.

She is best teacher he has ever had to remember his humanity. For without knowing that humanity what is it that he has spent 7,000 years fighting for!

“Rub me head toe,” she says,” climb behind me and massage out my arms back and sides any glimmer of the stresses caused by impending soldiers, tanks and doom.”

“I’ll slay every last one before a hair on your head is harmed,” she says going to work on her body in the ways she taught him to do.

“I had thought after Sudan you all took an oath to strict non-violence!” she exclaimed.

“Well I will slay them without killing them.”

“You are awash in contradictions my mighty Sebastian.”

“Leave all that to me reconcile. I’ll get you to the temple safe.”

His hands press-compress and rotate up her inner thighs. He head rotates 180 degrees and her tongues does things in his mouth that make his body burn with sweet temptation.

“Such powers you and I,” he says.

“I can make you stronger but I cannot ever fix you.”

Her soft tight body is absorbing over half of his three dimensional concentrations.”

“I mashva pilootika you,” she says.

“Does that mean I love you too,” she asks.

“I could say that word in English every time I see you but I can’t unless you believe it, which you can’t until I prove it, so I can’t leave your side until you know I’d cross the earth and battle a horde of mercenaries, climb temples, cut through jungle and save the day in your name.”

“Not necessary,” she says.

‘What,” he replies.

“All I need you to do is make me happy and never break your promises. All that other stuff is fine, but if you want to say I love you all the time I need more time to see you being a man. I don’t judge you for being a gunslinger, but I need to make sure that all your powers for to proper use and aren’t squandered on anger and past hood. Tomorrow we may well have to fight our way through 10,000 men and rescue the High Priestess and her students from these mercenaries. This isn’t your fight. If you’re here to prove you love me, just follow my lead. Happy and promises kept.”

“On my honor as a son of Breuklyn,” he says.

She embraces his and kisses each cheek five times, ten put her tongue to his lips.

“We have seven hours ‘til dawn,” he says, “we can draw or make love on the ceiling!”

“My dear, as disappointed as you may be, I know that when you and I are in bed, or on the ceiling sleeping is the last thing we will be doing for you are afflicted with the Breuklyn wandering-hands-technique and I as a daughter of Chelyabinsk am afflicted with passionate-tongue-disposition. You must sleep on the couch I am afraid because from the look in your eyes I can tell you wish to ravage me quite severely.”

Blast he thinks.

“As you wish,” he says feigning disciplined acceptance.

“If we get through tomorrow alive dear Sebastian Adon, you and I will have time for kisses, for levitating love making, for tantra for art, for days!”

Oi. He looks at her tenderly, blows her a kiss and starts making up the couch. In her naked beauty she is best reminder that he’s going to take every measure to live past tomorrow and also age 88.

 

The manuscript, it means nothing. It goes to nowhere, for no one came to bring us a new religion. What we are holding too fast, beyond our love and imagination is the promise of inevitable evolution. As the whole mountain is set on fire;

 

I CRY OUT TO HER:

 

“I thought myself a mad man! Crazed about a world that seemed to be unravelling, believing I had some duty to stop the floods and the needless dying, I dreamed I was a paramedic in the city of New York! That we fall in love under most desperate circumstance, traveled the world together in the service of the people; that we had a life of tumultuous happenings, heavy in love and love making, and then…”

 

An awkward, long silence.

 

Oh no.

 

She cradles me tight in her magic, she says, “I’m sorry Sebastian, my darling, my once and future baby; but the things you are dreaming darling, are sometimes very real. I’m dead.”

 

 

 

 

Fire

On

The

Mountain

 

 

(In four ACTS)

 

 

Act 43

 

 

[The Work Of]:

 

 

 

Adler S Walt

 

Dedicated to: Daria Andreavna Skorobogatova

& Yelizaveta Kotlyarova,

And Elena Antolievna Komarova

& Valentina Stanovova

 

 

ACT THREE:   Loyal’nost

 

Set in Breuklyn Soviet MicroRepublik,

2019-2020ce, 7-8 A.R.

 

 

Set mostly in Breuklyn Soviet;

 

Seven years after a successful uprising on the Eastern seaboard which has liberated over 64 autonomous microrepubliks; but danger is everywhere. In the heavily armed, newly liberated Brooklyn Soviet, there is great trouble brewing. Drones patrol the skies along the border and a new mile-high-wall has been built to prevent the traffic of people and contraband over the East River or Strong Island Sound into the United American States.  Home to three million “stateless citizens”; this wild coastal gangland and nearly lawless rebel Free State is dominated by Irish and Italian municipal unions, Postsoviet and Haitian mobsters, Islamists, Messianic Hebrew cults, Black Nationalist guerrillas, Gypsy Partizans and a highly organized Afro-Irish-Israeli underground network known only by its clandestine acronym: the Z.O.B.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Prelude

 

 

Inner Moscow, 2019ce

 

 

The snow fall was exceptional. It was as if god had pulled a vast white blanket upon us to tuck Russia to bed, and then the devil and a host of petty bureaucrats did not take the time to keep the power running, and so this winter was the winter that tens of thousands across the country, were tucked in without heat into a long kiss goodnight.

 

Blat.                                                                                                                         

 

But I have a very supple and extraordinary woman lying naked in my arms and below a great burgundy comforter she slumbers gently as I prepare to read her epic verses of Amerikanski poems written in her name while I caress her soft blond lioness mane.

 

“Where did you find that?” she asks like a pouty German baroness.

 

I am paging through a leather bound compilation written in what she recognizes with a dismissive glance to be English. The room is dimly lit with the flickering flames of candles and a dim glow from the night stand casts a thrilling ambiance. The flat itself is on a fourth floor walkup just fifteen minutes strolling on the prospect up to the Arbat. And of course so close to the center of everything our heat is on just fine and the room burns with reverberations of a passionate exchange. But yesterday a general curfew was issued and the capital placed under martial law. Everything has been locked down and there are tanks in the street. So we bolted the door turned down the lights and made love in the only three ways we knew how.

Waiting for the government to lift the curfew.

            Having given her every bit of me, my life included several times via deed and also a contract she humors me sometimes when after love making I read her old poems from past lives we led long ago.

 

To remind us that while the great uprising is not yet over, we are free because we have finally found a quiet little place to love each other roughly and via our previous assignments, absolved ourselves of our past crimes. Thus our hard work has allowed us now to have a simple life where we can carry out the only justifying and partially redeeming characteristic of the species; expressive and wanton love. To do so we must now hide in plain sight.

 

In a well-fortified safe house buried in the heart of the Russian capital.

 

I lock eyes with a woman who in another life broke me down and sold me as a slave. Her eyes, her eyes! Even the bluest day on the Caspian contains no such expansive shimmer; there is no comparison for this level of captivation. All things we have done, or did or may even still have to do are only so that we might never have to bear again the painful agony of our tumultuous separation.

 

“Read then my little bleak one, my Mayakovsky,” she says disarming me.

And thus smiling I read:

 

 

Life of the slave show!

 

I will remove you from your castle and make you watch the way we live in the wilderness below.

And she slips off her high heels into a star-crossed stare down,

She always calls the shots,

Gun shots to blood soaked makeshift cots.

The shots she calls are complicated.

She must find me highly dedicated.

She mostly deals with the haves, and I am the have nots.

 

The rules are anything goes, but no know one “knows”.

If she’s been known to steal the weapon from my over coat,

I’ve been quick to remove my clothes.

 

I spill_ for the thrill of those invited, I can kill on compunction, I still have the will;

To activate the full facilities,

Of word play, and use of allegory_

To execute deliverance of a blue-blood-bleeding testimony_

A Former Soviet love story.

Involving a Chechen peasant and a woman once of Penza now mostly of night.

It will be of little glory, the way I tell the story.

It’s based upon real people. Real blood_ and real bleeding_

Of taking-of wanting-of feeding the need.

Of fucking and fighting and the will to survive in a City of glass, steel, and greed.

Real emotional explosions_ her eyes are always so bright,

She has long since urged me to put down the weapon and give up the fight.

But I have a last name that is easy to place,

I could buy some new papers, but not a new face.

They can spot us on site!

It’s the ongoing struggle of those who lead:

A tragic_ unyielding life of night.

We’ll sell a sordid tale.

I wish I had found her back when she was nineteen or twenty_

Before she had to do what she did,

And does what she still do,

To keep from starving in the shadow of plenty.

My objective and travail_ is to recruit the members of this audience into a clandestine apparatus_ And harness our collective clandestino_

To force a mighty train to prematurely jump the rail.

I wear suspenders with buttons, a Mayakovsky cap, and iron plated under shirts.

I dreamed up a plan to get revenge on a man, or a series of men, hit them in their pockets,

Hit them where it hurts.

 

I called her late at night_ bleeding all over the place.

She said don’t get your bleeding heart on my red carpet,

And her mother fixed me midnight supper.

Herring, Beets, Palemni.

And she wiped the cake of crimson off my bloody Chechen face.

(Small talk)

“And the snow fall is phenomenal this year”_

She retorts”

“Don’t get French with me my dear.”

_They really punched yer ticket_ did a number on you in the district, this time.

(She loves the way I make the Amerikanski noire lingo mix out eloquently with a touch of old Fenian rhyme.)

The pay phone call cannot be traced_

The weapons hidden in the drywall_

In the space your men replaced_

The ice cold taste of 9 proof Baltika is refreshing, albeit haram_

Those good patriot informers_ those zombies_ those follow-follow men.

They beat me for a fortnight,

Demand I sign a grim confession,

Attesting to the building and/or placement of some near but unexploded bomb.

 

“Why can’t you be like normal men?”

I told her: “I’m hungry for my freedom and I’m never going hungry again!” (Sung)

And she says;

“I cannot love you if you’re dead.”

Please put the house in order,

Use the lithium,

Use Russian Standard Vodka; use my lips if necessary,

To rectify the madness as it expands inside your head.

I’m not saying that I love you now or later,

Simply I refuse to cater_

To all the “incidents generated lately” when you do not behave_

Explain how you plan to court me_

From a black-bag-disappearance.

In frosty, shallow, unmarked open grave.

If you’re going to dedicate, in your exacerbation,

Resistance efforts to a woman (me) who can only love you out of pity,

In this bleak and foreign city_

Even if the words sound epic, also pretty_

Fuck it man! You’re doing it again!

 

I sigh and then reply:

 

“Did I tell you lately you’re my dorogaia and if not for loving you_I’d surely be dead a thousand times at the hands of ten thousand lesser men?”

 

Oh, when last we wrote I spoke of devouring her, for hours.

To tease her- to please her_to want her to need her- amid a bed of hand-picked, Peonies; or provincial-wild-flowers.

She isn’t one for single serving dancehall roses, she moves too fast for poses.

Her bright eyes beckon as they dart about the room filled with bluff and imitating glee_

“Accelerate your tempo of evacuation_

The checkpoints separate the have everything’s_

From the people who are dressed like you_

And carry paper work like me.”

 

I suppose you and only you_ the woman that I trust and choose_

Can entrap these men of business with their whoring,

With their thirst for further treasure_

With long lines of china white running from the mouse trap to their nose.

How many slaves does it take to keep this neon play ground running?_

I know via your profession you can undertake a series of transactions_

Blonde dynamite distractions_

Before any know exactly what’s in store.

Reduce the need for automatic weapons,

Acquire us the proper routes and channels_

And guide us through a tunnel to the vile trading floor.

She looks at me and rolls her eyes and says in Russian “Lord have mercy.”

I said “I don’t have imaginary friends; there ain’t no need to curse me._

 

Where we met is unimportant.

Did I mean to enlist her?

I couldn’t resist her.

I had causes and struggle and vengeance and plan.

I shouldn’t have kissed her

And longed for her touch,

For surely she lays nightly in the arms of some husband, some man.

We have become a most curious spectacle, lately.

You hate me? Push further,

Took you home from the bar stool,

Bite me_

Kick me_

Bait me.

She could have killed me that first night, just with things that she said:

I looked at her once.

And the wheel was turning quickly but the hamster was dead.

The wheel was her cold rationale,

The hamster was the morals that once governed the wheel.

And there were bright lights, that up lit her eyes_ and whatever that implies.

Separating what she does_

From that which she’s still willing feel.

 

“You take up so much clock!

Blood from a rock!

I must return to District work which begins at moon rise.

And the steel trap will slam shut_

And bind me behind those District walls.

And the men of that vile district,

Will use their credit cards_

To try and pay for my flesh and access to between my thighs.”

 

She said “root for me.”

I’m going voodoo out tonight_

To earn my money the City.

If you truly are my friend,

Understand that I’ve been hungry and I’m never going hungry again.” _(Sung)

 

I am looking down the barrel at my pin striped enemy.

And the columns we’ve been shaking

And lives we’re always taking,

I was seeking sweet surrender and I sought it at her feet.

You think you’re not a target? You pay your taxes don’t you?

Are you blind to their transgressions?

A cavalcade of charging bulls rampaging down the street.

 

Everything from here out, it’s true,

My bones rust, from your star dust, your fairy eyes_

I loose myself to you.

 

She says, “Oh the things you might do,”

Our harsh and untenable positions have emboldened us_ as we know no one cares or pays attention, or even has a clue.

 

If we want it bad enough we can get it:

“For the rest of our lives_

_we do.”

 

Even if that life, she says, will last no longer than another a day or two.

 

Kiss me _fight beside me Dorogaia,

Even if to you my name and words are sometimes strange,

For what they do to your body and mind,

And what they did to my family,

Help us create a major crisis at the Moscow Stock Exchange.

 

You’re crazy she said,

You’re crazy won’t get me dead.

We’ll talk about your ridiculous plan in the morning.

It’s all a slave show, and if you didn’t know:

Russians who help rebels aren’t even given a funeral, much less a warning.

 

 

“Davai,” I exclaim, which means ‘enough’.

“Poem #038: Moscow Hostage Crisis Part One.”

 

“Dedicated to me, Dasha Andreavna,” she exclaims right back.

Her hands pantomime the ghost of quotations for that name is certainly not the one she was born with.

“Are you blushing yet?” I ask her in jest.

            “We know not how,” she is all she replies.

She then claps with excitement, kisses me wild eyed then retreats under the covers.

“Did you like it?” I ask following her under the vast red folds of the heavy blanket.

“I like very much it when you try and talk so dirty to me in American,” she says in Aramaic with a devilish little smile.

I wonder when she learned to speak like that.

“I am capable of just about anything when you believe in me,” I remind her.

She laughs at that. Though knows the full extent of it.

“I believe, that you believe in Breuklyn Soviet,” she says softly and kisses my lips.

“You whisper always of dangerous things,” I tell her slyly.

“Story time tovarish lover. I challenge you now. One for one. Two for two,” she purrs.

“The trouble sweetness with your stories is that not a single one of them are true,” I say to her. She feigns a pout.

“The greatest fun with your stories is that so many of them are!” she retorts.

“Dasha, what will be the prize for the partisan with the premium story?”

“The usual my daring Vasa,” she says with a smile.

And licks her lips at my obvious arousal.

Her amusement and our perpetual survival had gotten us in quite a yarn of danger. She’s been worth every bullet. As well as dirty things I dare not reveal at this juncture that I do to women as well shaped as she. Or worse the tender things I do to balance those out and then so let my guard fall, completely.

 

Under the folds of the burgundy comforter we languish in the sensual embrace of each other’s longing as our pillow fort assumes new dimensions. A vastness will unfold with the power of words and the only distraction from the yarn of escapade will be the fortified lusts we will unleash when a parable wears thin. She will draw on fairy tales and I will spin from the ghosts of my dead friends and the darkness still in me. Somewhere in between that space hope will float perhaps. We expect and encourage each other’s full participation.

 

“Ladies always go first, for this is the code of the Ayitian gentleman” she declares and launches right into her opening tale.

 

Let the mind games begin.

 

 

 

Chapter 1

Fadeeva 6 Safe house, 2019ce

Moscow

 

            Dasha thus exclaims;

 

“If I am woman, and he attempts to be man then we are easy prey.”

For the gods, the spirits, lesser demons and also human devils! Sin and general winter are historically undefeated. That’s a fact. Above all those forces seeking to make us base slaves, we are bound most to our own wild passions!

I am creature ruled almost selfishly by my passion, and so is he. Inevitable really that so much did burn.

I do not make any remembering when we had this conversation. Only that it occurred.

It was sometime after our very first meeting.

Sometime before I found myself handcuffed to a chandelier fixture in the Empire Hotel awaiting my deadly snuff and torture! Sometime after blue moons of their Bohemian festival.

Sometime before that murderous uprising called “the Great Disorder”.

Before I sold soul to devil without making ask of questions!

Certainly after I realize I love him as I have never loved a man before in this life or the next, or one after that.

Before I realized that I had loved him several times before. And that we are both so dangerous when in love. To each other. Also world at large.

I will now make careful my choice of my words.

Speaking his American language with my Russian thoughts is to attempt placement of entire Caspian Sea into hip flask. My English when spoken without any intoxications hints that I will speak more clearly with my actions.

Were he sober then when we found each other on that roof top, instead of passion punch drunk he’d not have ignored the threat our lusty adventures soon presented. We would have walked away. Despite his fascination with me. Despite my overwhelming beauty.

But that is not how the story was to write itself!

He could deny me nothing. But no one dare should point the finger to me that I did not give warning!

Perhaps we were blinded by the vodka lullabies, the bright lights of the towers and the good night moon.

“I’m going to use you,” I announced on the roof

of the district. And he didn’t care.

“Completely and utterly so that I may get from point A to point B.”

Did I say that to him, or did he say that to me?

“I consent to such use, use away,” he immediately retorted, “we will see how far in the alphabet we can climb with you on my shoulders!”

“The Russian alphabet, it has more letters. The letters also can take different meaning based on where they are placed. The sounds, they will completely change.”

“Place yourself besides me for now,” is all he said to that.

“I shall, but tomorrow this will be finished. How long can you make more of your favorite poetic noises, your rhymes in English as you devote your life to something hopeless that cannot ever be?”

He looked at me with big bright hazel eyes.

“I like the way that all sounds, he claimed, “I like way the way the word ‘hopeless’ rolls off your lips. I am an Amerikanski, as you accuse me. Hopeless is just a call to arms.”

What could I say in the face of mad idealism! His passion did touch me.

My eyes flashed blue silver back.

“I’m going to devastate you, you know,” I casually mentioned and I took his hand and thrust it against my heart so he could know that I was flesh and blood like him. No angel. Or Devil. Or ghost.

“Well we shall not later claim I wasn’t given a fair warning,” he whispered but for some reason did not try to kiss me.

“Had we met in another time, were I a different person wearing a different life; I would still know you,” he declared, “I cannot put the emotions that I wear like cufflinks to my funeral to bed as easily as you.”

In the darkness of the district night. In the wilderness of North America I repeatedly told him nothing but white lies. I did what needed to be done.

“It is sad that it all has to end,” I remarked.

These were the first words uttered in acceptance of a risk and a warning between myself Dasha Andreavna and the mad idealist named Vasa Adon. Our love and the totality of our affair will be thing of Postsoviet lore and Amerikanski voyeuristic fascination. There have been many doomed loves before. Captured artistically in bright theatre lights of both empires. There have been tales of hard hearts which remain unbreakable. And wild bohemian longings that conquered heroically the conventions of their day.

Often Vasa, whose American name was Sebastian would ask me, whose Russian name is Dasha; “Is the story of our love to be more like Russian literature or more like American cinema, mere Paramount Pictures?”

I would cryptically respond,

“General Winter has never been defeated, not once ever.”

So then we performed miracles. In the wilderness to remain together a variety of strange longings took shape and bore most irregular fruit.

That much is clear.

 

 

            The first miraculous act was turning his tragic tears into vodka. This was my happy gift to him. To turn an unusual and storied past into a heroic song and dance. And make his dead mechanical heart beat like a war drum as the waves of the uprising crashed upon the nation we shared or really I should say, co-inhabited. Through me and other muses he did learn to love life and love himself and thus be resuscitated into the living via such love.

 

            The second miracle was the theft of the blue moon itself. Such a task was just a starting point for him to please me, also my ransom. We helped as was about debt to enable the oligarch Perchevney a means for unlimited theft.

 

He took to heart that the materialism of a Russian woman is but an ante up to play a most choice and high stakes game of loyalty.

 

            The third miracle was for us to put many bullets in the devil himself. In retaliation for crimes of the past committed against us, and our love, and humanity in general. He and his mullato, alongside other gunslingers purged from the oligarchy in retribution some 104 guilty lesser and upper devils too.

 

            The fourth miracle act was that I could truly come to love him. And forgive him for what he had to do in my name. In the name of his tragic long dead wife.

 

 

It took several lives and a solid contact between us to accomplish these four acts. They will make wild tale and epic song.

 

Mine I did with ambition first and then secretly, begrudgingly with love. His he did to please and save me and avenge his fallen tortured soul. Via my company and our secret series of kisses we made war on the devil and his entourage. And we painted together a portrait that in the end makes Russian literature look like tame romantic comedy, and Amerikanski Cinema, just flickering soma on telescreen.

 

To beat back brutal hunger and or feed those dependent upon them; to meet the benchmark called survival; human body and mind capable of any number of general sins.

 

At times grossly unpalatable to human soul. If you believe in such things! It is not just question of what we all must to do to preserve our own selves. The shifting of alliances in pursuit of securing our deliverance from the wilds of worldly living is exhausting. Strange bed fellows make and break even the strongest of hearts.

 

The wilderness at night is vast and treacherous place that to some is source of fearful panic. To others bevy of potential opportunity!

 

In darkness of night fallen angels appear as demons at times. Most treacherous are our human misjudgments. The nuances of intention are lost to perceptions of trickery. Violations of trust. Devils can look angelic for a time and humans with host of mixed motives can see best kept secrets revealed like so much dirty laundry blowing in the cold winds of night.

 

Not here to talk to you about night! Or about all the devils that thrive in its long shadow.

This just story about when feeling returns to the heart when the body has been dead for many days. So many that the world of the living is but a restored memory. Also about the selling of souls and the banding together of destinies.  Also about whether poems can feed anything more than hope in the face of hopelessness.

And whether more reckless and brazen hope, is indeed the only cure something so called hopelessness invites.

So it’s Ayitian love story, also a Vodka Lullaby staring brave Russian angel from Penza me! And devilish American paramedic born in New York. If that’s how like look at it. Little like the Christ Story, has less violence and more nudity and good deal more vodka from tears in place of water into wine.

 

 

And it also about trying to steal away another man’s wife.

Which is whole category of sin onto itself.

 

 

It’s about old souls coming back for each other, even if just for a fall.

This yarn is play with words based on true Breuklyn noire based on two people not “being in love” or “missing each other” or “being tortured by our supposed fate”, but instead some wide range of prophesized events which we set in motion via of our high impact knowing of each other. Maybe like in a biblical sense.

 

But with more carnality! And gun play.

 

Set not in heaven or hell like the Bible but in the Holy Land of Breuklyn and the Wilderness of the Financial District in the City of New York, mostly to glow of blue moon light at night and structure fires by day.

 

In Moscow! In New York! In the heart of Ayiti! In places that were and also soon could be!

 

This not just the story of Sebastian Vasyli Adon and I, Dasha Andreavna Skorobogatova; it is also a tale of forbidden-impossible love in the age of anarchist trials; of great train robberies in the former Soviet Union, and of a tavern in the wilderness where lost souls find short but wholly tumultuous company in post Capitalist America on the eve of a global human rights revolution.

 

And so begins the tale of Dasha and Vasa, a Russian me and a most irregular Amerikanski he and the partisans we led into a vile battle. Star crossed lovers with the moon as our witness, fuck and vodka as our means of cross interrogation and higher ground beyond the waves of hopelessness and fate as our primary objective.

 

He begins with a murder and a war. I with a warning but a promise of deliverance via passionate love, once adequately demonstrated.

 

And yet,

“We begin our tale with a double funeral!”

 

 

 

Chapter 2

Wakefield District, 2013ce

Bronx Soviet

 

Dasha Andreavna continues her grim parable.

Somewhere in the Bronx a sea of red brick high rise tenements hits a long highway bed and then the dead place of poverty becomes a green and hilly oasis. This juxtaposition is striking.

They all found their way north along that endless highway to a place called Wakefield.

Victoria Christiana Contreras was dressed in all black, a lace vale covering a pretty albeit heavily make upped face and contacts which turned her eyes vaguely feline brown blue. Her husband, Ernesto Rafael Contreras was in denim jeans and black shirt as he owned no funeral appropriate suit and had only sobered himself up long enough to attend the two funerals. He was unshaven; his baby face was markedly hard for the first time in many years.

The weather was most poorly.

It was nearly New York Winter, but it had refused to snow this year. They were in a crowd of several hundred mourners anonymously performing mass mourning while numerous people did so more dramatically.

The first Funeral was for Sebastian. It was very well attended considering all the bridges he had burned that year. But very few people believed he was really dead.

Everyone was speaking of “seeing it coming.” Also of his epic potential now buried just as many had suspected before his 30^th year.

It was rather like a circus actually. There were way too many people speechifying, justifying and explaining, and there was an overabundance of booze flask flowing. And many of the mourners were black, and many were wearing blue ambulance Class A uniforms which was striking too. His parents were kind and bourgeoisie. They didn’t break down or cry. They just quietly held court and whispered on the sidelines, his mother in particular with select old friends paying their respects over whisper.

It was a closed casket. Sebastian had shot himself twice in the head with pistol and then toppled seventeen stories off a roof. There was very little left of his face.

It was theoretically a Hebrew funeral. But the only thing Yiddish about it was that it was done on the cheap. He went in the ground less than 24 hours after his alleged suicide.

There not being a note was the most un-nerving aspect of the whole thing.

Sebastian was amongst other things a prolific writer. Not leaving a suicide note was highly suspect, vaguely anticlimactic. But, the inner circle knew exactly why he’d gone and done what he did, what he thought he had to do.

“Over a woman that didn’t love him,” explained his best friend Nikholai Trikhovitch. And then he spat.

“I want to see the body,” demanded a woman named Anya Drovtich with thick black dreads and the blue FDNY uniform that many are wearing illegally out of respect for the fact that Sebastian had once been an EMT with that organization until they fired him.

She said what many were thinking, but few other than the parents, Trikhovitch or Mickhi Dbrisk had the cred with the dead to declare.

Victoria and Ernesto quietly stood in the background of the mob of sorrows. They recognized many of Sebastian’s associates and former lovers and comrades from the Z.O.B., his gang, clique, club, and ‘cult’ (which many have and did call it), whatever it had been, or still secretly was.

Victoria knows the female faces slightly better than the male ones. Ernesto was more involved peripherally in the internal club politics.

“The casket stays closed sister,” declares Mickhi Dbrisk, a tall Jamaican in a black pea coat. His grey-blue-black armband and the small silver pin on his left lapel indicating him as a person of authority here.

“I won’t believe he’s dead until I see the body,” Anya repeats.

The mob mills about in the brick house cold, the mother of the dead man nods to Mickhi Dbrisk. Sebastian’s mother has circular, red wizard spectacles. His father is portly and normally jovial, albeit not really such as his first son’s last first funeral.

Dbrisk opens the casket.

And there lies the body of the poet, paramedic and rebel hooligan Sebastian Adon. He appears to be wearing a pair of bootleg designer Ray Band dark sun glasses. A Ayitian flag is tucked in his left lapel.

Four hours, three shots of vicious Rakia, two Coronas and a car service ride later.

Somewhere on the coast of Brooklyn,

The second funeral is quite small and fancy. It’s on the other side of town. Ernesto and Victoria take a black town car hired out from the Mexican Express. Sebastian’s funeral was in the Bronx and Dasha’s is in Southern Brooklyn.

There are fewer than two dozen people there. No speaks anything but Russian and no one cries. Dasha looks as beautiful dead as she did alive, like a gently sleeping doll. The funeral was nominally Russian Orthodox, as that was her husband’s religion. And although Dasha was technically Ivoryish, the husband has spared no expense. Her mother had been flown in from Penza, on the husband’s insistence she was to be buried here and not brought back to Russian.

There were a couple lady friends that Victoria knew without knowing. There was an assortment of men, looking suspiciously at each other.

Ernesto’s Russian was much stronger than Victoria’s though it was his third language. He made out vaguely hushed interaction. Scene size ups.

Victoria knew very little about the nightlife of Dasha outside of Mehanta. Only that there was husband named Maccluskey and a boyfriend named Surge, and also a corporate lawyer named Dmitry. She had a best friend named Tanya.

She could basically only guess at who everyone else was besides the husband. Maybe.

Allegedly Dasha’s heart had stopped roughly 24 hours ago. The medical examiner inconclusively blamed a hazardous midnight cocktail of red bulls, vodka shots and cocaine, but Dasha wasn’t really known to play with that stuff, anymore.

The paramedics found her body at the Stillwell Station. She was pronounced dead at Coney Island Hospital.

She had in her purse, amongst other things a small book of poems written to her by Sebastian Adon. He allegedly killed himself just a day after confirming she was gone.

 

“Allegedly, blat” was the only word in English being bandied about this funeral.

 

“Who is to blame for the death of my daughter?” her mother asked Victoria in broken English when no one seemed to be paying attention, “which one of these men?”

“I don’t know.”

“Dasha told me that there was some crazy ambulance poet in love with her. She hinted that this man had been trying to steal her away for about a year. Who killed my daughter’s heart?”

“I don’t know,” repeats Victoria.

“Is that man here now, this Sebastian?”

“No. He’s dead. He shot himself twice after seeing your daughter’s corpse. We just came from his funeral,” says Ernesto quietly.

Ernesto looks like he might cry looking down at Dasha’s body buried in Peony flowers and fancy white casket. He had loved her too, while still loving his wife of course. Everyone had loved Dasha Andreavna, without knowing very much about here because she was young and free and exotic and beautiful and impossible to tame.

Many men here had tried, her husband included.

“Who is to blame for this catastrophe?” asks the mother again.

 

And nobody really knew. Allegedly a lot of fucking things had happened over the course of the year 2013, in the wilderness of New York City.

 

“A senseless tragedy. A senseless goddamn waste of…,” the very well-dressed man in the custom cut black suit whose name is Dmitry Khulushin, who had almost said ‘talent’ aloud, but instead, said “…of perfection.”

Dasha’s mother began to quietly sob which is permissible for a woman and mother to do at a Russian funeral. Her daughter had come a very long way to die for absolutely nothing.

Ernesto grabs Victoria by the arm, “It’s time to leave.”

And his eyes say he means it.

Ernesto looks as though the hard defenses of his man code machismo will crumple any minute now. They wait in the cold outside the funeral hall for another Mexican Express cab to take them home. Ernesto finally begins to weep heavily without sobs for Dasha whom he once very much loved and Sebastian who was one of his closest friends. He had introduced them and thus felt now more than any other moment in the year responsible for what had happened. In both Peruvian and Russian culture, real men do not by any stretch of imagination cry in front of mixed company. Wives included.

But cry he does wiping away the tears as they form. Victoria is an American, the children of Fenian Catholics. Fenian Catholics cry in front of whomever they want.

The cold wind blows deathly. The Mexican Express is nowhere in sight.

Victoria Lynch takes out a leather bound volume of Sebastian’s poetry on the subject of Dasha Andreavna. There were three copies only. She finds some solace in having the only copy that will survive the ordeal. He had always told her he hoped his poems would absolve him of the calamity caused by loving that woman.

Rafaela Ernesto mourns.

Victoria Christiana reads on.

There are 99 poems in total. Sebastian had loved her something endless. And when she died there was nothing on this cold earth left for him to love.

 

He included.

           

 

Natushka,                                                                        

 

I want dark-sunglasses.
I want them good enough to block out hope.
I once wanted it too bright.

Now I want to wear them until someone tears my eyes out.
I want them fearless and blacked out.

These glasses, so no one has to guess what’s underneath.
I want them glasses bad.
I want them to confirm
your worst fears about me:
To show you how much I care about you

And everything except what I’m supposed to want.

When I find them;

I’ll pull them spectacles from their shelf

Like I’m choosing new eyes to see the world properly;

Through the hate-cries and the love-cries too;

And I’ll wear them like armor.

Like a bullet proof vest.

Lest I lay my eyes on another thing of such profound beauty

That lies in another’s arms.

It’ll be the goddamned glasses they bury me in.

Cause she hates more than anything;

Than to see a grown man cry!

 

 

Her tragic tale then concluded, I, Vasa also called Sebastian think to myself; ‘we could blush at the pain we’ve caused others in the name of good causes. But, we do not.’

“We surely pulled that job off, albeit most traumatically,” I testify to her and the bugs in the wall of the safe house.

 

“Never send a man to do a woman’s job,” Dasha replies.

 

“Highly dramatic, I applaud you. A grand and deceptive opening. Though not the double funeral I was thinking of. Certainly that was indeed a most tragic day,” I tell her.

“We were only parted for a lunar month,” she reminds me.

“Well if my memory serves me correctly, prior to that month I had to wait 28 years to find you. I was speaking more to those we may have briefly traumatized with our out of body elopement.”

She gives me a stern stone face.

“You’re completely whipped. Is that the right word? Whipped?”

“It is dorogaia. And perhaps I am. Whipped like a planation slave until I can no longer feel pain or fear. Such was needed to love you as I did.”

“And to love me as you do?!”

Her face again feigns a pout.

“Possessing you has only intensified it I must confess.”

Then suddenly a mad woman’s devilish happy grin.

“Do you remember the games I used to play?” she asks.

“Used to, ha. Or, still do?” I say tracing a figure eight with my finger about her navel. When you used to make me prove how much I loved you with epic impossible feats?”

“I loved those games!”

“And I would deliver on them each time with a larger ante.”

“That was something. The moon! You shouldn’t have,” she smiles.

“My first story then to counter your opening reminder of our sad funeral will be about the only woman I’ve ever encountered who has more wild machinations in her head than you and the emancipatory mission to retrieve the man who made me the zealous partisan I am today.”

“Maya and Andrew,” she whispers her eyes now ready to devour detail.

“Emma and Avinadav,” I say using their truer names.

 

“My story begins in a seedy hotel on the outskirts of Addis Abba, Ethiopia. The only nation never brought under the iron heel of the white man and his oligarchy. Not even one.”

 

 

Chapter 4

Hotel Waka-Flaka-Flame,

Addis Abba, 2012ce

Ethiopia

 

 

Laurence Simon, PhD is the recently discredited director of a non-governmental organization called the American Ivoryish World Service, which he founded. He used to lecture idealistically at several places where ivy grows thick to ivory idealists, with soft hands. He filed over ten thousand reports over his career. Violations committed in every square corner of inhabited earth. But now, he has a sholem of medium-caliber in his mouth with the hammer cocked back. He’s been drinking a shit ton of fire water burn, but the pistol still tastes salty. And a pistol in the gob of the Gulliver well that always just tastes like self-righteous death quickly closing in.

 

The lights in the room are flickering in and out along with the city’s most questionable power supply.

 

He’s been holed up in small hotel (the Waka Flaka Flame) in Addis Abba, Ethiopia since he got news of the horrific murder of his wife and daughter. Sometimes he stays lucid long enough to remember the pictures he was shown of their faces beaten beyond recognition. Or the one of his daughter with her breasts cut off. Mostly he drinks to die. He’s coming to crescendo.

There was greater, more sadistic violence, which surely came before their demise. Laurence Simon’s written over a dozen books on Africa; on the Western sack of Eden and mass collective movement away from the norms of civilized behavior. The virus of slavery and the bacterium of colonialism

 

And after his immediate banishment from professional circles for as of lately urging support for the long running armed struggle against the Ayitian Government, he has remained there in his own hell and quasi-lucid liquid oblivion for one month’s time.

The Maccoute marauders raided the village of Cange about six weeks ago.

They killed the whole town of somewhere under a thousand unarmed men, women and children. Bayoneted a whole orphanage of skinny, half starving little girls after sexually assaulting them. Hearing things like that makes good people want to vomit, but most just tune it out by not reading valid news sources, or just looking in a different direction. This particular attack was actually on the cover of the New York Times. So no one could really be in denial about the true depravity of the regime. And dead, white raped aid workers sure did sell papers too.

 

This was sort of the Maccoute way.

 

Well documented. Preying on the defenseless, as the world looks the other way.

Degradation and utter violations of those abstract things called “Human Rights” take place every single day. In every nation on earth if you come right down to it. Albeit in varying degrees of what-the-fuckery.

 

These Maccoute marauders then stormed a monitoring outpost just outside of the village after the African Union peacekeepers fled without firing a shot. As they always almost do when not selling off their weapons to whatever faction pays top dollar and-or fucking around with local underage prostitutes. And there the Maccoute militia got their hands on the Ayiti regional staff of the Human Rights Watch. Including the wife and daughter of Laurence Simon and wrote everyone in the book of grisly slaughter.

 

Even in Chechnya, at the height of the conflict the Russian military didn’t go as far as killing the entire foreign national field staff of the Service. Well they did make good old resourceful Fred Cuny disappear. They were periodically abused, beaten and arrested, interrogated then deported, but this was the first time they were singled out of murder alongside those they were observing.  Generally the group has its members picked off one by one, not slaughtered in the middle of conflict zones openly, deliberately and with the militia men obscenely taking so many pictures.

 

There hasn’t been a sober moment since for the ghost of now broken Laurence Simon.

 

Maya Sorieya Solomon is a woman with two names. She can also gamble with a gun even with two bullets inside it. Her nom de guerre is Maya Rose. Her favorite color is purple. She has been in the dimly red lit hotel lobby for a three-quarters-an-hour sipping on a short glass of Knuckle Acre Blue label, mixed with something local. The world is still a nasty, terrible place where one often needs a series of stiff drinks anywhere they can be found to arrive at fleeting moments of inner tranquility.

 

There is a very real genocide going on in the land of Ayiti, a wild madhouse of an ethnic bloodletting.  Also in DRC, Syria, Iraq, South Sudan, West Sudan, CAR, Burundi, and also Indonesia.

These atrocities in Ayiti have been going on high and low for over three decades, particularly in the Southland and Ayiti the regions where under the sands lay so many oceans of black gold.

The intensity of the genocide is enough to barely bother those besides an Amerikanski neo-liberal or a university student looking for something to believe in, but thanks to some pop singers and occasional rapper, with this particular genocide one can at least attach a name to an African destination, provided you begin with the intellectual understanding that Africa is a continent, not a country. It has various parts. Africa is just so large and so full of such mass torment even the highly educated lose touch and tune out.

A heart of darkness, a broken defeated Zion, a bad man place full of gun toting highway men and people with communicable diseases that have long been eradicated in the West. And plague: lots and lots of it. The pharmaceutical giants won’t magic Johnson 24 million people if they can’t pay up.

 

A clandestine apparatus based in the newly liberated micro republic of Breuklyn has recently vowed to make a stand there and answer Laurence Simon’s late call as it were, though they’ve had their eye on Ayiti for some time. Maya Solomon was the undisputed leader of that band; a stunning mix of idealists and wild dagger merchants, until she was confirmed dead in a tragic series of events dubbed “the Millennium Theatre Hostage Crisis”, just three years prior.

“Neo-Jacobins!” once declared their Wall Street and Beltway detractors, back when anything of importance was happening in those respective places. Detractors and nemeses alike were always quick to bandy about the words “vile anarchists”, but there are no black flags flown here and the club now administers social services to 80,000 people in its seven district zones of control. These were women and men of the Breuklyn coast who like many across this planet in the turn of the millennium found the notion of a so-called hopeless battle for the good cause of human freedom more than just a thing to write a miserable French play about. They held a belief in their inevitable victory. A willingness to fight coupled with a duty to act.

 

Seven years after issuing the “Declaration of a State of Emergency in the City of New York” they are a hard proud people’s army of Human Rights oriented “Westies”. Called “the Breuklyn Otriad” in some circles.  Referred to as “the Breuklyn Bath and Rifle Club” by friends and nemeses alike. Bound closely by a secretive cohort, its name spray paint stenciled on all their zones of control: Z.O.B.

No one has yet to explain what that acronym stands for, or who is at the core of this radical club allegedly founded in Jerusalem at the turn of the millennium.

They are people with guns in hand who believe in high minded ideals and die for them regularly, loudly speaking of something called “real change”, utilizing “conscious thinking”. Very glamorous when one signs up, but rather inglorious long before you get your pension. The Israeli Mossad conservatively places their true military capability at approximately 780 combat tested fighters. The Russian Federal Security Services, the F.S.B. places them at 4,000 by counting all their foreign medical workers, engineers and teachers as “potential combatants”  and the American Joint Special Operations Command (J.S.O.C.) even via the National Security Agency (N.S.A. still has a great deal of trouble differentiating the club’s “enemy combatants” from “domestic terrorists”, its factions from its caucuses, its working groups from its wide sympathizer base on the East Coast of the formerly United States of America and throughout the Wild West Indies. But since the armistice, all three million citizens of Breuklyn Soviet have officially been declared “stateless people”.

Maya has been in the game for a very long time, but she doesn’t appear to be quite aged by the politics or hazards of it. You’d think by appearances she is in mid-late-twenties, and she would laugh at you for it and not even pretend to be vaguely flattered. Tell you about the wonders of yoga and the tantric arts! “The Club” is democratically run. It is led by an Executive of thirteen officers elected once a year. She was a founder of the club’s Israeli Branch. And was Chief of Staff of its American Branch for three years leading up the conclusion of the revolt. Now she does not hold an official title. Three years ago she was killed in the Millennium Theater Hostage Crisis and confirmed dead having given her life to liberate the people of Breuklyn.

She leads now from the field and from beyond the grave. When you die in this Club you often end up back in Africa. The old voodoo legends were in fact mostly true. As were radical advances in science long kept from the general knowledge of the people.

She finishes her stiff drink and the glass lands hard on the table.

She casually saunters ups four flights of piss soaked stairs. The power is once again out and the generators at the hotel have shut back to only the most necessary components, like supplying the crimson neon lights of the hotel bar, which flicker and flash “Live Girls” in both Amharic and Tigriti. It’s an inside, inside joke. There are no girls working here. She swipes the pass key to Laurence Simon’s room, which sympathizers have supplied her with. Though the wall paper of the hallway is peeling after being nearly a decade out of fashion; the electronic card reader works just fine even with no power. She walks in right as he’s finally about to pull the trigger.

 

“Please hold that thought just another ten minutes Laurence Simon.”

 

He almost shoots himself in stupid shock seeing the elegant Yid, blood descendant of King Saul skillfully wrest the burner away from him in a Breuklyn swipe. She has star qualities and long flowing auburn hair. Her skin is dark for a blan without being olive. The faded fatigues of her blue uniform do little to hide the voluptuous curvatures of her body. She’s stunning but even more lethal. A red sash is tied about her waste. But, she’s not a pinko these days. Her medium caliber burner is loaded with non-lethal Afula specials is only vaguely concealed on her left outer hip holster making just a small bulge over the leg of her uniform pants.  The Pin of Palmares, the universal badge of safe passage for the blan in most liberated zones of noire Africa and Gran Columbia is fastened to her right epaulette.  On her right shoulder is a button peel away, which if exposed would reveal her to be an internationally licensed Cuban paramedic. And her hands themselves are shrouded in the thinnest possible black polymer gloves to conceal the intricate tattoos that cover both her hands and wind their calligraphy up her forearms.

 

One marked as such is left alone or overtly aided these days in the Free City of Addis Abba. But this is not her outdoor attire. When not in an air-conditioned, window tinted vehicle she moves about in public a light weight grey synthetic fiber burka which was designed by the Japanese to keep the wearer remarkably cool, it leg covers tear off into a mini skirt; although such a practical joke has not found time to play itself out since she bought the thing.

To cut right to the chase, being a highly attractive white woman in the middle of East Africa is not very problematic. But, being an international martyr of the human right movement believed dead by the all of the security and intelligence arms of the various major oligarchies and then turning up alive, well that’s very bad for business.

There’s an international war, a multi-lateral bloodbath going on between the world’s populations and the world’s oligarchies. It’s really not clear yet who’s going to win. But when leaders of the resistance are confirmed dead and elaborate tricks were played to even produce their bodies, well let’s just say Maya doesn’t do soap box oration anymore or casual heartfelt spoken word like she used to.

“I plead sorrow for the horrific murders of your wife and daughter, as well as many of your many comrades. I am an avid reader of your research, longtime admirer of your work and addicted reader of your WikiLeaks contributions. If you wish to take your own life, that is a choice between you and the black baby Jesus, but I still require roughly five more minutes of your time.”

Baffled and sobbing, the foolishly inebriated Laurence Simon, whose brave activism brought original attention to the genocide in Ayiti before the rock stars made songs and t-shirt slogans about it, has lost everything a man on this earth needs to live a happy life.

And he’s just too old to craft his own vengeance.

Laurence Simon sputters, “Those sick, evil bastards have taken everything from me,” he looks both jaundiced and indemnified. Ready soon to die.

“And in five minutes before you decide to take your own life, know we plan to take from them.”

“Who, are you?” he demands.

“My name is Maya Sorieya Solomon. I am an Old Soul like you. I represent a faction of concerned individuals always prepared to act quickly and with near certain international impunity. We need something from you so we can avenge both the people of Ayiti and your murdered family. Just as your blue print calls for.”

The 77-year old, once fearless human rights crusader, a two time Nobel Peace Prize nominee and one time recipient, looks quite pathetic, as do most who are truly about to carry out an act of sincere suicide. The former director falls to his knees still ready to die.

“Give. Me. Back the gun so I can end this.”

It’s about to get endless.

He curls up in a pleading ball at her feet. Sobs and the stink of ethanol. In the part of the world that Maya came to age, which is to say the Middle East, it is viewed as completely dishonorable to let a group of men rape your wife and daughter, torture them, then murder them, and the only person you kill is yourself. If you don’t even take out at least one of them, then your claims at manhood went right out the window, no matter how old or young you are. And you will have a highly questionable place in the world to come. She puts her hand on his brow. Via such a sympathetic gesture she listens to his head with her vast powers. He did write quite a lot of good books though, she thinks, even if he happens to be something now of a broken self-murder coveting coward.

She quotes from his ubiquitous manifesto:

 

“There are many evils in this world that are made far worse by the great distracted, faceless mob which does nothing but fixate on their own shallow existence, for the great enabler of our oppression is our narrow self-interest.”

 

“As I don’t surely need to tell you, there are far more potential villains than heroes in the ranks of men. But my compatriots are cut of very different cloth. We will hunt every single one of these Maccoute brigands down and we will bring massacre upon them.”

“The fighters we command are all called zealots by all who know the word. The Maccoute and those that shield them are cowards and swine. They will fall to our irons in legion. We will reduce their encampments to ash. In the three minutes before you decide to leave this world if you wish to tell me something, it will greatly facilitate our wrath to be brought upon them.”

“Please, why are you mocking me. I have nothing useful to offer you or the dead! I beg you to just let me come to an end.”

“My dear, dear Pieter, I am an avid student of your life’s work. It was all noble and via it’s non-violence rather touching. Suicide is never a victimless crime, but I will kill you myself without sentimentality if that is your wish. I need you to tell me where I can find a recently disappeared man. I need you to tell me the exact location of imprisoned rebel commander Avinadav DeBuitléir. And I need you to turn over to me the login codes to the virtual Underground Railroad that is the international human right movement database.”

“To what end,” he asks.

“So that all those violations you’ve had to witness don’t ever happen again without punishment,” she responds.

A bullet quietly finds its way into the chamber.

Five minutes later, as Maya Solomon sometimes called Maya Rose steps into a waiting electric Lincoln Town Car a gunshot rings out in the hotel room above the messy cobble street.

BRAKA! Goes the gun. And his brains blew out over the hotel wall.

She hums a somber Kaddish for a great albeit now self-murdered man. The Yid prayer for the dead is too long to really do the whole thing so she hums just a bit of it, time being short and life, unfortunately being rather cheap.

She picks up her bulky iridium satellite phone to call her sometimes favorite partner. A damn fine dagger man. Truly a bi-winning character. A legend in his own mind at the very least.  A dead man in the eyes of his former nation. But when he died for some reason he awoke in Russia. Because she had much work for him still to do.

Three years and war path later, he was again in Moscow and his work was almost complete.

“Peace be on to you,” she tells him.

“And also on to you that same peace,” he offers in customary reply.

“Our long disappeared comrade associate Avinadav DeBuitléir is being held by the Department of Homeland Security at a prison camp called Angola 42 near Greed Lake. I will uplink with you later and hopefully convince you of my plan to liberate him. Carry out your last job and head home to Breuklyn.”

“Ain Davar,” that’s all Sebastian Adon ever says these days.

That means “it is nothing to worry about”, or “never mind”, or “fuggettaboutit”. Depending what you do with your hands and body language. It’s a phone call so she can’t see his hands obviously. But she knows his hands and his handy work about as well as anyone can. They’ve been legally married in the State of Ivory since they were eighteen.

“Five minutes to nation time Zamni Cherie,” she responds in Ayitian Creole.

            My “dear partner”, that’s all it means.

 

Most members of the “Breuklyn Bath and Rifle Club”, especially those in the Trinidadian Special Forces (ZOB) seem to speak Hebrew when whispering code on the iridium satellite phones or, Creole when making love. The revolution began in Ayiti after all. Though, it was in a place called New York City where the tide began to turn and after four thousand years of servitude the forces of human emancipation began to prevail in earnest aided by parapsychology, black magic and the fighting prowess of the Fenians.

Chapter 5

 

 

The safe house has fine wood work and dark red walls. Its floors are beige red Jerusalem tile. It resembles something of a cross between the old world and the new. On an old school record player in the next room comes over the soothing beats of a Tribe called Quest. The emergency radio we use to digitally stream the Interweb is set to the Fire Station; the Pan-Caribbean pirate satellite radio, “to tell da masses no fire ‘til day see de white in dem dutty man eyes o’da oligarchy!”

 

“Fire! More fire!”

 

There are only two sources I trust completely for my news.

The People’s Television Network that was founded by my old friend Nicky Mapfre which Livestreams efforts of our international movement. And; the pirate radio broadcasts of The Fire Station stoking the rebellion with dancehall, with Reggae, with Zouk, with Kompa, Calypso and Wild West Indian rebel music songs. Interspersed amid its songs it serves as the global public address system of the “Militant Human Rights Movement”.

Everything else comes over Sky Pager.

“Your turn,” I say.

“Let my plots be made thicker than the blood you shed for them,” she says using an Old Russian idiom that barely even translates.

Whatever that means to her.

“It was understood by all involved that the take would be vast. Idea itself dripped of currency. Huge, as in a leviathan level steal. ‘Unprecedented theft.’ Complexity of job vast. But architects of robbery had worked out their neurological muscles so that each of the stakeholders would be thoroughly invested,” she explains me.

“And anonymously capable of carrying out parts without need of centralized control.”

And again her yarn then assumes the grim narration.

Ultimately, they’d be emptying several hundred banks in 48 cities, across 18 countries in a 24 hour period. Visigoth, Arabian and Mongol hordes working in confederation could not carry off so much treasure from vaults of West.

“And by they; I mean we.”

 

Dasha lays down her yarn.

In an accent thicker than that which she ever uses around me she explains:

“Job took nine years to orchestrate. Planned in its grandiose entirety in Bulgarian tavern on Lower East Side of the Isle of Man. Place called Mehanata Social Club.”

 

Man who planned job was Bulgarian dentist named Alexandre Dmitrievich Perchevney, called “Sasho” by his closest confederates. Also wife.

In Gregorian calendar year 1999, because of technical glitch in computerized monetary systems sensationalistic-ally depicted on proletarian media as “Y2K”, many system analysts were worried about system wide failure of internet. And electronic military defense complex systems more generally to experience temporary shut down on New Year’s Eve’ December 31st, 1999.

In order to protect critical defense and money changing infrastructure, major digitalized commerce, and all sort of civilian surveillance databases; governments and major corporations had begun scrambling to back up data on fixed servers, secure from the effects of the Y2K glitch which many big brained computer engineers believed would wipe out digital control of commerce via internet.

 

Enter Perchevney Bratva.

 

At time of plot, really just consist of newly immigrated Alexandre Perchevney and his scheming, but quiet brother strong man Slavi, a Krepki Mushik.

Along with wife Tania Magda, and also three quite shady grinning characters named “James White”, “James Brown”, and “Justin Toomey O’Azzello” who all worked part time at “Bulgarian Cultural Center” on Canal and Broadway. Cultural front for a “cash for marriage agency”, an extralegal dental coverage program, and also planning center for lucrative racket called “no-fault-insurance”.

Also premium place to drink underage and dance naked, do cocaine; no questions asked.

Alexandre and Slavi, alongside millions of newly admitted “Soviet Ivory” began immigration to Brooklyn immediately after the Berlin wall came down and United States of America “defensively” begin total rape of former Soviet Union, Post-Cold War victory.

They came to coast of Breuklyn with advanced degrees, speaking multiple languages, and instilled with a profound skill in “extralegal entrepreneurship”; cultivated in a Communist society where graft and bribes was way of life. When informed by Amerikanski immigration officers that these degrees not worth the paper they were printed on, well perhaps this is how it all began. In former Soviet Union, Alexandre Perchevney was dentist, which there was really more like doctor specializing in dentistry. His wife, Tania Magda, was “engineer”.

That really could mean almost anything in former Soviet Union where almost everyone was some kind of engineer.

But, Tania Magda was computer engineer. And Slavi, well Slavi was good with machines and breaking man’s faces also with fists.

Alexandre, Tania Magda, Slavi and infant progeny of Tania Magda and Alex: four year old daughter Yelizaveta all moved from Brighton coastal ghetto to high ground of Washington Heights shortly after their arrival in winter of 1991.

It not take Alex and Tania Magda long to realize that not only would they be treated like fourth class citizens of vanquished enemy nation, but that as immigrants their own people would arrive not just with advanced degrees and “dubious moral code”, but accompanied by violent thieves and Voorhis with links to privatization under way transforming KGB, into large and ruthless mafia, or in Russian parlance a Bratva.

It was shortly after his first brutal run in with a New Russian Voorhi seeking an overtly grand percentage slice for protection of black market dentistry clinic run out of Alex’s basement in Brighton, that Alex realized that one; his daughter would be raised outside the clutches of new Russian ghetto, so called Little Odessa. And two; to operate anything mega lucrative in this new soft country he’d need the help of the natives.

So Alex embraced Judaism and made friends with some ambitious Fenian tough guys. And before long he, his brother his wife and daughter were humming away Kid dishes in good times and Radishes in bad times with congregation Bet Shalom on Fort Washington Ave. And this was how Alex met first met young Misha Kishbivalli, a young Bulgarian pretend Ivory like himself though much wealthier having gotten to America three years earlier and begun actively trafficking in uncut conflict diamonds traffic out of Liberia.

Over a round of Astika beers Misha and Alexandre envisioned an establishment “where criminality and philanthropy, stealing and borrowing, culture and crime could all intertwine, “volumptously” and thus the Mehanata Social Club was born.

This was no word in English, Russian or Bulgarian.

 

By winter of 1992 Alex and Slavi had rented out second floor loft space on the corner of Canal and Broadway and registered it as “Bulgarian Cultural Center”. Despite having no liquor license or paying any taxes to internal revenue service Alex hired a large menagerie of former Soviet women to work as “cultural hostesses”, and bartenders and “cultural attaches”.

Also to dance the go-go.

In the entire sixteen year run of Mehanata at its Canal Street location much was exchanged, culturally and financially.

The enterprise itself was careful gamble that under guise of “multi-culture and diversity”, just about anything could follow.

Alexandre used the Russian language internet to recruit a wide range of medical professionals of former Soviet extraction to offer black market healthcare to other new arrivals, and long stayed arrivals without paper work. Next, Misha and Alex worked out a technicality called “no fault” where by accidents could be staged arranged all over Breuklyn and insurance companies could be divested of millions upon millions. And they reached out directly to the Jamaican Mafia to help them. They were recruiting veritable Gypsy underground army all fueled by greed, music of Balkans and Astika beer.

 

But the greatest expropriation was yet to come.

 

 

 

Chapter 6

 

The safe house has fine aged wood work and dark red old school wallpaper. Its floors are beige red Jerusalem tile. It resembles something of a cross between the old world and the new. There’s some smooth jazz soul now playing in the next room.

Fortified for the events of dystopia, we hold ground and keep telling tales.

She tastes like Cherries, cinnamon and cigarettes.

As her story reaches cliffhanger she lays out to absorb the life impacts of the previous yarn. In her past depiction of our demise and our initial interaction at times her fingers traced out words or images over the contours of my scar covered chest. Though at various moments she might make the dedicated pantimimocry of Hebraic hand sign for effect, falling in an out of Russian to English she carried the discourse most fruitfully with her glowing blue eyes.

It’s unusual for her to sit still. I have also never seen her sleep successfully until she is incapable of exacting further commotion. Or, has put down enough vodka to pacify those wilding inner demons’ urges to fight furious and wreak dance hall havoc upon those who aim to fondle or just gawk and watch her gyrate.

 

“What’s a Shtarker,” Dasha asks me curtly.

“A tough guy in low Yiddish.”

“What then is a Shatah?” she then asks.

“A rough guy in island slang, a guy who pops off.”

“What are Fenians?”

“Fenian patriotic freedom fighters.”

“Gender neutral?”

“Yes sweetness.”

“Growing up I read the Ivories were extinct, the Fenian a recessive genetic trait, and the blacks a race of violent monkeys being exterminated in a controlled manner via the Bretton Woods Association.”

Those are the kind of half-truths I’d expect from a State school in rural Russia, which I’m unsure if she even completed.

The Fenian are not a recessive trait, red hair is. As for the Ivories, yes they are mostly extinct and blacks, well don’t call them monkeys that’s actually quite overtly racist.”

“Are you really an Fenian Ivory in the employ of black internationalists?”

“No baby. I’m a Chechen peasant.”

“Suka blat.”

“You say real surely shit,” I say in a brogue and she smiles.

“Fenians! Tell me of them then. About your dear old comrade Hubert O’Domhnaill who you always manage to slip into your old yarns but is a character I’ve yet to ever meet while he was alive. Do it in your best Fenian brogue,” she demands.

“Hubert O’Domhnaill didn’t have a brogue in real life. And of course that wasn’t his true last name,” I tell her.

“What in two fucks do I give about real life?! Amuse me man. This will be a very long siege.”

 

I clear my throat.

 

 

Chapter 7

 

 

Allow me to introduce myself correctly and without subterfuge, my name is Hubert O’Domhnaill. Judge me not by me freckles and flaming red hair. If you do I will have to fight you!

 

I once saw a man beating a young prostitute in an alley across from the pub where I had my first real job, slapping the poor girl silly. And not knowing how to mind my business, being raised to always fight for something, always protect the poor, and never strike a woman; well me and my best droog Philly Hartman, well we jumped right in. We beat that pimp until he couldn’t remember his fucking name. Broke his goddamn ribs, his fuck face and his jaw. I don’t normally curse so much. But I hate pimps and I hate people who ignore violence right in front of them.

 

This was me first activist act.

 

Beating a pimp half to death. I’m a Catholic, but more importantly I’m a good human being and my father says that Jesus the Zealot used to beat the shit out of pimps too. They just can’t talk about that side of his life at church.

 

Cause of the kids.

 

Eight generations ago, or maybe nine, my descendants fled a famine engineered by the British to starve my people into oblivion and a bleak-black, hungry death. They killed over two million of us this way. Another two million fled on famine ships to the coast of Breuklyn. I mean we didn’t all go there. Some went to Australia, Boston, New Zealand, South Africa and other places in that poufy proper empire. But the great ones, the great ones went to Breuklyn. And I am descended from them. The best of the best, I can only assure you. We are the fearless firefighting, whiskey drinking, trade union loving, Catholic God fearing sons and daughters of those starving heroes.

 

Look at all that snow!

 

It hasn’t snowed like this in a decade since when a combination of global warming, the wrath of god and Department of Sanitation on strike made the roads of Breuklyn damn near impassible. The world has gotten hotter some reckon since then. This is the first hard Ruus blizzard in quite some time. Everything’s ground to halt. Sheets of pummeling sleet and fairy dust obstruct your windows and make all driving a tedious process. The Breuklyn Soviet doesn’t maintain a green collar aristocracy to shovel streets. Local commune committees do it out of civic duty. Or at times conscription. And only the main roads get cleared so ambulances can get in and kids can go to school. In the end a government really just only needs to provide roads, schools and the semblance of public safety. People can pretty much organize the rest of it themselves.

 

Since the Great Disorder, when the Separatist Wars began, well we’ve needed a lot of ambulances. Luckily we all belong to a revolutionary social club founded primarily by EMTs and paramedics.

 

The Sandooney Bathhouse is half an Avenue block long, one story tall and eight stories subterranean, ever tunneling, ever excavating underground. Its front windows are tinted black and are supposedly bullet resistant. A yellow-gold neon sign in Cyrillic advertises it as a banya, but it is also the headquarters of the “Breuklyn Bath and Rifle Club”, a prominent local Otriad, or “irregular military detachment established for mutual aid and collective security”. Tonight the snow falls hard and it’s a packed house, but no one is bathing. The parking lot is over flowing, and deliberately some city buses, ambulances and wrangler jeeps have been arranged to barricade Mila Ave on either side of the banya.

The snow is really falling now. As if the sky itself is collapsing in brilliant bombardment of white crystal. But a trained eye can pick out several sentries, some Noire some Postsoviet, in long grey coats walking the barricade lines with thermal scanners and automatic rifles. Now and again the laser trip wire shimmers through the storm.

 

One of the chornay, mutters, “It’s brik as shit out here.”

 

That’s Noire Ebonics for, it’s “very cold out”. And chornay is Russian for “blacks”.

Now, some of you may be saying how did that crimson haired, freckled, six foot Fenian volunteer fire fighter like me come to speak Russian!? That’s because we drill endlessly in parapsychology and all of the best books on the subject are in Russian and my brother Shane is a huge, huge communist. I’ll have you know too I’m a Bronx Science graduate. Learning other languages is vital! What’s parapsychology you ask?

 

Well that’s how we won the first round of the Separatist War and began to really turn the tide in the global struggle for universal human rights. With freeness of mind!

 

There are several things that are not always in place unless a Congress is in session. Like the crew that has set up on the train track running above the grand bathhouse on what used to be called the F Orange line. The train car with the surface to air missile batteries stands out in the storm. The presence of Noire and Postsoviet Russian sentries amicably sharing Newport cigarettes is not uncommon, but only really seen in this particular Otriad. That the Ruus sentries are sober is also an anomaly.

 

For those people don’t really do anything all that sober.

 

In case, just in case the security forces of the United American States (U.A.S.) or certain other rival clubs or neighboring factions “feel like getting crazy” while our Congress is in session that train can light up the borough of Manhattan on our behalf.

 

Seven floors below street level Congress has been underway for the past several days. We’re now watching a film. It features my dead friend Sebastian. Former Planning Section Chief of the 15^th Congress, a founding member of this Otriad who was gassed and shot dead during an ugly siege three years ago of a theatre on Times Square called the Millennium. Along with his wife Emma Solomon, twenty two other fighters, and the eight hundred and eight civilians they were holding as their hostages.

 

Adon and Solomon are now martyrs to the human rights resistance. Two names and faces crossed off a vast list of over two million active domestic radicals, separatists and subversive terrorists; in the N.S.A. PRISM database at the Department of Homeland Security; the intelligence arm of the American Joint Special Operations Command (J.S.O.C.); one of the two bodies which currently makes most decisions in what’s left of the United States.

 

We are watching Sebastian from beyond the grave because before he perished he recorded thousands of short micro briefings to accompany various stratagems coming out of the Planning Section which he led for two years before his death. The micro brief we are now watching at this 18^th Congress accompanies a proposal called “Operation Gold Lion” which our delegates are deliberating on the merits of ratification, and potential execution.

 

And its detractors are pejoratively calling “Operation Marcus Garvey.”

 

“Orientate yourselves brethren for soon we will be off again to bring this long game to conclusion,” utters a man whose name was Sebastian, but who most call “Adon”.

 

There had been few men in recent American history who from such a young age were gleefully planning their martyrdom.

 

In the film he wears a brown pleather skally cap-beret. His eyes on screen are hazel-green; if they were any other color it had meant he was losing his mind from sleep deprivation.

Oh, I’ve seen it, not a pretty site. Green into grey on grey! As they were the day he died. His face is almost former Soviet. We call our municipality a “Soviet” because it is a three million citizen, democratic worker’s state organized largely around trade unions, district communes and direct democracy via a General Assembly. If you hear me or someone else call something “former Soviet”, we’re referring to Russia or the Eastern European states that fell under Russian hegemony between 1917 and 1989.

 

Basically a tainted, dystopian version of the life we enjoy in our new micro-republic.

 

Sometimes Mr. Adon was ethnically profiled as a Croatian or an Italian. He told people periodically, almost systematically that he was an Ivory, but that my friend is called a big white lie. I know for a near biological fact that his mother is of Fenian stock like me. Ivories pass the linage on the mother’s side, which means that Adon was at least half a Mic, which means he may well one day get a street named after him in Dublin. But, all that legacy aside he was born a racially ambiguous white guy from an upper middle class American family. His father was a dentist, his mother was an arts lobbyist, and his brother was a shuttle trader. And it was that privilege that allowed him such gross and unyielding impunity when he and I first enlisted in the anti- globalization resistance movement at age 15.

On the left side of his face, right below the eye was a peculiar red birth mark that looked not unlike he was struck in the face, although it gave him character said his parents, and his lovers. No one else noticed it, or if it switched sides of the face. Perhaps the state security forces noticed.

 

In civilian life people just asked, “Did you get in a new fight?” Implying that most New Yorker knew him from the papers, by his infamy and also boldness. A hero or a hooligan, well that part was never clear.

 

I knew this man since we were but 14. I believe I genuinely knew him. Not in a biblical sense, but in a heart-to-soul Fenian sense. I saw him get in a lot of fights over the years that he was not predicted to win. I’ve jumped in on a lot of his fights. I still do, am. My shattered bones, and nose, and much of my treasure I invested behind the ideas of this tragic man.

 

The hall of our Club is filled with women and men who might appear at first to an outsider to be strange bed fellows. The Club’s “Hall of Unsung Heroes” is below the Sandooney Bathhouse located within the Midwood Commune, a district of at the heart of Breuklyn Soviet.

 

Breuklyn Soviet is home to roughly three million people occupying the entire traditional municipality as well as some large swaths of what were once the Borough of Queens and all of Long Island.

Queens is now called Goddess Soviet; Flushing-Metropolitan Avenue is the border zone.  It’s in the ever shifting hands of Latin Street gangs, Chinese Mobsters, and Orthodox Ivories which seem to own everything no matter who’s in power, yeah those people. Long Island, which we often now call “Strong Island” after the terrible battles of Fire Island, Block Island, Huntington and Farmingdale, is a highly militarized zone on its northern coast since the last ceasefire with the Federals, which was three years ago and still holding. Six months ago, the “Mile High Wall” went up cutting Manhattan off from the Bronx, Breuklyn, and what was once Queens. It’s not a mile high, but it’s still a rather sturdy apartheid barrier constructed along the Long Island Sound to hinder smuggling and human traffic in and out of the U.A.S. interior. Consult the maps in the map room if that sounds confusing. The ceasefire has held for just under three years.

 

Mostly. Discluding last month’s major atrocity, still hidden.

 

A sick provocation by our enemies where two families; twelve blacks and twelve Ivories were viciously killed and hung from a tall tree in Prospect Park overlooking the Grand Army Plaza.

 

The weather is brutally cold this time of year, but only really noticeably unbearable in January, February and early March. Speaking of and complaining about weather extremes is something of long standing local culture. Ice storms fall and make the streets outside difficult to traverse. It’s a real shit show.  The women and men assembled are largely West Indian, Fenian Fenian, Russian Postsoviets and a good number of uncapped Yids. Those are some of the major ethnic demographics on the Breuklyn Soviet, but there are dozens of other clubs, otriads, and paramilitary formations that are larger than this club, but by no means organized to our degree of solidarity and sophistication.

 

We all look up at an enormous telescreen set upon the wall above the wooden crescent of the command table where our current standing elected leadership is seated; the 17^th Executive.

 

We have been called to this 18^th Congress to take a vote on an invasion.

 

Some in the Club’s leadership have advanced a proposal for an armed intervention into a war torn African country. The name of that country is Ayiti. It is the tenth largest country on earth. Briefly it was two countries then after renewed epoch of civil war, one country again. The bunker’s hall is packed to capacity as a vote will be taken this very evening on a rigorous and costly venture. Seated at the long table with the large screen hanging behind them is the club’s elected leadership presiding over the delivery of the Planning Section’s general briefing. There are thirteen officers, three female, ten male. Most will likely be reelected to the Executive.

 

On screen Sebastian Adon clears his throat and reads from the micro-briefing. Here was a man who held the attention of crowds with his words and no microphone. His articulations were top rate. Cheers to you old friend. I hope heaven has a suitable bathhouse. I hope every night until the world to come you bury your face in the chest of that woman you so loved!

 

“Ayiti, officially the Republic of Ayiti, is a long suffering nation that occupies the western third of the mountainous isle called Hispaniola. It is the second largest island in the Caribbean and the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere. It is bordered by the Dominican Republic to the east over a mountain range, Cuba to the northwest by sea and Jamaica to the immediate west by sea.”

 

The several hundred club delegates each represent various Commune level Section Committees, interagency Working Groups within the Soviet in the seven districts that our Club provides the Parastate infrastructure to, and the elected delegates of our various battalions deployed abroad. For a Club best known for our bathing and shooting, we do a great deal of effective Parastate development work. That’s a fancy way to say that we: keep criminals off our streets; we put out the fires; we run a large network of schools; we keep the water running; the lights on; we operate the ambulances; we run the hospital clinics; and also manage a system of courts, libraries, and a large credit union. There is theoretically a General Assembly or something that the three million citizens can elect people to. But, they can’t seem to tax anyone or hold orderly mass meetings; so really, it’s mostly up to the gangs, otriads, mafias, religious factions, trade unions and ethnic clubs to keep life going and the black market economy running.

 

 

Seven years ago during the Separatist Wars that we call “The Great Revolt” things got rather dicey. To say the fucking least; a blood bath of man on man crime. The Federals bombed the city for many weeks straight and then occupied all five boroughs with over sixty thousand National Guards.

 

 

And along with the National Guards; the Homeland Security Secret Police; the American gestapo titled the Department of Homeland Security in their blue and black finest.

 

Thousands were rounded up and tortured in Barclay, Mets and Yankee Stadiums before our highly divided factions managed to acquire enough will and weapons to mount any effective resistance. Atrocities were committed on both sides. The exact body count is impossible to know. After two years of direct iron heel occupation, we finally drove the Regular Military and National Guard out of Breuklyn, Queens and the Bronx.

 

The manufacture of weapons grade uranium at Stonybrook University and the technical know how to build several small atomic weapons was in the end the second most effective piece of leverage to secure our independence.

 

 

 

Now, life is quite like Breuklyn in the early 1980’s, albeit with occasional ration lines, a very libertarian political processes and a different legal system almost Commune by Commune. That’s our word for neighborhood by the way, there are sixty four Communes in Breuklyn Soviet and we administer services to the largest and safest seven. Basically everything’s legal now accept slavery and just about everyone has a fire arm, so people try to walk with respect. I mean some say “crime is way up” and “a wide range of criminals have exploited this conflict to basically turn our borough into an international transshipment hub for drugs, women, weapons and terrorism into the U.A.S.”.

 

 

I can only speak with certainty for the Communes we directly administer: The Crown Heights, Brighton and Manhattan Beach, Bedford Stuyvesant, Greater Midwood, Greater Flatbush, Star City, and Coney Island excluding the Seagate Garrison and “the Green Light Zone”. But, I think we mostly export reverse engineered pharmaceuticals, vat grown human organs, micro brewed reverse engineered alcoholic products, Chinese knock off every things, and various high tech hardware and also development technology; and business as they say is booming.

 

 

Citizens of the Breuklyn Soviet wear blue uniforms if they serve in the elite Citizen’s Army as emergency medical workers, fire fighters or peace officers; grey uniforms if they are from the security battalions, black uniforms if they are in parapsychological or negotiations units, and unmarked smart civilian dress attire if in the Information and Intelligence (I &I) Sections. Someone will have to explain that later, but basically we won the war for our freedom not just with a few home built nuclear weapons, a hostage crisis and truly epic New York grit, but also mind games and the powers of suggestion, precognition, and a lot of other stuff beyond my pension and pay grade.

 

It’s a tad neo-Marxist leaning towards Islamic fascist at times if you ask me. The uniforms I mean. I don’t choose to wear one. No one says anything about it to me. But, I’m just the equivalent of a staff sergeant when it comes to the overall chain of command. My soft power is my social circle and my microbrewery.

 

The Breuklyn Soviet, one of many break away American territories is not socialist in the slightest, but everyone has work if they want it, everyone has free healthcare when they need it and people mostly wear uniforms to work unless they’re out binge drinking their troubles away. And troubles don’t go away no matter what regime you live under. I heard yesterday that Shar’iah was declared in some sub-commune of Bayridge, but I doubt that will last.

 

Drinking is really not any more or less of problem than it was when we were part of the capitalist mega hyper-power called the United American States. Which is still being led by the Democratic Party and Barak Obama in his now fourth term in office, but it is as per before the revolt the U.A.S. is actually led by the bankers, corporate oligarchs and elite who front the cash for campaigns.

 

For now the Ivoryish media conspiracy has sided with us separatists.

 

It is the dead of Breuklyn winter so many wear heavy scarves and thick layers of Japanese polysynthetic fibers below their jackets and have skally caps pulled over their brows. A skally cap looks like a news boy cap crossed with beret. They were and still are worn by many leaders and field commanders of the early resistance efforts, like my friend Sebastian Adon and I, but after this rapper started wearing one, well just about anyone who wants to wears one now. Partisan caps, that’s also what we call them.

 

The ghost of Sebastian Adon continues:

 

“We submit to this Congress a policy and operations package designed to safeguard our own hard fought independence and restore the national sovereignty of the nation which gave birth to the Great Revolt. To aid our comrades there to assert full control over their resources, ports and airspace, and forge a pathway whereby the citizens of their nation will know dignity, human rights, hope and opportunity.  The aim of our proposed policies are to dismantle the ‘Republic of NGOs’ and restore in its place an empowered, socially, environmentally and economically sustainable Republic of Ayiti.”

 

“A series of human and environmental catastrophes have befallen the Republic of Ayiti since the moment of her independence. It has repeatedly been stated that Ayiti bears a certain ‘uniqueness’. We assert that this ‘uniqueness’ is artificially enforced to the detriment of all her citizens and must be corrected by political and popular action. She is the most disaster casualty prone nation in the Americas. She is the absolute poorest nation in the Western Hemisphere and second only to India the highest perceived ratio of NGOs/to population on earth. Perhaps more striking is that her income inequality is seventh most unequal on earth with a calculated GINI score of 0.61. She is also the only nation on earth with a peacekeeping operation presiding over her military jurisdiction without a ceasefire in place between warring factions.”

 

“There are now 13 million citizens now living in that Republic and they are living with daily existential threats to their welfare. Currently her HDI is 168, the bottom billion outlier of the hemisphere. Ayiti has an adult life expectancy of 63.1. A full 50.16 % of her population is living in multidimensional poverty. A 2012 World Bank survey places 6 million Ayitians (59%) living below $2 (90 HTG) a day while 2.5 million (24%) are living below $1. Therefore 83% are below their own domestic poverty line. Adult literacy is at 48.7%. Only 5% of the population can functionally comprehend French their official language of education and administration.”

 

“This proposal will recommend policies in the following strategic arenas; direct military intervention via the People’s Army 99^th Detachment, direct aid supporting the Famni Lavalas Party and long term mass capacity initiates and the consolidation of Hispaniola into the Federation of Autonomous and Soviet States.”

 

“The people of Ayiti have a long and bloody history extending from antiquity when in 1492 Henri Christopher Columbus invaded the island and within a mere forty years eradicated its indigenous population. This population was soon replaced by French and Spanish colonials with several million captured African slaves. The French called the western colony St. Domingue, the Spanish called the eastern colony Santo Domingo. By the late 17^th century the slave driven harvest of sugar was killing these slaves at a rate of 40,000 a year. Intertwined with the history of Ayiti is the parallel and equally brutal history of Dominican Republic, the Spanish eastern 2/3 of the island, though brutal in a later and longer stage. The island of Hispaniola, which was united politically over several periods became a unified American colony from 1915-1934. Two murderous dictators took over and divided the island into modern Ayiti and Dominica Republic; Francois Duvalier in Ayiti; the infamous “Papa Doc” and Rafael Leónidas Trujillo Molina in DR; called “El Jefe” allegedly responsible for personally the raping of 1 in 20 women on his side of the island, killing 50,000 of his people and ordering the genocide of 20-37,000 Ayitians in the Parsley border Massacre of 1937. Thriving on racial antagonism between noire and mulatto; they colluded to sell Ayitians into virtual slavery at American owned sugar plantation from 1957 until 1988. Ayiti’s history has been plagued by endless coups and civil wars stemming from ethnic, religious, and economic conflicts between the Mulatto and Noire Ayitian elites.”

 

“The Mulattos make up around 5-10% of the population of the total 10 million control the drug transshipment infrastructure and dominate in actual land holding. The Noire Elite composing an additional 5-10% grew out of the father and son Duvalier regimes. They control most of the existing business infrastructure and visible political posts as well as the links to commodity transfer in DR and the largest groupings of right wing paramilitaries; the Ayitians of Middle Eastern descent who number less than 10,000 people own most of the telecommunications and legitimate service commerce such as super markets, gas stations and retail. Further complicating the picture is a standing neo-colonial population of an estimated 46,000 mostly white development workers and missionaries operating with 10,800 formations are scatted virtually everywhere in the Republic.”

 

“Say the recent Simon White Paper: “The NGO sector in Ayiti is best described as an uncoordinated mass of organizations de facto unaccountable to any governing or regulatory institution, i.e. no accountants, no auditors, no reviews, and no publication of poor or dishonest performance.”

 

“If these statistics are even remotely accurate; that would mean 83% or more of 10 million people, which is to say around 6 million are living in grinding poverty at less than $2 a day and mostly dying by age 64. To make things even more complicated, there is raging Cholera epidemic that has killed over 10,000 people, a long running CIA bioweapons testing program, a variety of narco-war lords in both DR and Ayiti with private armies, tens of thousands of child Restoviks slaves and over 200,000 stateless people; Dominicans of Ayitian descent trapped on the central mountain range by the MINUSTAH[57] authorities and army of the DR. And, a low intensity left right civil war daily escalating with targeted killings.”

 

And then after some brave words the film flickers off and lights go gracefully on.

 

With that introductory data a man named Mickhi Dbrisk rises from the command table. That’s pronounced “MA-KAI” in case you were wondering. Mickhi is tall with thick well-kept dreadlocks and is always wearing a black pea coat when winter falls. His eyes are “kind but piercing” woman say. He doesn’t wear uniforms or a skally caps, but he is quite well known in many circles. He is one of the club’s founders and throughout the revolt a front line fighter in some of the most perilous operations against the National Guard and Federal armed forces which occupied our city. It was Mickhi Dbrisk that negotiated the absorption of Breuklyn’s major Crip Sets as well as the Orthodox Ivoryish Shomriim (Watchmen) Auxiliary Police into the armed wing of the resistance. The influx of these several thousand trained women and men certainly helped the war effort at a critical juncture. Most notably Dbrisk lead the defense of the Battle of Brownsville.

 

Mickhi Dbrisk is currently our elected Chief of Operations of the 17^th Congress Executive, also at times referred to as under boss of operations, or vice president of operations depending who we’re taking to.  Which is where has served for the past fourteen years. He is expected to be reelected, but not to that exact same post, we change the names. There are no term limits, democracy is used until no longer expedient. With an extendible pointer, not unlike a long thin asp he identifies the major cities in Ayiti which include:

 

“The entire country is covered in mostly deforested mountains on the Ayitian side and thick lush jungle mountains on the Dominican side. Upwards of 93% of the tree cover has been cut down for harvest for producing charcoal. The country is divided into ten departments, 42 Arrondissements and 140 communes. Let us concentrate now on the Ayitian western 1/3 of Hispaniola.”

 

“Port-Au-Prince is the capital, home to over 3 million; the only major Eastern coastal port in the country and the center of political power for the Mulatto & Noire Elite as well as Ayitian’s of Middle Easterner descent. It is the point of exit for the nation’s gold mines in the North. It has the highest concentration of NGO anywhere besides India.”

 

“Major cities in the North moving from the west peninsula to the eastern border with the Dominican Republic include; Mole Saint Nicolas, Port-de-Paix, Le Borgne, Cap-Ayitian: the second largest city in the country, and Fort Liberte. An island off the north coast called Ile de la Tortue is a major submarine staging point for drug runs into the U.S.”

 

“The departments of the Artibonite river valley include the large coastal city of Gonaives, and to the eastern interior there is Hinche and Pettit Riviere de L’Artibinite and Desarmes.”

 

“Cities in the Central Districts when traveling east toward the border with Dominican Republic are the Capital Port-Au-Prince, to the immediate east Croix-des-Bouquets, as well as Mirebalais to the central north and St. Marc on the central coast. The sprawling internal displacement camp complex called Penn-Mershing Central housing the 200,000 Dominicans of Ayitian descent expelled from DR in 2016 can be found on the border near Quanaminthe.”

 

“The three northern administrative departments of Ayiti hold some of the richest gold deposits on earth worth an estimated 20 billion and the site of an active genocide which has so far claimed the lives of over 460,000 Ayitian citizens,” explains Mickhi Dbrisk, “his genocide is linked to the conscription of mining labor and repression of Lavalas had been uncovered by most of the liberal or rightist media.”

 

“There are no major cities or good roads in the badlands bordering DR on the eastern border. Ayiti and DR have been formally at war for nearly a decade since the Dominican Republic denationalized and deported over 200,000 Ayitians in 2012.

 

“In the Southern departments moving west to east along the peninsula are Jeremie, Port Salud on the South coast, La Cayes the major tourist center and Jacmel the largest city in the south. And Marigot and then the tiny, but immensely defensible Anse-A-Pitre moving east to the border.”

 

“Geography is so vitally important. Most of our former American countrymen cannot even find Iraq, Syria, Iran, Yemen and Afghanistan on a map and their government has been sending young men to die and robots to raze over there for nearly twenty five years. Next to history and perhaps the ability to speak soothingly in other languages is the vital skill of cartography. Without maps we’d lose our way. Without signs, without direction; well I suppose we’d forget we were all in this together, and promptly begin eating each other. Like they currently do in Sub-Saharan Africa now that the pale nations are done eating the continent and pulled out finding their bellies full,” says the tall Jamaican named Mickhi who most here who have fought alongside him call Captain Dbrisk, although his rank is now that of Operations Section Chief.

 

We don’t really have a lot of pretensions around here.

Just a tight but responsibly democratic chain of command.

 

Dbrisk is wearing his black pea coat with a blue and grey armband and has his thick well-kept dreadlocks concealed below a large black tam. Clipped to his collar is the Pin of Palmares with its cannons and flags abutting the “Tree of Life”. Those that wear that pin fought not only in the Separatist Wars on the East Coast but had the distinction of serving in the early battles of the war for liberation in Ayiti, now sometimes called “Hispaniola”, renamed so after the epic maroon of bygone years when it merges officially with the Dominican Republic, one day in possibility. While numerous internal and foreign components had battled on the island, the island and her people remain in the hands of the various oligarchs there.

 

A maroon was a base of operations and resistance deep in the mountains founded by runaway slaves. Like the Breuklyn Soviet, like several dozen other micro republics that fought their way to independence in the past few year. Though we do not have many mountains in Breuklyn Soviet we do have one of the world’s tallest trees!

 

More on that strangeness later!

 

Mickhi Dbrisk is capable of a great deal of gangster on very short notice. His powers of improvisation are vast. He has commanded fighters in both the fabled siege of the Brownsville Ghetto and the earlier epic battle for Port-Au-Prince. He is regarded by all factions in the Soviet as an undisputed leader of the human rights résistance, a don as you’d say in Patois, Jamaican vernacular. There is not a single move or operation since the early days of the rising that does not have his hand or command in its execution.

 

“Cuba is the only regional nation to not fall under the heel of Western Imperialism now or ever. It also has fully resisted China’s developmental colonialism and now leads the non-aligned movement. It lies to the North East of Ayiti. As you know, in 2019 commandos from the Breuklyn Soviet, still then under siege stormed the Guantanamo base in Eastern Cuba to rescue numerous family member hostages of the resistance alliance. Since that time Guantanamo Bay base now reconstituted with the Republic of Cuban is our forward base. The nation of Jamaica also lies to the east by sea and remains a Narco-Garrison state, numerous dons there sympathetic to the Resistance Alliance and broader J1 Movement.”

 

“This will be no kid’s play. The gloves come completely on for this job. We will be fighting not only the predominantly Brazilian MINUSTAH army, a variety of right wing paramilitary armies under the control of Narco-Warlords and the Dominican army; but an American intervention is an undeniable high probability. To make things more complicated, we will be fighting the entire war with non-lethal weapons via Peacefare. Via the ways of the late Gene Sharpe. And to accomplish it many of us will have to be willing to lay down our lives. As per usual, and I speak for only myself and also our Chief Logistics Officer Mr. Nikholai Trikhovitch. This will be highly perilous. And both he and I are the first two volunteers stepping forward to carry out this operation if approved by you esteemed delegates of the 18^th Congress,” he concludes with the predicable anticipated clamor of a quiet riot.

 

After four more hours of smoke and mirror clogged deliberation all the vile data is delivered and the club adjourns with a vote still not taken. This is not wholly new information to most of them for Adon wrote of such things at length and many knew his work. For several weeks the delegates have been reporting that a new mobilization is scheduled to occur. Many of these men and women fought or commanded fighters in the Great Revolt. Many are veterans of the successful mostly non-violent uprisings along the coast, especially those in Atlanta, Boston and Miami in the eight years ago which preceded it. The motion to delay the vote is but a formality. Certainly by tomorrow a plurality of delegates will vote to go to war. While the Breuklyn Soviet is nominally a people’s democracy lead by the General Assembly; the Combined Otriad is not, it is a Chinese style of decision making. Consultation with the general cadre but ultimate decisions made by a tightly elected central committee.

 

Anything can be done with enough green dollars or RMB. But you cannot purchase the kind of zeal this club can marshal when it fully mobilizes its forces.

 

The nucleus of our contingent in the greater rebel army of Breuklyn Soviet is composed of three differing, but overlapping factions that coalesced around something our enemies pejoratively dub the “Breuklyn Bath and Rifle Club”. Our “Club” is a sprawling underground association of former city university students, gangsters, active municipal emergency workers, public school teachers, civil rights lawyers; as well as businessmen of the clandestine economy and young professionals that enjoy the use of fire arms, the relaxation of the Banya, and also the full attainment of our United Nations promised universal human rights.

 

By the time of the “Great Disorder”, the mob riots which lead shortly after their violent suppression led to a wild international revolt; our three factions had several thousand of our members all reasonably proficient with fire arms and organized into flying columns.

 

Mutual aid, collective security and something we call Loyalnost rapidly evolved into a higher calling. The keeping of our asses alive in an urban war zone and wider civil war.

 

The three major factions that for some time had irregularly coordinated via this club as a means to drill for their respective ventures merged under fire into what many to consider the tipping point of the revolt in its New York theatre. One was the black revolutionist group Uhuru associated with the Malcolm X Grassroots Movement. The second was the New York Branch of the Fenian Brotherhood, which I am affiliated with, which is composed of Fenian Nationalists left of center and trade unionists. The third faction is the predominantly former & Postsoviet, black cap Yiddish and West Indian Caribe outfit, known either as the Banshee Association, Banshee Otriad or by its clandestine special operations arm: “the Z.O.B.”

 

I have no idea what that stands for and I’ve technically been a member since I was fourteen. These factions had very little in common except that we all distrusted the machinations of the Bush then Obama led Federal Government and seek a world more firmly founded universal human rights. We also all ran-run extensive trafficking-smuggling operations to and from the island of Hispaniola to a variety of ports of call.

 

In white collar finance you might call that the “import-export business.”

 

The leaderships of these three respective factions rarely ever spoke back then except via the informal alliances crafted by a group of childhood friends which all met in Bronx Science in 1998. That’s largely because the general membership of Uhuru didn’t trust or wish to associate with the blan or Ivory Caucasians which made up roughly half of the Banshee Otriad. West Indians making up the bulk of the other half of the faction are also generally antipathetic to African American blacks, Uluru’s core constituency. Fenian Nationalists and Black Nationalists have almost nothing in common except the wanting of our own countries to be built on our land stolen long ago by some devilish white man Protestants.  The brothers always get along with me and my best droog Philly Hartman just fine though. We teach our Dougie for free.

 

There was also some underling discord then because the Banshee Otriad during the years leading up to the “Great Disorder” and the subsequent “Great Revolt” was engaged in every manner of disruption against the war machine and was under constant surveillance by the eyes and agents of the state. Especially the Federal Bureau of Investigation (F.B.I.), the N.Y.P.D. Joint Terrorism Task Force, and the American secret police squarely coordinated via the Department of Homeland Security (D.H.S.) all reporting to the National Security Agency (N.S.A.) and of course the J.S.O.C. Their underground paper and their ambulance worker labor struggles with the hospitals and Fire Department didn’t make life easy then either. Banshee, mostly composed of emergency medical workers also provided tactical support and funding to the Occupy Movement before its evictions after its resurgence. This was something also that Uhuru scoffed at.

 

At least until the sonic pacification of Zuccotti Park that left scores of mostly young white affluent demonstrators brain dead? And the second anniversary assault on the District Financial that left the temples of the money changers in flames and lead to massacre of over ten thousand disappeared ones. And a rocket attack in Midtown Manhattan. Need I say more?

 

The Otriad’s members periodically accused Uhuru of being far too ethno-centric and Uhuru’s members viewed the members of the Otriad as “reckless adventurist blans with too little “skin in the game to worry about losing”. And of course we Fenians were mostly concerned with the conflict escalating then in Erin dubbed the “Latest Troubles.”

 

But, during “the Great Disorder”, when legions of National Guardsmen razed Central Breuklyn Ghettos, it was the intervention of Banshee and Fenian flying columns that saved many of the beleaguered fighters of Uhuru during the Brownsville Ghetto siege, and many black citizens from certain murder and eventual execution. For years our three outfits had trained and traded side by side in the Crown and Washington Heights despite having little more than a perceived common enemy and tactic. Acquire guns and use them against the Oligarchs.

 

Uhuru’s leadership and support base were all but decimated during the Great Disorder and the group found itself partially indebted to us, their at least half-pale allies.

 

Scapegoated in the current history of events by both the Eastern Confederacy of Autonomous Soviets (E.C.A.S.) and the United American States (U.A.S.) for initiating the “Great Disorder”, which certainly they did not, Netic Djbriel Okonkwo, the tall sometimes grinning sometimes glowering militant Chairman of Uhuru took an offer from then Captains Dbrisk and Adon to fully merge the New York Uhuru faction into a “Combined Otriad” of our three groups. As the iron heel of the National Guard swept down upon Breuklyn, Ysiad Ferraris a dubious ally of the resistance, arranged the first of his many promised exoduses via container ship of highly wanted rebel families and began his ever expanding traffic in first and second line rebel arms.

 

And we Fenians of course sided with these mostly Black and Ivoryish rebels because the U.S. Military was shelling our city and our homes and the rest as they say is the prelude to epic history.

 

We have finally secured our independence from the United States of America, now called the United American States (U.A.S.), after nearly four long bloody years of street fighting, occupation, and attrition, a bombing campaign across the country’s interior, a series of hostage crises and finally; threat of improvised nuclear force, which did in fact to our knowledge make Washington DC uninhabitable for the next 100 years. Suffice to say, much of the Eastern seaboard is now a series of confederated Free State territories running from Canada down to Miami, called the Soviets.

 

The real border is often hard to define.

 

As of lately we as a combined Otriad of three factions field abroad several hundred parapsychologists training the various “Emergency Groups” as we call them; underground militant human rights detachments. We support nine large battalions of development and medical workers; three in Ayiti, one in Dominican Republic, two in Jamaica, one in Syria, one in Gaza and one in Eastern Ukraine. A battalion is roughly 1,200 women and men. And everyone with internet access knows about our infamous “dagger men”; the Sicarri of the Z.O.B. In collaboration with hundreds of other left, progressive, Islamist, and human rights militant groups internationally who are currently working their way through a several thousand person database to kill and or capture wanted war criminals; enemies of the people and general scum of the earth affiliated with innumerous networks of pimps, traffickers and black collar criminals. Our Club’s commitment was to help capture or execute 104 targets off that list. By the last count I saw, the Sicarri units and the dozens of other factions they coordinated with online have polished off 103 war criminals over the past three years since the beginning of the ceasefire with the U.A.S. Federals. They find themselves in Europe a lot I hear on the Fire Station.

 

That’s where those kinds of people gravitate to.

 

Where the flashiest toys and choicest, perkiest prostitutes generally are.

 

This Ayiti operation will be a horse of a completely different color. Likely, it will ignite a far broader conflict. Ayiti was over two hundred years in the making. Breuklyn was our turf and that took four years of bloody struggle to win. Hitting mafia targets and whacking oligarch war criminals is sort of just a transcontinental contact sport coordinated by “the Anonymous”, the worldwide guerrilla hacker network.

 

No one cared enough about Ayiti and Dominican Republic to bother and suppress that series of events.  No one in the U.A.S. Oligarchy dares to reconquer the breakaway city states on the East Coast because we have atomic weapons. We will shortly be taking the fight for the fate of humanity to an entirely new level.

 

The fight that my childhood friend Sebastian Adon gave his life for.

Gave his life for twice or more!

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 8

 

 

 

The darkness and the cold of night briskly greet Mr. Trikhovitch.

He has a long grey coat and black sweater made of Japanese polysynthetic. He has very short black hair and he looks foreboding until he smiles at you. He keeps his gun strapped to his chest and his hip flask over his heart. A solid gold zippo comes out to light up a Newport Standard. A puff ends the night.

 

The more friends he has to bury the less charming he gets year by year.

Nikholai Trikhovitch steps out of the Congress into the 5am snow. He loses the throngs of compatriots propelled by his own need for solitude. He fires up the stoag and blinks a few times. From sleep deprivation and methyl xanthine capsules and too much coffee and certainly too many goddamn meetings.

And knowing that tonight’s near declaration of war will change everything.

He’s been running the Breuklyn Otriad’s logistics section for seven years. That’s a lot of moving parts. That keep moving faster.

 

And now they’re finally going on the bold offensive.

The snow blows hard down the alley way out side Sandooney Bathhouse which sits on the intersection of Avenue I and Macdonald; renamed Mila Street three years ago because nobody could remember who the fuck Macdonald was or what significance he had to the future. This renaming had happened all over Breuklyn, and it kept happening so it was very hard to find streets sometimes.

Nicolai’s black Tanto-52 jeep is in the parking lot, but he likes the cold so he stays out in it. He knows his girlfriend Krissy with her Jessica-Rabbit red hair and tight body is asleep at home and will grasp him tender when he gets back there.

 

A woman he knows quite well is now heading toward him out the main entrance.

 

Anya Drovtich, with her long black dreads wrapped below a gray hijab, plated down in bike armor approaches him out of their bath house headquarters as the main doors are drawn closed and storm shudders bolted down behind her. The clang of the barrier gates sound out as the metal barricades are rolled. She salutes the sentries up on the rail line. And also the Muslim Brotherhood couriers heading back to District Bayridge to report on our midnight developments. She salutes the Russian sentries, the dagger men getting on their bikes, and also the crew up on the train.

 

“How now, Anya Drovtich,” is all he says.

 

“Was there something you wanted to tell me,” she asks him coldly, reading him.

 

“Nothing that can’t wait for tomorrow.”

 

“Shut the fuck up with your nothingy-nothings, brother. You have the forty yard stare of zombie or some traumatized civilian.”

 

“Fuck off, sister.”

 

“Tell me what you’re toying with. We’re too far up in the chain of command to have secrets anymore.”

 

He blows carcinogens into the night. But her words have a different provocation of death behind them and the cold of night turns all utterances into the wafting plumes of verbal gun powder.

 

“Every time I hear his voice I am reminded that had I not encouraged him, had I not told him I’d fight beside him to the end there would not have been any of this. He might well have walked away. We might have,” Nikh mentions.

 

“Or just have died more quietly,” she sharply replies.

“Very little was ever quiet in his head.”

“You give credit to a man who is made of the same parts you and I are,” says Anya Drovtich as the falling snow strikes both of them.

“He gave us all something to believe in. And then he was gone.”

“No. He put words to paper and set small fires with very old ideas that we all had held deep in our hearts and would have acted on had he called us to that first congress or not.”

 

Nikholai stops short of speaking his mind and then says:

“Is Sebastian Adon truly dead?” asks Nikholai Trikhovitch, “I have always heard it said that he was a very difficult man to kill.”

 

“I saw the bullets strike his body. I saw the gas overwhelm him and before we evacuated out that tunnel, I made sure he was really dead. If you’re looking to make a martyr out of him well he was. As you and I will be when our time comes. I know you loved him and I loved him too and had we all not been sitting in that tavern seven year ago when this truly began I doubt we would have found ourselves here at the center of this uprising. But I assure you. Our friend Sebastian is quite dead and what we are about to do will bring him a smile in the world to come.”

 

Their sky pagers both go off at the same time.

 

The sky pager developed by Daniel Fried the martyr modifying on the Iridium sat phone, bouncing radio waves between low flying satellites and then encoding transmissions into text bursts in Hebrew-Creole, Gamatria code. Defeating the smartest snoop hackers and follow-follow men of the National Security Agency via a low to medium tech approach.

 

The page was sent by Oleg Leondovich Medved, Anya’s primary deputy. A hard Russian bear. A thorough and complete Postsoviet gangster. He had missed the last evening of the 18th Congress to hammer out a final trade agreement with that house of thieves the Perchevney Bratva over tariffs in the new Port Coney.

 

The pagers read:

 

(!) Orange Alert. Report to Cadman Plaza Staging area immediately.

 

There has been another massacre.

 

64+ civilians have been slaughtered. (!)

 

Anya immediately gets on her Ducati and Nikholai jumps in his jeep and what they are wondering is what in the world will keep the ceasefire in check come dawn. Just one month ago there had been a slaughter.

A family of Blacks and a family of Ivories.

Exactly a month ago. Twenty four dead. Ripped apart and hung from the tallest tree in Prospect Park for all to see.

And now this blarney and blatnoy.

 

There are allegedly some sixty four men, women and children hanging in the snow storm, strung up on the rafters of the Breuklyn Bridge.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 9

Fadeeva Street 6, Building 1,

Apt. 67, 2019ce

Moscow

 

 

 

The safe house has wall to wall books in one room, illustrated versions of the Arabian Nights[58]. The Jerusalem tile is always warm. The storm shutters are bolted down and sealed electronically. I only know about the rumbling tanks and the curfew because it was announced on the Fire Station. We’ve been hiding here for what seems like a fort night, but could be more.

 

She has a way with taking up time.

 

“What a sneaky little geography lesson that was!” Dasha exclaims, “While you chose to give your life, most others amongst species had such circumstances thrust upon them and left to own devices would have been relatively happy just to give far less freely and live far more selfishly.”

“I don’t refute that point for even a second.”

“So don’t attempt to,” she declares.

“Some people; like you Russians,” I retort, “or children of the petty bourgeoisie who for whatever reason study philosophy; also people that work in finance; or base criminals; these people don’t always believe in objective standards of good and evil.”

“Certainly not,” she says, “a useless binary analysis.”

“But, whether you do or you do not, whether you sip red borsht or eat the biggest mac, even if god forbid you are a student of philosophy, and even if you don’t believe in international law, well no one, at least no one I’ve encountered so far of rational mind likes the idea of a band of men on horseback riding into town and raping their wife; then their mother; then their daughters; then killing everyone they care about, mutilating the bodies, burning homes and then getting away with it. Over and over again. Like the Maccoute do,” I conclude.

 

“Before you begin anew I will quote some Shteyngart,” she says.

 

Russians, Postsoviets in particular have little use for Philosophy when black comedy makes a far more biting critique of the brave new world in which we exist; “live” being too banal a term for what we are really doing here.

 

“Go on then dorogaia.”

 

“I quote,

 

‘Let us be certain: the Cold War was won by one side and lost by another. And the losing side, like any other in history, had its country-side scorched, its gold plundered, its men forced to dig ditches in far-away capital cities, its women conscripted to service the victorious army’.”

 

“What would you have me learn from your curious quotation?”

 

“We Russians are wholly familiar what happens to those who lose their wars. But that familiarity breeds contempt for weak, not solidarity with latest victims. But, tell me of your favorite long abused Chornay; attempts inspire me with your so-called, beliefs.”

 

She will have me telling my tallest tales of war and blackest history all night so it seems.

 

 

Chapter 10

265 Schenectady Ave, 2019ce

Crown heights

 

Mickhi Dbrisk’s alarm wakes him up out of Rosa’s arms and he heads out into the cold of night. His sky pager is switched off. His mobile has its battery popped. He’s on scheduled leave until Monday morning. He clocked out the minute the Congress broke session so he didn’t have to deal with that bloody mess up on the bridge that he’s to hear about in the papers later that day.

She kisses him hard before he goes.

He leaves an hour before day break. To avoid the traffic. He takes off south down Utica toward the coast in his Kumusabi-6, a black Japanese muscle car made in Detroit. It runs on diesel. It can get through the snow with eight cylinders and treads.

He kissed his ten year old son Malachi J. on the forehead and his two year old second son Liam T.O. And then Rosa kissed him one more time like she did through the prison bars the several times they took him.

 

He was sentenced to seven years upstate at the young age of fourteen. He served two for stealing some bread and not giving up a friend caught with a gun. And again at age twenty four he was sentenced ten years, reduced to one for a concealed weapon planted on him and Sebastian Adon at a political rally the police stormed on.  And the last time Rosa kissed him through the bars was when he was rounded up and sent to the filtration camp at Barclays at the age of twenty six when the Great Revolt began. That was the shortest incarceration of the three since shortly after the camp was over run and liberated by the Bolivarian Hotshots of the Brigade Cinqo de Mayo; led by the Peruvian General Raphael Ernesto Lynch Contreras.

This past 12 October, Mickhi Dbrisk turned thirty.

Mickhi Dbrisk has four children by three women and he has never missed a child support payment in or out of prison. In or out of country. He has four kids. Two by Rosa the St. Lucian a nurse and child hood sweetheart that he met as a youngster, right before he did his longest stint of time upstate. Malachi, age ten and Liam age two. And Two by Roxanna, a wild moody fickle Iytai. With big old things and a wild temper. She lives in Staten Island.

And he never misses a kid’s birthday party either, but that’s a logistical nightmare any way ya wanna cut it these days.

Because to the Department of Homeland Security; the most ruthless of America’s 17 intelligence agencies; he is not public enemy number one. He is public enemy number four. In front of him are Anya Drovtich, Erza Pula and Nikholai Trikhovitch. Which after the capture of Avinadav DeBuitléir, the deaths of the twenty four martyrs and the deaths of Maya Rose and Sebastian Adon; he is still just a “nigger” and a “perpetrator subversive”, albeit “Chief Nigger subversive”, the most wanted black man in rebel Babylon.

His parents and children are proud.

According to I & I Section inside sources there are 4.4 million “domestic and foreign radicals” under varying levels of surveillance in the break away free state territories and abroad. There are 44,000 secondary targets on the latest U.A.S. Obama kill list, technically on standby because of the ceasefire. And Mickhi Dbrisk, Chief of Operations of the Breuklyn Otriad is target 4 of 104 on the D.H.S. Primary Kill List.

His second baby’s mother lives in Staten Island as said; which is still a part of the United American States. His two daughters live with her. One is four, cute little Brook-Lynne and one is eight months, Sheila-Jade.

His baby’s mother Roxanne lives in a suburban garrison settlement called Camp Comfort on the North side of the island.

Mickhi Dbrisk can’t just go visit his girls in Camp Comfort. This is just about the largest US Military concentration on Earth these days, anywhere other than the Korean border.

Everyone calls it “the garrison town.”

Paying child support is getting harder and harder given the political situation. For one thing, not only does Breuklyn Soviet use the bitcoin not the dollar, there are no diplomatic relations between Breuklyn Soviet and the main land U.A.S. Federal Government. Right after they cut off our water and power the very day of independence they blacked out all of our ability to transfer money to and from the mainland. We began printing twenty dollar bills.

But Mickhi Dbrisk has always been a rubber band bank kind of guy.

Magnus Goldbar Allamby, the first richest man in the Breuklyn Soviet, some claim, is the Bajan entrepreneur who runs the Finance Section of the Breuklyn Otriad. The amount of money he has lent to Mickhi Dbrisk on and off the books to pay bribes getting him in and across the border is astounding.

 

They remember when they used to complain about the, “fifteen dollar bridge toll bridge.”

Just the fuel and pilot fee for the submarine alone costs 15 Grand Americans.

But for a man like Mickhi Dbrisk, snow storms, high tide flood waters, hostage crises and even the threat of nuclear missile exchanges have not kept him from one of his four babies’ birthdays.

 

Chapter 11

Cange Village, 1994ce

Ayiti

 

 

The Tonton Maccoute and the Janjaweed are not a singular, unified military formation. The phrase refers to the holistic identity of nomadic gun men on horseback and pickup truck contracted by the Jim Basher Al-Talleyrand regime to ethnically, albeit over perhaps five hundred years cleanse the island of Hispaniola of its Afro-Ayitian inhabitants. They wear very large white turbans and don’t seem to have very many qualms when it comes to indiscriminate brutality. They find it fun. One could liken them to the Cossacks of Sub-Saharan Africa, but there is something far viler about their work, frankly because it’s so well documented.

 

And smacks so highly of choreographed sadism.

 

They have a loose chain of command and zero accountability to anyone not paying them up front, which the Al-Talleyrand NGO Class Ordered government has done without question for many years. It has given them modern Chinese hardware. And air support. And that right there is why the International Criminal Court has designated Lieutenant General Omar Hassan Ahmad Al-Talleyrand, President for life of Ayiti a war criminal. Although a democratically so-called, UN appointed one.

 

And they issued a warrant for his arrest, once.

 

In the year 2002ce on the old Gregorian calendar, the International Criminal Court (I.C.C.) was established in the Hague which is in the Netherlands and the Rome Statute provided for the I.C.C. to have jurisdiction over genocide, crimes against humanity and war crimes. The definition of what is a “crime against humanity” for I.C.C. proceedings has significantly broadened from its original legal definition or that used by the United Nations, and Article 7 of the treaty states that for the purpose of this Statute, “crime against humanity” means any of the following acts when committed as part of a widespread or systematic attack directed against any civilian population, with knowledge of the attack:

 

(a) Murder;

(b) Extermination;

(c) Enslavement;

(d) Deportation or forcible transfer of population;

(e) Imprisonment or other severe deprivation of physical liberty in violation of fundamental rules of international law;

(f) Torture;

(g) Rape, sexual slavery, enforced prostitution, forced pregnancy, enforced sterilization, or any other form of sexual violence of comparable gravity;

(h) Persecution against any identifiable group or collectivity on political, racial, national, ethnic, cultural, religious, gender basis or basis of sexual orientation;

(i) Enforced disappearance of persons;

(j) The crime of apartheid;

(k) Other inhumane acts of a similar character intentionally causing great suffering, or serious injury to body or to mental or physical health.

 

War criminals are sometimes also called heads of state. Vile genocidal heads of state are often opposed by fearless freedom fighters; who are accused by the oligarchs they oppose time after time of being “terrorists”. Sometimes the old adage is true about one mans this or that. And sometimes freedom fighters genuinely must resort to terrorism plane and true to bring such tyrants down. It’s a tactic not a belief system.

 

Since heads of state with large standing armies certainly cause more bloodshed and terror than any other faction on earth; and civilians are massacred virtually anytime an armed conflict begins. Really, the only legal differentiation between soldier and terrorist, combatant and civilian is whether they have on uniforms, and whether they have a chain of command.

 

When Avinadav DeBuitléir, first Chief-of-Staff of the Ayitian Emergency Group (S.E.G.) began his long career of freedom fighting in the name of his family, his people and the militant human rights generally; he was just fifteen years old. His uniform then consisted of denim jeans and a dirty grey t-shirt. His chain of command back then was that he was absolutely in charge and every other person that could fire a weapon, throw a rock, swing a machete or set off an improvised explosive device was his “Otriad”.

 

Had you seen the killing fields with your own eyes; had the victims been your family could you ever look yourself in the mirror again and say you did nothing to resist?

 

Avinadav DeBuitléir has very dark skin and is of modest build and rarely has been ever seen to smile. He has grey eyes, which are remarkable to rural villagers and equated with sorcery. He is extremely eloquent. Brief in his utilization of words to articulate his points and visions he speaks a good deal with his actions alone. His estimated age according to his U.A.S. Central Intelligence Agency (C.I.A.) case file is 43, but that is not his real age. The Federal Security Service (FSB) of the Russian Federation places him at 39 and the Israeli Mossad is closest at 33. He speaks nine languages and can communicate in two dozen of the Ayitian regional dialects. He is the first among equals in the realm of Ayitian resistance commanders acting independently of foreign interests. He looks as though he is in his early thirties, but his age is anyone’s guess.

 

He was born in Central Ayiti, in the village of Cange. At some point her traveled to Liberia, then Sudan, then Ethiopia before crossing from Egypt into Israel. He was higher educated in the Israeli city of Tel Aviv. He took refuge in the nation of Israel shortly after the genocide began but was deported back to Ayiti after just five years living in that country after being arrested in a series of mass protests on the status of east African refugees in Israel. That was a good many moons ago and much gun fire and injustice has erupted since.

 

When the Maccoute militia first came to his village it was the nearly winter of his fifteenth year, but in the Caribbean that certainly does not mean it was cold. The villagers had heard that a marauding convoy of Maccoutes with the blessing of the Al-Talleyrand government was pillaging their way across the Southern peninsula. They had heard several dozen villages had already been emptied; their women were savagely raped and mutilated and their men after being forced to witness were lined up and shot. They heard of hands being cut off, heads being rolled down the streets like a Mongol-Cossack invasion, with no need to hide it. No need to bury anyone or cover anything up or purchase quicklime. In fact the New York Times was taking a lot of pictures and was writing about it the whole time, for years. That sure sold papers.

 

This was the fate that awaited the Village of Cange, close as it was to newly discovered petroleum reserve.

 

The village of young Avinadav DeBuitléir had only forty families. Some of the families were nominally Catholic. A few were actual followers of the man Jesus, but most were animist honoring the old spirits and ways of the world before the arrival of blan. Blan means white, or the whites, when Avinadav DeBuitléir uses this word now though, he’s not ever referring to Fenians, Ruus, or Ivories. Like most Afro-Ayitians, the great suffering majority were practitioners of Voudoun.

 

Religion was really less important than the Kombits (work collectives) and blood intertwined loyalties. Anthropologists love to try and explain the Ayiti in regards to “how African” or “how Arabized” or how “Mulatto” a participant faction in the conflict is. The elite in Port Au Prince are nominally all referred to in the internationalist neo-liberal media such like  New York Times as “Muhammadian, Arabized technocrats, Mulattos or Noire Elites ”, but that really doesn’t do justice to how diverse Ayiti is theologically and also the root causes behind the current rounds of genocide. If our typical Ayitian civilian is an African “Voudoun syncretized, Noire (or Neg) agrarian peasant” and the Maccoute Militia is largely composed of “former Ayitian military and secret police of the old dictatorship” then religion certainly has no place here. But interestingly, if you’re a student of either history, or a freelance social-anthropologist, or even just read the paper every day, well then you’d begin to see a phenomenon occurring in not just the Ayiti Genocide and even the later stages of the American Separatist Wars, but in largely every nation of man in the past hundred years.

 

In the end, these atrocities, even the one amongst the blan in the 1940’s that we call World War Two and the Holocaust, have absolutely nothing to do with race and religion. They are about identifying a group that is powerless to defend itself, blaming that group for the strife of the nation, and then moving to exterminate them to shore up power in the nation in question.

 

In Ayiti what is so striking is that this gone on without any real outside intervention since sometime in the 1950’s. The elite in the mountains above Port Au Prince have at one point or another pitted the various major ethnicities at their periphery into constant wars whereby they can control one of the largest swathes of oil, gold and natural gas on the island; largely unexploited until 2010.

Cange village sat on the bank of a wadi, or river bed valley.

A wadi is a dry riverbed that contains water only during times of heavy rain. As a village it possessed little besides livestock and an oral history. It was a black ‘x’ on map of several thousand little black ‘x’s, places Maccoute commanders with their pickup trucks, Kalashnikov rifles and sharp knives were asked to eradicate so Chinese engineers might assist the government at extracting the black gold below deforested mountain ranges.

When they arrived at his village, Avinadav perched atop the highest point in the town, the bell tower of a dusty and abandoned colonizer mission, once a seminary for agriculture now derelict. Avinadav DeBuitléir began to fire at the advancing Maccoute-column. He was a crack shot apparently. He hit seven of them before he had to reload. The mission had been built in rundown monastery as if neither religion nor progress could do much to affect the character of this place in a lasting way. He’d climbed six stories into the bell tower.

He then began picking several of them off from the highest point in miles.

The Maccoute column was less than thirty men, certainly better armed than Avinadav with his dead father’s hidden rifle, the heartiest gun and only’iest in the village.

 

Famni Lavlas, the Peasant resistance has one gun for every 30,000 members and it is the biggest of the opposition underground factions.

 

And they had nowhere to run for cover. Nowhere besides their pickup trucks to gain cover. The sun was rising behind Avinadav’s position, rising into their yellow Maccoute-eyes.  They could tell they were being shot at, and return fire then did, but Kalashnikovs are not known for great accuracy.

 

Maccoute-men are also not known for their bravery. They are not normally fired upon while they do their filthy, evil work. Fifteen year old Avinadav DeBuitléir, the hero of Ayiti kept firing. Firing well after he ran out of ammunition. Then, using a single red flare fired into the air as a signal, the remaining young people of Cange Village, for only the young are quick to mount resistance to anything; several dozen boys in their early and late teens charged the small Maccoute convoy with knives, shovels and pelted the militia men with rocks and lit them ablaze with petrol bombs.

The Maccoute-column retreated in panic large white turbans blowing in the wind, but the ambush was well staged and the remainder were quickly overwhelmed and pulled from their horses and trucks.

When the dust settled, Avinadav DeBuitléir had personally killed nine, wounded five. His band of teenage partisans finished off another fifteen Maccoute only taking four casualties themselves. The surviving wounded had been left bleeding in the sand by their fiend-compatriots who attempted to flee. Avinadav and his friends finished them off with picks and shovels. Then they burned their bodies and hung the dismembered corpses from the poplar trees.

 

And that was how the latest round of human rights résistance in Ayiti began anew. With an ideology of simple strike back, hit and run survivalism. This, historically in its zeal can match any ideological conviction toe for toe, claw for claw.

 

Even rock for tank.

 

We remind you that Ayiti is one of the most ethnically heterogeneous of the world’s nations wide over 400 distinct African ethnic groups brought there as salves and over 2,000 recorded dialects forged into what is called Mother Tongue, or Ayitian Creole by the Blan. That must be said a second and perhaps third time lest the privileged elites of foreign capitals glaze over Africa’s complexity and attempt to disassociate the fullness of African diversity behind the word; “black.” Reduce Ayiti to buzzwords like “resilient poverty”.

 

That makes resistance to a powerful foreign backed oil regime such as President Omar Talleyrand’s a little hard to get effectively underway. The war in Ayiti has on gone without much interruption since the various colonizers left over two hundred and fifteen years ago. The military dictatorship and oligarchy based in the capital has generally always managed to pit one ethnicity against another utilizing an intricate system of imagined racial-religious hatreds. Fighting in the nation’s periphery secures the resources interests of those in the capital. Which until 2010; was exploiting the people of Ayiti for their blood and sweat. Keeping these low intensity genocides going is the basis of the Talleyrand regimes control. Baby Doc; the President for life Francois Duvalier was toppled in 1988 by liberation theologian priests and students with flaming tires.  If as of lately a full blown ethnic extermination is underway, well that’s because the eleven primary factions of the Lavalas peasant resistance movement are becoming fiercer and the Port Au Prince elites far more panicked. Since the People’s Republic of China, the most populous and resource hungry nation on earth covets the oil there under the brown craggy mountain sand, well let’s just say the killing fields have exploded in earnest. The Chinese in their thirst for resources have zero qualms to speak of selling the new Ayitian Military it’s fully modern first line armed hardware. And these tools are put at the disposal of the Maccoute, often these forces overlap.

 

After his boyhood battle at his now long obliterated home village, the slaughter of his friends and all of his extended family, following his several years in the State of Ivory, Avinadav grew up into one of the most fearless leaders of the Ayitian-Emergency-Group (H.E.G.), the largest and most poly-ethnic of the sixteen major armed and unarmed opposition factions united under the banner of Famni Lavalas.

The fearless, largely un armed peasant underground that brought down Duvalier in 1988; Ayiti’s largest political party banned since the coup of 2004; still lead by the liberation theologist Bertrand Aristede, the only person ever democratically elected in the history of Ayiti, elected and toppled twice. Current in solitary confinement in the Canadian built maximum security prison in Croix des Bouquets on trial for corruption and treason, soon they say extricated to France and then The Hague for another black/brown/Balkans despot show trial.

 

If Talleyrand executes him, the whole island will burn.

 

That first battle took place long ago and much as occurred sense. Blood in the eye!

Seeking to raise money and build greater awareness for their struggle and the wholesale murder of his people, Avinadav DeBuitléir flew to the Western coast of the United American States just days before it ceased to be known as the United States of America.

He arrived just one day before the outbreak of the Great Disorder.

The interesting thing is that while President Talleyrand  and several dozen coordinators and military leaders of the Maccoute, along with several thousand other I.C.C. war criminals have gone largely unmolested over a decade after these warrants were issued. Interesting that not a single I.C.C. indicted war criminal is an American, Russian or Chinese citizen?

 

Avinadav DeBuitléir while lecturing was dragged off the stage of Oakland University, body bagged, black hooded, chemically sedated and then shackled in chains. Initially the corporate media ran articles accusing him of “war crimes” in East Africa and linked him to various “Islamist terror networks.” And then several bombs went off mysteriously at the Boston marathon and he disappeared from the public discussion.  And just after that the general uprising began and he was lost in the tumult of slaughter and mass round ups that followed.

He thereafter mysteriously disappeared into a vast and secret prison camp system never presumably to be heard from again. And to most of the people of America it was as if he and his little country, the largest on in Africa; had not ever really existed at all.

 

And then for the next seven years he was ceaselessly tortured for everything they suspected he might know but was so hard thorough all the torture never ever revealed.

 

 

Chapter 12

Fadeeva Street 6, Building 1,

Apt. 67, 2019ce

Moscow

 

The rumbling, crunching, the steel plate grinding, the gritty auditory intrusion and rumbling of the foundations from a convoy passing outside means that tanks and half trucks and fearsome marching mechanical terra-drones are crossing through the district quite near to where we are hiding.

 

I smell tea tree leaves, tiger balm and aftershave on me. I smell her designer perfume but can’t remember what she uses. I guess. Its peony blossoms. The smell of sarsaparilla; its cherry, its frankincense and myrrh.

I want to tear all her clothes off and act like an animal.

She crosses her long legs and lights cigarette.

“No telling,” she says.

And I don’t respond. I just take her in.

“Very interesting,” Dasha notes, “very easy to make Americans forget things. Short attention span as nation. No history of anything.”

“We’re working on it I tell her.”

“Work harder man.”

“History then, give me some history,” I say.

“Your history is far livelier than my history.”

“Well I’ve never heard a story of yours that I didn’t hope might be true. Even the darkest ones. But no dragonfly tales tonight dorogaia.”

“Hmm,” she utters over-thinking, “I will tell you my favorite dragon tale.”

“Like the night we met?”

“Well, then night we met in America was a very different night then the night ten years before it when I watched you; and Emma called Maya and Avinadav called Andrew meet without you knowing I was there,” she grins.

“Intriguing!” I say, “I know for a fact you weren’t there. I met you right before the disorder.”

“But fourth dimensionally speaking, yet I was, and I will tell you the scene I saw out your eyes as you first met your new handlers, and eventual grand conspirators.”

 

“Out my eyes!” I exclaim, “Delightful, yalla then.”

Which means let’s go in Arabic.

She begins; “The year was 2001 of common era. The month was 2^nd July on the Gregorian calendar. You were seventeen years old; Emma was eighteen and calling herself by her Canadian stripper name Maya Rose and Andrew DeBuitléir taken in by the Black Ivorites after fleeing from Ayiti was then twenty six and you were all about to hatch a rather zealous and evidently far reaching plot. It was the summertime and Tel Aviv was hot with war fever and intifada.”

 

And here is how it went:

Her Russian accent disappears completely.

It was incredibly hot in Tel Aviv that summer. Humid and hot, not just desert person hot. And the sea offers no relief. I have moved into a room at the Mugrabi Hostel on Allenby Street five blocks from the Opera Towers.

 

I am renting a cot for 33 sheks a night, which is manageable.

I closed early on Thursday night so I could make it to the club at some reasonable hour. For me closing early is closing any time before 11pm. No one even hits the clubs until around midnight in Israel. In New York you’ve done three bars already by this time. It’s the heat that keeps the nightlife hard, cool and strictly nocturnal.

 

            The Deep is located in the heart of Tel Aviv near the monolithic white tower of the Mitzrad Hapaniim; the Ministry of the Interior. The Ministry is the near tallest building in the city, and right below it two streets down is an underground hotspot nestled on a dark side alley below gas lights and red rope. It is known for its wild after hour’s parties. It is run and operated by Black Ivorites. Emma works as a promoter and a partner. For every twenty five people she brings to the club, her boss Andrew puts five hundred shekels in her pocket, which is about $125 American. Apparently Maya is the top promoter. She is able to bring in roughly two hundred people every Thursday and twice that many on the weekend proper.

 

A well-dressed Israeli Ashkenazi stands at the door with the guest list. Groups of drunken long legged Yemeni frekhot are trying to get into the club without paying. They argue in Hebrew, as I wait behind them to get in. The street is empty besides the girls, the gatekeeper and me. A Black male with a diamond earring in his left ear emerges from behind the red curtain. I assume he is Ethiopian, until I hear him talk.

 

“What the hell are your trifling bitches goin’ on about?”

It is the first time I have heard a trace of the Ebonics language in over a year.

“Excuse me,” I interject.

“Can I help you, cracka jack?” says a young black thug with the enormous diamond earring probably but not necessarily from the land of Zirconium.

I haven’t heard that since New York.

“I’m looking for Maya Rose. She said I was on your list.”

Like some fabulous ghetto St. Peter, this Middle Eastern gangster looks at his list scornfully. He shakes his head looking bored and tired. And then Maya emerges from behind the curtain in a red and white dress, hot and fabulous, tan olive skin.

“Dizzy, this one’s with me,” she says to him and takes my hand.

We walk past the black velvet rope down into a catacomb below the streets into a place that was once a blast shelter. The cavernous basement is packed wall to wall with Israelis who are black and brown. This bunker is dimly lit with red lights and strobes flashing to the beat of the music. There are huge black couches against the walls and white swings installed at the edge of the dance floor. The DJ is spinning Old School American hip-hop music; Tribe called Quest.

I take a seat at the bar with Maya. Other than her I’m the only Caucasian in the place.

“What are you drinking?” she asks me.

“Gold Star.”

“Gone pretty native I see,” she smiles.

She waves down the bartender and whispers something in his ear. I try to pass her some NIS shekel ten spot coins but she looks at me like I’m crazy.

“Drinks are on Andrew,” she says.

“Andrew is the guy who runs this place?”

“Indeed.”

“American?”

“Ayitian. Well, Ivorite now. He used to be from Ayiti, but his whole family got wiped out in the genocide and he snuck over the border to get here and got adopted by the Black Ivorites. Andrew and half the other people who work for this club are Black Ivorites from a little city in the Negev named Demona where the government keeps the nuclear weapons.”

She worked that in there is fluidly.

“You mean, the Ethiopian Ivories.”

“No, there’s a huge difference between an Ethiopian and a Black Ivorite. One’s humble and from Africa and one will call you a cracker and has a nasty jump shot.”

“Where did they come from?”

“Chicago and New York mostly. That was about forty years ago. There are maybe a couple thousand of them living in Israel now. Many like Andrew and other African refugees that end up here don’t have any citizenship. The State of Ivory still doesn’t believe they’re Ivories.’

“State of Ivory doesn’t believe a lot of people are Ivories.”

“It deports them whenever it can. Andrew built up the Deep’s rep for the past year or so a haven for Israeli Blacks who want to rock out. Ethiopians don’t have too many of their own places and I’m sure you’ve seen what happens when a Black guy dances with a White or Russian girl.”

A motherfucking zoot suit riot, throw back a bottle of beer!

 

We drink more and we dance a bit, her much better than me. The hip hop turns into jazz soul and I call her Maya even though she introduced herself originally a week ago as Emma. Use Maya in front of everybody except Andrew she said quietly. I get introduced to a few dozen ‘Black Ivorites’. She introduces me to everyone as Zachariah. I am thrilled to see something like this here. I’ve seen some pretty raw racist shit in the past few weeks of Tel Aviv nightlife. As the night goes on I realize that all of Israel’s minorities are rocking out down here. No one’s white except Maya and I.

 

I finally meet Andrew the Hustler, as some of the Ivorites call him, the man behind this little operation who introduces himself as Avinadav. In a manic little rant about names while rolling up a spliff, he tells me ‘everyone calls him Andrew, but he’s been thinking, dreaming really, that it’s better to use his ‘Hebrew name’ and not his ‘Babylon slave name.’ He is related via adoption to a good many people here. He is the big brother who came to the desert to the big city and made good for the rest of them. He comes across as generous, maybe to a fault.

 

It is really after hours now, like 5 am.

 

Maya, Andrew called Avinadav, and             I are hanging out in the courtyard across from the club as Andrew rolls up another spliff. It is the first time I’ve seen weed being smoked in Israel.

 

“I mean, I’m not saying that a Black guy can’t go to the G-SPOT or the Gat Ramon or any other jump off rave psyche trance party. It happens, it do. But, if they wanna kick game to some Ashkenazi or Russia sister then its problems nine through ten. I mean shit; this Eretz isn’t South Africa or Southside bad. I mean it’s not legislated. I’m just sayin’ all my girlfriends not from the community in Demona are Yemeni girls. They knew about being Black before the Ethiopians and other African refugees got here. Shit, they think of themselves as Black. I think of um like Puerto Ricans actually. I mean the Black man will always be everybody’s favorite nigger. But the Canaanites are givin’ us a run. I mean racism ain’t shit next to holy war. I want chu’ to know I’m not fucked up and high. I’m just wired a bit ‘cause I couldn’t sleep last night. I mean I talk, talk, talk but I feel like you got some shit to say kid.”

 

 

Both Andrew and Maya call me kid or kiddo, but neither is much older than me. Maya is 18 and Andrew is 26.

 

 

“There’s hate based on race and a hate based on religion. Those are just pretexts for political leaders to consolidate powers. Likud and the governing coalition can play ball for years by keeping everybody divided. I mean the Russians, Yemenis and Ethiopians all live in the same shit neighborhoods and go to same run down hospitals, but they can’t wait to fight each other over any stupid thing. The Canaanite Christians, Canaanites in Gaza, Canaanites in the West Bank and the so-called ‘Arab Israelis’ are not even different peoples and they can’t even work together on the uprising. Bedouins and Druze are Arabs but have more in common with the Likud coalition government than with each other. For a nation of eight million there’s quite a bit of disunity.”

 

“We only be unified over beating’ back the other Arab states. Even Canaanites hate the other Arabs. The Jordanians butchered um in ’71. The Lebanese butchered um in ’83, and any person with an open mind knows they aren’t gonna give the Canaanites a country once the Ivories get ‘driven into the sea’. Egypt would take the Negev and the Coast until Ashkelon. Jordan would take the West Bank to the Sea, and Syria would swallow up what was left. Like a football those Canaanites get thrown around to be a thorn in our side. Fools of prophesy.”

“So you consider yourself an Israeli then?” I ask him.

“Even if they don’t consider me one. I mean I ain’t even got Ayitian citizenship, I was never registered. I grew up in Demona. I was reborn in Demona and I ain’t even got a valid todat zeeoot. I’m a resident alien. Don’t even get me started on our troubles back in Ayiti. It was worse before. The state has at least somewhat accepted we ain’t goin’ back to Chicago or Africa.”

Maya barely says a word. We both just listen. I guess she is sizing things up too. Andrew is both articulate and wildly knowledgeable about theology and political science. Maya hasn’t gotten drunk even though she never seems to stop drinking.

 

Finally, when everybody is gone except the three of us; the weed runs out. And Maya says, “Alright Andrew, Avinadav. Drop the fucking ghetto act and let’s take this one to breakfast.”

 

And dawn breaks soon after and Andrew called Avinadav, and Emma called Maya, and I traveling under the name of dead Warsaw ghetto fighter named Zachariah Artstien are now having breakfast at a lonely outdoor café on lower Allenby Street.

 

Avinadav starts right back up.

“So, you a change maker then? That’s a damn good thing ‘cause I’m a change maker too. Something has to give or break because it can’t be like this much longer. To fathom one day one of us bringing a family up in this Balagan. Unthinkable. I mean the three of us, we ain’t gonna see no small change. We’ll soon see a great fight; see a lot of death, but nothing’ we can believe in is ready. We all gotta lay a foundation for the future generations, gotta give our children a higher ground to fight from.”

“Andrew” chuckles.

“But really now, both of you need to try and call me Avinadav even if the others won’t.”

I nod and light one of Emma’s cigarettes. Was I to call her Maya in front of Avinadav even when he called her Emma? Like me she responds quickly enough to both.

She’s looking into me. I don’t know how to describe it any other way.

“So what brought you to Israel, Maya?” I ask her.

“I’m not sure I’ll tell you the really. People are obsessed with this notion that God has the power to dole out property rights,” says Maya, “but I’m mostly here for the beaches.”

“Sure as a pillar of salt once was a woman, God willed this land to us,” interjects Avinadav, “If you ask some Israelis, they’ll tell you that God promised us this land. Ask a Muslim they’ll say they’ve always been here and it is Allah’s will that they remain. Christians wanna take the whole planet anyway. Muslims too, but mark my words, God gave us this stretch to be for the Hebrews.”

“Hebrews?” I ask.

“The title of our thirteen tribes collectively.”

“You mean the Ivories?” questions Maya.

“I think its twelve tribes,” I mention.

“That’s not the proper way we’re called,” he retorts.

“It’s semantics. Ivories, Ivorites, Hebrews. What’s the difference? Weren’t you born Muslim in Ayiti” Maya says with a laugh.

“When the tribes came back from exile in Babylon in the 5^th century BCE there were only three tribes left, Judah, Simeon, Benjamin, and the Levites. The nine others, there were thirteen sister, were lost in Babylon, which means they intermarried, got inter-raped, converted or just never came back. Judah, which is also the tribe that Yeshua the messiah and King David come from, rose to prominence. Levi was the priestly tribe and Benjamin, they all had red hair and now they look Ethiopian. The Romans clashed repeatedly with the Hebrews in 66 CE during the first of three Roman Ivoryish Wars. Which led to rivers of blood, the leveling of the Second Temple and all of Jerusalem to its foundations, diaspora, rape and slavery. In 132 CE during the Bar Kokhba Revolt our people wiped out four Roman legions, the Romans knew these weren’t a people to fuck around with. Judah was the largest tribe so when Masada and later Betar finally fell and the full decimation and Diaspora all began, they derogatorily called our proud Hebrew people the ‘Yahuds’ or Ivories. It was like nigger, a slur imposed in bondage. Now think about the etymology. ‘ISH,” is kind of like. ChildISH, kind of like a child. IvoryISH, kind of like a IVORY. I’m a Hebrew. Even if I was raised Muslim, even if I grew up my whole like being told I was from a place called Ayiti. I’m Hebrew. You two are Hebrew. Not only is Ivoryish a watered-down degrading title, it implies that we are all from the tribe of Yehuda. But we could be from Gad, or Manasseh, or Ephraim or Asher or any of ‘um. It’s like the Nigerians. Or the whole country of Niger. Sure sounds like Nigger to me. Where did they come up with that name I wonder,” he says sarcastically.

 

“I don’t really care whose land Hashem says it is as long as the violence eventually ends,” says Maya.

“Do you believe in Hashem, Maya?” Avinadav asks her point blank.

“Every other Friday.”

“Pardon my candor, but what has Hashem done lately for us?” I mutter.

 

“That’s a loaded question if I ever heard one,” she says.

“Yeah, but let’s answer it anyway,” Avinadav says.

“Well Zach, I suppose not a whole lot. But if there is actually is Hashem, who are we to interpret her actions?” Maya puts in.

“Her?” I ask.

“Hey, if you guys wanna rename whole religious ethnic groups, I feel free to de-masculinize the so-called almighty.”

“That’s fine, fuck the dumb shit” smiles Avinadav.

“Look, to me HaShem isn’t like a be-all-end-all safety net. You don’t get blessed by just believing in her; It. You have to trust It works through the actions of good people more than miracles,” Maya responds.

“And there will be more miracles,” states Avinadav banging on the table.

“I’m not ruling out the existence of HaShem. All I’m saying is that maybe Its given up on us,” says Maya

“How do you figure?” Avinadav demands again attracting the attention of other people in the café more for being Black and loud than for just being loud.

“What if HaShem decided humanity just isn’t worth all the grief we cause. What if it looks at us as a failed experiment and stopped devoting time to divine interventions and the like?” Maya says.

“I’m with that opinion,” I say, “I don’t find it so hard to believe.”

“So you think HaShem has bailed on us?” Avinadav asks us.

“Completely,” she smirks.

“Don’t blaspheme and sound ridiculous at the same time,” Avinadav mumbles in a grin.

“Well let’s not hold our breath on that one. I’m just doing my part working on that miracle in case HaShem holds out,” I answer.

“What kind of miracle, kid?” Avinadav asks.

“The miracle of resistance done right.”

“I like that. The boy’s articulate and totally insane,” Avinadav weighs in.

“I like that about Zach, too,” she says.

“Most people do I bet. Do you ever wonder the purpose of it all, Maya?” Avinadav asks.

“The purpose of what?”

“The purpose of Hashem sending this kid our way?”

“Folks, I’m really not that much younger than either of you.”

“It’s totally random. He just wants to nail me,” she smiles, “There’s no purpose, Andrew.”

“Avinadav.”

“Sorry.”

“Folks, I’m sitting right here.”

“If there is no purpose and there’s no greater meaning to it all, it is pretty pointless to be alive. I mean the things he says are the things this country needs to hear right now,” Avinadav says to Maya.

“He’s just young and you believe in HaShem too strongly. I’m a cynic. I like watching you two talk though.”

“Cynics are fallen idealists frustrated with the failure of their original ideals,” I interject.

“Excuse me?” she utters, “I would like to say I still believe in the potential for a better world, but lately I’ve begun to doubt whether humans would actually tolerate a better world.”

“Our kind is often very-very fucked,” Avinadav reflects openly.

“Only mostly fucked. There’s always high potential for eleventh hour change making,” I say.

“I’m not discounting the fact that there are many good people out there, but certainly not the majority. And less than four dozen in the country that would join what you are talking about. Most people just want to go about their lives and not have to think big thoughts about brave new worlds and the governing factors behind the human nature and if HaShem taps people to participate in history or a higher plan. You’re making demands that never get answered, Zach. Sure people come up with relatively comprehensible concepts explaining certain things about our existence, but even Socrates was working bound the shadows of the cave,” Maya responds.

“What’s your point?” I ask.

“It’s hard to keep the attention of the masses. There is something wrong with the world, but the good people, the heroes you hope to find aren’t interested employing the right tactics for change. Everyone’s trying to survive underground,” Maya tells us.

“What tactics would you employ?” Avinadav asks me.

“The most zealous ones I could find,” I retort.

“Such as?” Maya asks.

 

“You know. Something that tells the people of this country that we rebels aren’t fucking around. Like targeting members of the Oligarchy in Israel and Palestine; the war profiteers, the demagogues, the criminals and the collaborators and executing them one by one on national television. Clearing out our own house first.”

They stare at me for a second. Then at each other and then they go on.

“Spoken like a true zealot,” Avinadav states.

“And what the high fuck would that accomplish,” Maya asks us.

“It would tell the world that no one is impervious to God’s justice,” Avinadav responds for me.

“It would tell the people that the oligarchy is not invulnerable. That we can hit our violators in the face and the pocket,” I say for myself.

Maya takes off her dark glasses and gives us both a ‘you’re both talking like murderous terrorists’ look as she lights another cigarette.

“And then for your second round of organized anarchic calamity?” she inquires under her breath.

“Occupy the temple mount with a few hundred fighters then proceed to blow up the Kotel, Dome of the Rock, and Church of the Holy Sepulchre so no one had any misconceptions about how unholy this war was gonna get,” I say coldly.

“That one I like more,” Maya says, “And for a grand finale black female Jesus could come back with a fleet of gold plated tanks to relieve our hunted and abandoned fighters with the force of her miracles?” she laughs.

“A black Jesus and a female Mahdi,” Avinadav corrects her stone faced.

“There would be a mass retreat into the Negev then over the border into the deep desert of Sinai to regroup. We will unite with the million Bedouin partisans already in insurgency with the Mubarak military regime and capture the major coastal cities with the aid of Iran, a natural ally against the Arab military dictators and the Israeli State. Then we’d capture everything south of Be’er Sheva. Via a coordinated general strike and massive defection within the army, we’d take the central districts and cut the country in half before closing in on Jerusalem.”

“Ah, well. What would you do about the Canaanites and other Arab states that would love to annihilate us while we civil war amongst ourselves,” she says cold and sarcastic, “aided by our new friends in the Islamic Republic of Iran, of course,” is her snide inquisition.

“Well it won’t ever work unless the Canaanites are involved from the beginning within the rebel leadership. We will have to help invalidate Fatah and their Al’Aksa Martyrs Brigade because they’re secular, corrupt puppets. We will have to eliminate Islamic Jihad completely because they’re too nihilistic about their fundamentalism or at least drive them into merging with Hamas.”

They are both staring at me vaguely speechless by my choice of allies no doubt.

“Our obvious ally is Hamas, who will soon emerge as the premiere representative of the Canaanite Intifada and will have to be brought to the bargaining table by pressure from the Islamic Republic of Iran. Hamas, ironically enough, will be our closest ally, the only Canaanite player to fully mobilize their people for this endgame.

“Then we just have to defeat the I.D.F., Shin Bet, Mossad, political machinations of the Knesset and American forces, of course,” sarcastically interjects Maya.

“As I said. After the south and the Sinai are in the hands of the rebel alliance, much of the I.D.F. will join the confederated rebels after the general strike begins if we have properly done or organizing with due diligence. The Knesset and their American supporters will order the I.D.F. to end the strike, and open fire on their own people. Which will seal the fate of the Ivoryish State, America’s 51^st. And light the fire a global uprising.”

“How in hell could you even dream of allying with Hamas?! They want to murder us all. I think you have not been in country long enough to know your people’s will well enough,” Maya scoffs.

“They’re led by Muslim fundamentalists. That means they won’t be co-opted by the secular Arab dictatorships that are American proxies. They hate the leaders of Iraq, Egypt, Syria and the Emirates more than they hate the Israelis,” Avinadav interjects.

“And that’s sort of my point. We want to unite a lot of people who are pretty fundamentalist about everything they believe in,” I say.

She looks at me like I am a mad man.

“Then like magic, and a lot of miracle magic is involved in your plan, these groups fall in line into a united confederacy and then later a governing body of some strange pan-middle eastern free state called called Pal’ Israel?” Maya scowls in disbelief.

“Well actually it would be the “Pal’Israelian Free State” if you wanted to be more unified in the national title,” states Avinadav. “But everyone knows that’s just called Zion anyway. That will never fly with the Arabs though, calling it Zion.”

“What’s in a name?” Maya smirks, “when we have such wild imaginations and so much untested magic.”

“Whatever you build on the Hebrew side you gotta build in Gaza and the West Bank as well. Anywhere with a large Canaanite or Hebrew Diaspora you need to send delegates to address. In New York; in Baghdad; Paris, Deerborn and also Tehran. When the uprising begins it will begin with direct action, proceed to a general strike, and then open revolt in the defense forces and then a rapid move to realign the new nation with the third world, the non-aligned movement and human rights.”

“So like Beirut in 1982?” she says, “Or more like Iran in 1979, but replace Shi’a fundamentalism with populist nationalism founded in human rights and democracy?”

“More like Ayiti in 1791,” I tell her.

“Does he think it’s quite sexy when he says violent radical shit to strangers?” Emma says to Avinadav.

“Real sexy,” Avinadav says.

“Andrew the Hustler” is thinking hard watching a younger, whiter version of himself talk dangerously. He decides not to tell the kid anything about his teenage years in Ayiti. His personal motivations for a holy war.

Maya put her huge black sunglasses back on and is sipping on her coffee while smoking a Marlboro menthol cigarette. A waiter brings out a large platter of hardboiled eggs, a pitcher of orange juice, another of Turkish coffee and something sort of like hash browns and Israeli salad, which consists of diced cucumbers, avocado, tomatoes, Zetar spice and onions.

We’re all eating from the same plate.

“What’s the blue print then, boys? You’ve fallen in love. I can see it in your eyes,” Emma says to us.

“Well then, Zachariah. You got some big crazy fucking ideas. HaShem sent you to us. That I know. I got the means. She’s got the will when she’s willing. We can talk all morning but fuck the dumb shit, as I like to say, what you playin’ with here?”

 

I am smoking deeply from one of Emma’s Marlboro Lights.

 

“I’ve been dreaming for a long time about making a stand, about a small group of people showing the world that we need not live our lives like slaves lashed to a rolling engine of war. I know this in my heart. If we can rally the wretched of this broken land behind a banner of unity, then the land of tears and blood will yield the milk and honey promised,” I tell them.

“Bottom line. What’s the very first step?” Avinadav asks.

“I did not come here to lead. I came here to serve my people as a front line fighter and lend my voice to this cause,” I tell him.

“Well what’s the first course of action that might bind us together,” Maya asks me, “And what’s our final objective?” she asks, “how far would you like to take this little uprising?”

“What do you want long-term, Zachariah? What are we conspiring to really do? I want you to say it a simple sentence so we three can digest the severity of what we plan to set in motion,” Maya says.

“Say it once and never again ‘til it’s real,” Andrew says.

I smother my cigarette butt in the cheap grey plastic ash tray.

“Our aim is to topple the government of Israel and use this Promised Land as a base to export a global uprising to secure universal human rights,” I tell them.

It’s finally dawn. July, 3^rd 2001.

“I’m with it,” Avinadav says his eyes never blinking, “like a nuclear armed Middle Eastern Cuba.”

He looks to Emma for her stance and approval.

“And of course I am too,” says Maya, “somebody’s gonna have to make sure women don’t get cut out as usual when the freedom starts getting handed out,” Emma grins darkly. “I hope you got some real good magic, kid.”

“Or hope someone is on our side that is good with those miracles,” I respond.

 

“You bring the New York magic, Avinadav will worry about the miracles and we will find the zealots together,” says Maya Solomon.

 

Dasha Andreavna drops back into Russian.

 

“And with dawn broken, your intentions made plain and your basic plot articulated you all then set yourself on a war path. And within one year both you and Avinadav would be deported back to Africa and America respectively, all your followers would be imprisoned or killed and Maya herself would be crucified and then disappear into thin air,” she says as if testifying to something she was a part of.

 

“And that is story of how the modern Z.O.B. was born or reborn if you over-stand me. In near perfect detail, if I am not mistaken,” says Dasha Andreavna as if she was there.

 

“How did you know all that I,” I say, or really exclaim.

 

“Because Maya Solomon the Tzadikk ha Dror told me right after she met you. She told me everything and let me see it from her eyes, from your eyes and from his.”

 

‘Zounds,’ says my silence.

“Now put me in your mouth,” she says.

 

 

Chapter 13

Fadeeva Street 6, Building 1,

Apt. 67, 2019ce

Moscow

 

The light flickers.

 

She’s really been letting me have it.

It’s on some kind of timer to conserve power. It isn’t connected to Moscow’s central power grid. The Fire Station informs us that there are nationwide black outs and that the civil unrest has spread to St. Petersburg, Yekaterinburg, Novosibirsk, Omsk, Nizhy, and Rostov-on-Don! We have a telescreen somewhere in the house, but frankly once the carnality and the drinking and the story telling got under way, current events have been the least of my concerns.

As Orwell once famously said, “we who remember the past will also control the future” or something like that.

When her story comes to conclusion, she jumps up, erupting in some new manic burst of energy. I love her gyrations; her naked glory. I had taken in the story ponderously quiet. The two tales spun of my mentors and dear departed friends Maya and Avinadav were quite comeuppance by the revelation that she knew every word of the first failed plot.

 

And now reanimated it is my turn.

 

Her foot presses down upon my chest. In her hands she holds the leather bound poetic volume I gave her right before my death.

 

“Do you want war stories or love poems?” she asks me.

She presses down harder bearing her weight upon me naked as the day she was so gloriously brought into the world. And I wish to fall upon her and tenderly kiss every aspect of her body, lay my lips to work upon the insides of her thighs.

But, she stares down at me like a stern and glorious Valkyrie.

“You plan to compose or simply read what I’ve written in your name?” I ask her.

Several times on the Brighton Boardwalk she’d read to me the works of Vladimir Mayakovsky. Before I spoke Russian and I had to follow along in English from a version that laid out his poems in the two antagonistic languages page by page.

She just presses her weight on me and leers.

“Well dammit man pick for me!”

“Read me Mayakovsky again then if you won’t compose a story.”

I do not flinch and relentlessly she steps upon my heart.

“Which one?” she asks.

“Backbone Flute.”

            She shakes her head.

Her blond locks sweeping about.

“Cloud in Trousers,” she counters.

It is I who shake my head in negation.

“Breuklyn Bridge,” she asks peering into me applying her voluptuous pressure.

She makes herself weightless. Retracts her offensive. Blows me a coy kiss.

“As you like. You are stunning too stunning for much resistance,” I stammer.

“I am. What did you do to deserve so much of me?”

In my mind’s eye I see myself fighting through a whole carload of gangsters on a speeding train with a brief case and a ball pin hammer; I see myself jumping out of plane over Moscow a red and blue parachute erupting behind me. I see the hail of gun fire that cut me down at the Millennium Theatre. I see the armies of Caesar and Napoleon. I see the ghetto on fire. I see myself beaten within an inch of my life forced on my shattered knees to watch soldiers gang raping my wife, and then two shots to my head.

“Everything I could think of.”

“I am your total muse.”

“And the only reminder of my humanity,” I tell her and she seizes my hand to squeeze.

She then pounces beside me and thrusts the volume back to me.

“Declare it again! Read me a poem that without any rhyming declares how I own your mechanical heart completely. And after that I will give you Mayakovsky or anyone else, I will sing you songs; I will even make your war stories sound tame with mine. Tell me again that you will love me forever!”

 

“Of course. Until I have no words left at all.”

 

I rise to my feet sturdy upon the Jerusalem tile of safe house floor, and outside the snow continues to drape us under its unending glory. The tanks rolling through the streets and bugs in the wall are all upended in attention by the glorious woman in front of me.

 

 

Dasha,

 

 

I interrogated you with Newport cigarettes pursed at my lips.

And you sized me up like a slave on the market block.

 

Emergently my covered wagon has been jettisoned and set ablaze by a blonde haired savage,

A mercenary in clad multicolored finery,

With war paint under both blue eyes.

 

Brandishing a spear and also a bottle of Russian Standard.

 

She’s since infused my life with her Red Bull risings and cynical parables on the subject of snow ball fighting with General Winter.

 

“Drink!” she whispers out her demands.

 

“Until in naked oblivion you can pronounce my name in full glory!

Take in all its parts and thus know my demons and also my saints.

Extoll me as your eternal choicest muse. Make me your goddess and savior, secretly.”

 

And thus I went to work.

 

My pen and pipes, belting out prose, parable and promises to fight for her to the death.

 

And she beat me half to tears with the venyike.

 

In a wild Peony Ambush,

She put herself upon me,

Robbed me bandit blind.

Of my heart, and second soul as I made art to celebrate the coming of she into me.

 

Penniless as a proverb.

 

I marshaled all remaining vagabond tendencies into the rigorous use of my baller ball point pen.

 

Woman, you are a golden locked lioness.

Boxing with me, you strike incite and nerves unnerving furious fascination.

Womb to tomb!

You Caspian blue terrorist!

Thing of profoundest beauty!

Drag me down the Brighton Boardwalk and set me as an effigy of hopeless romanticism on the Sands of Sea Gate!

Sky high on fire.

Take me to pyre.

 

When our correspondence first began in September it was like a report on a Cherokee Indian massacre.

Communicated via the passing of notes.

We conducted then a lively human traffic in roses and poems and also in promises.

 

A triangle trade.

 

You dripped wax on me shortly after.

I wrote you a play.

“I will try to believe any stories I tell you and you will make me immortal!”

In words and in dreams.

Pull!

I produced on demand and she shot each product down.

Exploding clay pigeons with poems tied to paw, and smoke signals playing out on the prairie skies, steppes and later the chalk marks made on the promenade off Banner Ave were the guarded displays of my awe.

 

More fire!

She proclaimed, by not proclaiming.

 

You tied me to a post and blind folded me so that in a mirror I’d not see my manly limitations, my grinning devils leering.

 

I, the artist would then yell fire!

 

And poems would be fired off, absconding into night with you as their target; their words would roll out the barrel of my wit without even seeking to dress themselves in the fine garments of rhyme.

 

The essential quality of a muse is that she will be perfect.

 

While at the same time being deeply flawed.

 

At times she will desire to taste you and be fueled on your fluids, intoxicate herself on your writhing talents taking the form of depiction and futurist words.

She is thrilled to test my will, taking me into the shadows of some late night smoke inundated poorly lit alley way.

Kissing me to tears under gas lit wind swept boulevards.

At other times, she teases out my rough savant best by ignoring me completely.

Make me create in some wilderness cave like a mad Hebrew prophet,

In some Warsaw ghetto tenement, create brave new worlds, burn apart in the steams of the bath house old dead tragic pasts until the proper 13th hour when she calculates just when I will be ready to perform.

Then dripping I emerge!

The greatest show; the highest form of art is after all the private performance you give her,

While these are not immortal, their audience of one is the source, the very foundation and subject of all the war effort!

 

The muse is not there to please you.

 

She is there to drag you uphill, in an assault on the profane glory of false gods and the smallness of men who plot in listless towers.

Oh yes!

Only an artist can challenge the gods and the shackles of mortality they put upon us.

 

The essential quality of the artist is that he, or she, will possess some skill and some embattled implements that when rendering her muse perfections, and converting her human flaws into deeply troubling, yet inspiring cautionary apropos that;

This bi-pole, this anomaly of the creative process will then allow the artist the widest canvas to cast her into the form of goddess, a celestial being, a savior, a seductress, or an angel.

 

The artist regardless of his weaponry will be fighting his way up Bunker Hill.

 

When he gets there he will declare:

 

“Love me until your love overwhelms the white gates of heaven.  Ravish me blind until I only see myself in the blue ocean of your eyes!”

 

Her greatest strength as a subject is her ability to assume the form of desire but also to unleash a savage and indiscriminate rejection of the artist unless each piece produced is an improvement on her immortalization.

 

For were the muse to be a submissive Siberian doll.

An inanimate beauty. Well that is just an act of painterly masturbation.

 

Useless to me.

Please excuse for,

My Muse makes art a contact sport!

And in the steams of the Banya I assume the form of Krepki Mushik,

Strong man making fearless art.

She’s a most capable gypsy partisan.

A hooligan seductress.

A wild eyed savage, she holds herself up as a virtuous courtesan, lady at heart, source of great and the granddaughter of Ivoryish Baroness.

Under her folds I do utter when the steams clear and no one occupies the coffin ship but we:

 

I’ll Lick your tits and drink Borjomi!

 

And then compose a body of Amerikanski poems that will put all previous to shame.

 

 

Poem #012: Muse of the Brighton Bathhouse.

Dedicated to Dasha Andreavna. 

 

In loving awe,

 

 Vasa

 

 

Quietly, she puts a finger to her lips; points to herself and then traces with her free hand an upside down heart. Then points to me with bright blue eyes glowing. And perhaps it is only moments like these in which I do not mind the idea of living forever.

 

She gives me this look, it’s a wonderful look and I can tell that she’s waiting for a new compliment of some kind, though it is I who has performed all the labor of latest storytelling and poem reading. It is a look well known by all men who well appreciate the company of women, though Slavic women possess in particular a complete speechless vocabulary of body language and ocular “communicative” designated for the invitation of flattery. Verbal flattery being the least evocative. She could listen to me praise her for years, but only via deeds could she accept it as real. She revels in my awe sometimes. But she wants me to acknowledge her loyalnost.

 

Her participation in the uprising was hardly an act of idealism.

 

She also wants to see me acknowledge just how far she’s come in accepting “the blacks” from her more youthful days when we met last at the Mehanata Social Club in New York and she declared them all a “race of criminal barbarians incapable of civilized behavior, much less of guarding the bloodlines of prophets and potential messiahs.”

“Foreshadowing?” Dasha asks, “Is that the right word?”

“Da,” I reply. This means yes.

 

“You love me a lot, this certain. I want another kind of story. Less about rebel chornay, more about we Russians in your next round,” she declares.

 

“As you wish,” I smile.

“Don’t princess bride me man, I know I’m breaking turn, but I want a story about the great infamous hit list. About the conspiracy hatched on the dawn of Breuklyn’s liberation where to secure human right a band of killers were sent out wild to violate them in their fullest. ”

“No more small talk?”

“Big talks from here on out. Big specific talks! With me and metal insects in the wall as our witness.”

“The retribution list or the purge list?” I ask. Another way to say; our crimes or those of the oligarchy.

“The purge list first.”

“The ante upped so early in the game!”

“Oh we have time. I suspect the curfew will not end with anything short of a brutalizing knock on our safe house door. But in the meantime. More fire. More tales. If I become bored I can always put you to work lying on my back.”

I stick my tongue out at her, which I know she despises unless it is between her legs. I kiss her on her cheek and then retreat quickly.

“They made a list and they checked it twice. It was a list of one hundred and four men who had to pay with their lives for a series of crimes against humanity,” I explain with glee.

“They coordinated it all online via ‘the Anonymous’.”

“Who are these anonymous ones?” she asks with a smug little grin.

I go right into the story knowing full well just how savvy via server she truly is.

“It began and it ended in this very city where we so sumptuously now hide.”

“Moscow!” she exclaims.

A true Russian patriot.

 

 

Chapter 14

Sandooney Bathhouse, 2018ce

Moscow

 

 

Aqua pebbles drip down the almond colored marble walls of the cavernous steam bath house. One can feel ones waters escape them. The white sheets of winter falling outside have no effect on them here. It’s the day before Yom-Kippur so everyone with two souls is trying to get their house in order on a tight time budget. Ysiad Ferraris, a Dominikani convert to the Yid-prayer-ways meets an old friend in the Sandooney Bathhouse in the capital city of the Russian Federation:

 

Moscow!

 

He is there to pledge money and first line armaments toward an irregular invasion of Ayiti and the Dominican Republic. He does so begrudgingly and not before terse deliberation is carried out systematically.

 

Ysiad is in the Russian Federation carrying out his perpetually shady and often aggrandized, although admittedly highly lucrative business deals and a man named Sebastian Adon, traveling under the paper work of “Vasyli Pveada” is in Moscow doing wet work. Both kinds. With both hands and no hands. Take that to mean whatever you will. His Otriad, an irregular paramilitary brigade holding seven districts of rebel Breuklyn, periodically executes a number of high level human traffickers and assorted war criminals before the high holidays and it’s been a black bag, grey mask kind of weekend. The long arms of the Breuklyn Otriad stretch wide around the world, and on the killing moon daggers are known to fall upon slavers, splayed in public to make an example of their crimes against humanity.

 

It began as a retribution act, had progressed to a global demonstration of will and reach, now it was just a bloody hobby sport, on his end at least. A man has to stay busy in his death and exile. The inter-web says 103 targets have been killed over the past three years, but certainly his squad is responsible for only a part of that bloody accomplishment.

 

In case one was keeping track of such things there are an estimated 47 million humans living in various forms of chattel slavery and it’s a growth industry. History will prove the great African extraction and serfdom itself far more benign. It will shortly beat out the transshipment of narcotics and street pharmaceuticals in profitability. Executing functional middle men on the supply end of the chain is not nearly as effective as killing the brokers on the demand side. Unfortunately the variable of most importance is men in first world nations purchasing sex and pornography. And that is so widespread retributive action would be completely confused with indiscriminate killings.

 

Sebastian and his Unit 808 for the past three years have been hunting down and liquidating targets all over Europe, Latin America and the former Soviet Union. Supported by an anonymous network of hackers and devoted Information & Intelligence Case Officers back in Breuklyn Soviet. They’ve left a very bloody trail of terror doing their part in the global purge of the corporate oligarchy’s worst henchmen and profiteers.

 

Sebastian’s regular partner on such messy assignments is the light skinned Ayitian Watson Entwissle. He has dagger sharp eyes and freckles. He dresses completely in blacks and grey tones except when the two of them make light attempts at leave and leisure. Mr. Entwissle is seated in the lobby waiting area above the steam baths. He has a burner strapped to his inner left torso and a concealed Sicarri blade affixed to his left wrist.

 

A Sicarri blade is like a long extending pin which extends from the size of a pen to the length of a forearm. Were you so inclined you could plunge the blade into a person’s heart from behind, insert it into their ear, or use it to administer heart stopping or clot forming drugs.

 

Typically, the kills are made in crowded public places like nightclubs, sporting events and markets. Generally by jamming the Sicarri blade into the base of the skull or through the ear of the target. But that kind of flourish is not what their infamous Unit 808 is known for.

 

They are now experts at making bad people die seemingly natural deaths. The blade can also far more subtly inject medication or radioactive isotope intramuscularly.

 

Getting away with murder has a lot to do with hiding in plain sight. And to cover bases, having a virtually unlimited expense account, a wide network of spies and sympathizers, as well as a flicker mask goes along way too.  A flicker mask makes the face indistinguishable on closed circuit television cameras. It can also be programed via its Nano-chips to project other faces. It has the texture of skin tight grey colored form fitting cloth.

 

“The Anonymous” drew up a long, long list of women and men guilty of crimes against humanity responding by the first directive issued by the so-called militant human rights movement to “draw up a black list of the violators”. It then circulated their photographs and their addresses if available. It circulated their locations via GPS if their sim card numbers or IP addresses became available. It froze their bank accounts when possible. It detailed their crimes and invited anyone with a weapon to carry out justice. The Sicarri dagger men of the Z.O.B. were but one group broken into four units of three killers taking part of this international scavenger hunt that would be known historically as “The Purge.”

 

“Neutralize the war criminals. Punish the profiteers. Disrupt the global plantation system at its primary, secondary and tertiary supply side manufacturing and transshipment points,” so states the website http://www.FRIENDSOFTHEPEOPLE.com.

 

“We have suggestions,” so the website claims.

 

Like many part-Noires Watson distrusts the very concept of the Banya. One is completely exposed. Sebastian Adon has been “dead” for three years. Watson has been entrusted by a variety of high ranking Club leaders, and Ayitian politicians to follow this man past his grave and through the heavens and hells of Eurasia carrying out the operation assigned down to the very last kill.

 

Now, three black years in, most of their task force has been “re-called”. Those that were not killed in the process of carrying out the club’s commitment to the purge. Properly killed after being thoroughly and brutally tortured. Every single execution, every job was authorized from the Executive in Breuklyn Soviet. A priority list of war criminals, profiteers, and agents of the oligarchy to be rubbed out were selected by the I & I Section off the greater purge list and the dagger men were sent to carry out the death sentences one by one.

 

Tonight is the last scheduled assignment. One last job and they can get on the flight back to Palmares Island; reach the sandy beaches of Ayiti-DR.

 

Watson has his fingers perpetually crossed. Retirement never looked so fucking sweet.

 

Maya Solomon has given him very explicit orders about the carnage to be carried out in the capital tonight. The Russian Federation is rather close to acknowledging the status of Breuklyn Soviet as a “free state”. Having a bloody crisis in their capital is highly embarrassing to the F.S.B. and is to be avoided all costs. Since you can’t ever have Putin as your friend, you try not to have him as an enemy. If you are in the business of exporting a human rights revolution you have to know it’s a long game, and the best deal you can make with a devil is not have him believe you can soon turn your guns on the gates of hell.

 

There are certainly two devils in the body of Sebastian Adon.

At least two.

 

There was the man he was before the uprising and there is the man he has become since.

 

The first devil was easily tempered by the lifesaving interventions he carried out as a paramedic, also by angels whispering noble causes into his ears. This second devil is far more savage. Watson remembers the man who helped found the militant human rights movement delivering a baby in the Rich Man Tower Projects, his care and love for strangers; his willingness to assume great risk for those he doesn’t even know. He has lately seen Adon cut men apart. Blow men to pieces. Carry out kill after kill so that European streets would run red with the blood of those that serve the oligarchy at the price of humanity. Watson Entwissle has helped him every step of the way on this high minded killing spree.

 

They are all that’s left of a twelve person task force. All that’s left of Unit 808.

 

Watson is upstairs watching comings and goings. Sebastian is having a long palaver with an old friend and associate. A man who doesn’t believe in anything except high stakes gambling where even his only real friend is but a wild card to hedge a bet.

 

Ysiad Ferraris is shaved bald by choice and muscular from years of Bikram yoga. Sebastian Adon is a brunette with a hard body covered in small, largely self-inflicted burns and scars. He does not permit himself tattoos, so these edge or fire marks suffice to remind him of vicious battles won for the girl that was taken away. Depends who is asking. He’s been known to tell elaborate yarns to cover a trail or justify his latest murders. His history like others with old souls is long. His yarn is far beyond the level of any casual parapsychologist, certainly more story that for a Sunday confessional. He’s half Yid, half Mic too if anyone’s ever asking. But he can make himself look like a Russian when he has to. And a flicker mask can make him look like anybody. And a clone of his corpse left at mass casualty incident can make him look pretty dead.

 

He has a tragic penchant for lost causes and Postsoviet women.

 

Rumors speculate that in some past life his true love was taken from him violently. It’s anyone’s guess about how true any of his back stories are. He’s fond of the phrase, “life is balance.” His interpretation of that is that if he spent ten years saving the lives of the wretched and poor, he can spend ten more brutally killing the perpetrators of gross human rights violations. Sometimes he claims he prays, but he’s just talking to himself or Maya Solomon. Watson has not seen him bed a woman in three years. If there is some clandestine courtship or fuckery occurring under his nose it would be hard to discern who it truly was that so possessed him. His marriage to Maya Sorieya Solomon was as much a charade as his cold corpse laying in the D.H.S. mortuary still the subject of negotiations for recovery.

 

Watson suspects that he still corresponds, and dreams of the Russian.

 

The bathhouse or Banya as called in Cyrillic is perhaps the most famous Banya in all of the Postsoviet Union. It’s a veritable palace of hot steam, marble and voluptuous working women always on beck, bend and call. Enough to make a dead Cosmonaut or the still unburied corpse of Lenin blush, or rise back to attention.

 

It has been nearly a year since they’d last seen each other.

 

“I heard a man once say that if you know history you can gauge his next move. I assure you that zealots don’t follow that rule on any individual level,” says Ysiad Ferraris.

 

Ysiad grew up within the sprawling slums of the Bronx in New York City. In a housing project in the District Morrisania he cut his teeth before the fall of the old regime in a red brick tenement shit hole whose elevators always stunk of piss and rot and feces. He seldom recounts this story. He doesn’t trust most people. Only his wife, a Yiddish named Daviyya and sometimes his friend the infamous Mr. Adon. Ysiad makes a lot of people nervous with the work he does. He now runs hedge funds for black collar criminals. Think development graft in Central Asia. Think large scale black bag real estate deals in the Saudi Peninsula. Business advising and tech support for men who take crude oil bathes. Think about creative uses for container ships and also social security numbers. The very worst connotations of the “import-export business”. Adon on the other hand is an avenging zealot, posing as an ambulance man. You’d think they had little in common, besides appreciation of bath houses and for mouthfuls and handfuls of big well formed Ruus-Soviet tits.

 

Adon has closed files with a few very serious intelligence bodies. A body is lying in a morgue somewhere that matches his DNA enough for the Central Intelligence Agency, Federal Bureau of Investigation and the Department of Homeland Security to have declared him “neutralized file closed”. The F.S.B. has its doubts as to his death. The Mossad knows him very well to be an asset as long as he is kept out of the Middle East. He’s only still alive because he’s proficient, works night shift and is officially dead. And bribes are punctually paid on his behalf and he is efficient at the returning of high level favors.

 

He often travels with an intricately forged Catalan passport declaring his name to be “Zacharias”. He is currently travelling as a Cuban citizen named “Vasyli”.

 

Maybe Bon-Dieu “the Good God” smiles on those who organize the murder of sex traffickers. Maybe the spirits like that Captain Entwissle and he for three years have been hanging violators swinging from trees and rafters, leaving blood messes in broad nightlight hits; quietly delivering evil men to the grave with radiation, blood clots and heart stopping pharmaceuticals. Men always need to think god or a woman is cheering for them.

 

They’re mostly always wrong when it comes to their killing.

 

Watson and Sebastian began this operation with ten other operatives and a blank check for mayhem. No one walked away unscathed. As designed the job was a scaled up version of the Israeli post-Munich Olympics reprisals. Scaled up quite considerably. The very first use of the internet to outsource extrajudicial targeted killings of human rights violators!

One survivor is back in Breuklyn Soviet. She is the current Information & Intelligence Section Chief, a woman named Anya Drovtich. Four are rehabilitating psychologically in Ayiti-DR and the other six were killed over the course of the assignment. The higher profile the target the more subtle were the kills, at least on this units end. The former dictator of Zimbabwe and the exiled Syrian Minister of Information died of chemically induced cardiac arrests. The head of Russian owned energy firm Gazprom died in his sleep from a pulmonary embolus. They spent entirely too much time in the Former Soviet Union. Bosnian concentration camp commanders died of asthma attacks. As compared to the owners of Amsterdam’s nine largest brothels which all were dismembered and dumped onto the streets. Or the Albanian traffickers executed in Kosovo in the middle of packed night clubs.

Or the expatriate leadership of the Ayitian Tonton Maccoute (Boogie Men with Sacs) all decapitated in France, Algeria and Morocco.

Or the primary shareholders of Samsung and Apple.

 

            What allowed the longest threshold of assassination was:

 

1. a) That there was not a discernible pattern to the deaths.
2. b) That the very latest in life saving technologies were used in the reverse direction.
3. c) That “Anonymous” paid out lump cash rewards for data and confirmed captures or kills. And that kills paid more than captures.
4. d) That the internet allowed civilians all over the world to send in data.
5. e) That the crimes these men and women had been sentenced to die for were rather well corroborated.
6. f) And, that no executions were to be carried out in Russia, China, or the U.A.S.

 

High-end bioterrorism met with full moon bouts of medieval barbarism. What let the body count climb so high so quickly with so little collateral civilian damage was that “the Anonymous” put the power of vengeance in the hands of the everyday people.

The Breuklyn Bath and Rifle Club just did its part in the effort.

Ysiad looks over his old friend and says:

“More people know you to be alive than you realize. And dangerous ones at that.”

“You came to me once and said you had “a complex plan.” I always told you all your plans are overly complex, and that’s just thinly veiled code for fucking insane. They often fly in the face of what I know to be human nature, or reasonable doubt. Your guerrilla medical apparatus in Ayiti was an inspired piece of work however. This is a prerequisite for an Adon style plan. Your inspiration I mean. You came to me first because I’m probably the richest person you can trust. You obviously have some strong patrons in your extended family and general war camp, but a trusted inside backer is so vital when seeking to accomplish the nearly impossible, your obvious distaste for all governments aside, even the seemingly happily leftist regime of your new little Breuklyn based micro republic. You have many times sought to suck me into the mechanics of your Otriad, and always failed due the outlandishness of your schemes. I have so little use for a buck wild revolutionist, and when you ceased to be a purely loud one it was easier to be friends with you. Suffice to say by dying and then ending the separatist wars and related secessionist troubles and in pulling off a now six year lasting defensible union of Brooklyn, Queens, Long Island the Bronx, well it’s been very good for my business. And of course your club’s position in that anarchic little micro-republic is very good for business too. Cheers to the pirate bays of Coney Island!”

They schvitz away.

The room is hotter than an elopement with a Ruus hoodlum’s lady property or a burner with cop bodies scattered across a district. The air is thick with Eucalyptus-Birch vapors and man sweat. Ysiad hopes hell has a halfway decent Banya, “cause that’s where we may end up going if you Yids are wrong about the whole there not being a punitive afterlife”.

“So planning the invasion of all Africa this time?” he finally asks Sebastian.

“Such was their vote,” Adon says referring to the 18^th Congress of the Breuklyn Otriad.

“And your whole apparatus is now behind you on this?”

“Most of our people are behind us on this. Some think it too ambitious at a heightened cost in treasure and blood. Some feel we ought to be content with consolidation here and throughout the Confederacy. Others believe we ought to be turning our attentions to the home front. I’m in the go big or go home camp. The vote is on my side of this argument as of last week.”

“Solomon obviously is still calling the biggest shots?”

“Solomon obviously would like me think this was our collective plan, but yes. She leads the consensus via her powers of precognition.”

“For zombies in exile, you two have great amounts of pull. But, this goes against the grain a little tactically. Your home team, this isn’t exactly what you first enlisted them for. Para-state work and irregular warfare in Africa are horses not of nearly the same color. And you and she are supposed to be low profile and quite dead. The armistice holds, but this will complicate everything surely. And what the fuck are you doing in Moscow?”

“Well, I think a Trojan horse goes where the water is most cold.”

“What the fuck does that even mean man?”

“An old Russian saying.”

“Fuck them hard in every hole and compensate them for it, but don’t ever quote them. That’s what I always say.”

“Or fall for them hopelessly over and over,” Sebastian mutters eyes drifting to past lives and vanquished affairs.

“I only hope these days you’re staying away from all that. The world has no use at all for a serial killing revolutionist visionary who is also as hopeless romantic poetry writing puppy dog. No use at all.”

“Touché as always old sport. The general membership has voted in favor and when this is put in proper perspective the invasion will certainly occur. Now, it is just a question of the scope of accomplishment attached to our actions, just how much take we can take.” Adon smirks, “so what-cha say Easy?”

Smoothing this out by using his high school nickname.

“Prove to me in two-quarters you’ve got enough men to make a lasting historical impact and I’ll provide you the container ships and charter planes to move them into position with weapons in hand.”

“How much is enough men to make such impact in your mind?”

“Like three hundred, that worked for the Greeks right? If three hundred Yids and Blans get killed fighting those Maccoute, on a slow news week maybe you’d make cover of the New York Times.”

“We want the full attention of the world at large. We’re going to need shit tons of global populism to make all this work. And, you’d better have that capital ready old sport because we already got more muscle than that lined up.”

“Don’t get all Great Gatsby on me son,” Ysiad says with a grin.

“You’re gonna need a lot of rifles,” he then notes.

“As any as we can lay our hands on,” Adon responds, “and a few massive favors from the Cubans, Trinidadians, Ayitians & Dominican diaspora, Persians and also the Israelis as well as the full support and approval of the G.A.I.”

“What’s that an acronym for again?”

“Gwoup Ayisyen Pou Ijans, the Ayitian Emergency Group.”

“Ah! Tiputti Capois’s outfit. Planning to do some saving and some killing while in Ayiti are you? Weekend in Port-Au-Prince then soon?”

“Soon as tonight’s job is done.”

“About that. I’ve heard a few rumors flying around that who you’re after isn’t going to be easy to reach. He’s not even a high priority hit. You’re just wrapping up a list.”

“I’m just finishing off that list.”

“Well just know that people know; certain well connected super violent former Soviet people know that you’re going after the guard colonel, tonight. I’d just be cautious and decide if it’s really worth it. You and your Ayitian are valuable players. This guy Putin would love to embarrass the U.A.S. authorities by taking you alive.”

“Well good thing no one knows I’m alive.”

“Well Alexandre Perchevney sure does. He’s going to be my silent partner in rearming your club. And if he knows then that information is for sale.”

 

“Sasho,” mutters Adon.

 

He is referring to one of the most prominent Russian oligarchs on the playing field. In reality; a Bulgarian-Ukrainian Ivory. But these days who’s counting.

“I once knew his daughter Hachi rather well. She’s married to my associate Mr. King.”

“Oh that I’m all too aware of. It’s good you’re almost done. You couldn’t really hope to keep killing people with power much longer before they got hold of you. Yelizaveta is in Havana is she not?”

Ysiad is referring to Alexandre’s first daughter.

All he gets in return is some version of the forty yard stare.

“Your war of letters isn’t nearly as captivating as your war of deeds Mr. Adon. I suspect she will always come around again to your neo-Jacobin advances.”

“Well that’s hardly what Ayiti has proved Mr. Ferraris.”

“Ayiti in the end just proved there is truly no such thing as a free black republic without a Yid keeping the lights on.”

“Give us four more years’ tovarish.”

“Never forget I am your friend, but my no stretch of imagination your comrade. You have two quarters. Get your house I order and I’ll make sure you have exactly what you need for the usual price of souls, glory and treasure. Hachi Yu is running a restaurant supper club in Las Vegas she will be the point person for coordinating arms purchases via the Perchevney Bratva. I’d forget about the Guards Colonel and fly to the Caribbean tonight. The moon is full and the FSB knows that your club has a unit in Moscow. If they don’t know it’s you, they at least know who you’re after.”

“That bastard is going to die tonight. And then we’re closing the book.”

“Are you still in touch with little Yelizaveta?” Ysiad asks.

He gets no response.

“I suppose the procedure worked just fine then,” he declares.

“So you’ll work out the logistics with the Israelis and the club can make procurements via Ms. Hachi Yu Perchevney?

“That’s right old friend. As soon as you’re ready and the contracts are drawn up about oil concessions and port access and pipe lines. We run a business after all. We don’t just help you people out of loyalty.”

“There is one last piece to the equation that must be squared away. Once it is then you will be the first person alerted via sky pager to the flashing green light for attack.”

“Avinadav DeBuitléir?”

“Exactly.”

“Well don’t get killed tonight and I’ll see you in Santo Domingo for Champagne and a fuck fest.”

“I don’t drink,” Adon says.

“You still fuck don’t you?”

“I mostly just save or kill when I must.”

“The poor martyr he says,” playing the world’s smallest violin.

“Don’t bullshit me! I know the little bitch ripped your heart out good and you’ve gone on a bit of a bender. But the reality it is that it’s not healthy for man to abstain from life’s best pleasures. All to be found on the eastern two thirds of Palmares Island!”

Ysiad can tell the procedure worked because the old Adon might have well struck him in the face for calling his Yelizaveta “a bitch”.

“Forget about Guards Colonel Yuri Dmitrievich Budanov,” says Ysiad Ferris, “you ain’t gonna get near him. Now let’s shake and toast to the liberation of Ayiti.”

“Salud,” Sebastian says.

Ysiad clinks a shot of Russian Standard to Sebastian’s bottle of Borjomi.

 

Wouldn’t be the first or the last time Sebastian has made a deal with the devil for a noble cause. Upstairs Watson Entwissle looks down impatiently at his gold watch and wonders how soon they can get out of this cold, bleak lawless empire. He prefers his gangsters residing in the tropics. Easier to bury and then hit the beach. And without flicker mask he stands out like sore thumb in this country.

 

The snow has dropped a blanket of desolation over Moscow and no roof or high wall will keep its worst thieves safe tonight. Guards Colonel Yuri Dmitrievich Budanov of the 160^th Guards Tank Regiment is finally going to pay for his crimes.

 

 

 

Chapter 16

East New York, 2019ce

Breuklyn Soviet

 

The candle light flickers.

The world outside might well be on fire and the sky may be falling but the Nina Simone playing on the record player in the next room, and our telling of tall to order tales takes our minds off the quickly spreading flames of the greatest revolution history has ever known. In our lusts of solitude, we hear Nina moaning heartbreak and 808’s over the old school sound system in the next room.

“Tak. Switch narrator!” I declare.

Dasha looks truly upset.

“Unfair! It was just getting exciting! I have long wondered how it was that they got to the guards colonel and out of Moscow with their heads still on,” she says.

“Well I will only finish the story if you present me with a proper report from the Breuklyn Soviet.”

“Hmm, amid tournament trade of our most highly coveted data? I suppose.”

“These are but stories and fairy tales my dorogaia.”

She winks.

“Of course they are. What is it you’re looking to have whispered in your inquisitive Western ear on behalf of your beleaguered coastal city state, the mind of the general rising if Ayiti is the heart and Israel the soul?”

“I will finish the yarn on what led to the demise of that infamous guard colonel if you tell me a cautionary tale of the so-called Cult in Grey.”

“What about said cult?” she asks me cautiously.

“Oh, how they almost caused a war between the Ivories and Blacks of Breuklyn. Who sent them? And how they were dealt with; a short story.”

“Enough foreplay then,” she grins at me. Then like a crazed animal Dasha bites my shoulder as hard as she can drawing blood.

“Blood begets only more blood,” she spite out in Aramaic.

 

And then she assumes the role of grim narrator:

 

How many Zionist agents does it take to change a light bulb?

 

Night falls on a third Breuklyn blood bath. Another atrocity has occurred. This time at the Broadway Junction. You’d think these blacks were animals by just reading foreign papers about them. Blacks and Ivories hung from the great tree in Prospect. A month later in the rafters of the bridge. This time a far more subtle slaughter.

 

It’s a big full moon, a killing just like it was the last two times this happened.

 

“Something has gone terribly wrong,” mutters Anya Drovtich, the Polish Islamic paramedic who leads via coldness and example. A most un-closeted anarchist. The only known survivor of the very unit sent to help capture, but mostly to extra judicially kill one hundred and four war profiteers and war criminals in the three years following the Great Revolt in an operation dubbed “the purge”.

The Chief of I & I has dread locks and a lightning fast Ducati, like a big black cat.

“A real bad bitch,” as the chornay would say. To them that’s a term of endearment.

 

It came in as a double homicide on the Shomriim scanners. Shomriim is Yiddish for “the Watchmen”. But, double homicide was just a cover for the utter butchery of a family of Jamaicans, and the public inverted crucifixion of the son of a rabbi, along with his two sisters. Shit like this isn’t supposed to go down in our districts. It’s a hot mess to clean up. And when the local press gets hold of it; things are gonna pop off quick. One killing happened in our Zone of Control in a small park off Empire and Schenectady in District Crown Heights. That’s where the Watchmen found the three dead Yids. The second killing happened in in lawless District East New York, which isn’t really controlled by anyone.

 

People are gonna say, “It’s not safe to travel to the Breuklyn Soviet.”

 

Nikholai Trikhovitch got there first sealed off the area and then headed over to East New York. The Shomriim made a discrete phone call directly to him. Within an hour the four adjacent blocks off Schenectady and Empire were sealed off. The dead Ivories were found in a small park. Within an hour every trace of them was gone.

The second crime scene is on the third floor of a red brick multi-dwelling one block from the Broadway Junction in District East New York.

The place looks like a slaughter house. A killer, or large group of killers exsanguinated a thirteen person family, five little kids including two babies. Bled them dry. Hung um upside down. And soon as this incident leaks out it’s going to be hard to hold down the truce. When that falls apart, so does the soul of the Soviet. The blood pact between the West Indians and the Ivories is at the heart of things. Breuklyn Soviet has a population of three million. According to the last census that’s nearly one million Yids, one million Karibes and one million other; that other being highly diverse, but with the Gaels making up the next biggest ethnic block; followed by what we call “the Russians”, who are mostly every other kind of former Soviet besides actual Slavic Russians, followed by Poles, Arabs, Puerto Ricans, Chinese and also the Italians.

The Ivories and the West Indians went ham two times before as they say. “Hard as a motherfucker” on each other once in 1993 during the Crown Heights Riots, and again more recently during the “Borough Park Blood Libel”.

 

The Otriad, was suddenly again on the called “Orange Alert”. A Red Alert being that they were going to fire a nuclear missile at a UAS megalopolis on the mainland, so just a bit less alert than that.

 

Nikholai woke Anya Drovtich and Mickhi DBrisk as soon as he visually confirmed both sites of the slaughter.

“The body count so far is thirteen Caribes and three more Ivories. Just like last time but with far less dead,” sky pages Nikholai in sky code.

 

“That brings the total body count to 104, confirm,” sky pages back Dbrisk.

“Confirmed,” he replies.

 

Last time was one lunar month ago, the last night of the 18^th Congress. Sixty four people from two families found the same way on the Bridge. Two months before that the same bloody mess but with twenty two dangled by their necks from the tallest tree in Prospect Park for all to see and speculate on. The killers were not only ruthless they were out to provoke war.

 

This time was the lowest body count and least public display of the crime but the dead were of the two most prominent families in the Soviet. Thirteen dead Jamaicans, the children of a famous babashanti; a Rastafarian priestess married to a famous Ayitian Ougan. And three more Sephardic Ivories from the house of Rabbi Akiva Tatz, including his son.

 

Anya Drovtich looks very good in dancehall red, also in a dark emergency blue multiform. Her long black dread locks when not tied up in a hijab dangle like bountiful black snakes wrapping down her shoulders. Anya is the Chief of I and I; the Information and Intelligence Section. She is the highest ranking woman in the entire Otriad, responsible not only for our networks of “whisperers” within the Soviet, but a vast array of clandestine sympathizers still in the U.A.S., other liberated Free States of the Confederacy  and also abroad.  The primary duty of her Section is to identify security threats to the Breuklyn Soviet, its secondary prerogative is to hunt, identify and arrange the extrajudicial killings of war criminals in collaboration with “the Anonymous”. The tertiary duty is to use her oracle powers and see ten moves ahead.

 

More on that later.

 

Anya started with the club nine years ago distributing the underground newspaper out of the Fire Department’s Eighth Battalion. Her second assignment was with the unit sent to train medical guerrillas for the Syrian Free Army. When most of the unit and most of the Free Syrian Army was obliterated in Aleppo, she and Sebastian joined the PKK and YPG fighters in Rojava.

 

Her third major assignment was to join the crew that by the end of that very same weekend was about to reach its 104^th target, a Russian Guards Colonel who had brutally raped and murdered a young Chechen girl during the first Chechen war and was set to soon become  a minor politician in Putin’s United Russia Party. Anya had been reassigned after the first year and now she is an Otriad underboss.

 

“We have another seemingly serious problem,” Nikholai informs Anya.

 

So, Anya throws on her blue multiform and black leather jacket and jumps on her Ducati and takes off from her two bed room flat in the South Slope toward Broadway Junction. The site of far too many incidents before and after the revolt. The only reasonable explanation is that the junction is built on an Indian burial ground.

“A block most often hot.”

Mickhi Dbrisk rolls out of bed with his babies mother Rosa; throws on jeans and a grey button down; his tam; his chain, a burner, a shooter, a flip dagger, a thick stack, and two smart phones; also a scanner and a belt radio; and he walks up the street. In his inner pocket are a black bandana, a blue bandana, a grey bandana, and the yellow Lebvature Rebi Messiah Flag. Its 02:03am. The blue street lights are running on low power lithium batteries from solar power stored over the course of the day. He lives just a block from the crime scene. None of the rebel leaders have significantly upgraded their pre Revolt lodgings.

It would be against the code.

Well except for Magnus Goldbar Allamby, who lives by no man’s code.

They all agree to meet in their own turf, because passing into District East New York will require advance notice and an armored convoy.

The fourth person called in is the burly Russian-Israeli Oleg Medved; Deputy Chief of Internal Security, our secret police, who was born in Ukraine and educated in Israel. Or, more euphemistically referred to as the “Public Safety Branch of the Security Section” or “the Whisper Network”. In a General Operating Procedures Guide sense he serves as the primary deputy officer right under a woman named Erza Pula; the 18^th Executive’s elected Security Section Chief. One tough, pale and lovely hard Albanian. It is rumored he quietly seduced and bedded his immediate superior thus muddling the chain of command with his constant womanizing. In reality, he now reports directly to Anya Drovtich as a major officer of the club.

He was also once in the employ of the Perchevney Bratva, the major Russian crime syndicate that has invested so much money into the new ports and reconstruction on Coney Island. He is loyal to the Club because of Loyalnost and his core Zionist ideology. He is still well compensated by the Bratva to insure that port stays open to everything except traffic in people. And he moonlights for the Israelis periodically as a fixer of fixers.

He has a lot of the citizens on his payroll.

When Anya Drovtich pulls up on her black Ducati, Mickhi DBrisk is outside smoking a Newport standard cigarette with Nikholai and Oleg Medved has just parked his black bullet proof Escalade and is looking over some data on his smart phone.

“We have two flying columns on standby ready to enter District East New York. The Shomriim is already preparing for crowd control. I’ve got four ambulances parked up the street ready to move the bodies. The Ivories have already taken away their own dead,” Oleg the Bear says.

“Call for suppression,” Anya declares.

Oleg   interjects, “If I may, this is a total violation of the ceasefire. We shouldn’t suppress it. We should document it and rally the people behind it. The other free states will rally behind us.”

“What we’re going to do is burn the bodies and cover it up, again. Yes, that’s exactly what I was going for,” snaps Anya.

Oleg is a dirty blond bearded bear of a man and off duty quite famous for his wild orgy parties and gregarious ways. In civilian life he is a fashion photographer of note and local celebrity. In his capacity as head of the Otriad’s secret police he keeps on payroll no less than four thousand “whisperers” largely modals, escorts, other fashion photographers, hackers, and urban outdoorsmen, a nice word for the homeless. This is the third time now they’ve all kept such late night company over gruesome particulars.

“This is the third group killing in three months,” states Dbrisk.

“It’s the same formula,” he continues, “a large dead family and some crucified children of clergy. They’re trying to spark a war here. So we can’t let that happen. So we’re gonna have to handle this the same way. With suppression.”

That’s two major votes without voting. “Suppression” is a euphemism for having the Fire Department burn something down to cover something up.

“How many people know this time?” Anya asks.

“The four of us, a few Yiddish detectives from Shomriim and the marijuana distribution agent who found the three dead Ivories in the park. And the one surviving family member of the Jamaicans; a thirteen year old hood, he came home to the height of slaughter,” says Trikhovitch.

“That’s a lot of people to pay quiet. This is going to get out,” warns Oleg.

“The Shomriim won’t talk. It’s the dealer and the young hood that might.”

“Dealer’s a hood or a hipster?” Anya asks.

“Hipster,” says Nikholai. There still are a few left.

“I vote to call a press conference and go public with the killings. It’s obviously a U.A.S. provocation using loyalists and Blackwater mercenaries sent to sew panic and discord in our ranks.”

“This is not up for vote boys. We’re going to suppress this and deal with it ourselves,” Anya informs them.

“Is the task force ready to enter District East New York?” she asks.

“Yes. The apartment is sealed off and we already have the surviving family member in custody. We can have fire engines in position in fifteen minutes,” says Nikholai Trikhovitch.

“Comrade Oleg Medved please take the hipster and the young hood to one of your safe houses and wipe out their memories. Please see to it that they wake up in the Caribbean by tomorrow evening. Trikhovitch and I will set up the incendiary devices and wait for the fire trucks. Dbrisk, if you’d be so kind; please call in Suppression the minute I sky page you that we are in position. I despise that part of town.”

“All I’m saying is that we can’t let this continue,” Oleg says.

“I have no intention of letting it continue. But we can’t have the population think a blood libel has occurred again.”

“Who did this? It’s pretty gruesome even for Blackwater,” Trikhovitch declares.

“It’s the Cult in Grey. They’re obviously back,” states Oleg Medved.

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” says Anya, “Let’s mop this up. I want to see everyone at a closed staff meeting this evening at District bunker 004 under Café Hadar on Avenue N no later than 18:00, Ayitian time. By that she means, don’t be followed, don’t be early, don’t be late. The code of the Ayitian gentleman is that it is one should never ever be late, but it is an egregious and inexcusable breach of proper conduct to be early.

 

And with that the four officers of the Club prepare to enter the gangland of the district to the east and guide fire trucks toward an atrocity that needs to be turned into ashes.

 

The high level subversive characters part ways and plan to regroup in the next day.

 

 

Chapter 17

1375 Ocean Ave, 2019ce

Breuklyn Soviet

 

 

The sun is now rising on Breuklyn. Nikholai Trikhovitch, the freelance detective, the former cop, the part time drunk and; the Chief of the Otriad Logistics Section has been left alone to his own thoughts.

 

Sip to ponder.

 

“I don’t like the responsibility that comes with this much power,” thinks Nikholai Trikhovitch. He has 5am shadow; he doesn’t remember when he last shaved. It was all so much easier when attendance at the meetings and the frustrations of never having enough loot in the war chest were the biggest concerns. Like it or not we are governing now. We are invading countries and carrying out extrajudicial killings left and right. We take our votes and people lose their lives. And as of the January census we are administering social services for over 80,000 citizens of the Soviet! It’s good I don’t sleep, he thinks.

 

Sip to forget.

 

Our cell of the Z.O.B. has had only had between eight and ten active members any given time. I am often unsure whether ‘the organization’ is quite large and has its hand in everything, or, if exists in one man’s mind alone. As well as I think I know Sebastian I really know nothing. Especially of the things he saw when he was in the Promised Land burning before the towers fell. All other titles and incarnations spin loosely around that core eight. The nucleus of the Otriad. With Adon officially deceased and out bounty hunting in Eurasia; and Solomon officially deceased and organizing out in the Horn of Africa; and DeBuitléir in prison; we are down to only three of the original members including myself serving on the 18^th Executive. The other surviving two still alive being Hubert O’Domhnaill and Mickhi Dbrisk, but Hubert refuses to join the Executive. The others were killed horribly over the course of the War Years, the Disorder and the Revolt. But, never underestimate what you can accomplish with even just a couple good zealous people on your team.

In the immortal words of my best friend Sebastian Adon, “One person has an idea, two have a conspiracy and three; an Otriad.” An irregular paramilitary detachment for mutual aid and collective security. It doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.

 

All that was needed was a three character meaningless acronym. And course he’d needed Anya and I to tell him that the first job could be done.  But I digress.

 

I’m sitting on my seventh story rooftop, three months since the congress in the month of March. The seventh floor of my building has a good view of district Midwood and district Flatbush; the cradle of the insurgency once claimed the New York Times. With a bottle of Baboncourt Ayitian Premium Smoked Silver Rum and some Noblisse heavywiders watching the dawn get ready to break through the haze of my indulgences, I wait for dawn.

 

I hope third times the charm.

 

We torched the crime scenes. We interrogated everyone. We inundated the Crown Heights and East New York Districts with Crip enforcers, Shomriim, and about two hundred plain clothes on watch and deescalate duty. And we took the dealer and the family member into protective custody. They’ll end up in the Caribbean for a while until things clam down. No arrests have been made. And they won’t be. No one gets arrested anymore. More like accosted. I’d love to tell you that all the fighting and dying bought us a better freer life. We just traded an oligarchy for some mob rule.

The only thing keeping this place together is that it was pretty well organized to begin with. I’d love to say we’ve brought Human Rights to Breuklyn. We’ve mostly just traded an authoritarian government posing as a democracy for a gangster’s paradise posing as a rebel free state. Sure we arrest people. Sure they get trials. Except sometimes we don’t. Sometimes we just do things because they have to be done and we were elected to lead.

 

Like grab a suspect off the street, throw a hood over their head and hand them over to the New Russians to torture in the former psyche ward of Coney Island Hospital.

 

Oleg Medved has his network trying to track down the killers, see who saw anything. But no one did. No one ever does in East New York. Anya ordered sixteen more retributive killings to be carried out on the U.A.S. mainland. Nothing horror show, just an eye for an eye. It never ends. There’s always some latest big mess. Some threat of attack or some rumor to address. This borough was an ethnic powder keg before the revolt. It hasn’t gotten much better.

From my roof or just about anywhere else in the Soviet I can see the Tree of Life which arose miraculously out of the ground shortly after liberation three years ago. At first it was something of a curiosity; then it just kept growing. It’s easily forty stories tall now. Along with a number of other things its sureality incorporated around here in the past few years. The rabbits for instance; where the fuck did they come from? There never used to be large wild rabbits jumping around the Coney Peninsula. I’ve stopped sleeping entirely as I aid earlier. I’ve stopped asking about things that are “weird” and stick with things that are dangerous.

I was a Club founder by association alone. I did no heavy lifting until the Ayiti job. I met Sebastian when I was fourteen when he formed the first Z.O.B. incarnation called Youth United For Equality; the YUFE. It wasn’t until after the September 11th Attacks that I attended some meetings. It wasn’t until Ayiti when I took on a leadership role. Apparently I have some talent in getting things in and out of third world countries. I’ve been helping them move things ever since. My pay comes from detective work, investigating disappeared people, strange occurrences, cheating husbands and the like. I was elected to head the Logistics Section shortly after the armistice was declared.

 

Sip to not remember. I take my Baboncourt on the rocks and flowing freely off duty.

 

Half the bottle is gone before the sun breaks the horizon. Did I mention I have a bit of problem with not drinking? I’m never wilding drunk except at a good funeral. Or series of funerals. Like at Adon’s first and second one. Like at Rahula Mccaffeys’ or at Paul Mark’s. Like at David Sasha Dualde’s or those where we couldn’t retrieve the bodies like in the cases of Zander Apple, Mateo Lyons, Gene Dissentious, and Daniel Fried. Horrific cases like those of Yovanna Koracab. Fighters lost in the various engagements like Jeffery Hermanksy, Annabell Lewis or Justin & Jesse Thomas.

And I will never forget the way Hali Vik was executed. Not ever.

 

The martyrs.

They went after all of our families too in the immediate years of the revolt. Just to hurt us, try and break out will to fight.

Like my two little brothers Colin and Rafael. Or, my parents. Or the Mapfres, Or, the O’Domhnaills. Or, Sebastian’s entire family even distant cousins he never knew that never even aided the uprising, murdered everyone but his brother. The skinned his fucking father alive. The Oligarchy never forgets those who raised the children of the Great Revolt. The children of believers, as the Hasidim call us.

 

I don’t tip the bottle to the ground like the black man does. I don’t waste my Fenian whiskey or my Ayitian rescue rum. We have prayed for the dead and we fight like hell for the living.

 

I keep thinking about my Krissy. I keep missing her. That’s my ex-wife. There’s too much loss in the freedom fighting game if you ask me. Way too many funerals. Way too much stripping of a person down to an animal. A wild savage fighting wolf. I keep thinking that I’m not cut out to be affiliated with this outfit anymore. Maybe I’ll ask to be swapped out into one of the higher risk international battalions. Maybe I’ll just take leave until I can finally sleep. Maybe I’ll hang out with Oleg Medved in the “Green Light District” and fuck Ukrainian girls until my cock falls off. Fuck. Sip. Sip. Sip.

Maybe I’ll put on the iron vest and go make a loud statement somewhere. Or join a mine clearing unit on the Eastern front.

The roof top vista is completely unremarkable. For all “the freedom” we’ve won, much of what we govern is a red brick, low rise sprawl. Most of the building has gone on subterranean. Except in Coney Island where the Russians have built a series of steel and glass towers and a fully modern port facility near what we commonly call the “Green Light District”, where “anything goes”. Much of the old red brick sprawl was reduced to rubble during the war. Our districts did better than those held by the Uhuru fighters and the various other unions, factions and street gangs less prepared for a protracted urban siege. Brownsville has ceased to exist as a District. It was outright reduced to rebar pilings and ash. Twice now. Eventually it will be a lovely park with field of Peonies and Tom Ottorness sculptures memorializing the dead. Only half the rubble has been cleared. The Park’s Department isn’t exactly what it used to be after most of its best employees enlisted in the development battalions or were executed in the filtration camp massacres at the two stadiums during the revolt.

A whole lot of American citizens died to secure this red brick sprawl, the free ports on the Southern Coast, the Strong Island, and outpost Block Island where one of the three nuclear launch batteries is hidden.

 

Our best grad rockets can hit Chicago, where the new capital of the U.A.S. is. Now that Washington D.C. is irradiated and gone.

 

Sip.

 

What a huge fucking tree! As if the blood of the martyrs, the blood of the estimated 140,000 dead all watered the grandest act of botany ever. I climbed it one night with Anya Drovtich. We installed a fire station transmission boaster in it. But the electronics never work no matter what we tinker with. It’s only the most obvious example of the strange voodoo creeping into out micro republic.

 

We had to climb it three months ago to get all those bodies down.

 

The “Tree of Life” as we call it is the third tallest landmark only dwarfed by the High Tower in the Downtown District near what used to be called “Barclay Stadium” and the eighty four story Drake Hotel on Banner Avenue in District Brighton. The General Assembly convenes there three times daily now. There are still concerts. The Nets still play. What a draining cluster fuck of a talk fest populist democracy can be. No one can tax us. So the “legislative body of the people” is largely just a showcase for our total disunity. And no other faction trusts our little Club these days because we won’t share access codes to the hidden atomic arsenal deployed across Strong Island. This is in the end the only thing keepings us free.

 

Like Israel, North Korea, and Iran once we test fired, they had no choice but to freeze frame completely. Israel’s gonna be a Ivoryish apartheid state, Iran a Shi’a fundamentalist Shar’iah State and North Korea a brandy guzzling, twenty dollar bill printing, Stalinist big brother Disney land; well, indefinitely. To say the very least.

 

Sip, sip sip sip.

 

My Baboncourt on the rocks does the trick. But what the trick is I’m not sure. My eyes are grey on grey orbs, a symptom of the insomnia. I have to wear contacts to hide them. Insomnia has become something of an epidemic here. Also children being born with complete knowledge of their past lives. That too is major source of my income. Brining little toddlers, normally West Indians or Chasidics to verify claims that the child remembers “where he used to live” or “what he used to do”.  There have been numerous reports of these phenomena in the Druse Villages of Israel and Syria. Now it’s becoming common occurrence here too.

 

I can see Breuklyn College where I nearly completed university for a degree in journalism. I would have been a senior when “the Great Disorder” began. I can see drones making their early morning perimeter sweeps between us and “the City”. They trace the border but never fly over as that would violate the armistice.

Eventually I’ll go back down to my flat and I’ll watch the History Channel or I’ll stare at a picture of Krissy until I’m enough in the past that the now hurts much less. I’m depressed that she’s gone. I’m depressed I was suckered into a revolution I can’t control. As if you ever can. I’m depressed because I’m not really sure how the story is going to unfold.

 

Some people but their faith in God, but I’m a religious atheist. All of the blood of the martyrs, all the miracles and tragedies of the revolt, all of the hope for human rights and end of the long game; all that has made me quite tired. I don’t believe that a just god could preside over such a pack of self-interested violent monkeys.

 

The Chasidics are whispering that the Dror Ha Tzadikk, the generation’s candidate for Messiah has returned. There is a forty story tree growing in Prospect Park. There are rabbits of enormous size hopping about and drones darting across the skyline. We have smuggling tunnels under the East River and we have nuclear weapons aimed at major American cities and the rebel confederacy has no clear picture in the slightest what do with their new liberty.

 

There are a lot of strange things happening in the Breuklyn Soviet. But, personally I have no idea what I’m fighting for anymore. Or really more importantly, for whom?

 

Vengeance, love, ideals; this doesn’t sustain me for long. I haven’t even committed those so called Universal rights to memory. I’ve just been here since the beginning so there is little way out as I see it. But besides from Hubert O’Domhnaill, all the original members are dead.

 

I forgot to mention something to myself. Three months ago before the killings began I got a call from Krissy in the wee hours of morning or night. Or someone who sounded just like her. The voice claiming to be my ex-wife told me that Sebastian Adon was very much alive. And that they were going to have a train load of soldiers rape her in every hole in her body her for weeks on end; film the whole thing and send it to me, unless I shoot Sebastian in the head the first chance I get.

“But he’s dead, “I told the voice on the phone claiming to be my ex-wife. Love of my life.

That was a tall order. She left me fair and square. Walked out on me and broke my heart. Then got herself somehow abducted. And he’s been dead for three years. Can’t betray your dead best friend for a woman who left you for a richer man who couldn’t even protect her.

“He’s gonna turn up real soon,” she told me. Then the line went dead.

This was the night before the 18^th Congress, two months ago. The night some vile war criminals hung those two families worth of blacks and Ivories off the Breuklyn Bridge. Killed sixty four men, women and children. A month before that twenty four were left hanging in that very tall tree for all to see on third anniversary of our independence. We couldn’t completely cover up the first two massacres and now all the factions are looking at each other.

 

If we don’t find out who did this there’s gonna be a big old Black on Ivory war.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 18

Drake Hotel, 2018ce

Breuklyn SOviet

 

 

Oleg the Bear, at his room in the Drake Hotel drinks vodka straight in a bath robe watching the sun rise over the Green Light District he’s helped build.

When he’s this drunk and he’s done with the second woman he turns to American poetry.

 

 

#24: Sometimes_the_Vodka drinks me

 

Sometimes,

I get drunk.

And I drive my car

In figure eight circles around the Adon Loop in coop city,

The only street which bears my name.

And from the wheel of my Lincoln I survey my high rise brick kingdom, All I can see!

 

Sometimes I drink to remember, sometimes I drink to forget.

And sometimes the vodka drinks me.

 

It’s a bevy of victimless crimes.

Most of the times,

There are no children playing at these midnight hours,

Or those that are carry various calibers or carbines as they carry on trade in nickels and dimes.

With each kiss of Stolichnaya I get further from all the accusing faces of friends lost,

And lubricated by the demons still waters I am forgiven for my broken promises. And that which such promises cost.

I sip and shoot shot and bottle tip. And the ghosts of past make clever cheers,

Nazdrovia!

They say as I sip. More shots.

To the last drop, a fast viscosity,

A deadly drip.

 

Cheers to little Malka who’s daddy abused her, and who’s foreign baby’s father used her like a Siberian doll and fled leaving a teenage mother with child in the slums of Shahoun Daled!

Shot to the head.

 

Cheers to Maya captured and bonded to brothels at the age of sixteen, pale white tits all the gawk of Montreal’s flying flesh carnival scene. Long white lines of supine mortgage, traumas of the slave trade never fully known, what they made her do.

Time supine, also prone.

 

Third shot for Ocasio,

Long behind bars for his cannabis dealing,

Also his class and his skin and later his new found political feelings. Three years breaking rocks,

And felling trees and chain gang walkathons.

A nigger like me.

 

Fourth shot for Rahula, also called Jeremy McGaffey, a soldier now dead and the dark things he saw before like Adon putting two rounds in the thick of his head.

 

For all that they went through these four in particular abused an accosted,

I empty the bottle to my useless gestures exhausted,

Having arrived too late to have saved them and too weak to have healed them, and play pretend knights making promises into an empathetic mockery.

 

Sometimes I drink to remember, sometimes I drink to forget.

And sometimes the vodka drinks me.

 

What does a half Ivory know about the Ghosts of Christmas past? Arrogance vast,

If sirens of suffering call free for all then have your crew insert wax in their ears and bind your bleeding heart to the mast!

Look at your most tragic failures look at your past,

Your sister, your brother, your comrade, the love of your life: raped and abused, self-murdered imprisoned and her young body used: you toast to their fortitude: who put the world on your shoulders man?! Whoever asked!

         Labriut!

There was nothing one person ever asked you to be, nothing they asked you to do.

No one expected a miracle. You battled demons in their name, and when it was done the world was exactly the same, man it’s too true:

 

Sometimes you drink to remember, sometimes you drink to forget.

And sometimes the vodka drinks you.

 

 

And with that poem she concludes her round of tale.

 

The Nina Simone fades into some soft, sensuous Kompa track, it’s quite lovely but the artist escapes me. I hate that poem she says, it makes you cry.

Dasha winks at me.

She looks so goddamn lovely, when she’s loving me.

She lights up a Newport standard cigarette and the smoke she exhales swiftly takes the form of a dragon fly. It sails across the room. Maliciously perhaps. Just one of her many colorful magic tricks. Her breasts are round and magnificent and she makes no effort to conceal her naked body. A pace, a pout and she cats off more dragon flies.

“You always make Nikholai sound more unstable than he was in real life,” I tell her.

“It’s because I never really liked him very much. And because he was quite unstable indeed. He’d have fucked me you know, you living or dead.”

I conceal my slight anger at such an accusation.

“Well he made a subtle art out of melancholy that I will say. You denigrating him as motif is vaguely low brow in my honest opinion. What with how he ended.”

“Ha. Low brow? You always seem to work a pair of enormous breasts into your little stories. I’m on to you,” she smiles vaguely biting her lower lip. She is always smiling until it is way too late to stop her demons from speaking their mind. I want to taste her immediately.

“I hope several more times within this very hour. But, that didn’t answer any of my questions about said cult, not even in the slightest. It was a wonderful portrayal of the mood though, back then. Although I experienced it quite vicariously.”

“Isn’t grey the secret color of the fighting faction called Z.O.B.?” she coyly asks.

I look her dead in the eyes.

“How would I know?”

“Yes, how would you know Vasa, how would you know?” she gives me the infamous Postsoviet look of ‘don’t play fucking stupid with me’. All women utilize this look meticulously.

“Well then perhaps you don’t really know who controls this cult anyway.”

“I know always more than I will easily tell for free my little bard tovarish. Even to the man I…” she pauses. I let her. She’ll never say it.

“I was certain you already knew what happened to the Guard Colonel,” I interject.

“The official story only. That Chechen gun men shot him on a lonely Moscow street.”

“Preposterous logic. Surely just a United Russia cautionary fairy tale.”

“Well then, entice me with your un-muddied version of the events. Is it true you corresponded at length with the journalist Anna Politkovskaya before she was assassinated?”

“She was the one who urged us to go after Yuri Budanov.”

“One might get the impression lover that all it takes for you to make a terror of yourself is to have a Russian woman whisper in your ear.”

“And yet what’s a whisper to a song?” I ask her and she knows just what I mean.

“Was your safe house this elegant the night you rubbed out the Guard’s Cornel,” she bluntly asks.

“Well you weren’t there, so evidently not.”

“Go on then, your turn two for two.”

 

And so I proceed.

 

 

Chapter 19

Safe House 16z, Zelenogradsky, 2018ce

Outer Moscow

 

Out the safe house window they can see the glowing hyperboloid Shabolovka Tower through the falling snow. A Cinderella steel spire lit up like a New Year’s Tree. Over thirteen million people currently reside in the greater Moscow area. Its layout is a series of concentric rings of hyper highway and major boulevards called Prospects.

 

The Moscow Automobile Ring Road (MKAD) has been Moscow’s unofficial internal class boundary since 1960 and there are absolutely no poor people living inside its circus. Not a single one.

 

The city of Moscow is subdivided into twelve administrative Okrugs and 123 districts. In the year 2008, the year of the global recession; Moscow had 74 billionaires with an average wealth of $5.9 billion, which placed it above New York’s 71 billionaires. However, as of 2009, there were only 27 billionaires in Moscow compared with New York’s 55 billionaires. Overall, Russia lost 52 billionaires during the first year of the recession. Now, according to financial analysts; there are over 403 Russian billionaires in Moscow averaging roughly $6.1 billion a piece, and only three are left in New York at the conclusion of the Great Revolt’s armistice concluded 72 hours after the Millennium Theatre Hostage Crisis which took the lives of exactly twenty four of those previously tallied billionaires.

 

The four who still remain in Greater New York:

 

A Bulgarian expatiate named Alexandre Dmitrievich Perchevney who resides part of the time in the enhanced Oceana Tower Complex of District Brighton Beach and is one of the most feared Voorhees alive in country. Ysiad Ferraris who owns multiple large commercial properties throughout the Bronx and Goddess Soviets; a tech empire, a venture capital firm and a fleet of container ships.  And the son of former Mayor Michael Bloomberg, Michael Bloom II. All the other billionaires have since fled inland or abroad, or had their assets vigorously expropriated.

 

Ex’ed is what it is called in the jargon of guerillas.

Also in the form of a circle is the main Moscow subway line; the Ring Line. And, the so-called Third Automobile Ring completed in Gregorian year 2005. The characteristic radial-circle planning continues to define Moscow’s further development. Contemporary Moscow has also engulfed a number of territories outside the Ring Road, such as Solntsevo, Butovo, and the formerly outlying town of Zelenograd.

It is in the Zelenogradsky Okrug where our lonely rebels have set up their shop.

After the rendezvous at the Bathhouse Watson and Sebastian sit for supper. Herring, beets, Palemni and some kind of fried potato based goulash. They wash it down with a frothy cold berry Kompot. And some iced black coffee.

 

Its 17:00pm and it hasn’t stopped snowing, not one bit.

 

Ivories always got a guy for everything. What that means is they don’t pay for services somebody didn’t vouch for first in their network. But they didn’t use their Chechen contacts or their friends at Human Rights Memorial for this time around. The Moscow Human Rights movement is very underground, and rightfully so because their orators and organizers keep being shot in the head. You don’t buy a gun if you can get away with using a dagger. You don’t use a dagger if you can buy a poisonous pill. You don’t ask a large possibly infiltrated underground to help what you can rely on the families of the dead and disappeared to render for currency, Loyalnost and just purely for revenge. The more elaborate a plan the more likely for something to go wrong.

But, Adon still wants to hang the guard colonel from the Shukhov Radio Tower on 37 Shabolovskaya Street. Real fucking subtle. Not.

 

“What does the code of the Ayitian gentleman ultimately say about revenge?” Sebastian asks.

Watson looks up from his meal and sets the silverware down on the table. He wipes his freckled mouth with a red napkin.

“Revenge is the diametric of courtship, as true hate is the diametric opposite of true love. If one is to truly love, the patience and care of courtship is an indefinite process, and by that reasoning so is the proper execution of vengeance if one’s hate is also true.”

“Ysiad suggested we walk away from the job tonight. That we close the book and get a flight out back to Hispaniola. He suggested that the colonel is highly protected and they anticipate our attack.”

“Well anything that Dominikani says, he says with his own pockets in mind.  On a long enough timeline even angels of death begin to draw notice. I think we should walk away then. This is Russia frère. And the Dominikani wouldn’t have mentioned it unless it was a realistic threat.”

“You definitely need to know when to walk away.”

If Sebastian Adon could only do that then the world would be quite different. Once many years ago while living in the slums of south London a seventeen year old Sebastian declared himself the “one who fights the losing battle” and for a time he thought to tattoo that as a personalized crest over his heart atop an eagle, two flaming towers, a bone and a rose. Before the Grand Rabbi Akiva Tatz convinced him fully against tattoos. Before he picked a couple battles he could win, and learned to like the taste of impossible victory.

 

“The honor of the underdog is not the same as betting on the Hindenburg. Old Russian saying. I don’t know if it fully translates,” states Adon.

Watson Entwissle by now knows full well that almost nothing Sebastian Adon describes as an “Old Russian saying”, is really ever an Old Russian saying.

One late night many years later after London just prior to “the Great Disorder”, over mint tea and jasmine rose hookah at the Footprints Café in Coney Island, a Russian woman named Dasha would tell him that there was nothing wrong with being a communist. Nothing wrong with believing in the cleansing fires of the revolution. But, to believe he could take on the oligarchy with a band of eight was simple foolish suicide. And he deserved to be tortured just for being so foolish. So she strung him up and tortured him. And that’s how he learned that lesson.

“Fight from a position of resources,” she told him. Shortly before drugging him. Stripping him naked and jarring him with stacked shocks of electrical current. “I believe in you even if I don’t always believe in your methods. But, don’t give your life for such bullshit, and don’t pick a battle you know you won’t ever win,” she had said. And then she tortured him for roughly six straight weeks. But, she did it against her own will.

“These Russians are a highly dangerous breed,” Watson states the known and obvious.

They’re having supper in a Moscow safe house owned by the extended family of a dead journalist. The only proven way to circumvent the web of spies, informants, dirty snitches and surveillance society is to rely on the time honored loyalties of family and blood oath. The thing you need to know about doing business in Russia is that virtually no one is loyal to anything besides the right price. And every single Russian has a pretty high price when it comes to being loyal to an Amerikanski, a Ivory or a chornay. But, in the end if a faceless institution murders your children, the enemy of that institution is your friend. They crossed the border three nights ago from the East. They both speak fluent Russian and the flicker masks completely distort their identities. They acquired automatic weapons at a country dascha to the southwest of Moscow and drove directly to the safe house in an electric Lincoln town car.

“When were you last here?” Watson asks.

“I don’t remember.”

“I have trouble believing you mon ami. You’re navigation was uncanny.”

“I don’t like being tortured,” he smugly replies.

“Well who does,” Watson laughs.

“Your thoughts then on doing this job?”

“Colonel Yuri Dmitrievich Budanov is not, in my mind, a high profile enough hit worth us falling into the hands of the FSB, but obviously you seem obsessed with this. This isn’t exactly some oligarch or some key player. This is a disgraced former military officer who raped and strangled a young girl. He did five years’ light time. Memorial lawyers even got his rank stripped and now he is just a token symbol of the total corruption here. ”

Sebastian Adon takes out a pack of Noblisse cigarettes in their crumpled green soft pack. He fires one up with a small gold zippo lighter. Watson had thought he had quit several months ago. Sneaky Ivory bastard.

 

“You’re welcome to walk away, brother,” Sebastian says in Ayitian Creole.

`

“I feel as though laughing in your face would not even begin to drive my point home. The code says that what you begin you will always finish or die trying. Though, I just suspect we’re not in Moscow for Yuri Budanov alone,” Watson relies.

 

“Look. I didn’t compose that list. Some of the people we killed were outright I.C.C. indicted war criminals. Others were various mobsters that just needed to be rubbed out because what they were doing was a human right violation, and poor human form. Others we hit because they made money on the backs of exploited workers. Others still because they profited off others misery. You, me, Anya, and the others who died in our unit we were not killing because it made any real difference. We didn’t even do it because those people needed to be punished. Otherwise we would have arrested them and set up some kind of tribunal. These 103 kills happened because a message needed to be sent across that world that if you violate human rights we can get you. And that message has come across loud and clear.”

“So why push on? There are now hundreds of little cells carrying out these killings independently. Every week the Anonymous is posting new confirmations on “the friends of the people” website. Look at the list frère, there are thousands of other targets to pick from. Dozens in this city alone. Why him. Why tonight? Why Moscow? My skin crawls from the cold, knowing just how wide open we are out here. And let me remind you that if we make a kill on Russian territory we are breaking one of the rules of engagement.”

“They’re not going to make him into a politician. But, he is symbol of new Russia’s defiance. He raped and strangled little Elza Kungaev. He broke into her home, he wrapped her in a blanket, through her in the back of his ATV, he then raped the shit out of her for hours, and then he sodomized her as he strangled her to death and quite nearly got away with it. It took the full efforts of Human Rights Memorial and the lawyer for the Kungayeva family, Stanislav Markelov, as well as the support of the opposition Newspaper Novaya Gazeta to even get what little justice they got. And they let him out after just five years in. My mentor Anna Politkovskaya was found dead in the lift of her block of flats in central Moscow on 7 October 2006. She had been shot twice in the chest, once in the shoulder, and once in the head at point-blank range. She had reported extensively on the war crimes in Chechnya and this trial. Stanislav attempted a last-minute appeal against the release of Budanov and was shot dead in Moscow on 19 January 2009 along with Anastasia Baburova, a 25-year-old journalist for Novaya Gazeta, an anarchist and friend of ours. Budanov has been free since paroled in 2008. To many on the Russian right he’s a “war hero” unfairly victimized by liberal and foreign journalists conspiring to undermine Russian security. So, for Elza, Anna, Stanislav, and Anastasia, and who knows how many others. We’re going to finish the job.”

And then he puffs the cigarette.

“I’m still unconvinced,” states Watson, “There are so many sins in this world to punish. Just last week some dagger men caught up with the Serbian concentration camp commandant accused of presiding over the rape and torture of some untold number of women during the war in Bosnia. The last big hit was the Rwandan millionaire who helped finance the genocide there. This is not the cold dark hill to die on I feel. Especially with what is soon coming.”

“This colonel is a pig! A murdering savage who directed his men to loot, burn, shell and murder civilians in the first Chechen war. Are there better targets? Who are we to truly prioritize! I’ve long thought very few living inside the Ring Road don’t have some culpability to what was done in Ichkeria, but that is not my call either. We could go after any number of other people here in the Russian capital. War criminals and profiteers abound here. The President himself is one of the world’s biggest war criminals in my mind. So, why end our tour with a disgraced military leader who did a puny five year stint when no one thought you could even try a war criminal in Federal Russia?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Because they kill journalists and they disappear dissidents out here left and right and no one can do anything about it. Killing an oligarch frankly is just too bad for business right now. We’d need months of planning and a big crew to get near one the worst billionaires. So, we’re going to take out a vile piece of low hanging fruit, hang him off the radio tower and get the fuck out of dodge. Trust me we’ll be back here.”

“You’re not being straight with me. Why is this target so important to you?”

Sebastian looks out the window and snuffs out the cigarette.

“He means nothing to me.”

Watson does not believe him at all.

“Just as long as there’s no hint of sentimentality. Then we shall proceed.”

“Not a smidgeon.”

“Then no theatrics. No hanging this man from a radio tower. No explosions. No games. Two shots in his head and we go home.”

Sebastian pauses, and then says, “There’s no art to that.”

“This is about attrition. Not justice, not art.”

“Salud then,” says Sebastian raising his glass, “To the many deaths of cruel tyrants, in commemoration of the martyrs and to the many long lives of the peoples’ heroes,” he toasts Watson with compot.

“Salud.”

“Nazdrovia!”

They clink.

“According to the code of Ayitian gentleman, no one gets called a hero until they are cold dead and fully buried, and their people are fully free.”

“But I, my friend, was born a Ivory,” says Sebastian with a grin.

 

And into the cold, cold lonely night they depart to make their final bloody hit.

The streets are packed for this hour and the weather conditions by 23:01pm are unchanged. It is preposterous that there be so much snow in the month of June! They drive deeper into the city in a black jeep with tinted windows. They didn’t have to work too hard tonight because a man like this has made a lot of enemies. What you can always predict about corruption is that everyone is eventually for sale and that sale is acceptable. They have had a young woman watching him for some time and it was already clear that hitting him at his house was completely out of the question.  Ultimately, they had to get him out of his house on to a street to carry out a drive by and jettison. First, we had to get an accurate CCTV placement run down. All angles where we could be caught on film and thus plan out route of approach and escape. That they purchased long ago for but 250,000 Rubles.  We then had to ascertain the level of security protecting him. That was supplied by his shadow, the young woman hired to watch him. Three yellow code dry runs had been made already via our associates in Memorial to gauge the rapid response level times. He has two personal bodyguards and two cars of paramilitaries from the FSB stationed on his block, but tonight there were apparently four. His building was newly renovated but everything in the central district is accessible by an automated grid. Power, water, phone lines, and heat controls are all accessible to turn on an off via computerized control based on payment or the right tight hack. But they’re going to do this the old fashioned way.

“Under no circumstances are you to get in a gun battle on the streets of Moscow,” were the direct orders of Maya Solomon to Watson Entwissle earlier in the day via sky pager.

Before they reach the Central District we leave the jeep in a subterranean parking garage and exit into the elements on foot wrapped in multilayer pea coats with new faces before switching into a faster car left for them on the street which we will use for the drive by. There are road blocks in to the Central District but they have a satellite map to guide us to the several side streets which are less likely to be fully staffed. The streets are noticeably unobstructed the closer we get to the city center where in total defiance of the elements the Muscovites have enlisted a full time battalion of mechanized snow removal technicians to keep traffic in and out flowing.

 

At 22:05pm a man we paid 250,000 New Rubles through a fifth party cuts off the heat to the apartment of Yuri Budanov and then vacates the building via its lower parking garage. A 22:35 an automated dialer begins calling his flat over and over again posing as a series of incomprehensible Chinese telemarketers. At 22:45 all the street lights on his block are cut off. This is what enough installments of 250,000 rubles can buy. It’s very, very cold in Russia. And it shouldn’t really be snowing like this, in June.

Watson does the driving and Sebastian does the shooting. A sky page from our contact informs us that he’s just stepped outside his apartment block with his wife on to the street. They drive up Komsomolskaya Prospect at a gentleman’s pace. Sebastian crosses himself. So fucking odd that a part Ivoryish convert to Shi’a Islam will cross himself before a kill. The window comes down and Sebastian lines up, “for Elza,” he says.

 

Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.

 

Six silent shots go off, four into the thick of Yuri Budanov’s bearded face and the blood and the brains checker splatter and spread in the white snow.  And then it happens. The entire street draws weapons on us. Men, women, children, Dvotchka even Babushkas! Everybody takes out machine pistols and levels them at our position. And tires all go flat, and several black vans open up and FSB storm troopers run out, dozens of them and they point machine guns at us. It happens so fast. So well-coordinated! Budanov’s wife is screaming hysterically and his body is face down in the snow in a pool of blood. We are completely surrounded.

Sebastian gives Watson a look. He takes his pistol and presses it to his own head.

“Inadvisable,” Watson says in French.

Click.

The gun jams.

Watson places his hands on the dashboard.

 

“Bze platnay seer ve mishalovka,” says Sebastian Adon as he drops the pistol out the car window into the snow setting his hands also down upon the dash.

The only free cheese is in a mousetrap.

Shortly after thinking that a truncheon strikes his head.

 

 

 

Chapter 20

Coney Island, 2019ce

Breuklyn Soviet

 

 

 

Anya Drovtich is flying. Literally rocketing down the Belt Parkway at 240 kilometers per hour. We use the metric system in Breuklyn Soviet now. She rips tarmac down the coastal highway.

The first article of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights states that,

 

“All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights. They are endowed with reason and conscience and should act towards one another in a spirit of brotherhood.”

 

Anya thinks at lightning speed:

 

I’d like to tell you that we live by that. I’d like to tell you how much I’d like to assure you that the work our men and women do is building towards that first article. But, I’d be completely lying. As my Ducati rips down the Belt Parkway toward my next meeting in the Green Light District, I know that while we are all born equal, very few of us were born free.

The Judeo-Christian-Islamic God, that over two million of our Breuklyn Soviet citizens still pray to says, “An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.”

I rocket past a crew of ambulance workers attending to the collateral damage of abolishing the speed limit. I salute at 255 KPH.

The code of the school yard says, “Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

So who does one even believe these days?

There was once a very large strip club called “Flashpumpers” that used to be on Surf Ave, then it was called Squared, then called Foxy’s. The strip club itself was the target of a particularly grisly mass shooting a couple days prior when it was discovered that the girls had no union and were being pimped out on the side. A group of flicker hooded masked men executed every male employee and patron in the place, surviving witnesses claimed the attackers came out a tunnel under the kitchen floor. You can get just about anything on earth in the Green Light District, you can fuck animals, you can role play, you can acquire any conceivable cocktail of illicit pharmaceutics, you can engage in some pretty ancient Roman, Japanese hardcore, roaring 20’s shit;  but you can’t make people your slaves. Or dittle fuck little kids. Age of consent is still very much a universal 18 years of age throughout the Breuklyn Soviet.

Innocuously enough, just four blocks down is a small “Muslim Exclusive”, no alcohol on premises hookah café called Arabian Knights.

That’s where I’m off to.

I’ll have you know that I did not vote for the class order to have those mobsters gunned down. That was the death sentence of Erza Pula, the Albanian Chief of the Safety Section, or what Oleg   jokingly calls; the Committee for Public Safety.

Erza Pula has never been one flinch at killing slavers. My days of dealing in death are over. For the most part.

I park my black Ducati in front of Arabian Knights.

It was here, under the averted eyes of its elderly Chechen owner Sam “Ouju” Saladin that rebel engineers from the Breukland Soviet have built a smuggling tunnel complete with a functional subway three car Q train out an old maintenance tunnel all the way under the East River bed into the catacombs below the District Financial. Via this route Ysiad Ferraris will later this evening cross into the U.A.S. after his debauch at Drake Hotel with the Ivorite spy Toba Hadaad, not my favorite person.

I check my bike out front with the underage Canaanite valet Tariq. I nod to the door guards, members of the Party of God, I give them the A salaam Alekuum. They give me the courteous salute and Islamic reply. Then seal and bolt the doors behind me.

 

The entire place is an interlocking weave of curtained booths which bear an innocuous aroma of some unknown fruit, perhaps grape melon? Saladin, born a very long time ago in a Chechen town called Shali City cures his own shisha, or fruit molasses infused tobacco.

 

In the backroom of the Oasis Hade Bade, behind steel buttressed emergency doors, seated around a long table close to the ground are several partisans, some quite infamous at this stage for the desperate deeds they did to secure Breuklyn’s independence, others accomplices of lower profile. Though the audacity required for us to hold court on Russian Bratva district territory in uniform no less while recently having ordered the shutdown of several major brothels and gambling houses speaks to the brazen way Oleg Medved and I lead the Otriad these days.

Fair warning was given. The Green Light District went “union” six months prior and port tariffs were to be now collected at Port Coney and taxes were to be paid directly to the General Assembly. The Port may be owned by Perchevney and his people, but the District Coney Island was established long ago as Breuklyn Otriad turf.

 

Article twenty three clearly states that everyone has the right to “a fair wage, in a safe environment and to join a trade union.”

 

I am clad in my dark blue fatigues and along with burly well-dressed Oleg Medved and am briefing our assembled associates. My associates at this particular palaver are Kaveh Ali Shariati Atatable, a Persian Revolutionary Guardsmen cross affiliated with the Z.O.B. and the Party of God, the Indian-Yid televisionary Nicholas Mapfre; the recently elected Chief Communications Officer of the 18^th Congress, and Hassan Askeri, Bangladeshi millionaire business man and Vice President of BRAC; the world’s largest NGO. Along with seven newly arrived commanders from the Party of God, the Persian backed Shi’a paramilitary organization that is one of the Z.O.B.’s closest allies. I am entreating them to produce a “Goebbels quality inter-web marketing campaign.”

We are about to let the cat out of the bag quite publically.

Oleg Medved is smoking a Cuban cigar. He has little taste for hookahs. And even less for shifty endless political negotiations, especially when they involve the Brotherhood of Muhammadian and the so called Party of God. His thinly veiled contempt for meetings is only subsumed at times for his respect for me. Anya Drovtich.

Kaveh is a heavy set and muscular Persian with a well-groomed mustache.

Nicholas Mapfre has long black hair. He smiles mischievously when asked questions that make him uncomfortable, like how many wives he has. Hassan Askeri has a boyish, preppy look to him as though he has stepped out of a Bollywood film, befriended some red radicals and fearlessly supports us even if just for the sake of danger, prestige and the sex. The seven revolutionary guardsmen present are all clean shaven and olive skinned.

 

Nicholas Mapfre went to Bronx Science and was a founding member of the original Club, albeit more of silent partner until four years ago when most of his childhood friends were martyred before and during the rising. Kaveh has been a card carrying Banshee for years before he returned to his beleaguered nation Iran to enlist in the Revolutionary Guards after a brief career in yellow journalism. Hassan encountered Sebastian Adon on the Q train mêlée in 2008 and their lives were shortly ever after bound together via thought crime and punishment.

 

I am standing, leaned against the wall; hand on my hip, hand holding open a micro brief. My lips painted are up in red lip stick and my dreads are covered in a red Hijab. Oleg Medved is intermittently reading a Russian poem by Vladimir Mayakovsky on his smart phone, while scrolling between the quasi erotic pictures of his last fashion shoot, while then sky paging one of his modals to meet him later at the Drake Hotel.

He looks vaguely tired.

Yet always stalwart. Ready to do what must be done.

Quite a stalwart droog.

As per usual I brief them multilingually and using Spectra Point; the 3d graphics system designed by Google right before they succeeded in fully turning over control of the internet to the Obama regime’s N.S.A. It projects holographic displays and is far more engaging than the data delivery systems preceding it.

Before he was brutally tortured on national television Dan Fried the martyr had open course improved on it. Right before he successful hacked into and eliminated the entire big data holding of the NSA two years before the Great Disorder.

“Brothers, let me begin by positing two variables which must be brought to bear immediately. We are as you know about to move ahead with these latest clandestine machinations. First, if the camera isn’t rolling the whole goddamn time, if people cannot tune constantly into our revolution rolling live stream on the inter-web; see with their own eyes not just hear about it on the Fire Station; if they cannot identify clear protagonists, clear protagonists that they at times get to see partially naked; take in the veritable laundry lists of resistance faction acronyms and see this whole bloody, bloody show down as an epic battle between “Good” and “evil”; human freedom v. oligarchic collectivism well then I suspect that we will all die in shallow sandy graves as the true blue “international cohort of Islamists, subversives, anarchists, commies, and nigger loving terrorists” the U.A.S. media already proclaims us to be,” I, Anya Drovtich, Section Chief of Information and Intelligence of the Breuklyn Otriad’s 18^th Congress inform them.

I clearly have a way with my words.

But, I did not always.

“We are asking you as some of our most obviously capable cinematographers and media experts to develop the capability of live streaming the entire guerilla invasion of a major African country to take place approximately six months from now. We are also requesting Persian support in training the local people of that country in the finer arts of guerrilla war. And all this needs to be accomplished within the next six months. Understood?” she asked them.

“Five by five,” responded Kaveh Ali Shariati in Farsi.

 

Switch perspective.

 

Oleg Medved is watching Nicholas Mapfre, Hassan, Kaveh and the seven Guardsmen pass the Nagillah, the big blue water pipe filled with Grape-Mint tobacco back and forth. His girlfriend slash modal slash concubine texts him back that she can be at the Drake at 23:00.  He doesn’t need to tell her to bring the cuffs and Stolichnaya Premium. Anya always has everyone’s undivided attention except his.

But he’s her left hand man. Her best asset. Especially since his erotic tiff with Erza Pula Pound, the Albanian Safety-Security Chief. Another lesson of don’t fuck where you eat. Don’t ravish a woman who has her own army if she might fall for you when you don’t believe in such things as monogamy.

Oi.  

            What a headache.

            Nicholas Mapfre, guerilla film maker of the People’s Television Network, long time club member is certain that without the proper utilization of information technology it will be impossible to get good data out of the war zone and utilize it as propaganda to trigger the chain reaction of uprisings so critical to the victory of the militant human rights movement.

Anya fills the room with her vibrations.

“A quick parable before my second point,” she says.

“Years ago, in the Cinema Rex fire, the Cinema Rex in Abadan, Iran, was set ablaze, killing over 400 individuals, horrifically burning them alive while trapped inside.”

“The then ruling shah, Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, said that Muhammadian insurgents set the fire, while many blamed the country’s intelligence service, Savak. There is speculation over the actual number of casualties incurred during the fire. Various sources draw their own conclusions concerning the death toll. A 1980 Amnesty-International report states that there were 438 victims, including individuals who were tried and wrongfully executed after the fire itself.

“The fire itself was “the third-deadliest terror attack in modern history,” after only the 11 September debacle. And a certain subsequent recent event called the Millennium Theatre Hostage crisis with which you are all now surely familiar with.”

Oleg Medved even hearing that phrases like “11 September” or “Millennium Hostage Crisis” gets a bad taste in his mouth. Since his unit organized both of those attacks.

“There have been many unfounded allegations regarding the circumstances which led to the Cinema Rex fire, but it is certain that it was a key event that triggered the Persian revolution. One such allegation claims that Mossad-trained Savak agents were in pursuit of individuals who ran into the movie theatre and used it as an opportunity to hide in a large crowd at the cinema. Later, either the fugitives, or the Savak agents chasing them decided to lock the doors of the cinema, and a fire was started in the theatre presumably by the fugitives. Unable to escape from the building, everyone inside the cinema died as a result of the conflagration. Another speculation is that the Savak simply bolted the doors and burned the place down themselves hoping to stoke local anger against the resistance to the Shah.”

She pauses and then says, “Second point. Not only do we require People’s Television and the Persian Revolutionary Guard to design, bank roll and administer the sophisticated media logistics for the world’s first live streamed international guerrilla war; we need you to produce a very, very moving film. And quickly. Something to make your Kony 2012 piece look like Saturday morning cartoons. I am asking you on behalf of the 18^th Congress of the Club’s Executive to produce such a film juxtaposing the Cinema Rex fire in Abadan; the September 11^th martyr operation; and with the Millennium Theatre fire of three years prior. They are not really all that similar in technicality, but the purpose of this film is to win international hearts and minds to cause of our micro-republic. We want a film that makes foreign nationals and their leaders want to help us. Because if we’re going to simultaneously keep the U.A.S. Federal government off our backs, keep things moving along plan, and attempt to liberate a certain country in the Caribbean, well were going to need the help of the Persian Revolutionary Guard Corps. And movies, as you three gentlemen know are the way into all human hearts and minds.”

She sold them before they walked in.

 

Three years ago, 808 American civilian hostages and 24 rebel fighters were killed in the Millennium Theatre in a 72 hour hostage crisis on the eve of the ceasefire which led to the Breuklyn Soviet Microrepublik’s establishment. The Department of Homeland Security (DHS) had pumped some designer paralytic gas into the besieged theatre to supposedly incapacitate the hostage takers. At some point either the rebels or the Federals storming the theatre triggered an explosion in the ensuing exchange of gun fire. Blame went both ways obviously. As 800 plus 8 people lay in various degrees of incapacitation a fire swept the theatre. Virtually everyone perished.

 

The few civilian hostages that the FDNY rescue medics managed to pull from that inferno were dead shortly after from the incapacitating gas. It was virtually impossible for either the media or the DHS to differentiate hostage from “terrorist”, but 832 bodies were recovered from the smoking rubble of Broadways most prestigious new play house.

In reality 808 American hostages did indeed perish mostly from the gas used by the U.A.S. Federals and subsequent exchanges of gun fire. Of the 24 Otriad rebels that took over the theatre for 72 hours, none of them allegedly made it out alive. And two that were confirmed killed by the national press and DHS were none other than Maya Solomon and Sebastian Adon. The principle founders of the Breuklyn Bath and Rifle Club’s New York and Middle Eastern Branches.

The partially burned remains of the two famous “master terrorists” were confirmed by genetic matching the corpses and dental records. 832 bodies were recovered. Many riddled with bullets, many partially burned. Thus leading the FBI-DHLS to believe they had killed two major leaders of the national uprising called “The Great Revolt” which by that time had been bleeding the nation or three years.

But, the coroners of the DHS were tricked and mistaken. These were body doubles. Flesh bot clones of the 24 operatives taking the theatre by storm. Husks grown with no souls used primarily as replacement parts or sex toys for rich lonely sickos.

Adon, Solomon and 22 others made it out through the sewers shortly after the gas came

rushing in. These were students of history. They remembered what had happened in Moscow in 2003. They brought respirator masks with them. They left bodies, flesh husks for the authorities to find.    History only repeats itself when allowed to.

Nicholas Mapfre, Kaveh and their cocky, vaguely charming playboy partner Ryder Haske did terrific work throughout the battle for Ayiti, the great revolt and their unrelated tear jerker KONY 2012 on the subject of the Lord’s Resistance Army of Uganda raised 37 million dollars for the  club from unsuspecting liberal American college students. Given unrestricted access to Iran and its national archives during an unusually scary year of nuclear saber rattling between Iran, Israel and the UAS their movie had finished and screened as “humanizing tour de force” during a period of “globe shaking ethno-religious jingoism” right before the partisan invasion of Ayiti was to commence.

The message was to juxtapose the pre-revolutionary excesses of the Shah with the sinister Project for a New American Century-Mossad 9/11 Martyr Operation along with the brutal conduct of the U.A.S. Federal government during Iraq, Afghanistan, and the Great Revolt, exemplified by the Millennium Hostage Crisis a showcase of “state sponsored acts of terror”.

The film was beyond risky.

It was to be well-researched and also be sexy, fun and available for free on YouTube. And it was a polished piece of populist propaganda. It would be obviously firewalled in the U.A.S., Russian Federation, and People’s Republic of China, but by that time almost everyone on earth besides those living in North Korea still had unrestricted clandestine access to “the inter-web”; the people’s last free open source conduit of information now that the oligarchy had Silicon Valley in its war pocket and controlled completely every log in, every search, and every correspondence on the internet.

Even a U.A.S. citizen in the Midwest couldn’t help but sympathize with the people of Breuklyn bombed into the ground for months, killed by the tens of thousands, living in bunkers fighting in ghettos, and trenches and then the sheer audacity of us mounting four sophisticated hostage take overs in New York, Los Angeles, Chicago and Washington D.C. that all resulted in the seizure of some the nation’s wealthiest citizens, celebrities and politicians.

 

“Especially since that same vile clique of Bohemian Grove American oligarchs had just over a decade ago organized a massive terrorist attack on their own citizens on the 11^th of September 2001 to send the country to permanent war and strip the nation of the last vestiges of its civil liberties,” notes Anya Drovtich.

 

The deadly martyrdom of Adon and Solomon, confirmed dead in the Millennium inferno caused by U.A.S. heavy handedness would now be exposed as a clever charade to conceal two of the top architects of the human rights resistance movement.

This was to be an epic film.

The blackest cat is now out of the bag.

“If we hadn’t all seen it coming and already had so much data to choose from I’d tell you this couldn’t be done in the time frame you’re suggesting. However, I think we all saw this coming,” states Nicholas Mapfre.

One of the nameless Persian guardsmen chimes in, “it is always said they were very, very hard people to truly kill.”

 

“That 808 American citizens died in a crisis we initiated is obviously still a major open sore for the U.A.S. pundits, politicians and right wing. Even if most of them were upper east side elites,” notes Kaveh Ali Shariati, “that it resulted in rapid succession of sixty four eastern free state territories, several of which with nuclear weapons is a real talking point too.”

 

Everyone was still getting over the September 11^th Attack that launched the rather limitless and global war pitting the United States against the entire Muslim world. But this was the Post-Snowden IT AGE, so unlike in Moscow in 2003 when the F.S.B. pumped gas into the Budanov Theatre and killed several hundred of their citizens, or when China blacked out over one billion internet users from knowing what was going on outside of China, well they can get away with less now, cameras will always be rolling and we have the inter-web to ourselves. No paid advertisements allowed.

 

“The film will blame the oligarchy for ultimately forcing civilians to become terrorists and revolutionaries. It will profile Cinema Rex in Iran, the Budanov Theatre Hostage Crisis in 2003 of Moscow, and expose the details of September 11^th, 2001 and the events of the Millennium. It will finally stress just how “not quite dead” Adon and Solomon are and set up the interest for the third wave; our irregular invasion of Ayiti,” explains Anya.

Interestingly enough, it was not the deaths of 808 rich, very rich New Yorkers at the Millennium, or the threat of setting off a very real nuclear device in Washington DC, or even that President Obama’s family was amongst the hostages seized there. The working group that took over the Democratic National Convention in Chicago was holding upwards of 8,000 hostages. That wasn’t the issue.

What finally led to the pressure to bear to end the crisis didn’t even come from Los Angeles. By taking over the Academy Awards the rebels were in a position to murder most of the nation’s Hollywood celebrities.

Or the nuclear test detonation in the Ocean outside Washington D.C. irradiating the city for the next eighty years half-life.

In the end, shortly after the full scope of the plot came to the attention of the nation’s security and intelligence community. A high level bureaucrat from the Department of Homeland Security called the wealthiest men in the country to brief them on the developments. Of course the media had been having a feeding frenzy already, but not everyone knew about the bomb in the capital.

In the end, not the military, not the security state, not the President, but instead the richest man in the nation, an anonymous man whose name you would never even recognize, he weighed the stakes, conferred with a few business tycoons and theirs lawyers in a thatched hut of the Bohemian Grove and they called Obama back an hour later.

 

“Give them all the sovereignty they can swallow,” was the message of the elite at least in the beginning.

 

The President was informed that the intelligence community and the military would be unable to stop the three working groups in Chicago, D.C. and L.A. from carrying out their directives. It was thoroughly advised that the President declare an official ceasefire with the separatists, end the siege and deal with the rebels decisively in “his third term in office.”

 

The ceasefire came 72 hours after the blood bath at the Millennium. The rebels along with a choice batch of some celebrity, athlete and political hostages as well as three atomic weapons built in the University of Stonybrook all took trains back to Breuklyn. Three years had passed without so much as a shot fired between the U.A.S. and the Breuklyn Soviet. The purge had occurred abroad, and it was almost complete.

 

103 dead war criminals according to the last reports. One more to die in Moscow before the evening is over.

And then three months ago the mysterious killings began. In just three months howling lunatics had slaughtered as many innocent people as our Sicarri had tracked down in three years.

“We will have the film ready to premier in six months,” states Kaveh, “as for the Guard supporting your so called ‘Operation Marcus Garvey’; we will have to wait and hear from the supreme leadership in Tehran.

“We will bring your proposal to our leadership this evening,” states Sayyid Ghaffarian leader amongst the Guardsmen secretly deployed in Breuklyn Soviet, “I suppose a serious question to ask is who exactly will pay for this risky venture?”

 

“Everyone’s gonna end up paying for it,” mutters Oleg Medved.

 

But he isn’t talking about the money.

 

 

Chapter 21

Fadeeva 6, 2018ce

Moscow

 

	Thinks Sebastian Adon, his head throbbing;

Something is odd about the lightning in here. But I fail to know what to say or think it worth speaking on.

What makes a safe house safe?

I have no idea.

Only the people in it ready to hold ground.

She’s a dangerous woman, all can agree.

“Well of course they were captured,” she says, “Moscow is locked down. Tight as a drum as you like to say. Nothing happens here without the full choreography of the authorities.”

“Including us?”

“Including the weather. I’d imagine what comes next will be very painful,” she says.

“It’s always been thrilling to observe the drastic change in energies and aura via the shift in a paradigm when one looks upon a complicated thing with new eyes.”

“What does that mean?” she asks, “don’t talk that Kundalini bullshit to me.”

“The most important lesson I ever learned in Ayiti was that you have to always separate fact from emotion; the brain from the heart, and the fakeness from the real. Would you recognize Alexandre Perchevney if you saw him in a photograph?” I ask her.

“Of course not,” she says, “nor would I recognize you. No matter what was done to me. Only by your wide eyes and kiss do I know it’s ever you.”

“Your round,” I say examining her Chornay cigarettes. Wondering why she still smokes.

“Smoking kills,” I mention.

“Your people know how to grow new bodies don’t they? If you truly love me you’ll get me new lungs. We can leave these bodies at will!” she pauses then begins to sing, “What’s one more cigarette she said? What’s the use of your lungs when you’re riddled with sixty four holes?”

That’s a line from a famous song.

“There is only one proven way to get information out of a woman like you,” I declare!

“Oh, do tell,” she says.

“The tickle method,” I tell her.

“Get on your fucking back man,” she declares.

“I’m going to tickle you until you can no longer stand.”

“Tickle better be your bullshit American code word for a violent hard fuck.”

“Well it might be.”

 

 

Chapter 23

Coney Island, Green Zone, 2019ce

Breuklyn Soviet

 

 

Spooning leads to forking, that’s what they always say.

Summer in the Breuklyn Soviet means that the boardwalk and beaches are virtually inundated with gyrating flesh; short-short skirts, loud dancehall, dub step or field music blaring over vehicle sound systems driven right to the water’s edge. All night sex parties. Endless overtime for the veritable army of push cart hustlers and hawkers and their civil servant protectors. The parachute drop tower is lit up at night for base jumping, but the wild lights of the Green Light District, Luna Park, Steeplechase Casino and over a thousand hot spot debaucheries; night clubs, spas and outdoor restaurants keep out citizens and adventure tourists from around the world quite busy.

But it hasn’t been summer for years.

The Boardwalk is now fully desolate.

Breuklyn Soviet is still in the full clutches of General Winter.

My god your tits are fucking huge, he thinks, respectfully.

Even your coat can’t hide ‘um.

Ysiad Ferraris is vaguely jet lagged. His suit however is well tailored and shows no signs of travel duress. You can’t fly direct from Moscow to what was once called JFK, obviously. All three of the New York’s major airstrips are now in the rebel zones of control. All major carriers refuse to fly there because it would mean losing lucrative contracts with the U.A.S. Since no nation officially recognizes the Free State territories except Iran, Cuba and a hand full of Caribbean Islands in the Wild West Indian Federation; the only way to fly to Breuklyn Soviet is on your own plane and land at Idlewild, Malcolm X (LaGuardia) or MLK (JFK). There is a theoretical no fly zone over Bronx Soviet and the Long Island Sound. Most extralegal commercial trade thus must utilize container ships, tunnel drums, subs and short planes to move goods and people into liberated Strong Island, or the pockets of rebel territory scattered along the coast between Maine and Miami.

“He’s supposed to play dead!” exclaims Toba Hadaad.

And Ysiad just shrugs.

Ysiad Ferraris meets Toba Hadaad, an agent of the Mossad for a brunch and Bloody Mary’s at the Yafa Café on the Manhattan Beach Boardwalk, just outside the Green Light District. It is decorated with red lights that adorn the walls like Christmas decorations. It had been a far seedier place when they were younger. The coffee was once a little more expensive then. People used to fornicate in the narrow enclosures of their rest rooms while coffee house philosophers would pontific ate all night about the existence of God and or Karl Marx. The food is vaguely Mediterranean. The owners are vaguely Israeli. The Yafa Café and its sister the Sunflower Café on Kings Highway are both known places of temporary employ for Hebrew speaking “new arrivals” to the Breuklyn Soviet getting acclimated in the numerous changes happening here.

They have history and quite a lot of it. A bit of the old in-out, in-out pound the shit out. A history built on deeds and deals between Sodom and Gomorrah. The Mossad, the premier Israeli foreign intelligence arm has a history of doing whatever it has to do anywhere and to anyone it has to on earth to safeguard the Israeli state. Including biting the hand that feeds it. Israel still has an 80 billion dollar weapons deal with the United American States and refuses to acknowledge the Breuklyn Soviet as a sovereign nation. But with one eighth of world Ivoryry living there, well under the table deals get made left, right and center.

“I just got back from Moscow! Guess who I ran into at the bathhouse?” exclaims Ysiad.

“What’s that Benzona up to now,” Toba asks Ysiad with a scowl.

“A whole problematic lot of things,” he grins.

“He’s supposed to be dead! The gate keepers should have ordered him liquidated years ago. I’m still just a tad sentimental because he’s your only friend.”

“What you should have done was let him in your fucking country and recruited him back in the day, before he ended up first in Ayiti and turned into such a majorly effective zealot on behalf of the blacks.”

“Whatever. A person like him has no idea how to play well in a chain of command. He thinks he’s so smart. So evolved! And thus he ignores every time honored understanding of what humans are and are not capable of.  We’ve done more than ok without him,” scoffs Toba.

“He thinks the world of you Toba.”

“As he should, he owes me still for that escapade on the subway.”

“That’s not really how he sees it. He feels like you cut him off and sold him out to the agency and got him thrown out of your country for good.”

“Him being a subversive, can’t pick a side-fuck is what did that.”

“Regardless. You look well. You’re still an evil opinionated bitch with huge tits though.”

“And you a soulless, paper chasing lackey to a series of demagogues. How’s the wife?”

“Barefoot and pregnant. She sends her love. How goes the war on Palestine?”

“Status quo. As we like it. So, why the fuck am I here again you sarcastic shit for brains? Oh, yes, to remind you that the agency is very nervous about conflicting reports that Adon and Solomon are out of retirement after just three years of being confirmed dead. And both allegedly soon enroot to Tehran. You could see how that worries us.”

Ysiad cocks a cocky eyebrow.

“Ah, that. Well, Sebastian and Co. are about to invade a certain gold and oil rich developing, perhaps long unraveling nation and they were curious how the Israeli intelligence community would feel. You know, like if they took over the DR and Ayiti.”

Her jaw drops only slightly. A tiny little bit revealing some last vestige of sentimentality. Her jaw never fully drops. It drops to reveal what Ysiad can’t possibly know which is that she never expected this plot to get this far.

It was a very impressive subterfuge that the club had pulled via its scientists ability to replicate bodies. Not only was the Breuklyn Otriad able to grow viable organs to sell to fund its efforts, they could grow entire soulless bodies. And that was how they planted twenty four corpses including two of their primary leadership at the site of secessionist ground zero during the Millennium Theatre Hostage Crisis. To the best of her knowledge only the Mossad and the Perchevney Bratva were still convinced Adon and Solomon were still alive.

 

“He’s was supposed to play dead for five years minimum,” Toba mutters, “That was the deal. Last time I checked.”

“Well obviously there was a change of plans on their end. I know your people have informants in their circle, but I suspect not their inner circle. They can play democracy in front of just about everyone else but we all know, elected or not, dead or alive the same circle of people has been guiding that club since 2000,” Ysiad suggests.

“Well actually it’s really only eight. And out of that eight really only three key original players are still alive. One in Angola prison camp, two in death or exile. ”

“Look we can waste time small taking about the Breuklyn Bath and Rifle club until the rabbits hop home, but bottom line, Adon and Solomon are moving about recruiting and laying down a conduit into the Republic of Ayiti. They’re training over in Cuba with the blessing of the new Lavalas government; they have a forward bases secured on the Isle of Youth.”

“Obviously we were aware of all that. It’s our back yard. But how many?”

“Now, that you don’t get to know, I don’t even really know. Suffice to say enough for a real state of emergency. Maybe not a true topple or a near over throw, but a big messy dent.”

“And why in the world are they orchestrating this?”

“He claims it’s to rescue the people of Ayiti from genocide, but you know, it’s anyone’s guess. He runs quite a spectacle generating club these days.”

“He or she?”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Have you ever seen Maya Solomon with your own eyes?”

“Well no, but I have seen Adon at a bathhouse without clothes just seventy two hours ago and I know he’s a…”

“Not what I’m suggesting. I’m saying she’s the boss, not him.”

“Well who cares, the American media says they’re two very dead master terrorists. The problem is that they’re gonna invade Ayiti in less than six months to a year and they need air support. Unlike the smaller operation they ignited, there are numerous armed groups already killing each other in Ayiti. And all that gold & oil to win.”

“Well this all sounds insane. Say hi to your wonderful wife for me.”

“Ah, he said you’d blow it off like that. Except here is the part where I say over 1,000 of their fighters are practicing Yids. If they do succeed in bringing the Maccoute to their knees, forcing a U.N. intervention in Ayiti and by default toppling President Talleyrand then Israel might stand to have one less regional enemy armed to the teeth with Chinese weapons. And of course the real tipping point, but you have to sit down for this one.”

She doesn’t sit down.

He looks her over with her Arab features, thick hips and her black curly hair and a rack that, well anyway, not to objectify such a powerful and deadly woman, but they are quite big.

“They’re gonna break the leader of the Ayitian Emergency Group out of U.A.S. custody and return to Ayiti with the one man that can unite the major factions of the resistance against President  al-Talleyrand  .”

“They’re going to break Avinadav DeBuitléir out from camp Angola 42? How?”

“Fairly soon I suspect if they aren’t all killed trying.”

She pauses, wondering if it’s about high time for the Mossad to put more West Indians on payroll this week.

“This is all quite fine and good, but what pray tell does the questionably sane Mr. supposedly dead master terrorist Sebastian Adon, excuse me, “former Chief Planning Officer Adon want from Israel this time around?”

This was her little way of impressing on Ysiad that yes, the Mossad is quite aware of the inner mechanics of the Breuklyn Otriad, since one eighth of world Ivoryry lives in that three year old anarchic little micro republic.

“They’re asking for a onetime deal on a Berlin style airlift from Sinai into Ayiti in exchange for Avinadav DeBuitléir’s guarantee on the future Ayitian recognition of Israel after the cessation of hostilities, which presumably they expect to win, as well as DeBuitléir’s promise of extensive trade and resource concessions between your two countries. They want a guarantee that if they manage to secure Hispaniola the I.A.F. will secure a no fly zone to prevent a northern retaliatory strike by the Chinamen.”

“Yeah, well if they win. Big effing if. And where is it we’d even have a base to fly sorties from?”

“What about your friends in Trinidad?”

“Well it’s a onetime gamble. It isn’t as if getting caught doing this could possibly make Israeli-World relations any worse.”

“It’s a negligible commitment of resources because they can’t possibly field more than 1,000 fighters on such short notice with the commitments they’ve already made. You are of course aware that we’ve already penetrated their Jacmel, Cange Outpost and Sinai training bases and have several case officers embedded in the detachments drilling there.”

“They probably have less than that committed actually. But, Toba you know what these people are capable of even with just eight members. Suffice to say, they have a lot more than eight members now.”

“Why are you betting on this foolish blood bath Mr. Ferraris?”

“He’s my dearest old friend.”

“That’s never, ever a good enough reason.”

“Well, one does like making a little history to absolve themselves of past, present and likely future war crimes, do they not? And who’s gonna lie? If that country sits on a sea of oil and gold then this war is incredibly profitable. But I am doing this more as a friend than a business man. And surely they won’t stop at Ayiti. They’ll take D.R. too, my motherland.”

“Indeed, you’re just all such a bunch of true believers.”

“Well we weren’t always. Miracles are lucrative these days. Anyhow, just pass the offer along is all they’re asking and let me know if anyone is receptive to this project on your end of the camel.”

“We’re following this rather closely.”

“The invasion will happen within the year. They want assurances now.”

“Tell them to go talk to Ruth,” says Toba Hadaad.

He passes her across the table a micro USB card taped into a book of matches from the KBG Bar in Manhattan; a den of drunken writers and also quite a few spies. It’s a love letter to the State of Ivory chock full of coded logistical particulars. Makes and models of planes and hardware they want to lend lease.

“Magneav,” she declares. (Magnificent).

“Oh yes, what I came here to give to you,” she says.

 

She hands him a business card of a new restaurant called The Third Rasputin, which just went up on Avenue Z, it was called Second Romanoff in its last incarnation.

 

On the boardwalk a grey rabbit that is roughly the size of a hog hops by. Some Japanese adventure tourists try and take its picture.

 

“The new Mehanata,” Ysiad says.

“A certain cargo cased coffin just arrived there today from Moscow. I would suggest you tell your confederates that what is in that box will be worth the whole rebellions weight in gold.”

“I’ll be sure they send someone knocking.”

She smiles at him.

“Tell them to knock very, very hard,” she says.

There is an accusation in her eyes that he is uncomfortable with.

“I didn’t betray Adon,” Ysiad informs her, “we all just needed to do some house cleaning before the coming storm.”

“Purge, counter purge,” she suggests.

“Death to traitors and spies,” he counters.

“You’ve always been one big traitor. And I’ve always been one hell of a spy.”

“I’m staying at the Drake Hotel,” Toba mentions to Ysiad Ferraris.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 24

The Drake Hotel,

Coney Island, Green Zone, 2019ce

Breuklyn Soviet

 

Oleg doesn’t have to say one word to the valet at the Drake Hotel about what will happen if anyone so much as looks in the general direction of his black bullet proof Mercedes.

He gregariously takes a picture of the attendant with the vintage Leica camera he so adoringly carries about.

 

As if to say; if anyone goes even close to that car your death will be an entire gory photo shoot.

 

Since the total G42 embargo which has lasted now for three long years there has been no way to get certain luxury items into the nation easily.

To be the driver of a brand fucking new armored Mercedes Bends means only one of two things. You are a vicious, cut throat likely Postsoviet affiliated associate of the Perchevney Bratva, or you are Magnus Goldbar Allamby.

It would be unheard of for anyone else to have a designer car in the Soviet.

And since Oleg Medved is certainly not the Otriads famous Bajan money man. He must therefore work for the feared Bratva that owns both the Drake Hotel, the Free Port and most of the Green Light District.

They are now seated in place of conspicuous opulence.

A suite in the highly acclaimed, highly luxurious Drake Hotel which rises in an eighty four story spire off of Banner Avenue and Brighton 6^th Street. It was built before the Great Disorder by a Russian business man named Dmitry Khulushin. He built a very tall tower to house a very important woman, but lost both the woman and shortly after the rights to the tower in a card game.

There are adornments made of marble, and things that shine. There is the veneer of exclusivity, but that exclusivity is only limited by how much you spend.

Thinking back a whole year before deployment, Anya and Oleg   worked the network for a way to communicate with all the African tribes they’d be dying to save.

Ysiad Ferraris owns several dozen assorted businesses, but the crown Ivoryels of his empire are largely high tech in nature or shipping companies. He plans to supply credentials for shipping the weapons and equipment into the Sinai Peninsula. He also has a very happy, happy Hanukah present he insists Oleg Medved and Anya must meet him at his penthouse suite 74 stories over the Brighton Bay to see a “flash new toy”.

Ysiad is a Harvard graduate and amongst many other things the majority shareholder of Caravaggio-Gould Electronic Group: a small start-up out of college now transnational corporation holding patents in rescue and maintenance robotics, solar energy harvesting, and most importantly military contracts for fun filled killing tools like the Niche 06-47 surface-to-air fighter drone and the Oksana 62-12 terra-drone which can march into a village and machine gun everything that moves and is over three feet tall or has a weapon. Also selling like hotcakes were stasis chambers in which the sick or wounded could be put to sleep for years at a time hovering in a dreamlike state while they recuperated surgically grafting cloned flesh back to them.

 

All of which were ever in demand with the ever escalating wars in Eurasia, East Asia and the disputed territories bordering Oceana.

 

Ysiad certainly isn’t the richest man in Babylon, nor has he moved out of his townhouse on the 53rd floor of Olympia Tower Complex on 53^rd and Fifth Avenue although not as spacious as his wealth might indicate, but surely he had just bought his new summer home on Madeira Island with cash up front, which was something to really be proud of. He officially holds U.A.S. citizenship but he sure seems to own a great number of properties in the new free sates of the Eastern coast.

 

“So you’ve come for the high China tech shit, have you?” he laughs as they enter his suite at the Drake Hotel.

 

“I just started taking language classes on one of the new Parasimulator my company is about to release. It’s wonderful stuff,” he tells them. More announces.

Toba is fixing her hair and makeup in the women’s closet.

A Parasimulator is an electronic device designed by the Israelis and then vastly improved by the Chinese to generate neurological stimulation to in effect fool your five senses into believing the images, smells and sensations produced. Designed by the Israelis for combat simulation and torture, the Caravaggio Gould Group popularized them for elite entertainment. They are currently only available to the most wealthy and powerful, and military intelligence groups of the first world, Russian and China.

He passes Oleg Medved a head set that locks over his eyes and ears and connects wirelessly to tiny black box clipped to my hip.

“Why not just make it as one unit,” Oleg   asks.

“Well the factory that makes the software is in Israel, but the audio-visual simulator we can build cheaper in Vietnam. And anyway with the Boycott Divest and Sanction campaign in full swing and so many of my shareholders being Yids I couldn’t make the whole thing in East Asia, but I can’t risk all the fines for doing it all in Israel. You know the game.”

Anya is highly unimpressed with just about everything this schemer does.

A war profiteer is how she describes him.

Oleg   dons the head set and a husky female voice whispers to verbally select language interface for translation.

“Ayitian Creole.”

Select dialect the device whispers seductively.

“Jacmel Region.”

Select audio-visual translation output it says.

“Americano.”

“Select audio-visual translation output dialect.”

“Breuklyn Soviet.”

He can see Ysiad and his wonderfully minimalistic apartment through the glasses of the headset. This movie Southland tales once stated that “the future was going to be far more futuristic than originally expected.” They sure were right.

 

“Watch the words that appear in the left side of the screen,” Ysiad says to Oleg. As he talks his words are whispered to him in Creole and like sub titles appear phonetically across his line of site.

Ysiad now says something in Spanish, the device whispers soothingly to Oleg, “The client can upload tens of thousands of language groups.”

He continues in Spanish, “you will hear what the device hears in Breuklyn Americano and whatever you say will be put on the screen to repeat phonetically in the dialect you have selected for translation. As you can see, even other languages will be repeated to you back in the language you selected so it isn’t terribly hard to carry on with numerous primitives speaking numerous dialects. ”

“I think we call them ‘people of an underdeveloped’ country now.”

“Yeah, undeveloped people who don’t speak Chinese, Spanish or Americano: unfortunate primitives.”

“Well how much for a unit?” asks Anya Drovtich.

Ysiad looks at her like she just asked to face fuck his mother.

“How much green dollars?” Oleg repeats for her, but has already gauged the man’s intention.

“The usual price scumbag.”

“What’s the usual price again?”

“The opportunity cost of falling off the back of a transport truck, minus whatever cost-benefit I engage in over the years somehow convinced you and your zealots are on to something.”

“And the favor and access your curry with Perchevney when it comes time for us to re-arm?” Anya interjects.

“Thank you Ysiad for helping us all the years so selflessly,” says Oleg   with a shit eating grin.

“Remember the first time?” Ysiad asks.

“You always remember the first time somebody helps you,” says Oleg, “but I was not with the club then.”

“It was always my assumption you were just in this for the money,” confides Anya.

“Why the fuck-are you doing it again?” Oleg   asks.

“’Cause it never sit right with me that little bitty fucking African and East-Asian children were slaving away to make my dam khakis, and Bono says poverty is wrong!”

Anya scowls at him and makes the sign for the world’s smallest violin.

“You’re a man of great principle. Adon surely grins from the grave. Surely for it someone will kill you eventually,” Oleg   says.

“Grins or winks,” Ysiad says.

“What was that?” Oleg   asks.

“Surely hell has a good place for those of great principle and hopefully an exceptional bath house. But, I remain a truly hard man to kill,” Ysiad says quoting Adon.

Ysiad makes a half-hearted sigh.

“A lot of boxes falling off a lot of trucks this week,” notes Oleg Medved.

“Just how your crew prefers it,” notes Ysiad.

“If it’s free, it’s for we,” says Anya Drovtich quoting an old ambulance idiom.

You sly slimy fuck she now almost mentions.

Oleg Medved gives Ysiad a curt hand shake; where by Ysiad palms him the business card to Third Rasputin. On the back in Hebrew he’s written; “Investigate major cargo.”

Anya gives him a perfunctory salute and helps Oleg Medved wheel out the four enormous roller valises containing sixteen modified Parasimulators.

On their way out Anya and Oleg  bump into a second Toba Hadaad as she gets out of the elevator. Oleg winks at Toba in a most scandalous way. Toba glowers at Anya. Anya almost reaches for her gun and shoot Toba clone in the heart. But has the self-control to not. The women scowl secretly wondering when is the most appropriate time to ask for the other’s evisceration orders.

 

But no one is going to break ceasefire in the Green Light District a second time in a fort night.

 

Oleg, Anya and Toba 1 and 2 have not been in the same room since the night before of the Millennium Theatre job. And by the end of the weekend they will all quite probably be dead.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 25

Barclay Stadium General Assembly, 2019ce

Breuklyn Soviet

 

 

About the same time later when Ysiad was emptying his hairless balls on the chest of Toba Hadaad after she fucked and fondled stroked and gagged and put him roughly inside every hole in her dirty minded Ivorite spying busty body in a room in the Drake Hotel; where bye then using hallucinogenic designer drugs they left their bodies behind and fucked each other apart as spirit animals chasing across the Brighton skies and towers of the Green Light District;  Hubert O’Domhnaill and Mickhi Dbrisk were engaged in various efforts of containment. Clad in unmarked black battle dress uniforms with their HS Stars of David they sat across from two representatives of the Party of God, a major Shi’a Islamist faction running the show in Commune Bayridge; an early ally of the résistance and the biggest of the Islamist factions within the Soviet.

Mickhi Dbrisk’s sky pager goes off.

“R3. Ave. Z.”

It’s a coded message from Anya Drovtich. Typed in Gamatria base code:

“Major cargo has arrived. Confirm candidate name with Brotherhood. R3. Ave. Z.”

Under the iron dome deliberations are getting underway. Beginning every Friday morning at 08:00am in the People’s Grand Assembly within what used to be Barclay Stadium; all factions are asked to send delegates to various mediation and negotiation sessions held before the morning General Assembly session to sort out sensitive intercommunal business. Haggle out legal issues before they become dangerous. A tasteful web of movable wooden dividers allow for all configurations of negotiation in this veritable souk of political barter hundreds of whispers deep.

 

“We’re tired of the Ivories secretly running things around here,” the bearded negotiator from the Party of God declares. His name is Musa the Furious.

“We don’t need anyone’s permission to declare Shar’iah law in Bayridge! Our fighters do their part in the rebel army and we have always cooperated with the Breuklyn Otriad. But we are not tolerating booze, drugs, liberalism, short skirts and feminism in our district beginning next Friday.”

“Duly noted,” says Dbrisk.

“Can we come to some arrangement on mixed sub-districts?” ask Hubert.

“No negotiations.”

Then we’ll cut off your water and power, thinks Dbrisk.

“Look, we’re not Ivories. We don’t care whether the lights go out on Friday, or if you want to pray five times three times or once every third Sunday. But, as delegates from the Breuklyn Otriad we should make it clear that the executive won’t tolerate an imposition of religious law on even sub-districts with a Muslim majority,” explains Hubert.

“We were sent by the Shura Council of the Party of God with direct instructions to not negotiate with you. We were told deliver our proclamation and leave,” states their second representative, an Afghani lawyer named Anahita Noor. She has purple eyes.

We’re gonna wait until Ramadan when you’re all hypoglycemic and tired and then we’re gonna blockade your neighborhood and seize all your Hilal Meat packing plants and agro cooperatives in Strong Island, thinks Dbrisk.

“We all have our orders,” says Hubert, “but maybe we could work something out in the meantime.”

“They said you’d all say that,” says Anahita Noor.

“What about going ahead and declaring Shar’iah law in your Bayridge sub-districts and passing along the quiet agreement that as long as no executions, maiming’s, stoning’s, or harassment of non-Muslims occurs; we will assist in shutting down all alcohol vendership in the entire Bayridge District.”

“Not enough,” says Musa the Furious.

“We will also help financially support the expansion efforts for the Great Mosque and we will sell additional lands in Strong Island to your agro-cooperatives.”

“What do you want in return?” asks Anahita.

“A written covenant with your Shura Council that the Shar’iah law codes will not be applied to anyone who voluntarily opts out of them, Muslim or non-Muslim.”

“Unacceptable. These are the laws of God, we cannot selectively apply them,” says Musa.

“Then tell the Shura council we wish to apply for a twenty year hudna where bye your militia will not enforce the code on nonbelievers or Muslims by force, but may proactively bring various Muslim citizens in compliance as long as they abide by the universal rights codes of the greater Soviet.”

You basically offered the same thing twice, notes Dbrisk.

“Officially we will protest and denounce your godless collaboration with the Ivoryish communists and anarchists. Unofficially, I’m sure a twenty year ceasefire is acceptable, as long as we can do what we wish in the districts we administer.”

“As long as there are no misunderstanding about enforcement,” interjects Mickhi Dbrisk, “if we hear reports that women are being forced out of working, women being harassed into wearing chadors, if we have the usual clashes over virtue and vice, then you know what we will have to do.”

“We will denounce you publically, but privately we will preach moderation, in mixed districts we will respect non believer heresy, in majority sub districts you must begin dismantling institutions that…well are not virtuous.”

“Look, obviously we have to prevent internal fighting and we have to work slowly when it comes to social policy being carried out so radically differently. So, tell the Shura Council that we will help dismantle all alcohol vendership in a Bayridge sub district of your choosing and we will proceed piecemeal from there implementing Sharia law in compliance with human rights. But, prior to that a negotiating team must be put together in good faith to demonstrate to us that this is compliant with the universal code. Any deviation from that obvious will not be acceptable to our Executive and we will have to, you know. What we do when the talking comes to an end,” says Mickhi Dbrisk.

The second representative from the Party of the God doesn’t blink over the thinly veiled threat. She tugs twice slightly to adjust her hijab.

“It has been whispered that another horrific mass murder occurred in Commune Crown Heights yesterday and that tensions are rising between the Ivories and the West Indians.”

“We have no idea what you’re talking about, brother,” flatly states Mickhi Dbrisk.

 

“Everything in our various corner of this Soviet is locked down tight as a drum,” says Hubert O’Domhnaill.

 

The negotiator nick named Musa the Furious from the Party of God stares at Mickhi Dbrisk. They’re seeing who will blink first perhaps.

“Salaam alekuum,” says Dbrisk.

“Walaikum as salaam,” says Anahita Noor, Chief Litigator for the Party of God.

And through her chador, she winks at her old friend Mickhi Dbrisk.

 

As Musa stands and turns to leave Ms. Noor palms Mickhi Dbrisk a book of matches from the soon to open Third Rasputin Supper Club, R3 on Ocean and Avenue Z. Written on the inner flap is the name of the candidate, printed in Hebrew. In exchange for the confirmation of that name, the eye witnessed proof that she is still alive, the Z.O.B. is going to let the Party of God do pretty much whatever it wants in District Bayridge.

 

Mickhi opens the book of matches.

 

Dasha Andreavna S.M.

            Says the matchbook in Neo-Amharic.

 

Holy shit, he thinks. If it’s true. We finally found her. So, he sends a coded message back to Anya Drovtich and Oleg Medved.

 

“R3. Avenue Z. Confirmed. It’s her.”

 

 

Chapter 26

Bila Tserkva, 1987ce

Ukraine

 

 

Yelizaveta Alexandreenova Perechenova was born in the Ukrainian City of Bila Tserkva on July 2nd of the year 1987ce on the old Gregorian calendar used before the Great Revolt. The miraculous particulars surrounding her birth were manifest and many fold. Firstly, her mother Tania Magda seemed to have reversed age by ten years over the course of the pregnancy such that when she finally gave birth to her first child she bore the resemblance to a girl in her late teens, not a woman approaching thirty four. Of course Alexandre’s closest men patted him on the shoulder and said in Russian, “well played.”

 

The second miracle occurred shortly after her birth. All the animals in all of the forests surrounding Bila Tserkva began to show up at the city hospital. So congested with various fauna wandering about the city that a whole task force of Red Guardsmen from Kiev were needed to attempt removal of this glut of birds and bears and deer as well as animals that the authorities in the Ministry of Ecology had long thought were rendered extinct. These animals seemed drawn to the hospital and for a whole lunar month after little Yelizaveta’s birth they were drawn to family dascha of the Perchevney family to the south a day’s journey from the city.

 

The third miracle was that infant Yelizaveta called “Zivia” by her mother and “Yelizaveta” by her father was not only able to speak Russian within the third month of her alive hood, but by the  third year English, Spanish, Hebrew and a bizarre dialect of French called Ayitian creole. So marvelous was this behavior an infant which spoke four complex languages that Alexandre and Tania Magda agreed to conceal this from the world and hide the girl on the dascha as long as possible so no knowledge of this genius might alert the proper authorities to auspicious comings and goings which might result in the borrowing of their prodigious infant. Although the phenomenon of animals and birds flooding the forests and airspace of the dascha made a clandestine upbringing quite hard to arrange.

The fourth miracle occurred at Yelizaveta’s fourth birthday when she turned to her mother and said that as long as the family stayed happily in Bila Tserkva; no one in that city would ever die. And so it was.

As the Soviet Union began to unravel that very same year and life as they understood it in relation to the dictatorship of the proletariat came to an end; there was not one instance of a reported death in an hundred mile radius of Bila Tserkva. During this time Alexandre was away from the family for extended periods of time. As the only Ivory left in Bila Tserkva his admittance to the Party was highly unorthodox. Also, his admittance to Medical College and his marriage to Maria Tania Magdalena who came from a Soviet prosperous family of Slavic Russian intellectuals close to the local seats of communist power in Kiev. To win and even court Maria Tania Magdalena had been a complicated and costly venture. Men lined up longer than the breadlines for the chance to date the daughter of the local Party boss. And Alexandre was not only a Ivory by paperwork but from a family that had devolved slowly from yeshiva benchers to smugglers and then back into lazy migrant Rabbis.

By forging a passport and bribing several dozen people Alexandre was able to change his ethnic designation from “Ivory” to “Bulgarian” and then later with more bribes to “Russian”.  And thus was able to arrive in Kiev at age 18 to begin his medical training. It was there in university that he encountered the affluent and ravishing daughter of a party boss; Ms. Maria Tania Magdalena who was studying nursing in the same college.

After a lengthy and tumultuous courtship he gave her a tiny watch incased in a gold heart, and said that if she ran away with him to Sakhalin Soviet upon completion of their studies, an island to Russia’s far east past Siberia, north of Japan then they would one day escape to Israel and then America as soon as the Cold War ended in capitalist victory. This was the eighties and the writing was written clearly on the Berlin wall. One night she secretly packed her bags and joined him in a waiting car and they finally eloped in 1984.

He told her that by the time the watch stopped running they would be in America and by the time it started up again they’d never want for anything again. They barely made it as far as the city limits. Goons in black caps in the employ of her father Ivan Ivanovitch’s stopped them at a check point. They beat Alexandre rather badly; returned a crying distraught Maria to her father and threw the covert Ivoryish doctor Alexandre Perchevney into a jail for special prisoners who committed crimes that were handled in the cold and quiet.

The night of this attempted elopement and calamity the father of Tania Magda, Ivan Ivanovitch had a terrible dream.  He dreamt an army of many of thousands of four-foot Mexicans were parachuting out of the sky and attacking Bila Tserkva in an effort to save young Alexandre. He dreamt of the strange days of nightmare and plague about to wreak havoc on all of Kiev and the whole Soviet Socialist world if necessary should the detention of his daughters lover go on. In the dream his daughter Maria fell into some inexplicable coma and for each day of Alexandre’s captivity ten men disappeared without a trace. And then twenty men. And so on. Until by the end of the dream month of Alexandre’s imprisonment, there were virtually no Russian men left alive Kiev. The strange wave of disappearances swept through the local Party apparatus and military and leaders of state owned business cooperatives and even the secret police and soon like a strange and miraculous and ghostly purge had been carried out. Finally, finally Alexandre was not just the only secret Ivory in Kiev, but conspicuously the only person left alive with a passport that said “Russian”. And finally, after the third lunar dream month, it began to snow. To snow with such determination that obstruction and paralysis took hold. Throughout the eerie disappearances, the drop in temperature, the sky falling out, Ivan Ivanovitch’s daughter Tania Magda hovered in a mesmerized trance. Alexandre languished in prison although there was no one left to guard him besides Ivan though he did not even three months into the nightmare connect his interference with the love of his daughter for this Ivoryish medical student to anything so, other worldly. Yes, people did disappear from time to time, but not often the entire Inner Party Cadre of a major soviet capital city. Yes it did snow but not with the endless and unceasing siege of white deluge they were experiencing, or in June!

Finally, in the dream the sun itself ceased to rise. And without party leaders, bureaucrats, draped in over forty feet of snow, Kiev underwent forty days of night. During this time Ivan never left the dream police garrison where he and Alexandre Perchevney would bond intermittently over Chess and Vodka. Bonding begrudgingly, for Ivan spoke no Ukrainian and by the fourth month of these phenomena no one was willing to speak any Russian anymore under the superstitious belief that it would bring death. So Alexandre the Ivory and Ivan, party boss of Bila Tserkva spoke for the first time. First, on the subject of god, then on the subject of the devil. And then also a bit on women which both agreed were stronger in will than either gods or devils.

 

“You love my daughter, but what do I care? Love is bullshit and chemicals. You offer nothing,” Ivan informed young Alex.

“As I have never loved or even thought to love another woman so do I love your Tania Magda Maria!”

“You will never be accepted here as an Ivory. Even a party Ivory is suspect. Even with a new name and a medical certificate. Your Ivoryish horns and tail cannot hide.”

“You could adopt me. You can sponsor me to the Inner Party and allow me to marry her.”

“I’m not frightened by the Ivory magic outside. I know these are only cruel vodka lullabies, whispers in the ear of a man made hard and hateful by life. I will awake in my bed tomorrow! There will be no Mexican para-invaders, no disappearing apparatchiks, no endless snow or black endless night. You will be sent to Siberia for some infraction. Tania Magda will wake up and marry a Russian Calvary officer. Or someone from the foreign bureau.”

 

 

 

“How can you be sure?” Asked Alexandre Perchevney, “How can you know if your dreams are real or if some dark power has unleashed itself against your house for obstructing our love?”

 

 

“Because there is no love or magic allowed here. Those are of course bourgeoisie inventions. I will wake up soon, I feel it. And order you shot.”

 

And for nearly two fortnights General Winter took full hold of Bila Tserkva. It did not stop snowing. It did not become day again. And by third fortnight of his imprisonment and Tania Magda’s mysterious coma there were no Russian anything left in the darkness. Ivan in his solitude became like a prisoner too. The snow cut Bila Tserkva off from all of the rest of the soviet world and the wake field Ivan hoped would come; nearly a year later still had not transpired, nor had he ever slept.

 

“You cursed Ivory! What kind of magic have you unleashed?”

“This is not my doing,” muttered Alexandre defensively.

“When will I wake from this perverse nightmare of upsidedownhood, of idiotic dragfootery?! You cannot marry my Tania Magda. You are not a whole man and you will never give my daughter a good secure life.”

“This is not my doing. You’ve brought this nightmare upon yourself.”

“A typical Ivoryish response.”

Lost and asleep an endless nightmare Ivan Ivanovitch turned to mankind’s oldest imaginary friend. He implored the Russian Orthodox God to end this plague of darkness, deprivation and Ivoryish parasitic blight!

But as we all know, if there is a god, it is a long game if not vaguely soviet god, a go without understandable morals or temporal reward for the seemingly righteous. Whatever lesson it wishes us to learn is like algebra to an ant farm. It has been lost on us completely in it magnitude and scale.

The sun never rose and Ivan Ivanovitch never yielded. At the beginning of the spring of his imprisonment there dropped from the sky blue and red parachutists of four foot stature, one a day. Grinning bandoliered Peruvian Pararescuemen each gliding down into the outskirts of town and taking up position in the woods. One a day. With all the Russians gone, the Ukrainians began hiring these men as day laborers and yard workers. And Ivan Ivanovitch began to suspect that there was a growing secret army of these Peruvian Pararescuemen waiting in the shadows awaiting the right moment to break young Alexandre out of prison and spirit him into the wilderness.

 

 

While Alexandre Sasho Perchevney sat two years in confinement punished for his love and his Semitic race; the young aspiring dentist; future founder of the fearsome Bratva that would bear his family name and that would so loot the banks of the West; he sat in his own thoughts and laid a most elaborate plan.

 

Awaiting rescue and reunion with his beloved Tania Magda Ivanovna Magdalena, a most auspicious woman to be sure.

 

 

Chapter 27

Fadeeva 6, 2018ce

Moscow

 

 

I fill two wine glasses with cold Borjomi mineral water and bring them to the bed where she lies having wrapped up her round of the most seditious story. A reoccurring theme for her is the complexity of him. But using a sureality to tell a take she has yet again left out what it was that he did that made him so many enemies.

 

“My, my. By the time the story is over she may well be walking on water,” I say with greatest snark I can muster.

 

“The way you once talked about her, your dear little Yelizaveta Lubov, I’m not sure my little yarn did the woman enough true poetic justice! AS your chornay say.”

The horrific photographs are tucked away inside the writer’s desk used more for carnal leverage than for any sort of writing lately.

“I thought her birth auspicious enough without all those miracles you interjected. And the story of Alexandre and Tania Magda was quite a nice flourish too.”

“Fakeness, realness, openness and closeness have no usefulness to you anyway!”

“Well there is a truth to some stories and a labyrinth of fairy magic used as cloak to pull parlor trick parables over the eyes of your quarry. There are curious unseen bugs still in the wall listening for god only knows whom!”

“What’s the score?” she asks changing tone.

“I’m winning,” I declare.

“Bi-winning or regular winning?”

“You can win too if you want.”

“I just came off my back darling,” she says, “you’re always so utterly silly when you’re feigning happiness while hiding your tears. When you’re sad you’re easier to predict.”

I will do anything but to talk of Yelizaveta anymore dead or alive.

“You once predicted we’d never see each other ever again,” I mention.

“It was a realist expectation not a prediction. I’m not a sorcerous or some Kundalini like you and your gangsters.”

“As a skilled parapsychologist none the less you could have seen ahead to know I’d not stop loving you in the face of impossible.”

“Or husbands.”             “Is your husband real?”

“Was that little bitch Yelizaveta so perfect?”

“Certainly not perfect.”

“My husband’s existence is therefore perfectly uncertain.”

“I care as much as the first day I came upon you.”

“Your philanderous nature is evident throughout. That’s the right word?”

“No.

“Multi-amorous is not philanderous.”

“Loving early and loving often is so abjectly American!”

“It isn’t that I don’t respect marriage or that my lusts are uncontained. It was that your marriage, if it was indeed such a thing, smacked readily of variables indicating both your total unhappiness and it’s, shall we say, slightly compulsive nature.”

“Well, you will never know.”

“One day perhaps I will.”

“In the game of mouse and cat which one do you think you are my roguish partisan lover?”

“I am the mouse of course but you are not the cat you are the maze itself. Your challenges have only but enhanced me.”

“Is that so? I was obviously not put to the earth this time for wealth, security and leisure, so then being loved so thoroughly by you must be compensation enough until I have the other three.”

“As you have always somehow known.”

“Actually I’d imagined you a dashing princeling cavalry officer in training until you first opened your mouth on that roof exposing your hearts ideals. Be realistic about your love Sebastian for it is an anarchic as your politics or your work, which I suppose just the manifest of your love in some strange way. Tell me again why we cannot stop fighting. Right now. Forever.”

“We have not won yet.”

“It isn’t up to you to win this war! No one said go fight, go struggle forever! Go die a hundred times for this miserable species. They surely wouldn’t die for you. Look at all the violence so far! For what! For some stupid lawless islands where the standard of living is worse than before and the freedom just as unfree. Nothing has changed. All you did was get all your friends and family killed. You took the lives of men that didn’t even matter. So stop. For the love of god just stop! You have elected to assault human nature and hell itself but no one asked you to. So just give in.”

“That’s a very nice Yelizaveta impression,” I say.

“It’s voice of any sensible woman, or Russian woman.”

“I’ve never accused you of being sensible. You want me to stop?”

“Were we regular people not old souls in changing vessels I’d say yes thinking we live and love but once! I don’t know why a man born with everything should lose that everything for an idea alone. I know things happened to you. I know you are now insatiable. But if you love me as you say you do, if you desire me so wantonly; what about surrender?”

“But to whom do I surrender?”

“You will surrender to me.”

“I have already. Multiple times, over and over again. This is your oldest and favorite game is it not? To try and induce a man to abandon what he believes in. Impossible when all I believe in is you.”

“Well it doesn’t seem to work on you anymore. You obviously never went to business school and gave up on your unseemly notions of freedom, human condition, and American mentality. You don’t even seem so upset about your old love’s demise. And I pride myself at reading you well.”

 

“They always say don’t say dead ‘til you see the body, but what’s a body these days to an old soul still on the market?”

“Enchante,” she exclaims.

“So what I want to know is what it was that Alexandre and his crew organized at the turn of the century that made that house, that Bratva so wildly rich. And made him the kind of enemies that would hunt him down and do what in the end made him to this day so indomitable”

 

“The take was just too big. Truly unlimited. There was no way they were going to be able to get away with it,” she says.

“So tell it then. Finish the story of his vast infamy.”

“There are more important things we will do first. I tire of this tirade on crime and punishment.”

“I enjoy kissing you. I also enjoy being ravaged like a petulant whore. I want a total ceasefire on the story right now. I want you to physically give me everything I could ask for as a woman if you are worth more than the warbles. Right now my Amerikanski. Right fucking now,” and she throws the book of my poetry at the wall.

 

We fuck like we’ll both be dead by morning.

Panting, I entered balls deep.

She pounds me apart. Rides me ragged. She writhes and rides and bucks on top of me. I suck on her supple white breasts and she arches back sending me even deeper inside her.

She gets close and licks my chest. She bites my neck and clutches my brown hair her blond main draping over me.

The sheets are covered in my sweat. Her hips they grind and bob and gyrate until I can feel my cock wrapped tight in her flesh. I’ve already came twice inside her. I grab on to her hips and rock with her. She fucks the life out of me. I’ve lost myself all over again.

 

The harder she goes, rocking the back board back and forth the more I need her. I can feel her red painted nails tear my shoulder she is pulling my hair with her left hand as she kisses my neck then chest and then brings herself erect so I can hold grab her beautiful ass and watch her big Russian tits bounce in my face, watch her moan, watch her use me to cum for the third time in two hours.

 

Before she cums again she leans in and kisses my lips and bites my lower lip drawing blood.

 

I watch her face as it builds into a blissful climax. Up and down, I watch her glide on sweat and semen.

When she’s done I throw her off me, I drag her off the bed onto the floor. Pin her down.

I’m like an animal with her. We savage each other. I yell her name over and over again fucking her blindly with all my dirty might.

I yank her up by the wrists to her feet and pull my belt from the crumbled pile of clothing by the bed. I force her over the writer’s desk next to the bed and slap her big ass.

The belt goes around her neck and I enter her from behind. I drive my cock as far as the limits of my manhood and her femininity do allow and tighten the belt as I fuck.

She yells out wildly as I buck behind her driving her frame over the table. The first round was puppy dogs and caresses. The second was our wide ranging arts of Tantra. The third was anything she wanted me to do with my cock lips tongue and fingers for all the life left in me and the fourth?

I’m just an animal.

A wild eyed runaway slave.

Everything stops for a while.

She’s lying in my arms still and gently panting.

“What is it that you dream of, besides me,” Dasha asks me finally saying something.

“Sometimes I go for a walk in the city of Tel Aviv, but it’s not in Israel, it’s in the Caribbean. As if the whole damn nation broke off and floated south west. And it’s like Tel Aviv is New York City and Brighton is the tiyeled and time and space are intermingled, as though every pleasurable exchange, every old friendship in a few dozen wonderful lives is entwined. All happy places of my life are like one.  And I’m walking home around dusk.”

“And what do you do in these dreams?”

“I walk around and run into old friends that I haven’t seen in forever. And we sit and have drinks or exchange numbers and time is endless even though it’s getting darker I can make time for anything. And all these inspiring women and men that I lost along the way have turned up in this calm and vibrant city, and I’m so happy. I’m on my way home to my wife and three little children.”

“And who is your wife in this happy world of nostalgia?”

“I have no idea. I’ve never made it home.”

“Story of your life my comrade lover.”

With her hand she wipes away tears that no longer are able to form.

Tears she used to so judge me for producing in front of her.

And for the first time in a long time I let my guard down completely and fall asleep in her arms. Unfolding the blackness of sleep.

 

When I awake the music is no longer playing and most of the lights are out.

 

Suddenly a strange sensation grips me. How long have I been in this safe house?

 

A day?

A fort night!

A year?!

Or two?

Three years!!!

And what about its safety am I even so sure about! I’ve been enjoying myself with these stories too much. I didn’t bother to remember that she and I have been dead for years.

What’s time to a ghost?

Nothing.

There’s a loud triple knock on the primary safe house door four floors down past a laser grid that cam cut you apart.

“Calm yourself tovarish lover,” she purrs. She gets up and slips on a grey bath robe. She opens the wooden drawer next to the bed and takes out an eight millimeter repeater revolver. Cocks it, slips it in her robe.

“The back stories are all bullshit, but the extracted lessons are mostly true,” she notes.

I remain where I am.

As if this has happened before.

It was as if in telling the story of Alexandre Perchevney I dredged up something. What year is this? And why of all places am I still in Moscow?

She slides open a side panel by the door and viddies the small telescreen by the portal which lets her scroll between the halls, the elevators, and the barrier walls outside.

“Ghosts like us,” she says in Russian.

She returns with a small envelope that somebody slipped under the door. She pulls up a stool and also the wooden sketch table over which just a story before I had bent her over and thrust myself inside her pounding her flesh balls deep.

 

She sits and opens the envelope.

Examines the contents.

She drops two photos on to the table.

One is of a pretty young woman in a green military cap. One is of a naked mutilated corpse.

“Your old partner Yelizaveta Kay has evidently been forgotten, captured and put slowly to death,” she states without any emotion.

I should feel a lot more than I do if that story is true. Maybe it’s the mineral water, maybe the wonderful fucking I just been receiving or the story about that very old school bad man Perchevney.

 

“Some things are now coming to light,” I say.

“Shortly, very shortly, everything about this dark plot against you will be fully illuminated,” she informs me, “in bright, white lights.”

 

 

Chapter 29

Fadeeva 6, 2018ce

Moscow

 

 

 

Dasha’s chest is heaving.

“I am not like you,” she begins, “there is not one speck of thing that in my life came easily.”

 

If I am to reveal how powerful man made great array of enemies. Built himself from impoverished, disfranchised and penniless expatriate to first among kings of thieves; well be you warned, you still will not know his motives until later. Or mine for that matter, or my fleeting moments of love and honesty.

Alexandre Perchevney spent two years in Russian prison. Then spent two years in Russian medical school and then little Yelizaveta turned four, Soviet Union imploded and whole family of Tania Magda, Yelizaveta, Alexandre and strong man brother Slavi arrive in New York as before explained.

They moved to Washington Heights. They befriended shifty diamond Ivory Misha Kishbivalli. And soon they opened Bulgarian Culture center on Canal and Broadway to make marriage contracts, plan no fault insurance schemes, provide illicit healthcare services, and plot biggest heist in 20^th or 21^st century, at least so far.

Alexandre never forgot his ambitious plan laid out in totality within his mind in the two years he spent in solitary confinement for loving the daughter of a Party boss, the cold hearted anti-Semite Ivan Ivanovitch.

He made new international friends in New York. Including two precocious youngsters that he took immediately under his former Soviet wing. Georgie Rabanca, a twenty two year old Romanian immigrant, winner of an international scholarship in computer science and young American with a big ass and curly hair named Feline Hall.

He took them in, he soon hired them both and soon Georgie was hiding his money in Dominican Republic, and Ms. Hall was tutoring his three daughters, and first son as well as instructing him on which investments to wash his no fault money.

And then the year was 1997 CE;

Georgie Rabanca the young Romanian computer scientist writes an algorithm that will allow the Bratva to generate an ATM card code that will not only appear in the system as being backed by unlimited credit, but it will also then deduct the credit one thousand fold from the wealthiest depositors of all of the major western banks.

And then they figured out how to scare the banks into uploading the backend software to facilitate the heist by hack.

Feline Hall, the young woman they recruited as a patron and then as a tutor and then as a financial consultant was by that time working at a lobby for a Swiss banking firm. It was she who helped them upload this algorithm, this brilliant heist code disguised as Y2K protective software into the Credit Suisse mainframe a year before the so called Y2K virus was to begin crashing all the world’s computers.

That “virus” was in fact another code generated by Mrs. Tania Magda Perchevney and charming George Rabanca to trick computer systems into resetting on December 31^st, 1999 as the computer switched into 01.01.00.

While Americans were just becoming familiar with cell phones, ATM cards and AOL instant messenger; the Perchevney Bratva used a prototype of what we now call the Interweb, a closed communication wireless network to sell the world’s criminal underground the key code and the blue print for the heist.

Thus, by New Year’s Eve, December 31^st, 1999;

Coordinating crews in 48 cities to begin withdrawing cash from ATMS using the code on the eve of the millennium, these coded strips would not only let the thieves take out as much cash as they wanted, but would then also deduct the balance against the accounts of the foremost depositors in each bank involved, some of the richest men in the West.

 

Bait and switch and switch again. While police agencies would spend the next decade chasing after all the disparate crews who walked away with $187 million in cash; each swipe they made transferred electronic tender into Alexandre Perchevney’s accounts in the Dominican Republic, while wiping out the savings of the richest men on earth.

And then the secondary program kicked in. Exactly five seconds into the new millennium, for every dollar pulled out of an ATM machine in those 48 cities, came out one million on the dollar transferred from linked accounts into the Bratva war chest.

 

By January 1^st, 2000, Alexandre Perchevney was the richest man on earth. More liquid than any order before it.

 

 

And then she stops.

 

I notice that the safe house floor doesn’t have Jerusalem tile anymore. How curious. It’s sterile and white. I notice that the room which once seemed spacious is diminishing rapidly in size. I look at Dasha Andreavna.

“Darling have you betrayed me?” I ask her.

“No my love you are only betraying yourself.”

“I don’t believe it is so,” I tell her.

“Darling, do you remember what I said to you after they wiped out your mind in the hospital? Of course you don’t. They wiped your mind too many times for you to keep track of everything.”

“I have ways to remember things!”

She sings to me:

“Poor darling! Poor tovarish lover. What have they done to me and done to you?”

“I know that song!”

She kisses me.

She keeps singing, “Where are you now my companero? I have been travelled from town to town!”

“The song,” I say in wonder, “you’re skipping whole parts, but I remember the memory you were asking me for, just sing a little longer then!”

She changes octave, “Temptress and seductress we, tapped and played on mine fields every day! In volatile slaves! You can love me less. You can love me more, tomorrow. But if given a choice. You will always be that man!”

“I remember everything!” I claim, but really only that very specific conversation over hookah on the floor of Oasis Hade Bade, alone as the night swallowed us seven years ago in the Isle of Man.

“What is it that I told you lover?”

“We had just watched Ana Karenna and I told you I was nothing like a Calvary officer and you said I was a peasant, and worse a communist one. And you said you could never run away from your husband with a peasant communist with a very poorly thought out plan.”

“Get to the crux. We were sitting alone in the dark in that dim Middle Eastern smoke brothel, not even Sam Saladin in the next room could have heard what I said to you the night before the uprising began.”

“You told me that if I wanted to be a partisan that didn’t scare you. That you didn’t judge me for being crazy, for gambling my privilege, or even being a communist. But you said I was a mad man to thing I could lead a group of eight people against the oligarchy and hope to win. You told me fight from a position of resources.”

“Ah-men. Cheers to the power of song.”

“They punished Sasho three times hard man. He was for ten years the richest man on earth. You bumped his shoulder, you drank under his roof, but you had no idea the scale of his ambitions.”

“What’s going to happen next?” I ask her.

“If they can do what they did to Alexandre Perchevney, do you have any idea what they can, or should perhaps I say have done to you and I?”

“I recall you warned be about this several time before.”

“First someone punished Alexandre for loving. Two years of his life. He took all that money not out of greed but to shore himself up to fortify himself and his family and friends against anything ever happening again For ten years he lived the American life he had dreamed of. Then in 2010 someone punished him for stealing. He stole from the oligarchy, but only by accident. He stole more material than anyone ever has or will without firing a shot or taking a life. But Rabanca and Hall had set it all up so that he’d not be taking from the pots of the princelings, only the elites. The fact that he stole from Kahn was accidental.”

“Kahn,” I say, “the economist.”

“Darling I could sing all night so you remember, but we don’t have much more time together. So I will kiss you again.”

She does and reality, it shakes.

“Listen closely. You are in a mouse trap that you were tricked into building. I don’t know how much you will remember when you wake up from this dream, but please remember three things.”

“Dasha, please don’t tell me that we will be separated yet again!”

“Darling. They killed me and they killed you. They tortured and killed everyone we loved. They built a string of ghettos dressed up as rebel ‘soviets’ and put all the free minds inside them. And the trap is about to slam shut. If you and your friends don’t wake up, they are going to kill everybody.”

“Tell me lover. The three things.”

“When you wake up, if your friends can get to you and wake you up in time; you will not remember very much. There is a song. You know the whole song, it’s a wonderful and powerful and most excellent song and when you hear it you will remember all the best things that you did in my name and also for your people.”

“Go on about the things then,” I say. And I feel the de ja vu of knowing this happened a good many times before.

“One. Good will always triumph over evil. Never forget that. Two, DeBuitléir has the list and Emma holds the blueprint. And three I do love you. I love you I love you I love you and when it is done I will love you again and it will be I who you come home to on that boardwalk, it will be me who with you as my only partner raises our children and we will know peace. And the oligarchy will fall.”

“A most lovely dream,” I say.

She sits across from me on the floor with a candle between us and for the first time in a long time I am fully comfortable with my flaccid nakedness.

 

“Good luck,” she whispers, “when you wake, don’t forget the words to the partisan song.”

 

She kisses me and like that! She disappears. She crumbles immediately into thin air.

 

 

And the safe house room contracts in on itself and now I’m alone bolted to a chair, in blue ho chi min pajamas in a blaring white bright light.

A prisoner chained tight to big torture chair; naked, toothless and hardly grinning in a bright white interrogation cell.

I have already forgotten the three things! And my cause! And worse: her face!

The only name I remember is Alexandre Perchevney.

And my debt to the devil I know.

 

 

 

Chapter 30

Dubai, 2019ce

House of Perchevney

 

 

Waking from a beautiful dream into an uncomfortable reality is a jarring experience. And I’ve learned to hate it every single time.

Deep breath. Sing the lyrics you know. Partial recall. Deep breathe. Be good. DeBuitléir. He values your work. Solomon. She loves you.

Behold, it’s the devil we know.

“Ask me how much hard currency I paid for both your heads sans platter or guillotine,” asks Alexandre Perchevney.

His accent is remarkably rich, flavored via international extralegal trade and peppered with superior cadence for this man is fluent in English, Spanish, French, Bulgarian, Russian, Hebrew, some Yiddish, and also basic Mandarin Chinese.

The word you are looking for is savant.

The bright lights are completely blinding, and then they go dim. Waking up in hand cuffs is never, ever a sign of successful evening. Or a job done right. But, waking up in hand cuffs tends to be better than waking up without hands.

            Adon and Watson Entwissle are both seated in black chairs ratcheted into the floor and a rather serious set of manacles are set to both their hands and feet, bolted and taut. Watson has some cyber contraption box affixed completely around his head. I believe the word I’m looking for is Parasimulator. He appears to be out cold, but then he pulsates periodically, like a minor tonic-clonic tick.

 

The room comes into focus, the sensation of Benzo-sedatives relieved with flumazenil antidote.

 

They are in the clutches of an upper oligarch. When Sebastian recognizes which one it brings neither trepidation nor real fear. Better to belong to a devil you know.

And there he sits not on a thrown or behind some big mahogany desk, but in library of wall to wall books mostly on the subjects of God, Philosophy and High Finance. He’s reading the Torah, of all things. He still does his stock trading based partly on Gamatria, the character symbol into number code of the Kabbalists.

 

He has thick black glasses and black to silver hair and he is in rather very good physical shape for a man his age whatever that age is. Suffice to say he was trained as dentist physician before the fall of the Soviet Union and it fell some time ago in 1991.  And generally he would never meet a prospective business partner in person but he needs to look Sebastian Adon in the eyes and ask him a simple question; and then have his best men interrogate Adon and the chornay Watson Entwissle while he poisons them both with vodka, Polonium, whores and or Nanobots. And then proceeds to leverage what he knows for more American pie and more Postsoviet power. And the thing he wants more than anything else on earth. The best answers to the biggest questions aside. A simple thing, if this man Adon will get it for him. And if he won’t he will sell them both to the highest bidder.

“What’s the last thing you remember Tovarish Adon? What is your exact precise last memory? Time to wake up from your long sad dream.”

“I remember the tree of death,” says Adon wishing he might go back to sleep.

Alexandre takes off his glasses and looks Adon dead in the eyes.

“I know your Otriad has figured out how to do a number of sophisticated things using science, but how far you’ve gotten with parapsychology is of far more interest to me,” he states flatly.

“I remember the last time we met your English wasn’t nearly this strong,” Adon says.

“And when was that, remind me?”

“In the Scientologist command bunker below Fort Washington Avenue. One year after the great blizzard. Yelizaveta had just been sent to university in Havana. I had just been terminated in lieu of resignation from the New York Fire Department. The Disorder had just begun.”

“Who is she to me?”

Sebastian pauses.

“She’s your youngest daughter.”

“And what is she to you?”

Sebastian pauses for a moment digesting the full range of emotions even the utterance of that name brings on; Yelizaveta. There is a pleasure even in hearing it said aloud. But he cannot recognize a face, or formulate a real record of knowing-hood.

 

“Absolutely nothing now.”

 

“Good. So you remember less than she does evidently.”

“She doesn’t remember anything before Havana if my data is worth the money I paid for it,” says Adon.

“She requested this you know. She asked me, begged me to help erase you.”

“I could really sing you some sad Amerikanski songs about the film eternal sunshine of a spotless mind, and how at some point every single woman I’ve ever had tell me she loved me brings up said cinema eventually, but, I did not come here to ask for Yelizaveta’s hand in marriage. I came to kill Yuri Budanov, who is nothing to you. I am also here to carry out the orders of my commanding officers in asking you for what we need.”

“I don’t think you answer to anyone Sebastian. Do you know what the price could be on your head if it were discovered you were alive?”

“Do you know what you stand to gain by getting us back to our turf and agreeing to the proposition Mr. Ysiad Ferraris is currently soliciting support for?”

Alexandre smiles. “You still have your hands yes? Obviously I do. Arms and access for concessions and ports. Peanuts. But I want what’s in your head the very most.”

“What is it you think is in my head?”

“Quite a lot. But still, your head is less interesting to me than the head of Avinadav DeBuitléir. If only I could get both.”

“How’s your eldest daughter,” Sebastian asks.

“She doesn’t even know she’s my daughter anymore. And you can’t have her. I don’t think that it’s not healthy for anyone involved. Especially after the incident.”

“Which incident, remind me.”

There had indeed been a long list of incidents.

“Well good that you didn’t recall everything. It’s quite better that way. I doubt you even really remember meeting me. I think you were just briefed on your past. Were I a gambling man, and I am certainly not, but I would wager that the last thing you really remember is waking up shortly after the hostage crisis at the Millennium Theatre, and someone put a Parasimulator on your head and did a return briefing where even you cannot honestly corroborate what you did or didn’t do prior to the evening you and your partner Emma carried out that suicide strike against Manhattan’s richest citizens. Maya or Emma?”

“Well, I wish I knew,” smiles Adon, “our neuroscientists are easily a hundred years ahead of everyone else’s. Names upon names! What are even in names?”

“Would you like some vodka?”

“No. But I’ll take an ice cold mineral water if you have it.”

“I’m going to have Yelizaveta screen you herself, so you can see how little of an eye brow she will even raise in recognition.”

“You seem to think I’m capable of sentimentality.”

“Oh, I know for a fact that this trait is the only way your associates keep you in line.”

“Well it seems they’ve cut it out of me this time. Good riddance.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“I don’t believe that bullshit for a second,” says a Slavic man in a grey European business suit who has just entered the master office, or interrogation room, or whatever this library with torture chairs happens to really be. His overall sharp and immaculate dress is threatening. And an expensive watch guilds his left hand. His dirty blonde hair is neatly trimmed. He enters suddenly bearing a frosty cold glass of water and a shot of vodka and he grins and feigns handing it to Adon who obviously cannot move his hands.

“Do you recognize this man,” Perchevney asks him.

Adon looks him over with an expressionless countenance of hidden hate.

“Not at all,” Adon lies.

“Your water, sir,” says this businesslike Slav with clear control of his emotional projections.

“I’m no ‘sir’ cousin, I work for my money.”

“However you claim,” the grey suited Slav declares.

Alexandre raises a subtle toast and drinks back the vodka shot brought to him. The grey suited accomplice assists Adon in tipping the glass to his lips and thereby allowing him to swallow it down whole, and the Slav grins.

“Was it refreshing?” asks Alexandre.

“Indeed.”

“And this man raises no recognition, not even from a return briefing?”

“Absent he remains,” the lie goes on.

Dmitry Khulushin is appalled. But he doesn’t even hint at it. He simply takes the empty glasses and exits the chamber.

“Well enough fun and games,” declares Perchevney.

“Had no idea we were playing.”

“You are about to see her yourself and she will evaluate you. Tonight you will challenge my best man Dmitry in a three round game. If Sunday comes and you and your partner are still alive, then you will receive our fullest assistance in your upcoming operation in the dark continent of the chornay.”

“And she will be included in the contract.”

“She is off the table.”

“We do need your help to liberate Avinadav DeBuitléir and we certainly do need a steady supply of first line weapons for the fight in Ayiti. She means nothing to me. I’ll simply tell Solomon that all we want from you is the precise hour when they move our prisoner. I would wager that she would pay several million for that data alone and then everything else we will buy at market price no games or privileges at a later date.”

“Your ransom will be worth more than all that. But your money isn’t worth the hacker’s time to steal or the print maker’s time to print the bills you people roll out. And what’s money to the richest man alive. Which I was before and now after my troubles am again. Do you know what I’m really after Sebastian Adon?”

“I know next week when we regulate our coastal ports that you will be taxed to move imports just like everyone else under the authority of the Breuklyn Soviet’s General Assembly. I know that freeing our man deep in U.A.S. isn’t going to be easy and if we have to do it without the precision tools we need, when we succeed, however messy it might turn out; we will owe you nothing. I know that you know we can both print foreign currencies flawlessly, and run programs that give us limitless amounts of capital to spend. But Maya Solomon said we want your daughter included in the bid.”

“You speak like a man who has forgotten every single clue he was given in a dream,” says Alexandre Perchevney in Russian.

 

“If you do what Dmitry Khulushin wants. Is manipulating you to do. If you trade me to the Americans for Avinadav. Then you’re never gonna get what you’re really after.”

 

“So what am I after then, what’s my bottom line? Why help your Otriad do anything at all?”

“Pure, unflinching loyalnost.”

“Ha. Your gang is really not so large. There are only eight of you left, and I have verified the identity of seven. I have both American and Russian politicians on my payroll. I have spies in your camp and your kitchen. And why is it that I’d help you spread a revolution that radically goes against my own understandings of business and the human mentality?”

“Because of what I did for your family during the blizzard when you were at your most vulnerable and your enemies swarmed your position.”

“That’s not enough!” he bellows pounding his fists on the desk, “that obviously is not enough!”

 

“You’re the richest men on earth. You have power and influence that few come close to without being an Eastern head of state. But remember what happened during the blizzard. And you know that we are the only outfit that can get into that bleak desert country, penetrate the tightest fortress the oligarchy has and get the one thing more valuable to you than that the oil underneath it.”

 

Alexandre’s eyes shimmer with untold hate. His fingers drum on the desk in front of him.

 

“I want you to assure me that you’ll take that rat bastard alive so I can attempt to inflict upon him what he did put on me that cold winter.”

 

“I will personally guarantee you your revenge. But only with your daughter as part of the deal. I give you my word she will be nowhere near the major fighting.”

 

Perchevney weighs all the data.

 

“Swear to me that when the smoke clears you will deliver to me my sick nemesis on his feet so I can grind him to his knees.”

“On my word.”

“What’s the word of dead man worth these days? Swear on the life of the woman you love above all other loves.”

Sebastian attaches a name to that word, but somehow no face. Her name is the embodiment of all qualities those utilizing the English language might attach to that utterance. All aspects and dimensions.

“I swear on the life of Dasha Andreavna.”

Alexandre hearing those words understands then that the memory wipes; the rumors of mental reincarnation. It is a cheap facade.

He’s dealing with a mind as dangerous as his own.

“All right then. So you can swear it again a third time if you’re still standing come Sunday. Remind me again, the exact last memory you have of the night we last met?”

“I remember leasing the devil my soul at the Mehanata Social Club and agreeing to kill a large number of people so I might protect the woman I love. You want me to fight. I’ll fight. I’m very good at it. You want a comprehensive medical to get your hands on my material, I’ll submit to one. But your daughter is now to me a vague and hazy memory, that even photographs and letters do nothing to remind me of the past.”

“Why ask for her then? Why did Solomon include that in the contract?”

“Leverage I’d imagine. And because of your daughter’s fabled powers of healing.”

“Interesting to me that a man who seems completely unable to stay dead should be so interested and in need of the only woman who can heal everyone she touches.”

“I’m a pathological creature.”

“But terrorism is a surgical disease.”

They look at each other and though he is bound tight, but Adon’s eyes have fire power. They are finally looking eye to eye.

 

“I have one more demand,” Adon says.

 

“Speak comrade terrorist!”

 

“When you put that devil Dmitry Khulushin in the ring. Try and make sure it’s the real Dmitry, this time.”

 

 

 

Chapter 31

88 Fulton Street, 2012ce

Isle of Man

 

 

 

“I’ll use your cunt as a urinal! Your legs are my epaulettes of violent fucking!” yells Theodore Breria, Director of the D.H.S. the U.A.S. National Secret Police.

 

There are quite literally woman hanging from the ceiling of the subterranean Manhattan supper club 88 Bathtub Gym.

 

Located below the busy streets of the nearly abandoned District Financial it can be hard to find, harder to get your way in even with a black card. Since the lifting of the last call in all U.A.S. territories, the de-criminalization of prostitution and the subsidization of the three day weekend, the business of leisure is clearly booming.

Most of the rubble has been cleared on the east side since the summer offensive five years prior where the Fourth Citizen Army of Breuklyn Soviet’s crack artillery brigades and the insert proper us artillery unit had a six day missile exchange over the east river. In the process reducing most of the Breuklyn’s water front to rubble and rendering the midtown and Financial District skyline a pock marked ravine of debris and rubble. Three years since the ceasefire and all the Manhattan towers are back up. The trench works and bunker complexes running from Long Island City to Dumbo look like the German Seawall; a Bar Lev line of the 21st century; a web of unmanned missile batteries designed to fire payloads of Persian rockets into the Manhattan skyline.

 

The city is a ghost of its former self, but still a playground for service men on leave from Staten Island and other neighboring garrisons and of mostly young men of the lower echelon of the elite having a go at frontier lawlessness, their pick of tower apartments and servants and fancy cars.

 

The Eastern traders. The profiteers. The cream of the carpet baggers. The contractors. The petty elite sons of the oligarchy on holiday. But, the real money changers are gone. Wall Street is a red light district, the canyons of the world’s capital are now just a freewheeling circus of anything goes. The wild-west never allowed such depravity. Anyone of class left long ago for the West Coast or New England.

 

Back to the women on the ceiling.

 

Bathtub Gym is located three stories below 88 Fulton Street. It was once a Russian bathhouse. It still has Russians. It still has baths. It still is nominally referred to as “the water brothel”. What’s changed? Well you can kill the girls and still come back. That’s all that’s changed!

 

Dmitry Khulushin is an economist by Harvard graduate training. His U.A.S. Department of Homeland Security issued National Identity card designates him “White Clearance”, which means he can travel state to state without a visa, board commercial airlines, and leave the country without prior authorization. He was born in the city of Tashkent though both parents were Slavic Russians and inner party members prior to the collapse of the Soviet Union and their immigration to the United States.

Dmitry Khulushin was a face that is sly and Slavic, a boyish arrogance and a ruthless entitlement typical of all former Soviets who went from power to poverty then back to power. And no morals, not even one. A patter of fruits and a chilled bottle of Russian standard and a variety of untouched delicacies are spread before him in one of the very important person’s suites of the club where he lounges in a white bathrobe seated across from three associates powerful and affluent in their own ways; Michael Bloom II, the fat and repugnant Theodore Breria and none other than Ysiad Ferraris. A slender and thoroughly well-proportioned young woman hangs pale, blonde and naked as the day she was born from the chandelier above them ensuring their Champaign glasses never empty. Her feet are quite literally locked into the fixture, and periodically she arches her supple frame down to fill their cups.

Breria is hideous as usual and completely drunk. He spent several hours in the fun and games room and by his usual tendencies; Dmitry knows his bill will be considerable. But when one is entertaining the head of the modern gestapo; the Department of Homeland Securities Secret Police, and the two remaining billionaires left in this city; one doesn’t concern themselves with cost. You can’t take Breria anywhere. But he goes where he wants with his endless depravities.

A truly sick fucker.

Ysiad has just gotten back from “the other side”.

“What are they living like over there these days? Cannibalism I read in the Daily News!” exclaims Mr. Bloom.

“I didn’t observe any myself,” states Ysiad.

“Fuck those whores,” mutters Breria.

All that man thinks of and far worse. Quietly logs Dmitry Khulushin Koch.

“Is it true that the Islamiacs are gaining ground?” Inquires Bloom, “from what I understand they may have possession of the entire District Bayridge.”

“The Daily say they are instituting Shar’iah law next week. Cutting off hands and heads.”

“You own the Daily. Surely you more than me,” says Ysiad business casually.

“Well anyhow I don’t tell them what to print that’s Breria’s job surely!”

“Sons of whores and social scum!” he bellows.

Dmitry Khulushin sips his champagne and listens. Anything Breria says you just feign agreement with. Michael Bloom owns half the city’s lucrative industries, four major daily newspapers, eighty social clubs, the lighting grids, the water works, Broadway; everything but the boardwalk really. He’s the son of the mayor. Some people say the mayor lives through him vicariously. He’s a debaucher certainly. But not a totally sick fuck like the head of the secret police, king of rape and roses.

 

“You were in Moscow just last week were you not,” interjects Dmitry in Russian. Which Breria speaks but not Michael Bloom-Burg.

 

“I was. I was investing in absolutely everything,” cautiously replies Ysiad.

“A good investment, the Russian I mean, being a Russian once myself I know. I was thinking of acquiring more assets there. I too was in the capital just last week on some light business as well.”

 

In his mind Dmitry Khulushin Koch sees himself striking the husk body of Sebastian Adon with a studded black onyx baseball bat. The dull cracks of his human piñata not eliciting the response he prefers getting out of Adon, screams of pain and horror, the kind he elicits from the man sometimes when he dreams, but somehow never when he kills all the people Adon loves, how amazingly unsentimental.

 

Ysiad knows that Dmitry is playing a game with Perchevney, and Dmitry knows that Ysiad is thick as thieves with the rebels, and who cares as long as no one steps on big money toes. Bloom and Breria are the exact kind of people you have to bath with once and a while to lubricate the right channels of commerce. Politics is just a rich kid’s game for those not smart enough to have gone into economics. Once you get a person’s bottom line clearly established, everything else is just a fireworks show for the hoi polloi.

 

The nubile young beauty lowers herself to pour more champagne.

 

“I heard a rumor out in Moscow,” says Dmitry Khulushin.

Ysiad’ raises an eye brow.

“I heard that a certain very wanted corpse is very much alive and up to obvious no good.”

“This man you speak of, tell me, when did you see him last,” says Ysiad.

“Oh, right after you did sir.”

 

Ysiad remains business casual, a deadpan face.

 

“What are you two going on about,” asks Michael Bloom.

“Night life in Moscow is limitless,” claims Dmitry.

“Agreed,” Ysiad nods.

 

Michael Bloom Trump gets up to tinkle. Or brutalize a whore, either one or both. Breria’s eyes they roll back and he appears to be having some kind of absence seizure.

 

“Well then,” notes Ysiad.

“I have a message speaking as if I were Alexandre Perchevney,” calmly says Dmitry Khulushin, his blue eyes turning grey on grey.

“Go on,” says Ysiad.

 

“We have Sebastian Adon and we’re gonna turn him over to the U.A.S. for DeBuitléir and a tall finder’s fee. And then we’re gonna kill all your rebel friends in Brooklyn, spelled correctly on its tombstone.”

 

“Well what you are really getting out of it?” asks Ysiad, “what’s the ROI?”

“The Department of Homeland Security wants that Ayiti operation to go forward. It will give them a natural excuse to roll over the border wall, put down the sixty some autonomous zones and burn that Breuklyn Soviet to the ground with gas and fire. We definitely want to trade Adon for DeBuitléir, but not for that exact same end.”

“Why then, why risk all the gun play?”

“Sebastian Adon is a corpse. A zombie. He doesn’t have what we want. Believe me, in Moscow we looked. She looked for us.”

Ysiad knows who.

“DeBuitléir does then?”

“Oh yes. Certainly. They in the DHS gulag archipelago just didn’t have to right tools to extract it out of him. Despite seven years of non-stop torture down in Angola 42.”

“So you’re searching for Solomon like everyone else then?”

Dmitry Khulushin grins ear to ear.

“Blat, want to see a fun little trick, an exercise in living vicariously?”

“I’m sure I don’t,” says Ysiad.

Breria jumps out of his seat and stands fat and naked at attention.

“Sons of black sluts!!” screams the regional Director of the Homeland Security forces.

 

He reaches up and grabs their Champaign pouring suspended hostess by the throat. He starts beating himself off as he strangles her. She struggles and he grips her throat more forcefully.

 

“We’ve been here for such long time, notes Dmitry Khulushin, “what in the world could make you believe in these violent monkeys, these fleshy husks and their rebel ilk? Do you have any idea how much power are playing with?”

The young woman tries to scream, she flails and struggles. Breria keeps choking her

Michael Bloom Trump II, the richest man in New York comes back from the bathroom. He’s holding a long steak knife. He stabs the young woman several times in the chest vigorously and then he slits the girl’s throat. Blood gushes everywhere. All over the bath house floor. Breria starts laughing hysterically beating himself off. Michel Bloom starts jumping up and down like a monkey painting his face with the dead girl’s blood.

 

Dmitry Khulushin takes a Champaign glass and fills it with her gushing sanguine fluids.

 

“Why don’t you get the fuck out of here you pathetic chornay profiteer,” says Dmitry  Khulushin , “go run and tell your Ivorite friends just what you think you know!” he sneers.

 

Ysiad doesn’t budge.

 

“What is it exactly you think that DeBuitléir has?” Ysiad asks.

 

“He has the Retribution List.”

 

The list of all women of child bearing age with the bloodline of the Tzadikk ha Dror.

 

“I mean all the ones we didn’t skin, rape, eat or taint beyond recognition already,” Dmitry grins.

 

For the first time in a while Ysiad’ face shows some raw horror, groks the big of it all, the mass and girth of the plot.

 

“We’re gonna snuff out the whole rebellion and the blood line with one mighty stone. Now get the fuck off my personal island. You have one hour before I send the dogs and zombies after you. ”

Dmitry Khulushin spits blood on the face of Ysiad Ferraris.

“Just kidding. This isn’t Paramount pictures. I’m gonna grind your bones right now and feed you like a meat pie to the Ivories.”

 

And then Dmitry grabs his wrist, yanks him clear across the table and cuts his entire right hand off with a meat cleaver spraying his gore all over.

 

 

 

Chapter 32

Bay 65^th Street, 2012ce

Masjid Saint Sophina

 

Inside Majid St. Sophina on Bay 65 with its glittering green domes and gold minaret and tank barrier defenses Anahita Noor and Erza Pula watch as 8,000 Shi’a and Alawiite men who have just finished salat come to attention and salute a mosaic portrait of the Mahdi Emmina Saulomina Khadija and her two new born infants one black as night a male and one a ghostly albino. They are both in black fatigues like the men and wear chadors. They look nervous.

 

Erza Pula Pound, deputy minister of Public Safety has just ordered over 94,300 families below ground into the bunker vaults of the old, old sub-subway to newly Chinese built the gas bunker shelters.

The Oligarchy has leaked over the interweb it will hit Breuklyn Soviet tomorrow with Sarin rockets.

 

The First, Second, Third and Ninth Citizens Armies[59] have been called up but only half have been issued gas masks. Some 32 thousand fighters.

 

Erza hopes Allah is as merciful tomorrow as she is beneficent.

 

‘Death to these Kafirs[60] and their cowardly robots,’ yells Kaveh Ali Shariati, “long live the Prophetess, Mother of the Messiah and the Mahdi, Allu Akbar!”

 

 

Chapter 34

Drake Hotel, Mermaid Ave & w37st St, 2012ce

Seagate Coney Island

 

 

 

Oleg looks at his sky pager.

 

Before Dmitry’s goons grabbed Ysiad Ferraris at the water’s edge and prepared to grind him part into mincemeat for so called kosher hotdogs, zeal over took the wily Dominican. He flailed his way lose and still bleeding all over the place wrestled a pistol off one of the gangsters belts and put two in everyone around him until the gun jammed.

 

BANG. BANG.

 

And still bleeding and mostly naked he charged out the front of the on 88 Fulton Street club, with a makeshift tourniquet; into an alley way on Gold Street and dashed hemorrhaging everywhere toward the water front.

 

And before he threw himself into East River he fired off a voice call to Sky Page Central from a mobsters taken device. His dying voice would be low atmosphere bounced between satellites, rendered into a Gamatria[61] code and delivered to Oleg’s pager.

 

“Adon and DeBuitléir are alive! DHS and the Bratva are exchanging them as prisoners. Attack on the Soviet is inevitable. Bratva and Otriad inner circles compromised. Secure the candidates by any means necessary!”

 

And the phone went dead.

 

Oleg nearly bashes his sky pager against the wall of the parking garage below the Drake Hotel.

 

 

 

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! It was all a trap. A huge set up. Blat.

 

 

 

 

We thought we were ten steps ahead but all we were doing was playing a long game for the other side! It was moments like this that Oleg remembered clearly his skepticism when several years before Adon had told him the Oligarchy has technology 200 years ahead of our own.

A deep breath. He composes himself.

Well then, he thinks as he clenches his bear fists. Time to do what has to be done.

He leaves car in the Hotel subbasement a

nd takes a special elevator right to the restaurant on the roof.

 

It’s a very premium view of everything from eighty four stories above the Soviet at Tatiana Purples on the roof of the Drake Hotel.

“Ysiad Ferraris is dead,” says Anya, “his body washed up on the coast an hour ago. They cut off his arms and his legs.”

“Show me the body I say,” he laughs.

Oleg Medved sits across from her at the table on the roof of the Drake Hotel, at Tatiana Purples, not to be confused with Tatiana Blue to the West of Brighton 6 or Tatiana Green to the East of Brighton 6, both on the new Navalny Boardwalk.

This one is eighty stories above the coast. And serves “Slavo-Asiatic Fusion Cuisines”. Or, Russian food with a wide menu of Sushi.

The place is completely empty.

Back in wind swept Breuklyn Soviet. Anya and Oleg Medved have light supper on the roof of the Drake Hotel with its wide winding wrap around view of the Coney Peninsula, the steel towers of Seagate, the casinos of the Green Light District, and expanded boardwalk, the hundreds of freighters in the port, and of course in the distance to the North a forty story tree of enormous size.

 

The Drake Hotel is so tall one can even see the ramparts of the Northern Mile High Wall. You can see the high tower in Manhattan. And the fortress of the City.

 

“I do not have very positive news to report,” he says.

“Well what’s fucking new,” Is all she responds.

“It has been a most tumultuous week.”

“I expect the heat to rise exponentially this weekend.”

 

“Tell me, why is it that they pulled you out of Unit 88 and sent you back home two years ago,” he asks her.

 

“I wasn’t any good at killing people,” is all she responds.

 

“Well the enemy doesn’t flinch about it.”

“Well the trouble with an eye for eye is that the enemy always has more eyes than we do,” she coldly says, “Now make your fucking report Oleg Medved.”

 

The Kompot is cold and fresh boysenberry, black berry currant. She sips it. If he lies she will have him shot. If he is in fact the traitor she will pick him up herself and throw him off the eightieth story to a splat of a death on the boardwalk below.

 

“This morning Ysiad Ferraris reported to me that that the Ivorite spy ring here in the Soviet is about to pull absolutely everyone out of town and is also preparing to evacuate tens of thousands of Ivories, and quite quickly. That’s ominous. Every time the Israelis pull out somewhere quickly things go up in flames shortly after.”

 

“Well you know those Zionist dogs better than I would ever like to. Did Mr. Ferraris give the spy ring the mutual aid agreement?”

“Yes, and they told him to tell us to go talk to Ruth Vered for final authorization.”

“And what did the spy ring back to pass us?”

 

“They confirmed that the Perchevney Bratva has betrayed you, us. Last week they captured Sebastian and Watson in Moscow. ”

 

Her face drops for one second.

 

“Who else knows Sebastian is alive?”

“Well, Ysiad does because he was the last person to see Adon the night of his capture last Friday. Right before they took out target 104.”

 

Budanov.

 

“Did Ferraris sell us out,” she asks.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Who else?”

“Toba Hadaad knows he’s alive and therefore so does the Ivorite spy ring.”

“Considering that Unit 669 helped us fabricate his and Emma Solomon’s deaths that comes as no shock at all. Who else?”

“Well, since the Bratva has him, but no one has said anything to me, I would assume that Justin O’Azzello is in the dark too and rest of the thieves in law as well. There’s more though.”

“Speak quickly and quietly man and know I have a sniper ready to splatter you so pick your words well.

“I’m being accused now of being the traitor?”

“Well Oleg I suppose its high time you picked a side more specifically.”

“Anya. That’s hurtful.”

“Come on Oleg, finish the fucking report.”

Oleg wonders how up so eighty stories high in a completely empty restaurant, emptied because they reserved every other table; from what position her Sicarri assassin has a good bead on him.

The wind blows and he picks his words well.

“As you know when the group killings began three months ago our greatest concern was that they would trigger a civil war here between the Ivories and the Caribbean’s. And judging from last night’s attack, the assassins have now butchered 104 of our citizens just a fortnight after we finished killing 104 of their war criminals and profiteers. It took us three years. It took them just three nights over three months.”

“Oleg Medved, if you don’t speed up your revelation of reporting I will blink twice and my best sniper, she will empty your brains on the floor of the roof and that will be all she wrote.”

“I find your threats highly erotic,” is all he responds.

 

“When it began three months ago you asked me to convince Alexandre Perchevney it was in everyone’s interest to clamp down on this immediately. We sat down with the Party of God representative Anahita Noor, with Netic Djbriel Okonkwo from Uhuru-BLM, and James White and James Brown from the Bratva and we all agreed to pool resources and go after everyone responsible for the atrocities. For the sake of the Soviet, for the sake of business and because we all knew what might happen if we had another Crown Heights.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Check,” says Anya Drovtich,

“And so we all kidnapped, crippled and mind tortured a lot of people until we rounded it down in the very eleventh hour to forty confirmed horses. Bodies being used; programed in advance to orchestrate these horrific murders. And so as you know, right after the last killing. Right after we burned the bodies out in East New York our Sicarri, the Party of God’s revolutionary guardsmen, the Shomriim and the Bratva’s most hard hitting goon squads rounded up the remaining killers in a sweep and put them all in  the bathes under Third Rasputin.”

“Oleg Leondovich. You are one of my most favorite people to work with over the years, but speed it up. I’m going to order your death in two minutes if I’m not fully convinced you didn’t betray us to the enemy.”

 

“We carried the horses, the 40 civilian proxies selected by your enemies. Our enemies. We brought them down into the memory vat and ran the Parasimulators. But time wasn’t on our side so I asked Alexandre to send his best mambo to break their minds quickly.”

 

“And so he sent Hella?”

 

“Yes. But not only her. She arrived with Dmitry Khulushin and a very large back box.”

 

“What was in The Sly Fox?”

 

“Not what, who.” He says.

 

“Who was in The Sly Fox?”

 

“The Ivorite Spy ring told Ysiad this morning to tell us that in that box was something more important than solving the killings, more important than why it was that they were all planning to evacuate their beloved Ivories. In that box was the missing candidate.”

 

“Dasha is dead. They disappeared her seven years ago.”

 

“She was there the night of the Millennium Hostage Crisis.”

 

“You just saw a Ghost. While Ysiad was meeting that whore Ivorite spy Toba Hadaad we were trading with the Party of God, and Anahita Noor gave us that exact name. It’s a lie.”

 

“Dasha Andreavna Skorobogatova is very much alive. They’ve kept her asleep as a hostage since she and Adon asked Perchevney to fake their deaths seven years ago. I didn’t know the truth until the Millennium Hostage Crisis when she briefly was allowed to wake up. Adon said to keep her alive by any means necessary. These were his last word to me. And I knew then what I knew seven years ago which is that she would only be kept alive if she was of use. And now they’ve brought her from Russia with love to run the interrogations. Or god only knows what else.”

 

“So plot counter plot. You are the traitor,” she says.

 

“No woman I’m not. I protected Adon from the Bratva. I protected Dasha from the Oligarchy. And until Dmitry Khulushin made his power play this week no one was attacking the Breuklyn Soviet or any of the other Free states.  Does the Brotherhood or the Mossad even really know Adon is alive? Niet. Does anyone else in our own Otriad even know! Niet. Because we kept everyone at bay! Kept this war in the shadows while we strengthened our position. No one knows where Emma is. And no one knows about the twins. And that’s the only important thing isn’t it!” he demands knowing his time is coming up close.

 

“Now. Only me and you.”

 

“Well what now? You truly believe that I have sold this Otriad out to Perchevney or worse the Oligarchy itself?”

 

“You were the last person to see Adon and Emma Solomon alive other than me. How could you not have known they still had Dasha?”

 

“They told me she died after the events at Millennium.”

 

“Who told you that?”

 

“Dmitry Khulushin.”

 

“The world’s biggest snake he whispered that to you and you believed it?”

 

She blinks once.

 

“Anya. My loyalnost is to you personally as well as Sebastian. And to this rebellion supersedes my connections of blood. My thirst for treasure and any affiliations I have to the Ivorites or even the Pervechnvny Bratva.”

 

He says this all quite calmly for a man about to die.

 

“If I blink one more time you will die traitor so pick your last words well,” she coldly says, “If the Ivorites are pulling a mass exodus with their black freighter submarines on our shores. If they brought that witch woman here. If they have Adon and they know what to trade with the oligarchy to get DeBuitléir. Then I would say that an attack of the Soviet and to other free states is impending. I would say that you helped them set us up for slaughter.

 

“Damn you woman. Hold your eye’s desire to fire.”

 

“Good bye Oleg.”

 

“Wait.”

 

“For what?”

 

“I’m the only person that can get into the baths below Third Rasputin and walk away with their mambo Dasha in a bag. And only from what she knows can I prove my loyalty to you and this rebellion. Can we stop fighting?”

 

“Dasha works for Perchevney now, or always has. Why would she tell us anything?”

 

“Because she’s a prisoner. She’s in their debt not in their pocket. Other than when they woke her up to participate in the raid on the Millennium, she’s been under since the night of the Great Disorder. If she can see into the minds of these killers; these horses if she can pick out who organized this then we can figure out what if anything we can do to stop it.”

 

“Perchevney will have your whole killed for betraying him.”

 

“You’ll have my whole family killed for betraying you.”

 

“No. I’ll just have you killed. We don’t kill civilians without cause around here.”

 

“They have a man amongst the forty prisoners below Third Rasputin who helped found your club. Our Otriad. I wouldn’t know his name or face because I didn’t join your cause until the middle of the revolt, but you’d know him and you’d know then just how much we, I say we because I am your deputy I am your man, I worked for you and for Adon and for Solomon! My loyalnost is only to the Z.O.B.”

 

“Tell me why I shouldn’t just order the entire 4^th Citizens Army to arrest everyone inside Third Rasputin. Right now.”

 

“Firstly, because you’ll never get into the caverns below by force. Secondly, because if there is an impending Federal raid on the Soviet, what we don’t want is to have a street war between the Bratva, the Breuklyn Otriad, the Party of God and all other major player in the Citizen’s Army fucking up access to the port; our only way of getting civilians out of the country. Trapping everyone here over the weekend in the middle of a gas assault, and making us look easy prey to the U.A.S. is a stupid, stupid stratagem. Lastly, because if Dmitry Khulushin in New York City. Which everyone seems to think he is. Well then Justin Toomey O’Azzello is no longer Voorhi in law, no longer the biggest local boss in charge. And Dmitry will kill all of the hostages, kill all of the Brava’s regional operators, and kill all of the horses and sure Dasha Andreavna too to keep what he’s doing, what he’s plotting from us.”

She stares at him without blinking.

“Prove it then Oleg. Go get pretty, lost lonely and lethal Ms. Dasha and go get me a traitor she can identify.”

“Anya.”

“Oleg.”

“Watch me prove my loyalty to you with blood and fire, yet again.”

Eighty stories above the Coast of Breuklyn, on the roof deck of the Drake Hotel Oleg Leondovich Medved finally picks his bloody side. He heads out to knock real hard on the door of shit ton of trouble.

 

 

 

Chapter 35

1375 Ocean Ave, 2012ce

Midwood

 

MORE MORE

 

It’s quite late. Late sometime Friday into early Saturday night.

The land line rings. No one has this number. It’s the same voice on the line.

It’s Krissy’s voice, a little strained by cigarettes maybe.

 

“If you love me please baby please don’t follow them to Las Vegas.”

 

“Krissy is that you?”

 

“Yeah Big Nicky it’s me.”

 

“Where are you babe,” pleads out into the night.

 

“That doesn’t matter, they’re gonna hurt me real bad unless you do what they say.”

 

He goes dead inside.

 

“When you get to Las Vegas you need to put eight rounds in the head of Sebastian Adon,” the voice says.

 

“Or you have no idea how much they plan to make me suffer.”

 

Chapter 36

Third Rasputin, 2012ce

Brighton beach

 

 

Oleg Medved bangs his fist on the front door of the Third Rasputin Supper Club Restaurant[62]. The enormous blue purple cube which occupies the entire block of Avenue Z and Ocean Avenue is seven stories tall and composed of various grafting’s of blue and gold metals interlocking to produce the effect of hypermodern futurism.

A giant wave of metal concealing the soon to open seven day a week showcase of Postsoviet debauches. Several incarnations of Rasputin have been mysteriously burned down over the years. This is the latest incarnation built within the past six months.

 

Its owner is Alexandre Dmitrievich Perchevney.

 

“Suka Blat, open the fucking door!” Oleg the bear bellows.

 

Eventually skinny wild eyed young man named Maxim opens the gate. Maxim has the look of a happy zombie, a dead man with a smile dancing around the room as everyone’s best friend. He gives Oleg    a friendly hand shake and beckons him inside the dimly lit entrance way.

They walk through the passage way and past the ballroom and the dance floor and exclusive areas and then down a series of ramps into the basement, and then sub-basement. Finally he arrives at Mermaid Spa; the new bathhou[63]se below the club.

It’s here that Oleg and the secondary command of the Bratva has been interrogating the suspect prisoners associated with the group killings, three such in the past three months.

 

There are two burly men in black multiform carrying on a loud deliberation when Oleg    arrives. One is tall and wild eyed, long haired wild man Justin Toomey O’Azzello and the other is the burly enforcer James Parisi White, not to be confused with his Boriquen partner James Behemoth Pérezes Brown. James and Justin are both handsome in a defiant Fenian sort of way, Justin is a devious and sarcastic dirty blonde, James; a former cop is stocky and brunette. These are two of Alexandre’s Perchevney’s closest men in country. Justin is his New York General Manager and James his Chief of Internal Security. Along with Equadorian tough guy “James Brown”, these three are the only Amerikanski on his inner circle. The Russian call girls who work at and frequent the restaurant call the James’s “white” and “brown” basically only because James Pérezes is Hispanic and James White is a Fenian.

 

They came up with Perchevney years ago when his fortunes were quite revered an all he really owned was shitty Bulgarian dancehall on the lower east side specializing in Latin Music and arranged marriages. Both Justin and James are practicing Fenians.

 

“Howdy,” says James White.

“You’re not gonna believe what’s coming out of these people’s memories,” says Justin O’Azzello.

“Oh, believe me how I can believe almost anything these days,” says Oleg Medved.

 

Submerged in the main pool are forty human beings. Mostly men but nine women too.  They are submerged symmetrically in the water by a make shift scaffolding rig, respirator tubing attached to head set cylinders enclosing their heads in metal orbs. IV central lines are sutured into their torsos.

 

“These are the forty horses we suspect participated in the messy business of those Ivoryish and Jamaican group killings. A couple might be low hanging fruit circumstantially, but all of them were linked to cars, flats or IP addresses or new entries in the nights before the three group killings. So, we threw them in the bath and ran the Parasimulator full blast with the Bratva’s best mambo doing her thing for twenty four hours,” explains Justin.

“What simulation?” Oleg    asks him.

“Sleep No More,” says James, “then the Bulgarian Tavern, of course.”

He’s referring to the preferred disorientation simulations the Bratva’s interrogators run before they go digging around in people’s heads. One involves a massive hotel game of hide and go seek with intermittent bouts of mob violence and orgiastic rituals. The second mimics a three floor translational drinking game to separate people from their memories and information. The process in involves incapacitating a person with sedatives, submerging them in a warm water bath and uploading whole worlds of fictitious data right into their cerebral cortex. Once they get the subject’s mind to believe what they are experiencing is real a skilled male technician is called an Ougan and-or a skilled female technician called a Mambo can then do a great deal of data collection or memory replacement.

In industry terms, and a person reprogrammed via this medium is called “a horse”.

An unconscientious technician or an overly traumatizing episode will wipe out all memory and in industry terms produce a zombie.

“Who’s the mambo,” Oleg    asks, but he already knows.

“You’ll never guess,” grins Justin O’Azzello.

“More importantly what did you record?” asks Oleg Medved.

“Well for one thing almost none of these horses remember a single thing before arriving in Breuklyn Soviet three months ago, as if they didn’t exist. They were wiped and programmed and sent over here to swarm, slaughter kill. Finally after ascertaining that we were dealing mostly with zombies we narrowed down via optic nerve playback to two handlers in the cohort. The only two that didn’t have their clocks punched before,” says Justin.

 

“You did full neural play backs?” asks Oleg    referring to the process of playing back the images taken in via the optic nerve of the past ninety days.

 

“Well one bottomed out while our mambo went digging late last night. Highly trained. He punched his own clock. He’s a fucking palsy vegetable now,” notes Justin.

 

“The other one, the Muslim Brotherhood grabbed from the City and then we took him off them. Our mambo was pretty close to getting him wide open and then he went into neurological arrest. We sent him over to Coney Island Hospital, he’s shored up in Alexandre’s personal life support suite,” James Burns White explains.

James Behemoth Brown takes over the briefing, “They all came into the Soviet in a variety of different ways. They all checked in different places all over town. Full moon came each time and they converged on their targets like clockwork. They butchered all three groups the same way. Everybody was gang raped one by one in front of each other and then everybody was drained dry and hung up from the rafters after their sex organs were consumed. And then the attackers washed up and checked out. And they say the Russian-Albanian-Bulgarian mafias are the real animals? Even MS 15 doesn’t rock like this!”

Oleg the Bear weighs all the latest data.

“But the surviving handler what’s in his head? Who did they all ultimately serve?”

“Well we won’t know until we get him back from Coney Island Hospital,” states James White.

James Behemoth Brown spits in disgust at an unknown and abysmal evil they are now unearthing.

 

“We have another, complication,” says James White.

 

“The fellow we just sent over to Coney was a founder of your little Breuklyn Otriad. A club fucking founder that you all assumed was dead and taken during last year’s battle for Babylon, Strong Island.”

 

“Well then?” asks Oleg Medved.

 

Oleg the bear knows who that man is, but cannot speak his real name for he ever knew it.

 

“We suspect that whoever they are, they’ve infiltrated both the Bratva and the Breuklyn Otriad with their sleepers. If that’s correct we are most likely dealing with the Cult in Grey.”

Everyone shuts up when that name gets mentioned.

And that says a little something when the men in the room are hard bad man gangsters, one of which who can transform into a black cat of enormous size with titanium claws.

 

“Who can we trust these days, even in our own houses,” mutters James Behemoth Brown.

“All right, let’s get these horses out of the water and string um up,” declares Medved

“It used to be that you had to buy off someone’s loyalties! Or threaten the ones that they love! Now you can just pay to look into their minds and write things there for them to do,” exclaims James White.

“Takes all the fun out of interrogations if you ask me,” states Justin Toomey O’Azzello playing with a dagger of enormous size, his right index finger balancing the blade.

“I heard from a trusted source Alexandre sent his best mambo from Moscow to work on these pawns,” mentions Oleg Medved.

“He did indeed,” said James White.

“Dmitry Khulushin flew her in two nights ago,” states Justin O’Azzello.

“Little miss fucking trouble herself,” laughs James Behemoth Brown, “we’d all thought she was red dead disappeared! It took her just under a night to crack all thirty nine targets. Obviously she hasn’t lost her touch.”

“Although she left a few brain dead,” notes James Behemoth Brown.

“Is Dmitry in New York?” Oleg    asks, a little too casually.

“Good question,” says James White.

“Which Dmitry?” mutters James Brown.

“The real Dmitry Khulushin, not his double, not his twin or his clone,” says Oleg   .

“You think even Sasho himself knows that blonde devil face from his twins? Even Sasho can’t tame that fucking vicious rising demagogue,” says James White.

“He’d better if he knows what’s good for the business,” says Justin O’Azzello.

“Well I hope he’s not in New York, because it’s always a blood bath whenever he shows up,” says Justin.

 

“Take me to her then so I can taste the merchadise,” says Oleg.

 

Oleg Medved is about to make a bed and finally sleep in it.

And so they go deep below the streets of Breuklyn Soviet heading to the deepest crypt below the baths, below the ice cage, where they keep their most previous cargo.

Burly Oleg Medved knocks out Justin O’Azzello first with a crack to the head. He’s the most dangerous one. Since Dmitry Khulushin doesn’t appear to be on the premises.

He pile drives his way through the sturdy old enforcer James Burns White and a few other Postsoviet hooligans. James almost gets off a shot but Oleg    bashes him in the face with a fire extinguisher, and then empty’s the entire chemical contents out on James Brown who is transmogrifying into the terrifying black beast with claws and a tail that science and magic engineered for him

 

And then there was a big black cat of enormous size coming right at him claws bared!

And then there was James Burns White calling him a “fucking double traitor” and firing his repeater at him, metal mosquitos zipping about the passage ways.

And it seemed then like Justin O’Azzello who he’s hit so fucking hard he’d though he’d killed him drew up that knife of his and ran across the ceiling and plunged in twice in his back!

“SUKA BLAT!” Oleg    bellowed and then with that big dagger still in his gut he head butts Justin, and takes out his blaster and empties it in the General Manager chest.

 

BRAKA. BRAKA. BRAKA. BRAKA. BRAKA. BRAKA. BRAKA. BRAKA. Click.

 

And Justin just spits blood at him!

And so Oleg swings the extinguisher into the thick of his skull and knocks him back into James White and James Brown and whole pack of dangerous others.

Oleg the Bear had to fuck up a lot of his closest associates to get clear of that shit show. But he did what he needed to do.

A few doors and tunnels down below the supper club.

There she lay.

Naked as the day she was born in fluid bath, eyes flickering.

Oleg had not seen this woman since seven years before on the eve of the great disorder.

Those criminal associates that are chasing him and howling for his blood are banging on the blast door.

“Dasha. It’s time to wake up,” is all he thinks to say in Russian.

Oleg   Medved lifts her out of the bath, and places her in a big black duffle bag.

 

He then had to carry this full figured buxom blonde haired young woman out of the memory vat and charge through the facility with her in the bag. While bleeding out of back and chest with a fragment of a small caliber round in his shoulder.

 

They don’t make man like this after the fall of the Soviet Union!

With everyone in there trying to kill him it all got a little Zen. He couldn’t keep track of how many men he’d killed on the way out. And in doing so he’d burned his final bridge with the Perchevney Bratva.

He was shot at repeatedly, but only one connected low caliber thankfully. And he was stabbed twice in the back and once in the gut. But he had enough gut for glory.

He even had to bash poor Maxim’s face with heavy hammer blow and jump in his black armored Escalade with the girl still dripping wet from the vat.

He’d just stolen the most important link in the Perchevney Bratva’s chain of parapsychological war fare. He’d carried off their best mambo.

Tires screech.

He drives like hell out of the Green Light District rubber burning. He taps the blue ray in his ear.

“Dbrisk, I have her! I have the second candidate! Meet me at Safe House 07 in half an hour or immediately! And activate the Underground Railroad. We don’t have much time. You all have to leave for Las Vegas tonight. They have Adon and DeBuitléir. It’s confirmed. We’ve all been betrayed and set up for a great big fat kill.”

He tears asphalt up Ocean Avenue north toward District Midwood, then further into District Crown Heights.

In the back seat, a struggling kicking fighting bagged up woman his cursing his mother, his father and his unborn children in thick Russian!

 

But he’s sure that she’ll thank him with her eyes in about five minutes, if not her mouth.

 

 

Chapter 37

Ms. Lily’s Barber Shop, 2012ce

Crown Heights

 

 

Bumbaclot! There is nothing worse on earth than a traitor in the ranks of one’s own leadership!

 

Of the many serious differences that are real, as opposed to rakishly imagined between Noires and the Blan is that a Noire will compliment another man on his attire.

 

Mickhi Dbrisk is getting a shape up in his father’s barber shop on Utica and Empire. His father’s shop is well known and as it is customary in the noire tradition it is as much a small social club for gossip and business networking as it is a place to shape and style ones hair. Mickhi keeps his dreads in pristine condition. He began to grow them like this seven years ago when he gave up drinking and smoking. Things are calm and casual even though everybody knows what’s coming. His father keeps shaving away.

 

A black windowless van rolls up and parks outside. Two men jump out the back off load a steel drum marked “T.N.T Shipping”. They use a hand truck to roll the thing inside the barber shop. Right next to Dbrisk. His father motions in Yardy hand sign to the young men and old men seated inside to get gone.

 

“Y don y’all com bak ina du pas hour,” forcefully suggests Mickhi Dbrisk in patois.

 

Nobody has to even be told twice best believe.

 

Pretty soon Dbrisk, his father and two of Dbrisk’s inner crew; his cousin Magnus Allamby and his lifelong associate Big Man Matthew are left inside. Matthew rolls down the external storm shutters and then activates the internal bullet proof barrier which slides down over the display windows and the door.

 

Dbrisk doesn’t get up nor does his father stop cutting his hair.

 

Magnus Allamby is in a blue pin stripe suit. He’s a boss like Dbrisk, but lives more like one. A little flashier. He’s the Finance Section Chief of the Otriad. He’s been running the books for nearly thirteen years. He’s a Bajan money man too. Educated at CUNY Staten Island and then later Columbia University Business School. He takes off his suit top and puts it on a rack. He isn’t carrying, he’s never carrying. He’s well covered. Big Man Matthew gets ready to pop open the steel drum. Matthew is a big guy, used to be chauffeur. Got a degree in urban planning from Medgar Evers. Matthew is here in an official capacity while Allamby was just hanging out, but sometimes business comes up on the fly.

 

They pop the drum. Mathew and Magnus Allamby hoist a sniveling broken young man out of it with a bag on his head. Already apparently worked over in Coney Island hospital. Bleeding out his eyes, a permaport in his left AC.

 

They throw him in the barber chair next to Dbrisk and cuff his hands and legs to the chair. He’s already been benzohyped.

 

The utilization of these drums was Michael’s idea years ago. The first business acquisition of the club was “Trinidad and Tobago Shipping”, a small outfit in District East New York that bulk mailed merchandise to and from the Wild West Indies. Michael had devised an elaborate system of logistics and supply where by these drums were not only used to efficiently smuggle things and people in and out of the Caribbean, but supply the various bodega routes more efficiently. And sometimes, when Oleg    or Anya or Erza’s people were done interrogating a suspect we drummed them up and put them in storage. There were always TNT drums being moved around the Soviet. Some with fruit and perishables, some with weapons and people, some with art, some with everything and anything else. They were classically very hard to open, they have global positioning systems, and they are all covered under our trans-Soviet search and seizure laws.

 

Magnus Allamby had figured out how to cut every two bit cop, hustler and border agent out of a cut.

 

“Emerge the wily traitor,” says Mickhi Dbrisk.

The man is wearing a black hood. And it appears someone has long ago surgically removed his tongue. Article Eight of the universal rights declaration forbids torture or cruel and unusual punishment. Beating a man, drugging a man into a dream state, tearing through his head like a DHS raiding party, and then sealing him in a steel drum isn’t standard operating procedure for the Otriad, but the Bratva found him first

.

It’s just been a long hot tepid weekend with a lot on the line.

 

“I know you man, though I will not say your name. The hate I have for you is nearly limitless. I would like to cut out your traitor heart for what you’ve done.”

 

“But, let me start by saying that I like your shoes. They’re pretty ok,” states Dbrisk.

“You can get shoes that look like that in the Soviet, but those are the genuine European articles. That’s how I know you’re coming from the City.”

“Look here,” says Dbrisk. I know you can’t talk; you don’t even still have your traitor tongue. But I know you saw things and did things we are gonna get them off your retinal imaging one way or another. And then we’re gonna box you up and bury you alive like the traitor that you are like that fellow in that short Poe story Casque of Amantioado. I know you were there when they slaughtered those all people. I know you gave us all over to the enemy. I’m not here to carrot you or stick you. I’m just in need to get the data you hold state of mind. We will now get it right? For even after they tortured you they still did not know what was behind your eyes or by your face what we know you know. The satisfaction they got down in Third Rasputin, or in Coney Island hospital working you over is beyond me. But best believe we will get what we are looking for and then you will be sent to grave. Matthew. Plug him in Big Man.”

 

Big Man Matthew puts a metal device over his head called a parasimulator and sets up the IV line pharmaceuticals into the right AC to sedate the traitorous prisoner, this time for good.

The Bratva and the Otriad have science and magic to match, but the Otriad used its powers for more good than for evil.

The device then overloads him immediately with chemical electrical stimuli, then generates a constructed world for him to be deceived into thinking reality is subjective.

 

“Gold lion’s gonna show me where the light is,” hums Mickhi Dbrisk.

“Take my hands out of control.”

 

Dbrisk hums an old classic while the parasimulator projects the man’s thought on the drop screen attached to the barber shop wall, “Tell me what you saw, tell me what you saw, I had the strangest dream. Inside, outside we must have done a thousand each!”

 

The way a parasimulator works is a long scientific lecture that even the inventor of the device and its pharmacological adjuncts Dr. Michelle Kaku-Tagomi-Goldberg of the University of Stonybrook feels is lost on even those with advanced degrees in Neurology and Phantom physics. The device can simulate whole worlds for those that are asleep, fourth dimensional simulations as it is called on the street. They can also be used to extract visual logs of real world experiences.

 

It can trick the mind into thinking it has left its body behind. It can download the soul into a new body.

 

On the wall of the barber shop the last three months of the traitor’s life and operations will shortly play out on screen. He only has three months of memory still in his mind. Though from the face they cannot yet see under the mask, he has been with the rebellion for the very beginning.

He has no tongue to speak his deeds or memories. But his retina will reveal who gave him his final orders. And who lured him from the table of the rebel leadership into the den of the oligarchy. And hopefully confirm the worst reports are true.

 

Only new European designer sneakers and a recorded log now playing on screen will tell of his spree. Even Judas had asked a higher price for his loyalty.

Dbrisk’s sky pager goes off.

“He’s close,” says Dbrisk.

Oleg pages Mickhi five minutes before he arrives on Utica Avenue and Matthew brings him in the side alley entrance. He’s carrying a woman in bag. Like back in the old country.

 

“Talk to me,” says Mickhi Dbrisk in fluent Russian.

“Talk to her,” Oleg Medved responds.

 

He unzips the body bag and there is the ravishing albeit completely disheveled, dripping wet Dasha Andreavna Skorobogatova. Looking angry as fuck. She’s glaring at them.

 

“Give me a fucking Newport man,” is all she demands.

 

“Michael go get that thing handled. Matt, proper clothes please. This is the woman from the books.” he pauses, “sister, a multiform please for now,” requests Dbrisk averting his eyes from her dripping luscious nakedness. He hands her a bathrobe and then a Newport standard cigarette.

 

“And a fucking stiff drink too. Do you have any idea how long I’ve been under!”

“Where is he now?” demands Oleg   .

 

She lights up her cigarette and pulls on her robe in a huff.

“I’m not sure.”

“What do you mean you’re not sure weren’t you in the vat plugged into his head on behalf of Perchevney!” demands Oleg.

“Get me my drink.”

Dbrisk motions and Big Man Matthew comes back with an ice cold bottle of Russian Standard Vodka Premium, some Chinese synthesized red bulls and some iced glasses.

“Everyone’s in Moscow soon gonna be enroot to Las Vegas,” she says.

“Who’s everyone to you, sister,” says Dbrisk.

“I’m not your sister, black mister,” she responds.

He gives her a look.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “I’ve always been treated very well by you Mickhi Dbrisk.”

 

“Where is Sebastian Adon right now?” demands Magnus Goldbar Allamby.

 

“Sasho has Adon and his Ayitian partner Watson strung up somewhere in Moscow. Someone, probably Ysiad or the Ivorites sold them both out to the Bratva. The DHS has DeBuitléir as now you know. They’ve been working on him for seven fucking years in Angola 42. Both factions are trying to break into their respective heads and get the remainder of the list.”

 

“What list,” asks, almost sneers Allamby.

 

“Fuck you man. You know the fucking list,” is all she says in return. Though only Oleg Medved and Dbrisk are on that level. Allamby is a money changer.

“Tak, and what else?” demands Oleg.

 

“They’re going to shut down your nuclear defense grid and storm the Breuklyn Soviet in two days’ time. They’re going to kill almost everyone using gas and blame it all on the Muslims. Like the 9-11. The crackdown is finally coming. With or without Ayiti as a pretext the Oligarchy wishes to bring this rebellion under heel,” Dasha explains.

 

“You were in his head?” asks Mickhi Dbrisk who hasn’t seen Adon since the night he left three years ago to raid the Millennium Theater.

“I’m always in his head,” she declares.

“You were in his head for Perchevney or for Solomon? Who?” demands Magnus Allamby

“Tak. I can’t always remember what side of the bed I wake up on each morning. But man you know my blood.”

“I know every time this Russian witch shows up and shakes her ass we put all our best men in the fucking ground,” yells Michael Allamby.

 

Dasha Andreavna just grins.

 

“Enough,” interrupts Oleg Medved, “we never know what side anyone’s on these days, and it hardly ever matters. They love each other. Whatever that means. Now pull the traitors hood and run the play back and let’s see if she knows the devils by their faces.”

 

“Woman I want your word that when you see him you will be calm,” says Dbrisk.

 

“I promise nothing to you black man,” she snarls.

 

And Oleg doesn’t know if the him referred to is Adon or the masked traitor in the barber chair. Oleg joined up with these people seven years ago. He joined the uprising almost by accident. He used to work for the Israelis. Then the Bratva keeping track of the Otriad, now he was a one team player for sure. He hoped he’d bet on the right horse.

 

Sebastian Adon’s last words to Oleg Medved, the night they stormed together Millennium were, “get her out alive.”

He hadn’t specified under what and into what conditions.

“We already know what you’re gonna do when you see his face. But first we need you to watch what he saw for the last three months and figure out just how much trouble we all are in.”

“Alright, let’s begin,” she says, “you have oysters and popcorn?”

 

They all know she is completely serious and so Mr. Magnus Allamby orders out for them. What’s the use of running your own micro republic if you can’t get oysters and popcorn in the midnight hours for a beautiful and vital woman in your chain of command?

 

The first image is of four men seated naked in a bathhouse. Three faces are coming into focus and one has their back to the view of the traitor. Three months ago.

 

“That’s Khulushin, Breria, and Berlusconi,” she says, “You know who they are surely.”

“Who do you think the fourth man is?” Oleg    asks.

 

She shutters on the inside.

 

“Kahn,” she says.

 

“We have to confirm it,” says Mickhi Dbrisk.

 

Images fly in reverse. The first ones are of wild orgies and of consumption and of playing games of sex and violence and chance in the Bathtub Gym on 88 Fulton in the City. The next are of the traitor crossing under the river via a tunnel running from what used to be Police Plaza One to what used to be the Watchtower

.

The man had made great distances easy over a three month period. But he had the most powerful oligarchs on earth helping him as he went.

 

She sees the first slaughter three months ago.

Howling packs of zombies ripping into two families of blacks and Ivories. Rape, ripped flesh slaughter. Dangle, drizzle bleed and die.

 

Strangers programed to kill watching the telescreen feasting on sex organs.

 

She sees Dmitry Khulushin hitting a dangling Sebastian Adon with a studded black bat. Over and over and over again laughing hysterically. Now strangling him. Pissing and spitting and kicking his face. She sees Khulushin pin one dollar pills to Adon’s chest and crack him like human piñata.

She sees her own unconscious body being used like a rag doll in a gang bang as Sebastian is forced to watch. She doesn’t even shudder.

 

They watch the second slaughter, shot with traitor eyes two months ago.

 

Same carnage, but with way more victims.

On the screen they see three young tattooed hipster women taking turns swinging little babies heads against the wall giggling. They see a motely mix of zombies sent to pell-mell kill. Of all colors and creeds participating gleefully. All programmed via telescreen and Nanobots in pork or the soda. A pack of young men are raping a pretty young Ivoryish girl over a barrel.

 

Big Man Matthew asks for cigarette. Pours himself a stiff drink of bourbon whiskey. When they are done the zombies cut her Ivoryess limbs off. The traitor watched everything.

 

The second killing in three parts was a blood bacchanalia like the first. Bringing the body count up to eighty eight victims by the full moon of month two. Four entire families wiped out.

 

All the female family members were candidates.

 

Even Alan; called Oleg Medved and Magnus Allamby pick up the pack of Newport standards and light two up.

The morbid tale flickers on.

More torture of Sebastian Adon, more rape of Dasha Andreavna.

Oleg puts a hand on her shoulder, but she just says, “don’t fucking touch me.”

Alexandre Perchevney grinning on the screen as he shakes hands with Dmitry Khulushin. The traitor introducing Alexandre to a holograph of Director Breria, head of homeland security. The traitor agreeing to sell Adon and Watson to Perchevney. A deal being made. DeBuitléir for Adon, let them try and work on each other’s’ prisoners.

 

Dasha boxed up and sent from Italy to Moscow to keep Adon calm, mentally speaking. Them using her over the years to find candidates.  Using her for all kinds of things. Dasha boxed up and sent to Breuklyn Soviet to wipe out the minds of the zombies and keep them under control.

“How long were you under?” Dbrisk asks her.

“I’ve been under for nearly seven years,” she responds in Russian.

The traitor had sold out the entire rebel leadership for little more than some gold and pager. They hadn’t needed to threaten his family. They hadn’t needed to lean too hard. To betray his loyalnost and turn over the whole rebel nuclear defense system, the roster of major organizers in the Breuklyn Soviet and all twelve names of the surviving members of the  Z.O.B., they just had to promise him they’d let him live in the highest tower.

And like all traitors before him once they got what they needed they took his memories and his tongue and cast him off like a European designer shoe at a bread riot.

 

The screen depicts the grisly last killing, which occurred just 72 hours ago.

 

The traitor’s very last memory before the Otriad’s whisper network found his location out and the Muslim Brotherhood helped snatch him, he was standing on Steeplechase pier, whistling a song though he had no tongue to make the words. Everyone in the room knows that song. To the tune of the song he wrote down a series of codes, codes to the nuclear defense grid, locations of command bunkers, access numbers to our server vaults.

 

The traitor handed those codes over to the enemy. For permission to leave the Breuklyn Soviet for good. Last scene in the memory bank, sitting in Bathtub Gym Banya.

 

Dmitry Khulushin again on screen pats him on the back and finally we see the face of the fourth man. His beady old soul eyes. His French hook nose. His body caught between this world and the next.

Dmitry looks too happy with himself. The old French man says something in French.

Then the French croon too begins whistling that song. He twitches, eyes go black and he spits blood.

The traitor departs from the company of the two vile oligarchs. He then sits down at Tatiana Blue’s for last supper. He almost immediately gets clorophomed and has bag pulled over his head by the Muslim bus boys.

 

Everyone in the room knows the words to the Partisan song.

 

The projector cuts off with a Muslim brother chloroforming the traitor from behind and throwing a bag over his head.

A bag which has not yet come off.

 

The room is thick with tobacco smoke, and heavy from that horror show of hate.

 

Mickhi Dbrisk takes out a gun and shoots the man in the head in total violation of international law. BLAM!

 

“Thank you,” says Dasha Andreavna, “you beat me to it.”

There was no use but to kill him.

Everyone simmers. The hooded traitor who everyone would have recognized as a founding member of the resistance bleeds out from his bag masked face wet and dead. All his secrets made plain.

“They organized the Great Revolt so they could isolate you all into little ghettos, identify as many candidates as they could, neutralize us one by one, then bring down the heel,” she informs them.

“He’d been with us from the very beginning,” Allamby states the obvious. He spits on the dead traitor.

“The deadliest sting in history,” mutters Dbrisk.

“Who was that fourth man?” Oleg    asks her.

“The fourth man was Dominick Strauss Kahn, or anyhow that’s the vessel that devil is using.”

“So, they have Adon, DeBuitléir and the codes to the grid,” mutters Big Man Matthew.

“Well then. I suppose there isn’t any time left to lose,” says Dasha. “I do trust you saved me gas mask boys?”

“What’s the plan?” asks Magnus Allamby.

Mickhi Dbrisk gets to his feet.

“A save the world plan surely!” Dasha suggests.

“We’re going to assemble a crack team of our very best Pararescuemen. We’re gonna get over the border wall into the U.A.S., move across the country via the Underground Railroad and link up the crew in Las Vegas. We’re going to break Avinadav DeBuitléir out of federal custody by absolutely any means necessary, preferably through subterfuge but via anarchy and bloody mayhem if we must. And then we’re going to rescue our brother Sebastian Adon before Perchevney hands him over. And defenses walls come tumbling down.”

 

“Technically speaking it’s just a save the afternoon early evening plan. The world is still pending a good deal of deliverance hence all the bleeding and dying to keep you candidates alive,” says Oleg Medved.

 

“It’s nice to see you all again,” Dasha says to them begrudgingly, “your desperate hope for us has never ceased to fascinate me.”

 

“Welcome back to the land of free living,” responds Mickhi Dbrisk.

 

“Enchante,” is all she replies with a slight if not contemptuous micro curtesy.

 

 

Chapter 38

A Secret Hospital Prison, 2012ce

DUBAI

 

“Do you know where you are Sebastian?” a female voice asks.

 

It sounded through the dystonia, the extrapyramidal haze that she has asked him if he knew when he was Sebastian

.

“On Tuesdays,” he responds with a slight lithiated, tripryamidal slur.

 

She wears a crisp white lab coat and a green former soviet officer’s cap. Dr. Yelizaveta Alexandreeavna Perechenova has been flown out to Dubai to examine Sebastian and she doesn’t remember him at all.

 

Lucky to remember all of her name she was born with if you get me me.

 

And the rest of the scene is in the perspective of out much abused protagonist:

 

I’m seated in sterile white examination room although the diagnostic equipment is of the developing world. Nothing is electronic. I’m no longer in any restraints. When she enters it doesn’t register as anything special.

 

Just a demure raven haired physician in a white lab coat and a green Soviet officer’s cap. Sewn to the coat in cold gold thread it says: Perechenova.

 

And she doesn’t seem to recognize me either.

 

“My name is Doctor Yelizaveta Perechenova, I need you to go through a few diagnostic tests and give me some samples. Some may involve me stroking your phallus erotically but I assure you this is just a medical procedure. He just imagines that she says that of course. All very straight forward to you I’m sure Mr. Adon. I understand you’re a paramedic and a skilled parapsychologist.”

 

I look at her trying to remember something that I should feel. Some sense of wanting? No a sense of remembering. Nothing comes. She is a photograph.

 

“Of course, comrade doctor.”

 

I disrobe what robe I am wearing and the Depakote nearly makes me fall over. She takes my blood pressure; 120 over 70 and my heart rate 58 strong and regular.

“You are aware that the Cold War is over and communism has sense been completely discredited except perhaps in Syria and Cuba,” she asks. Notes.

 

She looks in my pupils. She examines my mouth and my ears. She palpates my neck and then listens to my lungs in six different places and my heart in two.

Here hands press my abdomen. She’s going through the medical motions.

When she’s done she says;

“You need to take these lithium salt pills. If you don’t take them you will die.”

“Your employer,” I almost say, father, “is far too tricky for me. He went to so much trouble.”

 

“Do you know what free radicals do to the body?”

“You can tell me if you’d like to.”

“Well you probably won’t understand.”

“Certainly I won’t. But I like when you lecture me, it reminds me of; no, I can’t remember what, but I like you teaching me my science.”

 

She explains using terms she learned in Stonybrook and later in University of Havana Medical School exactly what are free radicals.

 

“Well then I suppose free radicals must be brought under control or the very system and all its components are in jeopardy!” I exclaim, and she takes a step back.

“Precisely my employers point of view.”

“So I’m poisoned am I,” says Adon.

“Quite poisoned. Dbrisk and Trikhovitch and all the others too. What does Z.O.B. stand for? Polish isn’t it? Something about Ivory fighting?”

“No idea.”

“I think it stands for ‘everyone dead when we say so’, in some old language you no longer remember how to speak.”

“Cynical. Interesting. And what is the mechanism of action then to do us all in?”

“Nanobots.”

“Haven’t the faintest fucking idea what that means. Excuse my language.”

“My employer’s people can kill all of you with a switch. These microscopic robots will release neurotransmitters that will form emboli and will shut off blood flow to your brains.”

“Very sophisticated stuff.”

“Developed by your favorite people, the Israelis. Well anyway they’re in me too; they’re in my father and mother. All of Perchevney’s people. He leaves nothing to chance.”

“I think Solomon will consider this a serious breach of contract.”

Sebastian has watched post and former Soviet women fake a good number of things but there are two things they don’t fake well.

Actual fear or an orgasm.

“Well your boots are going to be on the ground rather now soon if they don’t sell you o the Americans that is and my employer,” she almost says father,  “has every willingness to out-supply anyone else who wishes to arm you. The weapons you’re currently holding are third line. Eventually you’ll run out of bullets and want to upgrade. Your Domikani businessman can’t keep up with us, well with Alexandre I mean; I’m just a serf too.”

“I think I’ll be refusing your employers pills regardless, I really think poisoning is rather shameful behavior.”

“Well medically speaking you’re not poisoned yet.”

“How am I to know he won’t just kill us all when the worst work is done? Anyway we are looking at a rather protracted fight be in Breuklyn, be it in Ayiti-DR or be it in the heart of Africa.”

“Well the pills will not do anything but fight potential cancers caused by what fuels the Nanobots. It is you who sought out my employer; he did not go looking for you and your Otriad.”

“So who’s been implanted then?”

“Everyone who drank your Kool-Aid soldier. The toast at the last salon supper. New Year’s 5773 at the Mehanata Social Club, the report says you were all given the cocktail by a traitor in your midst.”

“That fucking traitor,” Adon says darkly.

“Just because they caught you coming doesn’t mean they have to catch you going too.”

“Tell me his name.”

“His or hers? Ha. I don’t know the real name. I just know that you and your crew were used to such an extent it is fully mind blowing.”

“And apparently I still have use for the using.”

“Indeed, as you like to say.”

“How do you know what I like to say?”

“I’ve watched a few of your movies,” she Postsoviet half giggles.

“Indeed.”

“But do you know me?” she asks him.

“Not from the hole in my hand,” he replies in Russian.

“That’s quite crude tovarish[64] Adon. The reports then are true. You are a scoundrel not a gentleman of any kind at all.”

 

 

Chapter 39

A low flying plane, the Flickering Flame 2012ce

Enroot to DUBAI

 

Everything changed for us on 1^st September, 2012, escalated during the atrocities the Department of Homeland Security committed on 17 September shortly after and I’d say as much for the world as well as did our revolution build exponentially toward 1 January, 2015. It was on that day our American barricades went up and we held the streets for many years at great costs.

 

I am back! Hubert O’Domhnaill. For a time as your humble narrator. For I did love that man as my brother so dearly! And what a price my family paid to serve Solomon, to fight for her cause. Well we all lost a lot as they say.

 

But I know that there is nothing we gave that Adon, his family and the others did not give as well. My parents before they were taken from me never met his parents who were taken from him, but I’m sure they would have seen eye to eye.

 

I will tell you now the day that the world changed forever. The day that marked the shift. When we gained turf and held territory inside the mountain fortress of empire called the United American States! When rebel fighters with union and 2.5 million West Indians behind them marched over the bridges and stormed government buildings across the city.

 

Death to the Oligarchy that so gleefully thins the ranks of the rebels!

 

The Great Revolt in the United States began on Labor Day of 2012.

They asked me three times to betray my friend Adon. And then they killed my family, all male O’Domhnaills except my eldest brothers Shane and Cormac.

 

“How do you win a war without any lethal weapons?” once asked Sebastian Adon to his mother Barbara Adon O’Nunnelly, which were one to understand true Gaelic patronymics; means ‘Son of Nunnelly’, when in fact it should have been Ni’Nunnelly, but they were born in American exile.

 

This had been a reoccurring problem for the house of Adon for some many years.

The answer was always the same year after year.

 

“No you cannot stockpile nuclear armaments in a subbasement under our home in East Hampton. No, not even a few,” she told him and her husband, his father surely agreed.

 

Ivories are funny like that. They give to causes all the time, a very generous people despite the collaboration of their ancient leadership with the Roman oligarchy that tortured and executed the family of god as we understand her to have been.

I’ll get to that theory another time.

The Ivories and revolt was what I was on about.

You see, my family being a good Fenian family has had arms in our subbasement for years. It was always rather intuitive that we’d never get the British out of Erin and then later the six counties, well except by shooting at them. And blowing them up.

What’s funny to me about the Adon family is that with all the money they’ve put into the foundations of the revolt, and the human rights movement generally they still never seemed to grasp that violence was completely inevitable. Perhaps the patriarch of the family Avram did as his younger brother Benjamin, but his mother up until the disorder itself did everything in her power to keep weapons out of the hands of a club that was founded with intent to acquire them.

 

When “the Great Disorder” began during the second year of the Swine Flu hysteria, when the rioting exploded in earnest over the discovery that the vaccine to the “hizzy nizzy” was making more people sick than better; the Adon family was divided between four boroughs. Benjamin, the youngest son, an orange belt in Krav Maga and importer of Basque Wine was in the Financial District when the disorder began. That was one of the only places along with Riverdale and the Upper East Side which escaped almost all of the violence and destruction which broke out. All Benjamin had to do was stay put at 140 Nassau Street, where he kept his New York residence in a loft adjacent to his aging parents.

 

Dr. Avram Adon who by age 84 was still working three twelve hour shifts a week at his practice, was at his clinic on Staten Island, which is home to half the city’s police force and thus by mostly staying put he too avoided the mayhem.

 

Barbara Adon with a client in the South Bronx. Unlike her husband and youngest son, she was well aware of the impending riots and was also relatively plugged into the networks that the club had established for such emergencies.

 

And Sebastian Adon was at EMS Station 39 in Breuklyn, district East New York distributing the underground newspaper of the club to the EMS workers there.

The riots began on Grand Army Plaza when the police attempted to disperse the West Indian Day/ Labor Day parade and shots were fired. 2.5 million then stormed the Grand Army Plaza police checkpoints and a riot rolled North down Flatbush Ave and toward the City. Soon spread via social media and word of text to all the major ghettos the tristate area. Some supposedly ‘rouge’ scientist at MIT had dropped a big old white elephant in the healthcare room. The h1N1 Vaccine was spreading the h1n1, and it was targeting the genetic codes found in Noires, excuse me, the black people.

 

And then the Noires started reliably burning-shit-down, because that’s what they do when they’re angry, every single time. Except this time it wasn’t their own neighborhoods like the last uprisings in 1992 and 1993. Nope, this time they burned the rich white, gentrified neighborhoods down too. And the anarchists in the Occupy Movement started putting up barricades and shortly after setting off bombs. And then the major Unions called a General Strike. And the Autonomous Movement was born in the first seventy two hours of the conflict.

 

And history calls this moment the beginning of the “Great Revolt” in the Unites States.

 

The swine flu vaccine was of course just the spark. There were and still are many long standing grievance in a nation where 1 in 6 people live in poverty and 1 in 350 people are at any time held in prison camps.

 

“The Great Disorder” which history now refers to as the first three months of the subsequent “Great Revolt” claimed more lives than the September11^th attack on the World Trade and burned more property than the Fenian v. Noire Draft Riots of 1862. Pre-arranged logistical packages are so vital when the cell phone network goes down, the inter-web gets cut of, the lights black out, the firemen begin stealing blue jeans and the Federal government starts shelling your city.

Sebastian Adon wasn’t stealing blue jeans, or stealing apparatus for Otriad use as per one of the ready made plans. He, although no longer a member of the FDNY ambulance was ordered by the club to assist in life saving efforts as member of the flying medical column sent into Downtown Breuklyn where a great mob was attempting to light fire to all of Downtown Breuklyn. Razing Central Bookings ‘brick by hypocritical brick’ in particular. The reason he was still on that ambulance, and not attempting to steal it was because he had been told the fires and riots were still limited enough in scope to issue a command order for the ‘O’Domhnaill Plan’ and not the ‘Hadaad Doctrine’. Which is to say all members of the association were mobilized and sent to fortify and safe guard regional commands, safe houses, and critical properties the Otriad controlled.  Several hundred club members and support personnel were to set up shop in the five regional command centers, also called safe houses and protect the some odd 7,250 men, women and children supported by the Otriad.

 

The reason Adon was allowed on a municipal ambulance unit was because the club is roughly half composed of professional emts and paramedics.

 

Luckily the leadership had scheduled a drill just one month earlier, so it didn’t all go as fuckery as it could have. While Adon, Dbrisk, Trikhovitch, myself and others battled blazes and provided medical attention to the casualties of raging angry mobs; eight flying columns, four medical and four security mobilized to usher family members to fortified urban strong points to do a quick security census in case the order for an exodus came.

And it eventually did, but not until the Great Revolt which was yet to come.

Logistically speaking “the O’Domhnaill Plan”, named after me of course, involved reporting without issued order within “two hours of a cataclysmic event’” to a safe house in the borough you were in without attempting to reach friends or family.

I was named after me because at a very early meeting back when the club was less than a two dozen strong I suggested that we’d always be safer making a stand in our own city then putting ourselves at the mercy of the heavily armed typically right wing, typically Ivory, Fenian, Black adverse of the rural interiors population.

 

As per later reports, a full majority of the Otriad’s family members, supporters, and members of service were able to reach the safe house strong points within the first six hours. With the exception of the Isle of Man’s primary safe house in Fort George which had to defend its position with hard will, fire bombs and small arms, all other safe points remained secured for the week of rioting and arson that was the dubbed Great Disorder.

 

Of the roughly 7,252 women, men and children in network only fourteen perished.

 

Four who were trampled by a mob trying to reach Grand Central Station; three died due to indiscriminant mob violence, and seven perished when the shelling of Harlem began on the eve of the fourth day. Those who never reached the higher ground of Yeshiva University and peripheral bases in Fort George sat out the Disorder largely secure at Seagate, Rich Man Tower Complex, Fort Totten, and the Staten Island Mall. These five places had been largely via hording and social engineering converted into safe havens for the clubs network and civilian supporters.

 

By the time the dust settled, suffice to say, the Adon family and many other skeptics were thoroughly convinced that the Otriad organizationally and militarily was able to do the things it claimed. Most importantly those things in regards to taking care of the security of its members. And that there were thousands of independent citywide clubs, gangs, associations, religious groups, networks, and Otriad’s of many-many other stripes and colors thinking just about the same think with their own general operating guides. The madness was mitigated by just how well New York was already organized for mayhem.

 

The worst of the mass riots for lasted seventeen days. “Rioting” is exactly what the corporate media kept calling this, but by day three the riots were taking on the form of a semi-coordinated revolts. Especially when a Breuklyn General Assembly established a command center in the Breuklyn Public Library.

 

Staten Island, where the rioting was limited to the North coast was pacified by the second evening. Magnus Allamby, the Bajan entrepreneur responsible for the clubs finances coordinated with Dr. Avram and is large informal network of cops and sanitation workers keep a lid on things. Most of the Otriad members on Staten Island showed up at the Costco at the mall, and locked themselves in until the end of Martial Law was declared five days later.  Queens was pacified in most places by day fourteen. The Bronx burned well into the second or third week, but was re-occupied on day fifteen. Isle of Man was declared pacified by the first day, but Harlem and the Heights remained liberated zones, although much of East Harlem was completely destroyed in the subsequent shelling. Breuklyn was brought under control on the seventieth day after the shelling and tear gas bombing and street melees of East New York, Brownsville and Bedford Stuyvesant which reduced all three districts to rubble.

It took U.A.S. Federals, National Guards, and the Police forces seven days to put down a spontaneous rising that few had seen coming.

 

This event would go down in history as “The Great Disorder”, a precursor to the subsequent “Great Revolt”. That is because this was the name the corporate media gave us; a disorder not an uprising, similar to in your reality, Black Lives Mattering and Occupy.

 

The municipals sure as shit earned their overtime that week. The National Guard had to be called in from Upstate, New Jersey and Pennsylvania as there were few active duty troops to send with ongoing wars in Eurasia, East Asia and the disputed territories. There were quite a few atrocities carried out in the re-occupation of the City.

The siege of East & Central Breuklyn in particular. Some of those good old boys from Virginian and the Adirondacks ran amuck. Enough to trigger the chemical electrical signal in the minds of millions in the major cities of the East Coast: Ya Basta!

 

Which in Iytai jib-jab means “enough.”

 

What we all now call “the Great Disorder” which began on the Labor Day weekend of 2012 went on for seventeen bloody days. “The Great Revolt” which followed lasted seven months of firefight though lasted three years before we drove the government off our lands. Although many would attest it is still going. The Détente has lasted for over a year. Soon after the population realized the full extent of the atrocities committed in Breuklyn and the other ghettos. Soon after the h1n1 spread to the blans, the white people as we call them now. Coordinated on the internet by the trade unions, street gangs, the libertarians, the Occupiers, various Communist & Socialist factions as well as numerous Left Clubs of the Democratic Party; the Great Revolt broke off the Eastern coast of the U.A.S. and aligned it politically to Canada and the West Indian Federation. And so was born both the Autonomous Movement (AM) and then the Eastern Soviet Confederation (ESC).

 

We hold now a patchwork of autonomous zones running from Maine to Miami.

 

Starting with hard battered Breuklyn, whole communities decided they were just better off alone, or in heavily armed loose confederation with neighbors.

 

The Breuklyn Otriad grew throughout this period.

As did thousands of other such clubs, the revolt was designed to be very, very decentralized and very very diverse.

 

These were long partnerships many years in the making. These were women and men whose minds and interests were so intertwined it became possible to predict each other’s moves, a drastic synergy had developed over time, more than a decade had the wed the abilities and interest of these men together such that one’s failings were made into another’s strengths. They could never betray each other’s ideals, for so long had they walked along that road together.

Mr. Adon with his stalwart friends and fellow comrades hadn’t had to pick a side of the ocean after all to stage their grand little revolution.

 

Such were forces beyond plot or orchestration of human control on any level.

 

 

 

Chapter 40

Vered Gallery, 2019ce

EAST HAMPTON

 

Behind her the triple decker armored train rumbles east toward Montauk, now a quasi-autonomous city state held by former Manhattan elites and their paramilitaries.

 

The Hamptons seems to have weathered the Revolt nicely, notes Anya Drovtich.

 

It’s Friday near the end of your world do you know where your Ivories are?

 

Your Ivories are plotting, cousin. It is what they do the best.

Three submersibles of enormous size have surfaced in Port Coney Island and they are called the Black Freighters, named for various Hebrew prophets. Or “Coffin Evacuation Ships”, as in when you need to get your masses out immediately because flying fortresses or African militias with machetes are going to kill absolutely everybody they can.

 

Her legs are long and she’s business casual in red and her back wavy hair in dreads bounces off her shoulders as she strolls briskly from the train station.

 

Anya Drovtich walks briskly down quaint Hampton streets thinking how completely and utterly unaffected by world events this haven has been. A civil war and separatist movement and the world at war for a decade haven’t really altered the quaint bourgeois calm of this place at all.

 

She hasn’t been here for over a decade, when long ago Sebastian brought her to Montauk and asked her to be his partner for the first time in this lifetime.

 

At the Rose Gallery in East Hampton a party is going on without interruption. It has spilled over from the Hampton art crown Jewel, goods-hip friend of Ivoreal art world fascination onto the street, bottles and all. And this time no one will be putting Ms. Vered in handcuffs because she has paid for all of the East Hampton Police Department to attend a “sporting event” in Las Vegas.

 

Ruth Vered the gallery owner and possible Ivorite sleeper agent is pleased with herself.

 

She had not so much been sent from the fertile-crescent to the Hamptons to separate plump rich Yids from their money as she had been partially self-exiled there. After a prestigious tour of service in the Israeli Defense Forces, three years instead of the mandated 1 and ½ for a woman she basically bought a plane ticket to the New York City, told her father and mother from a pay phone in the airport she had had enough of thankless war and flew to Idlewild International to make a new life in America never to return. That was no long in the past. She had kept mostly true to her word.

Her art gallery named after herself brought in some several millions and hundred thousand change each year as per the Regional Station of the Mossad, Israel’s intelligence arm. The realty was that she kept quite a lot off the books and on the side made more. She deals in Viks, Pollacks, DeKoonings, forged Picassos, and every other eccentric, wild Hampton shut in of note in the last hundred years. Once a year Vered hosted a Gala fundraiser for relief in Israel selling off paintings at record high bidding costs to notable Hampton socialites and Yids holding high denomination master cards.

Despite the heart of sedition, succession and rebellion being just three hours away by light rail, East Hampton remained firmly a part of the United American States where private property was still legal.

Like the Russell Simmons White Party, the Gala for Israel was a must do event for any person of standing or station who could tolerate Yids, which was most of the Hamptons at that point.

And it was to that party that Ms. Anya Drovtich was not often a regular. Ryder Haske had gotten her onto the fancy guest list and invited to the after party.

Yelizaveta is quite impressed with the art of Ruth Vered’s new protégée, oft compared to ‘a new Arab-Basquait, but more dashing’, a one Mr. Ahmed ‘Ah!’ Azeal. He is a handsome Canaanite who’d never even dreamed of going home and painted similar to if one mixed the subject matter of Dali and the brushmanship of say, Caravaggio[65], then enameled photo-shopped images of his own penis, as well as massive replications of Aramaic gospel, Hindi mantras and hip hop. He was made even more ‘hot’ by the fact that he grew up in the Louis Pink Houses, which meant not only was he about as down and out in his upbringing as humanly possible, but he was totally self-taught.

 

“I need something from you in the way of a reference. We have a mutual friend with new cause,” says Anya to Vered in between social sets.

 

“I do not like new causes. There are plenty of expensive old ones. Who is this mutual friend?”

 

“An allegedly dead ambulance man.”

 

“The biggest trouble maker ever you mean whether dead or alive. Anything he touches becomes balagan.”

 

            Balagan is am Ivory word which means “nothing but big fucking problems”.

 

“My associate feels you may think well on this latest venture given recent developments about your country of origin in the press.”

 

She is referring to an Israeli missile strike two days prior on Rosh Hashanah, the Yid New Year. A missile strike intended to kill the Canaanite resistance leader Khalid Mishaal[66] for the fifteenth time. The latest one which hadn’t killed him but obliterated and collapsed the Gaza General Hospital killing sixty nine Canaanites, largely children, largely under the age of nine.

 

“They say the Ivs control the media. How can we control media if Israel never looks good in the press?”

 

“I mean birth control in the water supply? Did you people really think you’d get away with that?”

 

Anya was referring to the recent debacle where it was uncovered all the drinkable water being routed into Gaza[67] contained epic quantities of preemptive baby killer and no one had gotten knocked up in half a year.

“I think that was perhaps the funniest thing I’d ever read,” Vered giggles in her head while face dead pan.

 

Anya giggles too, but aloud. In her head she’d like to slap this cold Iv bitch.

 

“It was definitely, far more funny then hell-fire-rocketing a hospital of sick kids.”

“Ok, so things are really much worse now. What is there to do? Leave? I think not. Strong Island is not the Promised Land and Breuklyn Soviet has too many people already.”

“This ambulancing friend of mine thinks he can deliver Israel the biggest public relations coup since the Six Day War.”

“Even bigger than fighting off a train full of Iytais with his humble brown belt Muhammadian side kick?”

“Don’t mock me Vered. With all honesty you people need this.”

“You people?” She smirks, “just kidding I make with you.”

“They’ve contacted an old friend in the agency. She tried, but the brass torpedoed the whole thing.”

“Hadaad?”

“I’m not at the liberty.”

“No one likes that little batzona back in the home offices. She looks like a sand gypsy.”

“They called in another friend in the Services. Then she got shut down by Beebee himself.”

Batzona is Hebrew for “daughter of a whore”.

“He’ll be out of office in two months. They are indicting him for all those Soviet hotel concessions, the alleged rape charge, embezzlement, other things with Strauss-Kahn and the numerous dead call girls.”

Dr. Kay shutters a little inside.

“What is it with your fucking government Ruth?” mumbles Anya.

“Ain davar! Look, if you’re coming to me you must think I’m somebody. I’m nobody. I’m an aging art dealer on Strong Island. I make them some money. I help pay for the star wars laser grid above Sderiot[68], but I’m not working for them. I’m just a nostalgic exile now.”

“Don’t bullshit us around Vered. Sebastian told me all about who you are.”

“And what the hell does this can’t seem to stay dead zealot ambulancer whatever know about anything. He was, is a shiftless agitator. He’ll say anything to set people off.”

“Sebastian Adon was a very good man.”

Is or was is the real question right now.

“Oh? A romantic revolutionary that with his words get many killed. I know already about his undertaking. It is a mad fool’s mission, pure machuga[69].”

Which means “crazy”.

 

“So you won’t help?”

 

“I will not help him. I don’t even work for the people you think might help him.”

Anya looks away and waves to Ahmed ‘Ah!’ Azeal who is attempting to juggle four bottles of Bubblefizaire[70] half-naked on the street to the great amusement of his guests. It is moments like this that sending the East Hampton PD to Las Vegas pays for itself. He smiles at her and sends 5,000 Presidents worth of designer liquor sailing into the air then mostly crashing upon the pavement.

 

“Send my regards to your bipolar-mad man of a partner,” says Ruth Vered warmly embracing Anya Drovtich.

 

And then she whispers in perfect high Hebrew,

 

            “Prove your Otriad is ready at the gates and help from above will be quite forthcoming. You have my word that the agency will deliver whatever is needed to get you all on the road to Port-Au-Prince.”

 

The whole country is on red alert and all of the U.A.S. guard units have all been activated.

 

“Remember how there were no Ivories in the towers or at work the morning they came down?” Vered asks.

 

“What about it?”

 

“I’d get your ass back to rebel Breuklyn.”

 

“Why is that?”

 

“Because by dawn tomorrow, there aren’t going to be any real Ivories left in Breuklyn Soviet either by hook, crook, lottery bribery or Uzi point everybody Ivorist or Ivoryish’ish, Hebrew, Israeli maybe even a few hundred Canaanites[71] are getting on those three submarines and holy landing home.”

 

“What is it that you know that makes you so sure we are gonna lose?”

 

“We traded the right to leave for the codes to the nuclear grid. The final crackdown and total reoccupation begins in three days at midnight. Pretty soon there really and officially won’t be any Ivories left in the United American States.”

 

As if all according to plan.

 

 

Chapter 41

The Voodoo Lounge, all the way up, 2018ce

DUBAI

 

The lights are low and there is saw dust all over the floors.

A small three piece live jazz band is playing in the speakeasy called Dutch Kills near the border where they have a last round before the road at a joint owned by Richie Bocotto[72]. The drinks are good and strong, the job gets done quickly. And made with real booze; nothing Chinese.

 

And Mickhi Dbrisk knows they gonna kill his family by the end of the week if his 40 thieves a mega Crip Set armed with Uzis[73] cant grab everybody and get them out and over to Jam Rock. Garrison out for the duration of hostilities.

 

They all share iced glasses of “Border Run Rum” with the actor, bar tender Siegfried Sassoon and the owner Richard. Mickhi Dbrisk drinks Jamaican coffee, rum with coffee. Hubert O’Domhnaill has a Guinness with a splash of Rum. And Nikholai Trikhovitch, a Baboncourt on the rocks. Straight Ayitian premium rescue rum.

 

It didn’t take long to bury the traitor in a shallow grave of an acid bath[74] and mobilize for a war path and a double rescue. In nine more hours nearly one million citizen soldiers would be in position in the Bronx, Goddess and Breuklyn for counter strike if the gas came down.

Nuclear defense grid[75] was still fucking down. ATL, Detroit, Newark and Boston were armed up now too.

 

Their lives in the Breuklyn Soviet were a ruthless juggle of part time responsibilities and full time revolt and part time child support. Towards the last desperate days of the revolt the Department of Homeland Security had rounded up as many extended family members of the resistance as they could and put them in a type of sanitized concentration camp in Staten Island. Included among those taken were Mickhi Dbrisk’s daughter Brook and his baby’s mother Vanessa Barg the Italian mama. Also all of his brothers and sisters. And their children his nieces and nephews.

 

When Mickhi was younger, a little wilder maybe, less friendly with the Yids, he’d been locked up at Spofford Correctional[76] in Hunts Point, Bronx then later brought upstate way for a small part he played in an armed robbery and allegedly in a certain high profile murder. He was only thirteen then. He did two years full time for not naming names. Eventually beat both charges while he sat tight and got hard.

Not naming names is really one of the most important lessons a young hood can ever learn in Breuklyn before or after the revolt.

 

He he’d fathered a child before he went inside with his then boo Rosa, little Jayden was born by the time he came out. Then he had a second child, a daughter Brook, when Jayden was eight with Vanessa. Vanessa was suing for him not to be the father and she’d taken off to Staten Island which was rather behind enemy lines these days.

 

The blood was often very bad.

 

And it gave him a lot more of a reason to get out of that way of old life, to make something of himself more than a revolutionary hustler or a Shatah[77], gave him a reason to think about others fondly. Spend less time hearing Adon talk. Spend less time a gangster. A bit less time in the religion called “the great revolt”.

 

Once you make two children the world asks you for more, to rise to the occasion as if by making a life you are responsible for your own conduct in a more certain way.

Malachi, Liam, Brooke and Sheila fortified Mickhi Dbrisk on a newer path he had now to depart from. Made him keep out of a shallow grave. Sent him back to school where he learned to save lives in league with Mr. Adon then higher in training to P.A. Kept him off shift work differential. No life’s night shift until now.

 

He’d done his trench time hard.

 

The boy was bigger now, but not a full little man. That pained Mickhi, he’d have to leave his son and daughter behind in all this without having raised them fully as he had meant to. Vanessa would write him out of the picture for sure in any court in Staten Island.

He was the exception to the “no one married or with kids serves abroad rule”. He was a don in the Otriad after all.

Good Don’s don’t send young men to die.

He was the boy’s hero, his devoted father. Brooke was too little to speak out yet on things. Gurgles and coos. They’d want for nothing if in Nevada Mickhi met with death. But he’d want for everything too, not having himself alive to raise his offspring.

 

“You don’t have to go through with this,” begged his wife Rosa on the night before the border crossing, before his perilous trip to liberate Avinadav DeBuitléir.

“You’re a pig,” once yelled Vanessa in Iytai, but he hadn’t seen her in three years.

“So exciting,” said Dasha.

“No, I do have to do it,” Dbrisk responds, “I have to do it ‘cause no one else will do it as well as I can. I have a duty to act as one of the leadership surely, but also as a friend to Adon.”

“I won’t wait around for you!” Rosa curses him now in patois she wasn’t even raised with.

“Brooke will be dead to you,” shrieked Vanessa over the phone.

“This is so exciting. So much danger,” said Natalie the fashion student. She always seemed to understand him.

“I gotta do it anyway,” he responded.

“And your son?!” yells Rosa.

“And your daughter!?” yells Vanessa.

“You have a son and daughter, with different women? So interesting,” says you know who.

“They will all want for nothing and will be told by someone officially what I did this for,” he states in a video.

“DO YOU EVEN KNOW?! THAT ISNT YOUR COUNTRY! AFRICA IS NOT WHERE WE ARE FROM! THEY’RE GONNA KILL YOU AND YOUR SONA AREN’T GONNA CARE WHY!” yelled Rosa from St. Lucia.

“FUCK YOU AND YOUR NEO-JACOBIN CULT!” yelled Vanessa Tomay.

“FUCK ME!” yelled Dasha who always seemed to keep calm and carry the relationship on asking only for regular post cards.

“I’m doing this for you, I’m doing it for my parents, I’m doing it for my kids. We’re gonna make a stand in that country. It’s not about anything I didn’t learn in Church, it’s about doing right by others, strangers even cause nobody else gonna fight for ‘um,” he tells his father and also the video.

“You will lose everything! Think of your children!” cries Rosa.

“You are just lost,” cries Vanessa.

“You are such a man of danger,” cries Natalie.

No more hysterics now on the Island. Mickhi got dressed and got his black pea coat on, strapped on his irons, his tam, his wallet, his passport. He kissed the boy age 8. Kissed a photograph of Brooke new born. Had wild sex with Natalie a couple hours before boarding.

“I love you all. I’m sorry I gotta go.”

“It’s okay Daddy,” Malachi mumbles half asleep.

“You gotta go fight the bad, bad men.’

“I love you all as I always will. I’ll come home as soon as it’s done.”

But no one really forgives him besides Jayden. Maybe Natalie too. The eight year old is highly ware of his father’s role as a rebel saint. The FIT gal orders him to upload a lot of desert war pictures to her Instagram. Jayden probably forgives him because he’s still too young to know what dying is.

 

Real dying, where your body rots and souls leave the body. Real death. Not like his close friend Sebastian Adon and their voluptuous preconscious associate Maya Solomon who are just about the highest profile dead people he’s ever heard of other than maybe Mary Tania Magdalene and Jesus Christ herself.

 

That very evening after wishing good byes to those they were most intimate with, under the cover of darkness, Mickhi Dbrisk, Nikholai Trikhovitch and Hubert O’Domhnaill advance unit of the 99^th Special Operations Task Force were loaded into T.N.T. “Steal Drums”, placed on a high speed underground train, and smuggled into the Bronx destined for Las Vegas.

The very hour they left forty Crips lead by Big Man Matthew Allamby blew their way through Camp Comfort and shot up a whole hand full of follow men DHS.

They had every Dbrisk and near associated relative out country and safe in Jamaica in under sixteen hours.

 

Chapter 42

Dubai, 2019ce

United Arab Emirates

 

Each drum is about twice the size of a normal sized human being.

There are many ways to run the U.A.E. border.

And some are a lot more subtle than others. Getting people over and under or across the East River is actually a lot more complicated than it looks. Crossing the rebel territories by convoy it is possible to make it from Breuklyn to Goddess Soviet in under a day’s bribes and haggles. Under the cover of darkness two hundred selected Pararescuemen from the Bolivarian Hot Shots of the May 5th Brigade, led by Raphael Ernesto Lynch Contreras, will by land, sea, tunnel, and air infiltrate the United Arab Emirates from Iran to rescue Avinadav DeBuitléir and Sebastian Adon from the clutches of the Oligarchy.

 

There is Cumbia music playing over the small sound system in Hanger 5 of Idlewild airbase where greenery peaks through the tarmac and derelict buildings litter the facility which is largely below the surface, like most installation of importance throughout the Soviet.

They are checking and rechecking their drop shoots, braiding out the long chords and packing then repacking. They are gathering a lifetime of memories into small strap on compartment bags.

 

“Companeros! it is a fact that once we get over or under the mile high wall some 33 percent of us will be killed or captured within just hours of crossing the border,” explains Rafael Contreras Lynch dramatically banging his fist on the table. He is the Peruvian elected commander of this crack team of predominantly equal parts Mexican and Ecuadorian Pararescuemen backing up the advance Special Operations Task Force 99.

 

“We have been asked to embark on a secret mission to liberate our dear compatriots Avinadav DeBuitléir and Sebastian Adon, who are quite alive my eager friends! Oh yes. These two long thought dead leaders of our resistance are in the clutches of our sniveling gringo enemies and we are going to bring them back to Breuklyn! Or die trying!”

 

       “For that very reason all of us will be broken into two man units with the hopes that some of us will get through the enemy lines! For one thing, we will be crossing several thousand miles through U.A.S. loyal Saudi territory via an underground railroad of sympathetic safe houses many of which may well be compromised already. Second, although you will all have fabricated national identity cards, it remains to be seen if these will hold up past casual scrutiny.  The final evil variable my Companeros is that whoever out of this detachment manages to arrive safely in that decadent Petro Colony Dubai, we will all be at the mercy of the Perchevney Bratva who has yet to formally sign any treaty on the extrajudicial extrication of Mr. DeBuitléir or agreed to the broader aims of operation Marcus Garvey, and may well be deliberating handing over out comrade Adon right to the U.A.S. gringo secret police! Anyhow, we will be running the border from one hundred different approaches hoping some portion of our task force will arrive in Dubai in one weeks’ time. Any preguntas?”

 

No one had any preguntas.

These hermanos never did. From the earliest days of the revolt the Bolivarian Hot Shots of the May 5th Brigade had furnished some of the finest Pararescuemen in the entire rebel army. Four foot tall heroes who could climb; drill; tunnel; swim; skydive; cross night and day; open battlefields; rocky desserts; cross high seas on make shift rescue rafts! These men “Mexi-could.”

The Brigade Cinqo De Mayo was utilized periodically to extract families seeking immediate political asylum out of hostile nations and back to Breuklyn Soviet or the liberated states of the Wild West Indies.

Dbrisk, Trikhovitch, and O’Domhnaill had evidently managed to slip across the border the evening before inside some TNT “steal drums” just the night before.

 

“Most people who try are killed getting over that wall, but we are not like normal men!” bellows Raphael Contreras, “we are elite Pararescuemen! We are true Bolvarians!”

 

This group of Mexican-Ecuadorian-Peruvian Pararescuemen fears nothing. They will get over that wall or under it by any means necessary, cross a howling sea of slightly overweight, well-armed mad dog gringos and support the previously deployed special operations trio of O’Domhnaill Trikhovitch and Dbrisk emancipate the two men most responsible for launching this revolt.

“And so help the Old Mayan Gods; we will liberate the two men who founded this movement or die trying! Victory or death my brothers.”

“Hasta la Victoria siempre!” shouts the Brigade Cinqo de Mayo.

“AND HELP COMES NOW FROM ABOVE!”

 

And then, in Spanish, breaks out the tragic ‘song of the Pararescuemen’, which loosely followed in an English language translation composed by Sebastian Adon goes something like this:

 

I was flying!

She said:

“That’s what dead men

On magic carpets do.”

The cold coast and leaden casket,

Of the Breuklyn Soviet departed;

And now I’m just a brightly colored parachute

Draped over a handsome smiling corpse;

A memory to you!

And a paratrooper leaps out over ten thousand free fall landings!

Falling for you hard and ever forwards is what I trained in all my other lives to do.

Have you no nostalgia for that place that made you?

She once asked me.

I said that’s the only clue,

To the place that I am from!

We remember trials to hold the simple two feet of crimson earth on which we’re standing;

I declare!

I remember working you for hours.

I remember passing notes across an Ocean!

Begging you to come.

Do you have any idea how miles I fell to forget my gods my darling?

Look upwards!

There are many more of us to surely come.

 

“And you’ll return to me the minute I demand it,” she declares.

“I know how hard you worked to steal that fire,

And I know that just to keep me warm forever you will surely bring me some.”

 

But put simply,

I was so long trapped in hell!

“Inside your head two different breeds of competing demon dwell!”

And it is not my place to dance or fuck for both of them, she said.

When our peerless passion eyes are changing color from a host of sleepless evil nights,

That means the devils peering out you, and I know the devil well!

Look out, Old Soul!

It’s true.

I asked for her the fullest of forgiveness.

As ashen eyes of silver overtake the oldness of our pastiness sorrows with the fires of the new!

I stare into the inkwell of mother night and ask for mercy.

“You will be ignored,” she said.

You must stare down your indifferent maker,

And fight battle after battle against a million savage evils as contained within the universe of tragedies playing out like motion pictures inside you fearsome princely head.

 

The conviction that divine forces root for you is but amusement.

No, the gods they spit on us and pass grapes as we in darkness losing die.

We are but speck; is all she knows to cry.

“For the love of god man, lay down that fight and fight to lie besides me,”

“If help is coming it will not be from above!”

 

Unless those are the paratroopers of Breuklyn Soviet, I remind her.

Don’t look back! Look up and see that help is coming and the paratroopers will risk everything not for the gods but for the women that they love.

 

#015: Pararescuemen of the Breuklyn Soviet.

Dedicated to Dasha Andreavna.

 

 

Dasha Andreavna watches these brave micro chornay prep for the predawn jump drill.

Raphael Ernesto, when he saw her and found out she was alive, he wept in her arms and clasped her hard with joy and attempted in Spanish, then kisses, then Russian, then more kisses and finally then English, then briefly in Hebrew to praise her for her steadfast defiant endurance and mourn loudly for the seven years of her torture at the hands of the enemy.

“We thought you were both dead,” he kept repeating his eyes big and alcoholic yellow with tears.

He had loved her too; no woman other than his wife Victoria had Raphael ever loved that intensely, except for this one Thai hooker in Bangkok, the things she was able to do!

 

“Avenge me best by putting him back in the arms of someone who loves him,” Dasha told him. But that is not what she knows is about to happen, nor even what she wants.

 

And Raphael Ernesto Lynch Contreras gave his Bolivarian word as a man; as a son of the Arequipa Province that he would sooner die a hundred painful deaths and be tortured in all the worlds to come; tossed in solitary within the Angola 42 fortresses for one hundred years than fail to return Sebastian to her by the end of a fort night.

 

She quietly thanks him. She kisses both his Peruvian cheeks. And passes a hand drawn sketch of a pomegranate and short letter to be delivered to Adon the minute he is rescued written in Russian.

She bids the one hundred companeros good night, and good luck suspecting that most of them will not make it make to Breuklyn alive.

 

And the border raiders take off just before dawn. And all of the blood is arterial red and all of the cleavage is real.

 

It’s gonna get choppy, but prepare for be a bang haul hell of a ride.

 

Some of this tome is culturally antagonistic, some an attempt at wax philosophical. Some is vain erotica some part is also epic love.

This part unfolding now is but a very long gun battle on dopamine and speed.

The Steel Drums are all placed on a fast train that will travel under the countryside between New Jersey and Nevada along the deep underground monorails the government utilizes in the event of land war in the Americas expands.

Their conversation centers on what each had been offered to flip.

“Look here. No matter what happens back in Breuklyn. Gas rockets. Death from above… No matter what anybody offers us or threatens us with in Vegas. No matter what. We stick to the goddamn plan,” states Mickhi Dbrisk over the radio.

 

The fearless triumvirate of O’Domhnaill, Dbrisk and Trikhovitch arrives in and around Dubai via the Persian Underground Railroad about two weeks later. One hundred Bolivarian Hotshots are right behind them above and below the borderlines of the endless desert.

 

 

Chapter 43

The Voodoo, 2019ce

DUBAI

 

Flashing red and blue lights of wild magnitude blind you as you make your way down the packed streets of Dubai. Endless black town cars with fully tinted windows shuttle creatures of the night point to point. Glass and steel towers house the world’s most complete collection of flesh for sale and games of trickery to separate a person from their savings. This whole complex once arose out the sands of the blood oil badlands. It’s a place of slaves and lesser Oligarchs on parade and acting badly.

 

The sands will swallow it only when money to spend on sinning runs dry.

That isn’t going to happen anytime soon.

 

Vanessa Rainwater who everyone knows better as Birdy, sings Jazz-Gypsy-Soul-Afro Funk in a speakeasy-cum-lately in a half-way hipster part of Las Vegas known as the Bondalla District. It’s a place of sin, sand and endless neon lights that can be seen from space. Its brothels are clean and efficient. Its games of chance are limitless. It has very well-funded public school districts for stripper moms and black jack domino dads.

Vanessa has curly brown hair, freckled pale skin. And stage 3 brain cancer, though she looks great. She hits all the notes in a tight gold sequined dress, far too curvy to really be a white girl thinks Mickhi Dbrisk, a Jamaican paramedic. Her presence takes over the whole damn room. Makes them all forget themselves watching her. She’s a place in France where the naked girls dance.

What a show to watch.

 

“She’s objectifying you with her eyes,” notes Nikolai Trikhovitch, a private detective by trade and a gun man for the Otriad when needed or called.

“Whatever her mama feeds her, she gotta keep sippin’ on it,” says Mickhi to Trikhovitch.

 

Nikholai just nods. He is wearing a black suit with the thin tie opened. He’s chain smoking, loving that one can do that in doors here. His brooding former Soviet complexion is made easier on the eyes by his Yid smirk. He’s two days from a goodnight sleep and a shave. But he always kind of looks that way. They’re three days now in Las Vegas waiting for Adon to get into town.

 

Birdy Rainwater and Sebastian Adon have quite a lot of history of the old in out in out as it were, as she is one of his biggest fans and the holder of one of the most extensive collection of his art, poetry and song.

 

People once upon a time called Dasha “the New Russian Birdy.”  And then there was a bloody revolution.

 

“He’s an artist too! People never remember that,” she often reminds his detractors.

She’s singing a song he wrote her back in the day, when he thought of little besides her. Some women have had that effect on him. Three in this life at least. He has had no shortage of muses to his madness. She sings it with husky bootlegger-gilded age candor. She’s a Taino looker, Pocahontas as Nina Simone. She’s a stand in for a poster girl from the old wars. She’s broken Adon’s heart no less than three times. Back when he had one.

“I’m sure he still does!” she sings hitting a provocative crescendo.

A bombshell in a gold dress.

She sings for him still. In between one of these balmy, epic songs a part-Persian man in lethal leisure suit brings still more drinks to the table of Mr. Trikhovitch and Mr. Dbrisk. On a folded piece of manila card stock with a ruby red kiss upon it, Ms. Rainwater is passing notes:

 

 

Hey-ya boys. Wait for the lights to go out then just follow our lead to the tallest tower in Las Vegas. Just past midnight at the Voodoo Lounge. Ask for Hachi. Best of luck in your terrorist escapades, remember to tip the staff unless you want the house to win.

 

 

It’s not just gawk and wax ragtime, Ms. Rainwater is a sympathizer, part of the vast whisper network of the Breuklyn Otriad and they are being instructed how to elude U.A.S. follow-follow men from the Department of Homeland Security and reach the most high profile rendezvous point in town follow-clean.

 

Birdy sings and struts and wiggles and every inch of her is a distraction. And as the song cuts, so do the lights.  And the lights stay out amid a cacophony of applause. And the part-Persian man in the lethal leisure suit quickly leads Mr. Trikhovitch and Mr. Dbrisk to the kitchen and the Mexican weight staff directs them toward a hatch, into a tunnel and out of the Bondalla District underground. Their follow-follow men are evaded.

Less than an hour later, Nikholai Trikhovitch and Mickhi Dbrisk, enter the fourth sub-basement of the one hundred and four story mega hotel called La Fantasia. They are greeted by two massive Noires and four Mexicanos all in smooth black suits, don’t ask how this many Mexicans ended up in Dubai. They are ushered into a private elevator and shot into space. Atop this behemoth is the tri-level rooftop pleasure bar known as the Voodoo Lounge and they get there a little after midnight.

 

They step into what appears to be a festive pansexual sex party.

Girly boys in gold flapper attire act out like they were drunk in the tower of Babel itself. Ass to ass is happening gleefully on every other table.

They ask a towering security man for Hachi.

They are ushered into a private chamber by a mullato girl with big not at all fake tits wrapped in more black sequins. The chamber has a view of the valley of earthly delights. They are presented with a bottle of Israeli wine, also a bottle of bubblefizaire, also offered a menu. The menu is in Cyrillic, Han Chinese and Americano. It is Hachi’s pleasure to have them, everything is taken care of: so they are informed by their voluptuous new friend.

Mickhi orders strong black coffee which he knows will not be as good as one from Breuklyn. Nikh orders a whiskey Jamison on the rocks. The booth is completely private black box with an amazing view of all that flashing neon sin peddling below them.

“She’ll be with you momentarily.”

“Who is this Hachi?” asks Nikholai Trikhovitch.

“She’s the half Soviet-half Han lady friend of the famous actor Siegfried Sassoon, a friend of ours from the club. She’s a woman who begrudgingly peddles in low grade sin and is amicable to arming us properly for our trip to liberate Mr.  DeBuitléir so deep behind enemy lines.”

Ah, the reason they are in Dubai. It is pretext and prelude to an epic rescue mission. They are under covenant to liberate a so-called terrorist, a great Ayitian patriot. A man cut of their very cloth so to speak. They are also under strict orders. Orders being a funny word for free men such as themselves with power and a vested vote. Yet, these were orders. The leadership had voted that Operation Marcus Garvey was green light go. And it couldn’t just be a bunch of high minded armed Yids and Noire Karibes leading the charge after all. They’d need a truly inside man whose boots would be recognized on the ground.

Recognized as official.

Hachi is brutally elegant and her smile is radiant as she enters the booth in a gold dress.

She had met Mr. Adon years before through her talented rising star of a husband, Mr. Sassoon, the lead of the latest Martin McDonough Broadroad blockbuster. Sebastian and Piggy’s mutual friend Ysiad Ferraris is a partner in trade with her father. One needs a couple references these days to do business with the corporate oligarchy of any reputable mob, former Soviet or Ruus institutional.

 

Siegfried Sassoon is currently starring in a play about the Noires which fought in the “Le Great Revolt”, the uprising which liberated the West Indies and much of the Eastern seaboard from the United American States. It is rumored he may be a card carrying volunteer in the Breuklyn Bath and Rifle Club. At the very least he and Adon are regular Banya buddies.

Adon and anything he touches turns to agitprop via the Breuklyn Otriad. One of the leading social clubs responsible for the pitched battles of the uprising fought in what was once called New York City, and Ayiti.

 

Hachi is wearing a gold DVF wrap, the new line cut for figure, not the old one to disguise it, or the ones before that where it all hung out to ogle over. Patrician women always liked to brag about DVF dresses being one of kind, made just for the wearer, even given as presents by Mr. W himself. Hachi won hers in a card game. But the real prize was what the girl in the dress had to do when she lost it.

Hachi King Perchevney is the manager of both Fantasia and the Voodoo Lounge her father the owner of the building. The building is private property, which means it’s within the territories of the United American States although all its shareholders reside in the Ruus Federation. She runs the place with a staff of mostly Mexicanos, Mulats and Noires. They work harder than the Blan, a proven fact. The Voodoo Lounge boasts the world’s highest outdoor dance floor and cage dancing fire spectacles, also bare knuckle boxing. Its elevated viewing deck gives one a view of the entire sinful city. The blue glass tower which houses it was the tallest and largest thing built before the economy imploded and recessed indefinitely right after the war years in the beginning of the century.

Hachi’s father is nominally a former Soviet although more a transnational biz-ness-man of the clandestine economy as far as a point of identity. Her mother is also in the biz, albeit the Han one. It was as if in her birth the two most ruthless forces of strong arm venture capitalism produced a single vision of invisible handed, ruthless thirst for money. With gun running, drug dealing and prostitution so vigorously engaged in throughout the planet, the Perchevney Bratva focuses mostly on sophisticated real estate acquisitions, regime change and sometimes the reinstitution of serfdom in non-aligned states via debt peonage.

Hachi isn’t too invested in all the evil around her though.  No wife of the altruistic and enlightened Siegfried Sassoon could be. She compartmentalizes her life you see. After the revolt in the Eastern territories it became important to own your own plane. She does her business in the Southwest desert then flies back to the City of Many-Many-Lights four days a month to be near the radiating goodness of her man who prefers life in the Breuklyn Soviet. She just sometimes plays fixer to her father, who no one ever gets to meet.

The Voodoo Lounge has strange powers absolving its guests of sin by way of anonymity. “Sojourners into darkness do need company,” she says slyly taking a seat with Mr. Dbrisk and Mr. Trikhovitch in the private viewing booth called the Papa Legbe Terrace.

“Thank you for seeing us Ms. Sassoon on such short notice.”

“Well the sky is about to fall out above Breuklyn Soviet darlings. We are all a little pressed for time. Also, please call me Hachi as you’re both close friends of my husband’s close friend. And we are all friends of the great revolution after all,” she says with the sly smile of a Postsoviet woman and the cunning diplomacy of the daughter of a Han.

 

“Cheers to that very same notion,” says Mickhi.

 

“Nazdrovia,” says Nikholai.

 

“This is a wonderful place you have here,” Mickhi remarks.

She gives him a funny look with a smile as if to say: of course it fucking is. My father is one of the richest, most dangerous oligarchs in the entire former Soviet world. But they all have at least a little ESP, so it is unnecessary to say that aloud.

“So, my father gives your whole take over Hispaniola operation his black blessing. Obviously without a little bit of sentimentality he supports the notion that your backers pay very, very well and that the prospecting concessions he has been promised if you succeed will make even him crack a tiny former Soviet half smile.  So, while I love my husband, and am a big fan of your compatriot Mr. Adon, and am obviously not going to stand in your way; but, I have but several questions before we release our three hostages to you.”

 

It gets serious quick around here.

 

“Ask away Ms. Hachi,” Mickhi says. Mickhi takes a green pack of Newport cigarettes from out the inner pocket of the black pea coat he is wearing. For a six foot two Jamaican with thick polished dreads he is soft spoken to the point of incredible charm.

“You’re all really, really fucking insane,” she tells them.

“That isn’t a question Ms. Hachi,” Mickhi notes lighting his delicious Newport.

“You’re right. That was a statement of fact,” she replies with a smile.

“So what’s the second question then,” asks Nikholai.

“I think she’s still on her first question,” says Mickhi.

“We’re in the crazy shit business. You’re in the flesh, cocaine, arms and supper business. Your father well he’s into almost everybody’s business where a dollar gets made illicitly. We need some equipment surely but we need permission to take back three people your father currently owns,” says Mickhi Dbrisk.

 

At that moment Mickhi Dbrisk was quite unaware that his associates Mr. Entwissle and Mr. Adon were handcuffed to the interrogation chairs of well-lit questioning room on the outskirts of Moscow. So technically the Perchevney Bratva owned four people they needed back.

 

“So let’s make a deal shall we. How much will you pay for DeBuitléir?” she asks.

Trikhovitch looks at Dbrisk. They were told not to haggle.

“He’s priceless. But we were told to offer you 187,000,000 RMB.”

“Cute. That could buy your very own large harem of mostly white women and some sports cars for the weekend, but I’m afraid the cost of getting a man out of the deep gulag who is suspected of being a high placed terrorist might cost you, something more.”

“Maybe we should haggle about the equipment first,” says Trikhovitch.

“You’re not supposed to haggle,” Hachi says.

“How do you,” starts Nikholai, “never mind.”

“So let’s get to that then. How many irons you need?” she asks.

“Just two,” replies Mickhi.

“Just two? I had heard this was a big job.”

“Well technically, Ms. Hachi, we haven’t figured out exactly how to extract him yet. So we figured we’d just take hostages of our own all over the country tonight.” Trikhovitch says.

“He’s being held in the Angola 42 Penal Colony near the border with Abu Dhabi. In a fortnight they move him to a facility abroad,” Hachi says, “this is your last shot before he disappears into some black bag foreign torture camp complex.”

“Two? Really only two?” she repeats.

“We only are going to need two burners for the ambush. I just failed to mention the caliber of these said Irons we’ll need.”

Mickhi passes her a slip of paper. She unfolds it. Gives them ‘you have to be fucking crazy’ eyes and shakes her head.

Mickhi shrugs back with his cold eyes.

“I mean, if you think we don’t know how to get regular blasters in Las Vegas, what kind of bad men ganstas do you take us for?” asks Mr. Dbrisk.

Hachi sips her bubblefizaire passive aggressively.

“I wish you to remember that portable laser guided surface to air missile launchers with anti-drone capabilities are very hard to come by this time of year, in this part of the world especially. You are aware this is the age of global gun control. But as I’m a very, very big fan of Mr. Sebastian Adon; and a fan as well of the work you boys do as both municipal employees and bad man freedom fighters; surely I can do my best to acquire them.”

“For how much?”

“Make us an offer.”

“Black diamonds and pearls,” says Dbrisk with a smirk.

“For a gang allegedly led by the Ivories you all really don’t know the price of anything.”

 

“We ain’t led by Ivories,” states Dbrisk.

 

“My father would surely ask you to attempt to keep from knocking government choppers out of the sky as part of your rescue plan. You know, lest yer actions reignite the civil war a day early and what not. That’s not good for anyone’s business.”

“Well if you just sell us the prisoner for the price offered I’m sure we wouldn’t have to resort to such strong armed tactics such as an elaborate raid riddled in gun play,” says Trikhovitch.

The boys grin slightly at her.

“I mean he isn’t our prisoner. He’s in U.A.S. Federal custody, as you know this colony facilitates all kinds of things for all three core power blocs. Your price is too low because to get him we’re gonna have to lend you a small army of contractors and bribe a small network of bureaucrats to time this properly. And that can’t even assure us that a) you can even breach the defenses of Angola 42, and b) not trigger a new round of world war holocaust by doing so, a day early.”

“We’re not paying for man power. We’re paying you bribe the bureaucrats already on your payroll. We have a very valid plan drawn up. We can do this job better with a smaller team,” explains Dbrisk.

“My sources tell me you may have moved as many as eighty eight Mexican Pararescuemen over the border in the past week to support this raid,” she says.

“Not at liberty to say,” notes Trikhovitch.

“Well how do we know it won’t be an embarrassing little blood bath on the border?” she asks.

“We can’t really promise anything. But, we’ll try hard to just snatch and run,” says Nikholai, “we also want to buy another Bratva asset for the same price. A two for one.”

She sips her non-synthetic Champagne.

“Let’s talk crazy, sure,” she says.

“250,000,000 RMB for the bribes and the necessary hardware. And your house physician, the lovely little Ukrainian Dr. Kay on standby in case something goes wrong ready to work.”

“You certainly can’t have our little doctor. Adon asked already,” she laughs.

She gives them a funny look.

“Something is off about all this. First your prices are wild. Second the weapons you’re requesting are absurdly hard to get these day. Finally, why do you want our doctor? You have doctors. Isn’t one of you a doctor?” she laughs.

“I’m a paramedic,” says Dbrisk.

“I find dead kids for money,” says Nikholai.

“I guess I was wrong. Something’s funny though about this though.”

Trikhovitch takes out a photograph of a slim and beautiful young lady in green military cap with a white lab coat and a stethoscope and a second picture of the shoulder mounted anti-drone grad launcher and a third picture of a presumably younger Avinadav DeBuitléir.”

“187,000,000 for all four purchases and in writing the Perchevney Bratva will get a contract explicitly giving trade rights and port access in Breuklyn Soviet on the eve we all your competitors get strong armed out. You will get carte blanche to traffic anything but people.”

“You know we don’t traffic people anymore,” she says.

“More importantly Avinadav DeBuitléir will agree to drilling concessions and first access to the vast array of natural resources under Ayiti when we seize the country.”

“I presume you’ll need some really fast cars, also maybe a long range capable plane to get your imprisoned friends and anyone who survives the raid back to your base in Ayiti?” she laughs, “and a magic carpet maybe or some fifty foot mechanized robots?”

“Wow, Hachi, yer accommodating as hell,” smiles Nikholai.

“No. All we need is the right people bribed so we know where and when to hit that pick up convoy and take back our man. And to do that we need those fancy hard to get weapons and your sexy Ukrainian doctor in case someone in our crew takes a bullet,” says Dbrisk.

“But yeah, we’ll absolute take a plated Mustang Lancer, four type two ambulances and we will need a fast plane ready on nearby airstrip, preferably with anti-drone capabilities capable of reaching Port Au Prince without refueling as soon as the lights go out,” says Nikholai.

“For just $187 RMB?” asks Hachi Yu.

But that is real chump change compared to what these rebels are offering out long term.

“Are you going to need extra serfs?” she asks.

“No, we never like to outsource person power,” explains Mickhi.

“I’d forgotten about your secret Mexican army. You have a less than minimalistic plan I take it?”

“You might say that,” says Mickhi Dbrisk who looks real sharp in his dark, dark black pea coat as he fills the booth with smoke.

“We like to maintain a true monopoly on violence,” says Mr. Nikholai Trikhovitch.

“You all have yourselves a deal then.”

“And Madame it is the deal of the millennium!” exclaims Dbrisk.

And they all clink glasses.

“Ah yes, one thing though,” she says.

“My father has explicitly put a clause in the deal.”

“Our leadership has made it clear that we will not haggle or take sneaky last minute addendums,” says Mickhi

“Hm. Well this one is rather straight forward.”

“Go on,” Trikhovitch says.

“My father wished to have definitive proof that Mr. Adon is quite alive. And a real man, not a robot or some superior alien military fuckery. So when he was arrested in Moscow last week rubbing out one of your listed lesser oligarchy war criminals we took him off the hands of the FSB for the good price of 300,000,000.00 USD, him and his mullato partner.”

They glance at each other.

“We just wanted a bit more collateral. Something we could trade to intelligence services if say, it becomes complicated associating with you. What better than him, isn’t he one of your leaders and an old chum?”

 

They now give her man hard eyes.

 

“Where is he now?” Dbrisk growls.

“My father requires three things from everyone he owns. He wants a full medical evaluation conducted by our house physician. Dental, blood, bone marrow, and DNA. He requires sperm samples, for growing more serfs. And finally. He wants Sebastian to box our best guy in ring. If we don’t get those things. You don’t all that hardware you need. You don’t get the right people bribed. And you sure as shit don’t get to walk out of our territory, our fucking American pie occupied petro field with that very auspicious prisoner, and our highly talented young Ukrainian doctor to boot. And very little would stop us from just selling him to the Department of Homeland Security at that point. I mean just so we have you by the balls to make it clear we’re not gonna let you fuck us in the ass, at least not without a condom.”

“So really we’re talking about more than I thought we were talking about,” says Dbrisk.

“Sebastian and is partner Watson will arrive in Dubai in two days. So that’s when the fight will be scheduled for.”

“He isn’t really much of a boxer,” Dbrisk says.

“That’s not what we hear,” Hachi says.

“Wouldn’t you say this negotiation is getting a little uncivilized,” Nikholai asks DBrisk.

“What’s a little uncivilized between oligarchs, gangsters and terrorists?’ she asks with a smile.

“We prefer the phrase ‘freedom fighters’,” Dbrisk notes.

“We prefer the phrase ‘big league extralegal black market entrepreneurs’.”

“Duly noted,” Dbrisk says.

“See you at the ringside then,” she says.

“Fair game,” says Nikh.

She hands them a glossy gold flyer inviting them to the 50^th Annual Police & Fire Games of Dubai, known also as the Battle of the Badges.

 

 

 

Chapter 44

The Voodoo Lounge, 2019ce

DUBAI

 

 

“There sounds like there might be a lot of money to be made each time he gets hit in the head,” Alexandre Perchevney remarks in flawless Mandarin although he thinks in Russian and Ivoryish algorithathematics too.

 

“I have a man of  influence from the Dominican Republic on the phone here willing to put it in writing that some very specific oil drilling contracts are to be signed with our family Bratva if the invasion is made successful,” Hachi informs him.

 

She’s referring to Ysiad Ferraris and General Obenson Etienne who has led the Lavalas underground for the ten years since Avinadav DeBuitléir’s disappearance.

 

“We like oil concessions daughter, we truly do. But it’s not yet in our interest to trade with these free radicals until we can get confirmation that DeBuitléir is in fact alive. These DHS use a lot more than a water board these days to get what they’re looking for.”

“The Breuklyn Otriad and it’s Haitian allies are offering us unrestricted access to their port facilities in Coney Island, Jacmel, and Santo Domingo as an opening confidence builder. Also a fifty year no-tax lease of facilities as long as no slaves come through those facilities,” Hachi states referring to the contract provided by Dbrisk and Trikhovitch.

Wink.

This was particularly relevant because three years now since the signing of the armistice and the granting of regional autonomy it was becoming very clear that the Breuklyn Soviet was not to remain a lawless trader frontier forever.

 

“Tell the Department of Homeland Secure that we wish to trade Adon for DeBuitléir. Once they agree to move him out of Angola 42, help the rebels assault the convoy. Obviously they’ll also take a bunch of fat Amerikanski hostage. We will keep our bases covered. Inform whoever is or is not leading that wild Otriad that they need not worry about where to get guns and keep them in the dark as long as possible that we are dealing the DHS. I will arrive in Las Vegas in two days with Adon. If he survives the tournament, and if the rebel price for DeBuitléir is higher than the U.A.S. price for Adon, then we win regardless, but you know where my priorities lie.”

 

“With enough American dollar bills papa,” states Hachi, though she knows that what he wants will ultimately rely on Adon, DeBuitléir and the phantom Emma Solomon unleashing their war of liberation in Ayiti and the colonies.

 

And so with the stroke of a few men and a phone call Alexandre Perchevney ordered his Somali pirate sub-contractors to seize the hulking cargo ship the Bialystok and its vast payload of Chinese long guns and rockets. They were ambitious these pirates and seized not one but two ships traveling reroute from East Asia that day. The first with Mr. Perchevney’s “decommissioned” arsenal and the second, an NGO supply ship, the Viceroy which was carrying sixty four armored ambulances, crates of medical supplies and vast unending drums of Spiruleena algae compound and the equipment necessary to set up farms of it.

 

The Somalis gave him a two for one special. Both vessels were traded with an Israeli-based middleman for a staggeringly low rate of just 4.4 million dollars. Their contents were offloaded onto trucks in the Sinai Peninsula. It was then just a question of securing trucks and pretext to move them southwest toward the forward based in Isle of Man.

 

Hachi King’s father Alexandre Sasho Perchevney has three daughters.  One is missing. One is happily married to a Cuban-Amerikanski actor named Siegfried Sassoon and appears relatively happy. The third is quite dead to him.

There are actually some things money can’t buy. But for nearly everything else big favors and other people’s money work just fine. He has subcontracted some Somali pirates to capture a U.N. chartered container ship as though he might order out for sushi or for a man to be disappeared long term.

Quickly and without a sentimental second thought.

There is of course an international industry in unloading surplus products of the first and second world off on the third and fourth for internal subsidy. Sometimes grain, sometimes guns. Often both, often whatever needs unloading and subsidizing.

 

Several weeks earlier a shell company of his called “Pveada International” had brokered the decommissioning of fourth generation Chinese small arms and their eventual sale and transfer to the government of Kenya. A neutral country in theory who’s elite sometimes is attempting to become a U.A.S. client state, but whose middle class would often rather align with the People’s Republic of China. This containership arsenal load of U.N. decommissioned long guns, rocket propelled grenades, truck mounted battling guns, shoulder mounted rocket launchers, and assorted missiles only made it half way to its destination.

 

Off the Somali coast the massive craft was captured by a pirate named Musa Mohammed and his band of forty thieves on small watercraft. They so intricately knew of the vessels coordinates and movements it seemed almost an inside job. Which it certainly was. Mr. Perchevney had only finished brokering this illegal weapon’s swap between China and Kenya when he received four subsequent offers for their redirection. Various credible sources informed him that the same brigade of Amerikanski that helped topple the U.A.S. forces and ignited the second civil war was outfitting a new army.

And they needed weapons and their money was green.

 

The Perchevney Bratva had prospered incredibly from the developments of the Separatist wars. Dozens of urban areas across the Eastern Coast were now veritable shuttle trading station for his group to sell any number of previously illegal things to the interior. In addition, there came into effect dozens of new micro republics which required any number of goods and services previously available from being part of the United States of America, but were now rouge states and under embargo.

 

Opportunities to enrich oneself were exponentially increasing.

 

If this little brigade seemed rather zealous, rather quick to murder many of his competitors operators over human trafficking, all the better. This wasn’t his trade anyway.

The first offer came eight days prior to the transfer of these coveted arms. It came from his own daughter Hachi. The second offer was via a well accredited Islamic middle person with vast untraceable portfolios in Bangladesh. A third was linked to the Fenians mob in Boston and a fourth to some wild gangsters in Kingston, Jamaica. He had called his daughter directly and asked her what all this “rapidly re-arming the fourth world” was all about.

In fact all four brokers were looking to have these arms end up in the exact same hands and were making e exact same big figure bid.

 

There are so many places to get a gun in this world, but bids on a hot arsenal however are less frequent. Mr. Alexandre Perchevney being a man of cautious curiosity, with no sentimentality or respect for rule of law was updated by his daughter regularly about the irregular invasion being planned in Breuklyn Soviet with an eye toward the land of Ayiti.

 

Chapter 45

The Grand Stadium, 2019ce

DUBAI

 

 

Three rounds with four fighters is a Russian bare knuckled boxing match gone berserker.

 

Sebastian is wearing a Captain America mask smuggled into the POLICE FIRE GAMES.

In a Las Vegas boxing match has just begun between Sebastian Adon and Josepi “the Stallion” Vespasian in a stadium filled civil servants. After the “Great Revolt” a good number of Catholics and whites most generally were absorbed into the interior rather than stay in the “liberated territories”.

 

“Hot beds of Ivory Commy-Mic-Nigger sedition.”

 

Suffice to say the betting odds against Sebastian are 343 to 1.

 

“That Yid is gonna get his ass handed to him,” a cop from Mississippi smugly told the local press.

But there is a good bit of money on this fight. Middle America was less than amused at the inclusion of fighters from the Confederated breakaway territories.

 

The Sly Foxing Bravest was once the premier Firefighter boxing team in the nation so less than year after hostilities ended the earliest peace gestures of the detente began with sports. President-elect Barak Obama, then in his fourth term in office was attempting to extend   an olive branch to the Soviet Confederation. While it was difficult to negotiate with no less than forty three break away territories running down the east coast from Maine to Miami, bloody-bloody fighting and rumors that the Breuklyn Soviet had purchased several nuclear warheads from North Korea convinced the U.A.S. Congress and Executive to embrace a temporary ceasefire.

 

The FDNY, which on the eve of the Great Revolt had less than 400 black firemen out of 12,000 total dedicated to fire suppression. It had an emergency medical service corps of roughly 4,000 EMTs and Paramedics which was highly diverse in demography and still is. Now, roughly a year since the riots and the rising; since the breaking of the five boroughs into three Soviets, a confederated territory, and one UAS occupied strip called Satin Island; after many of the white FDNY firefighters fled the City of Many-Many Lights worried about a genocide or forced socialism that never came; well now FDNY Fire Suppression and the FDNY Boxing Bravest, is as diverse as EMS always was.

 

And they were invited back to fight in Las Luna Stadium albeit this time with a mostly black team since few of the original FDNY Caucasian firefighters remained in the Breuklyn, Goddess, or Bronx Soviet. Nor could they afford to live in the Isle of Man now technically non-aligned zone, albeit largely a bourgeoisie micro-state with the NYPD as an army. And Satin Island, still a part of the UAS has been mostly emptied of civilians and is military fortress 94 clicks behind Confederate lines.

Sebastian had joined The Sly Foxing Bravest long ago as a Yid and an as an EMT, in those circles still something of an oddity. At one point the FDNY had forced him to resign shortly after the disorder, but he was rehired after the revolt.

 

Now he was squaring off in a stadium of angry UAS colonial gentiles and foreign and domestic firemen and cops, howling for his blood.

 

Dave Briscoe and Hugh O’Domhnaill have a lot of money doubled down that he’s going to win. Even with the odds never in good favor. Because they know something these gentiles don’t.

In the first round Sebastian dances around grinning, feigning attack, the Stallion lunches but never connects. Around they go, the Catholic mobs howling. In the ten seconds of the first round the Stallion lands a punch dead on, knocks Sebastian on his ass bleeding.

As the bell rings there’s blood on the mat, blood in his eyes.

Round two, he gets clobbered. Dull wet cracking noises, flashing lights, the room spinning howling shaking, stomping for Yiddish blood.

Briscoe and O’Domhnaill keep making bets with the bookie. The odds jump each round. Sebastian is all fucked up. THWAK, his jaw looks broken. THWWAK.

Another badly swollen eye.

CRACK and the bell rings for this deadly dance drags on into Round three. Still Sebastian hasn’t landed a good punch.

He splashes water on his face. He looks into the bleachers, waves to Hugh and Dave. Spits blood. He says the only prayer he knows.

 

Then, amid cries of ‘KILL THE IV’, ‘KILL THE IV’ he draws inside himself, tunes out the world. Seven years ago Hassan Askeri posing then as a local bus boy, brown belt and the Prince of Dhaka told him what to do.

Hassan is with him now, in a fourth dimensional kind of way.

“Hold out, hold out. Let him weaken himself. Let him grow arrogant by tasting your blood. Wait for it, wait more then don’t strike ‘til you see the whites of his eyes, the paleness of his very soul exposed before you strike him.”

Sebastian explodes on the Stallion. Beats his face, knocks him down with his Koah power swing. The Stallion tries to get up. Everything slows down to timeless bellowing, stale air of the stadium, and the taste of his own copper-almond blood. The Stallion, Henri Christopher Vespasian thinks quietly ‘never seen a man move that fast.’

It’s the last thing he thinks. One hook punch breaks his ribs; the jab opens up his face. Sebastian sees his whites. CRACK. A hammer blow breaks the stallions jaw.

A fireman on cop zoot-suit-riot breaks out; bludgeons, blood, broken bottles and tear gas, a bi-national debacle on late night news. The heroes of the divided nation involved in an indiscriminate hate crime, cluster fuck of a brawl. A Mexican weight staff sneaking Sebastian out the back into a tunnel and out to a garage. Hugh and Dave getting half rich. Hundreds of arrests. Firemen over turning a cop car setting it ablaze.

After a good deal of saber rattling and arrests for disorderly conduct, the Battle of the Badges had almost become a way to call off the Détente.

Finally they got clear of it all. An electric Lincoln town car is taking them back to the hotel. Sebastian has a swollen bloody face. He’s nursing it with a cold-pack and bottle of Sweet Surrender.

“You lost your teeth yet again brother,” notes O’Domhnaill.

Sebastian spits up some red blood.

Two more fucking rounds.

How Sebastian lost his three front teeth is one story very few know except the three women he’s thought he was in love with and of course his best friend Nikholai Trikhovitch, also known as Nick Taylor, or Tricky Nicky by some.

Nikholai is waiting for his friends after field stripping and oiling their weapons. He lights up a Noblisse cigarette with a gold zippo lighter and tells his audience of well-oiled weapons what he knows:

“It was the summer, the setting, occupied Palestine, called by some Israel. A slightly younger Sebastian Adon and his partner in crime Emma Solomon, a tough cookie, and sometimes Yid had journeyed to the Sin Peninsula to rendezvous with a man named Anil of Aqaba who was willing to smuggle them across the security wall into the Balata Refugee Camp near the West Flank City of Nablus. This was during the “Second-off-Shaking’. The Israelis had erected a mighty mile high wall between them and the Canaanites and Sebastian wanted to see the other side, as well as build a gun tunnel under it. Solomon, near devoid of political loyalties was following him along, because possessed by her own hate, her own plans.”

 

Nikholai Trikhovitch is about five foot nine inches of tall dark and handsome. He’s wearing a black leisure suit. He has a sholem strapped to his side. It’s loaded with Afula Specials, like most of their weapons. Israeli made non-lethal ammunition. They try and keep the body count within a 3 % margin of “motherfucker-you-deserve-to-die”. His tobacco smoke fills the dimly lit room. On the bed are four 8mm pistols, four shrink wrapped dark grey flicker-masks and uniforms, a box of white phosphorous smoke grenades, a box of 8mm pistol clips with very live American made ammunition, a carton of Noblisse, the keys to a black Mustang, and the keys to a single engine Givati-Tesla G8 airplane. On the bedside is an ECG monitor, a red combat medic kit, and a large silver box which contains Lithium Carbonate, topically applied tiger balm, assorted injectable anesthetics, grey berry smart phones and roof of mouth mounted dentures for Sebastian’s three front teeth. It’s a medical kit accounting for their unit’s propensity for bipolar operatives with high likelihood of mental and physical injury.

 

How Sebastian lost his teeth in its shortest most objective form continues something like this. Dahab City is a town of under 3,000 mostly Muhammadian souls located on the Eastern shore of the Sin Peninsula, the wasteland that separates the State of Ivory from its often belligerent neighbor the Muhammadian Republic of Cleopatra. It is one of the most acclaimed scuba diving locations on the planet and a long time staging point for the sand-gypsy insurgency against the Egyptian government. It is also the key transshipment point for gun running into Gaza, the quarantined hot bed of the Canaanite insurrection against the Israelis, their real and perceived occupiers.

The tourism industry of Dahab had seen better days.

The night before a young Sebastian Adon and the lovely young “Ms. Violent Dangerous Thing” who is also known as “Maya Rose” by some and Emma Solomon by others, depending on what you’re paying to know, arrived in Dahab; a rowdy band of Caucasians painted the town red, acted the fool and offended the honor of the Sheik-of-the-Mezzina tribe’s daughter. The night after negotiations, Sebastian was laid out intoxicated at a table in a night club called the Black Prince; a band of some fifty fellaheen attacked the place with Molotov cocktails, rocks and their sand-gypsy fists.

Young Sebastian, quite near unconscious from drinking a Sweet Surrender caught a flying chair to his face. He was taken to the village hospital in quite a lot of pain via Donkey Ambulance.

The Egyptian police then arrested every sand-gypsy male in Dahab; which they had wanted to do for some time anyway. And then, they beat and tortured as many of them as they could get to before lunch the next day. Egyptian police are no fans of the sand-gypsies, no fans of seeing Americanos get hurt, and no fans of once popular tourist location maintaining a reputation for civil unrest.”

Long story short, a Sheik’s son was accused of striking Sebastian with the chair. The boy’s “uncle” came to the Nirvana hotel where Sebastian was nursing his face with more whiskey and pled with young Sebastian to pardon the boy.

 

Sebastian took a hammer to the prison, when informed Anil of Aqaba that “this is Cleopatra, eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth country.” But, upon seeing the thirteen year old son of the sheik, his alleged assailant, he decided not to bribe the guards to smash the young boy’s grill, because he wasn’t “a savage fuck like the sand-gypsies who assaulted him.”

So he signed a pardon and the boy went free. As the boy was being explained in the Muhammadian dialect what had transpired, he mustered all his Americano, spat in Sebastian’s face and flatly told him:

 

            “Your people are weak.”

 

But Anil of Aqaba didn’t think so, and invited Sebastian to be his guest any time the kid was in Sinai ever again. To this day Sebastian swears this was all far less traumatic than the later loss of his dearest partner over Operation Marcus Garvey and general heartbreak. The loss of his family due to his own negligence. And the loss of his soul through a deal with the devil herself. Loss, loss and more loss until a man becomes a zealot.

But in certain parts of the world you can trade three teeth for a very large favor.

Later in the day they get back to the Voodoo Lounge for the Second Round on the Roof. The wind is blowing.

 

“What kind of fuckery is this,” utters Mickhi Dbrisk.

 

The man was easily twice or four times Sebastian’s size. On one day’s notice they had assembled a rather intimate local run down of Voorhees big shots, just a couple, who wanted to bet on this fight. It was also to be videotaped. It stood to reason that if the Otriad either failed to deliver on its open port promises, or if its adventurous little battalion was wiped out not having liberated an inch of Ayitian turf, or if the Federals came knocking, then proof Adon was alive would be established.

But having him fight was only a matter of sport. He was the face of this thing figured Alexandre Perchevney. If he was the kind of man up for the job, then surely he could beat in a ring their biggest fighter, and a bear.

Fun and games.

As per the terms if he submitted to the medical exams and won the fight they would sign the deal and turn over exactly what was needed to get the job done. And if he died, oh well. These radicals were unpredictable.

 

But Alexandre Perchevney has been watching them work a good long time.

 

Insert fight, blat.

 

Sebastian is again all bloody and panting and spitting some blood and missing his three front teeth after killing his way through an enhanced clone of Dmitry Khulushin four times his build.

And then they roll out a big metal box and out of it emerges of growling black bear and Alexandre giggles ferociously. And Mickhi’s eyes get wide, and he grabs his sholem out of his inner pocket strap.

 

“Not part of the arrangement,” Nikholai declares.

 

“There is not first among equals when people are not equal,” says Alexandre.

 

Now that’s a real Old Russian saying.

“He’s fighting the bear.”

“He’s not fighting your fucking bear.” And the bear howls and charges out toward Adon.

Adon throws up his dukes.

 

Pop. Pop. And Mickhi shoots the bear twice in the head.

 

But it doesn’t die yet.

“The fucking chornay shot the bear!” A voorhi yells and various attendants and strong pen pull out their shooters and start yelling at Dbrisk in Russian, and Mickhi takes out a second pistol, and now Nikholai is yelling for everybody to be cool in Russian:

“Be cool! Be cool!”

“You shot my fucking bear,” notes Alexandre.

And the big ferocious creature lands on top of Adon who upper cuts but that doesn’t stop the thing at all.

Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Now Nikholai is firing also.

And then three more until click.

Dbrisk gets off the rest of his clip into the dome of the bear.

And it finally seems to die.

In his head Nikholai hears Krissy scream.

 

“Everyone put down their fucking shooters down immediately blat!” Commands Alexandre Sasho Perchevney standing now.

 

Adon covered in his blood and bear blood staggers to a stand.

 

“Perchevney!” He yells.

And everyone gets quiet.

“Tak!” Adon yells.

Alexandre is grinning.

“Keep your chornay cowboys at bay,” he shouts back in guttural Aramaic.

“No more games. Sign the goddamn contract you shtarker fuck. You King of Oligarchs,” Sebastian bellows in Hebrew.

“Three ports. Monopoly on Coney Island Importing. Guaranteed rights on 5 percent revenues on outgoing gas and crude. Rights on Port Ayiti pipeline. I want this in writing signed by you, Solomon and the prisoner Avinadav DeBuitléir as soon as you have him,” states Perchevney.

“Vehicles, hardware, bribes in place, exact movement times of prisoner convoy, a landing strip for our plane, and the physician you own by the name of Dr. Yelizaveta Perechenova, and you’re going to get us all the first and second line armaments we can pay for. And any third line you lay your hands on.”

“Get me my pen,” Perchevney smiles. Get this man a towel and some vodka and his teeth,” laughs Perchevney.

“Dmitry get the latest contract we drew up.”

 

The real one? Who ever knew! You could kill a hundred Dmitry Khulushin s’ and the evil in the world would never die. Yet another Dmitry Khulushin emerges from the bowels of that Lounge alongside Watson Entwissle in some hand cuffs and a blind fold.

Dmitry Khulushin and Sebastian Adon glower fiercely and each other and Sebastian spits out a glob of blood in his direction.

 

“Peasant,” spits back Dmitry in Russian.

“Epic times for all you baby faced fuck,” Adon replies.

“Alright, I think we’ve done enough damage here,” states Mickhi DBrisk.

He takes out a radio.

“Hotshots do you copy?”

“Copiar alto y claro.”

“Take the collateral, companeros.”

      

Chapter 47

The Bunga, 2019ce

DUBAI

 

It was nearly dawn in the deep Arabian Desert and the cracked rocky earth was a dead place, thirsty for the waters of the living.

 

There are no good deserts there are only vaguely scenic deserts and empty deserts but all deserts are good to bury things you don’t want found. Or do things you want less seen.

Now the card Perchevney was holding was Adon. And he suspected that the Department of Homeland security would pay or trade just about anything to get their hands on him. And Avinadav DeBuitléir, if you didn’t really know what he was capable of, or holding in his mind was to the DHS Directorate, “low hanging fruit”, valuable mainly because he and Adon had allegedly worked together a decade ago on some jobs in Israel. So, at a lonely airstrip in the deep desert Perchevney would supposedly exchange Adon for DeBuitléir.

Now, what Perchevney knew because his daughter Hachi-Yu had been briefed on it by operatives Mickhi Dbrisk and Nikholai Trikhovitch it was that a crack team of several dozen Mexican and Peruvian Pararescuemen were going to bushwhack the prisoner exchange.

Add a slightly bigger crew.

Sometime a little after dusk Mickhi Dbrisk, Sebastian Adon, Watson Entwissle, Hubert O’Domhnaill, Nikholai Trikhovitch and a crack team of eighty Mexican, Ecuadorian and Peruvian Hotshots backed up by the infiltration of the infamous Zapatista rebels head off to break Avinadav DeBuitléir out of his captivity with pistols, parachutes, fast cars, rocket launchers and flicker hoods.

 

Or even more specifically strong arm the government of the United American States, in the middle of one of their Arab petro-colonies. Mucho grande in a five stage plan.

 

PHASE 1:

 

Lure the U.A.S. diplomat in Dubai to a promised swap of Adon for DeBuitléir many miles away from the camp he was being held.

 

PHASE 2:

 

Mostly Non-violently bushwhack a separate prison transport convoy on the red-brown wasteland of a desert road between Angola 42 and the secret UAS airstrip near Lake Greed heading to move Avinadav DeBuitléir to the exchange.

 

PHASE 3:

Seize four major casino brothel supper clubs in Dubai and hold hostage the patrons as collateral and as a secondary diversion to the real raid.

 

PHASE 4:

Kill everyone at the prisoner exchange, quietly raid the maximum security torture camp Angola 42 and leave with General Avinadav DeBuitléir alive. Kill all the hostages if there are any serious complications to the raid.

 

PHASE 5:

Flee over the border into Iran and board fast planes for the Wild West Indian Federation. Get DeBuitléir to the Hotel Olofsen in Ayiti and negotiate his consolidation of leadership of the rebel armies in Hispaniola, supported by the Cubans, Iranians, Israelis and Trinidadian Special Forces of course.

 

                                                                                                                           And the music of the Monsters to Men begins to play.  

 

So they piled into eight black and grey armored vehicles, four Type 2 Ambulances, three Golden Touch Splinter Vans the last a black Mustang Lancer. From his blackberry smartphone Nikholai activates the tracker a paid sympathizer has planted on the undercarriage of the prisoner transport. Enrooted to acquire DeBuitléir at Prison Fortress Angola 42.

 

The narrow, craggy desert road they drive down is highly susceptible to avalanches caused by stinger missiles. Periodic sandstorms make drone activity hard to coordinate.

 

The same networks that were good for getting people out of the country were still good for getting people in, and the same types of jobs where people employed the paperless and the undocumented, were still much the same before and after the great revolt. The yards and gardens, the dishwashers, the fruit pickers, and the migrant workers; the nannies, the maids, and the unskilled day laborers. So there were and always were places to hide in plain site from the Department of Homeland Security, there were jobs whites just wouldn’t do no matter what the state of emergency.

 

They arrived at safe houses scattered across the south west from a number of routes across the hinterland. Of the eighty dispatched, sixty four made it through. And once the Perchevney Bratva agreed to terms the Pararescuemen took position.

 

This couldn’t be a snatch grab load and go job. For one thing it was still quite unclear where Avinadav DeBuitléir even was precisely. There were no less than four hundred prison camps known to the resistance, and probably twice as many hidden abroad. That he was still in the country and in the state of Nevada was all that could be confirmed beyond the pale, though money was placed on the recently self-murdered man’s good data.

That was extracted from now quite cold and dead Laurence Simon.

Regardless, with the help of the Perchevney Bratva to grease the right wheels and serve as an intermediary, the plan b through z was for these brave Pararescuemen to infiltrate four major casino-brothel-supper clubs across Vegas and take hostages which would serve as the collateral for the swap ideally with a couple celebrity athletes and politicians patronizing them.

They would seize these “establishments of ill repute” simultaneously just as a swap was taking place, as insurance. Just in case the DHS had tricks, or the Bratva decided to sell off Adon.

 

“I’m not saying they come from a culture of rampant hostage takers and Chechen cowboys, but they do,” claimed Hachi and then she put the phone down.

 

A one-for-one prisoner exchange was the fruit she dangled. Adon for DeBuitléir. But the department of homeland security contact had for some reason declined. Officially. Because Adon was dead they claimed, but she insisted that he wasn’t. She had a courier bring them his bio samples, his lab work and a short film of him fighting a black bear. Waited a day. And still no remarks or offers.

A classic bait before switch rejected off hand. But her sources said that the department would come around.

So one elite combat team led by Raphael Ernesto Lynch Contreras was quietly integrated into the staff of the Bunga Bunga Club, named after the former Italian Prime Minister’s hooker and pool parties. And three more were set up on standby.

Once activated, each group would seize as many hostages as possible, barricade and fortify the restaurant doors and announce that if Avinadav DeBuitléir was not released they would execute all of everybody inside.

 

“It’s all going down right now as we speak,” Hachi told her father over the iridium and then put down the phone.

 

“I love watching all the quickly moving parts,” Perchevney states to his empty office.

 

The earth was ragged and the tarmac cracked. There was a white surrender flag idiosyncratically flying half-mast.

The valley was choked and barren and then gave way to a small airbase off the cross roads where there were twelve vehicles parked in some aggressive formation: eight black SUVs and four black jeeps and a dark blue windowless prison bus.

These were storm troopers without their usual costumes, bulky men with itchy trigger fingers partly melting, the ones with the DHS had on dark blue shirts and sub machine guns, the ones contracted from the Bratva; Postsoviet business casual, shorts with the latest banana clip Uzis.

 

They all onsy and twosy.

 

They stare each other down. There are eight black SUVs, the kind of rugged gas guzzling bullet proof apparatus the DHS generally prefers driving even amidst the OPEC total embargo, and the Bratva offered up just four wranglers and filled them with the kind of low rent hired contractors they can order online from the Russian equivalent of black water. And Adon was led out blind folded and in cuffs, and the government storm troopers led out a burly black man, also blind folded, also in cuffs.

And the deal was one for one.

The DHS Director Breria didn’t really care why exactly this particular African revolutionist was so interesting to the Perchevney Bratva, but they sure wanted Sebastian Adon and the codes to black out the eastern nuclear defense grid.

 

At the cost of almost anything. Because if he was indeed alive, he was one step higher on the chain than DeBuitléir. And with the defense grid down General Petreaus could storm the Soviet and put down the revolt once and for all.

 

Hachi had deliberately selected the hottest part of the day, when the visibility was the worst because a sand storm was blowing and the sun made everyone exhausted and quick to shoot. And she selected her entire entourage based on who didn’t speak a word of English or have any data about the stakes of this trade.

She also deliberately miscommunicated the particulars of the exchange, as per her father’s last written instructions.

 

One of Hachi’s big fellers set up a fold out titanium table and there he laid out a laminated head shot of Sebastian Adon and one of Avinadav DeBuitléir, and slid them over. So nothing could really be lost in lack of translation.

 

The DHS point man, some mid westerner took out a device and spoke into it turning his words into seamless Russian.

 

“Take off the hood,” the device says in low street Russian.

 

The Bratva goon killers amused at the device take out one of their own.

 

“You first, my nigger,” their device says back in low street English.

 

“Adon” is seated at one side of the table and “DeBuitléir” at the other. The hood of the DHS prisoner is pulled, but the man revealed is hardly the man matched in the photograph.

For one thing he’s Caucasian; Ah ha.

A standard operating procedure, but neither underling had been previously informed of the ploy. Fingers point guns are leveled.

Both point men carry red lines.

Phones that go off if last minute serious problems emerge. Like showing up to a prisoner exchange with fake prisoners.

The Russian red line rang first.

The DHS one shortly after.

The hooded body double engaged gamely nods.

“A heavily armed group of Mexicano gunmen just took over a Brazilian themed steak house-casino-brothel in District 4, Senator Bago is amongst the hostages. Their single demand is the release of Avinadav DeBuitléir and Sebastian Adon.”

 

“Inform the point person from the DHS that we will trade only real Adon for a real DeBuitléir and that we cannot negotiate the release of the hostages or stop what will shortly follow. We have zero relations with the wild terrorists that run Breuklyn Soviet.”

 

That was communicated via the devices.

 

And soon everyone was on edge, a bit of low grade yelling began. As the DHS men start pointing at hooded Adon, telling them to pull the hood. And the strong men, her least literate krepki mushik began yelling for them to pull DeBuitléirs hood, though the likelihood of genuine identification for a Russian to pick out a chornay even with a recent photo would be low.

 

Finally, the Russian strong man pulls the hood.

 

But alas, tricksters all. That was by no means Adon below that hood, nor was the black man in custody apparently Avinadav DeBuitléir. The sand storm was building in intensity. It stung them all across the face. It rushed and rippled sands through the valley, intruding on the airbase. And the confusion seemed to be growing indeed over who was to give over whom first.

The DHS red line rang again.

“Separatist gun men have taken over two more night clubs in Dubai and fourth one in Abu Dhabi. All demands are coming in the same. Release DeBuitléir and Adon.

 

“Please patch me through to Deputy Director of Homeland Security Theodore Breria, if you’d please,” says Hachi to her Mexican lady secretary.

 

 

Chapter 48

The Barclay General Assmbly, 2019ce

Above Breuklyn

 

Tak.

 

A floating fortress look something like a sports stadium and a vast drone bomber. There are five now hovering above Breuklyn and the Bronx.

Lesser Ariel Drones dart everywhere.

Rebel airmen in Idle Wild are arming up planes with whatever is left.

 

Gas is expected.

 

Back in Breuklyn Soviet the remaining high leadership Anya, Gold Bar Allamby, Pula, Medved  and Mapfre are worried about this fleet of flying fortresses now hovering over the city state and rumors that a full mobilization of the UAS nation’s entire National Guard has occurred.

Disinformation is flying everywhere.

 

Also the corporate media keeps on repeat that:

 

“FOUR RESTAURANT CLUBS OF HOSTAGES TAKEN BY SEPARATISTS IN THE HEART OF DUBAI”.

 

Erza Pula Pound goes over the Fire Station and calls up the First through the Tenth Citizens Armies to get ready to shell Manhattan into the ground and defend Bronx, Goddess and Breuklyn. In the Masjid St. Sophina under the Green Dome 8,000 Party of God Mujahedeen beat their chests. There are 20,000 more being called up and armed. The youth brigades of course.

Ysiad returns, swimming over the river with only one arm, thanks to yoga!

 

He offers to get everyone big time out of the Soviet before the major U.A.S gas attack begins via the enormous Ivorite submarines called black freighters which are loading up with Ivoryish refugees.

Some are running and hiding on these three mega bunker boats bound for Israel called Black Freighters. Some are staying fighting. The Ivories are always like this. Two Ivories, five organizations. Sky falls. Some pray some fight. Most run.

 

On the corporate news U.A.S. politicians are screaming about the hostage crisis in Dubai. Especially Senator Bago being one of the hostages. He’s next in line they say for Republican Speaker of the House.

 

In the middle of the crisis, a public housing complex in Los Angeles is blown up by the D.H.S. All four “restaurants” erupt in a fire fight as the DHS simultaneously storm them.

 

Obama shortly after orders the U.A.S. Armed Forces to retake the entire east coast and put an end to the general uprising based in in Breuklyn Soviet.

 

The Adon body double has a bomb in his chest which maims one Dmitry Khulushin and maims several dozen men from the department of homeland security.

 

It is revealed that Perchevney knows what Dmitry was plotting.

 

            Tak.

 

Chapter 49

The Dessert, 2019ce

DUBAI

 

Four supper clubs had been taken over rapidly and with brute force.

The mostly gringo, Arab and Chinese colonist’s men and women and also children alike were spread eagle on the floor and booby trapped with explosives.

 

When the DHS black jacket commandos stormed everyone got hit with everything they were holding. No one was innocent of anything.

 

Watson, Trikhovitch, O’Domhnaill, Dbrisk, and Adon had boarded their captured prison bus and scoped up DeBuitléir under everyone’s noses dressed like DHS black jackets.

 

In the meantime, the six male hero antagonist-protagonists are pulled over for speeding and being suspicious by terra drones and cops, a shootout breaks out and Adon is shot eight times in the chest.

 

BLAM.BALEM.BLLLAAM.BLAM.BALAM.BALAM. Blam!! Blam again.

 

Fire fights enlarge and break out at all four hostage spots. Raphael and several dozen others escape into the sewers holding people still hostage.

Hachi organizes escape routes via trucks sewers and town cars, and brings Yelizaveta to treat Adon.

The assault on Breuklyn begins with a full exchange of rockets over the East River. A small armada takes off from airbases all over town to attack the flying fortresses and drone squadrons buzz about.

 

Bam! Bam! Bam! BAM!

 

Bleed, bleed, and bleed all over the goddamn place for a woman or a cause, he thinks as he dies.

Cut to the wild car chase across a lost highway, the song called “Mr. Brightside” blaring in the back ground. Trikhovitch is driving the ambulance like bat out of hell while firing non-lethal ammunition from his hand gun out the window at three police cars and the Federal meta-chopper pursuing them.

The local border police, DHS irregulars, paramilitaries and regulars as well as U.A.S. Federals are firing perfectly real lethal ammunition back.

Sebastian Adon who has been shot multiple times in the chest is bleeding all over Mickhi Dbrisk who is attempting to stabilize him on the stretcher in the back.

O’Domhnaill who was clipped in the shoulder is for now bleeding controlled.

 

A vaguely bewildered, hooded and handcuffed Avinadav DeBuitléir is basically trying to figure out what is going on as it has all happened so quickly. He’s seat belted into the technical chair.

Nikholai Trikhovitch is speeding, while Mickhi is yelling for him to “change the fucking sound track!” and mentally preparing to pull over and load a grad rocket into the surface to air shoulder mounted missile launcher.

 

The raid had mostly gone according to plan.

 

But, mostly meant that Sebastian was bleeding to death from eight shots to the chest and abdomen.

And mostly meant that a missile induced avalanche had killed several carloads of UAE Federals.

And mostly meant that all four restaurant/ club takeovers had erupted in bloody, bloody gun battles into the streets of Dubai & Abu Dhabi.

 

Mostly also meant that deadly force was now going to have to be used against representatives of the U.A.E. and U.A.S. governments who couldn’t all objectively be verified as the fabled 3 % who deserve to be killed in combat.

Mostly meant a serious violation of a ceasefire in a long running civil war and the quite possible displeasure of massive Postsoviet crime family.

These things, they happen quickly. Things fall apart. People get shot and things explode. It isn’t fun like a movie. You loose friends.

“What a fucking mess Boichik!” yells Trikhovitch while turning on the Ambulance sirens while firing up a Newport standard.

“We’re making a stand brothers!” yells Trikhovitch.

Nikholai swerves the ambulance ninety degrees eliciting a screech from the brake lines and burst of dust cloud. Sebastian bangs his already bruised face into the equipment bin coughing up more red frothy death.

Nikholai is a veteran of the major conflicts in Breuklyn and Ayiti and is a crack shot with the hardware.

He aims the grad launcher at the meta-chopper and it explodes in ring of fire.

He aims the remaining rockets at the law man fast cars bearing down on them.

 

Three fly cars and six UAS federals explode and horribly die.

Nikh may once have been a cop by vocation, but no one likes being shot at, even by your brothers in former trade. And he hadn’t been an officer half as long as he’d been a highway man.

Sebastian is dying, but slowly. He’s historically rather hard to kill. Dbrisk has two lines worth of Colloids flowing into him wide bore and the bleeding controlled with quick clot and multi-trauma dressings. Nikh surveys the carnage and tosses the grad launcher into the back of the bus and dials a number from his grey berry smart phone.

“Yeah, it’s done. We need you have your doctor meet us at the runway for extraction. Yeah, someone got clipped. O-Positive tovarish.”

Dbrisk pulls the hood off Avinadav DeBuitléir. Sebastian coughs up more blood. O’Domhnaill helps them back into the truck.  DeBuitléir stares down the bandits.

 

He, once-overs um, twice or three times even.

He’d not seen this escapade coming. Had figured he’d be a far longer in Angola 42 camp captivity indefinitely.

A hard fast drive later, they’re all in the back of a small silver airplane getting ready to “fly towards a foreign”. After the ambush, the great escape in the back of the ambulance with Mr. Adon near death bleeding about like a stuck pig, they were met at the airport by several of Hachi’s men and a slim, blonde former Soviet woman. A Cuban trained surgeon named Dr. Yelizaveta Kay. She’s wearing a white lab coat and a green soldier’s cap. She doesn’t look amused. Not in the slightest.

She’s a registered U.A.S. veterinarian, but also a Cuban trained MD of tropical medicine and infectious disease.

On a make shift operating table set up in one of the hangers of this desolate retired airbase, Dr. Kay goes fishing for the bullets in Sebastian’s abdomen, having caused cavitation and damage well up into his gut. This is not the first bullet the young Ukrainian had pulled out of some wounded outlaw.

 

Not that she thinks Sebastian is a mere shtarker.

 

She knows he’s something far worse. She knows him to be a zealot not to fuck with; figuratively, tantrically, also medically. Capable of true blue terrorism written off in the rhetoric of some idealistic promise of human rights.

But kills are still kills to a healer like her.

She knows this because they were pen pals nearly ten years running allegedly based on the bale of letters she was handed last night by Ms. Yu.

The second she lays a hand on him she knows she’s breaking the terms of her contract yet again.

She’s touched his chest before once but it was all a dream. Even though ordered not to. Serfs fall in love. The name of the plane is the “Flicking Flame”. It was once registered to quasi-famous Bollywood film maker Nicholas Mapfre. Now it’s a ghost ship ready for exodus.

 

Adon wrenches in pain, she has Dbrisk sedate him with 100 mcgs of Fentanyl to keep him still. He’d lost a lot of blood in the rapid transit of their high speed getaway.

And they want everybody on that plane for an exodus in fifteen minutes.

“He’s going to die if he isn’t properly attended to,” she tells them cold and flat. She has no accent to speak of. Being shot is after a surgical disease when it all comes down to it.

One of Hachi’s former Soviet bag men points a burner casually at Dr. Yelizaveta Kay.

“Then you go with them blat,” he bark-commands in Ruus authoritatively, tuning to what had been the plan/ agreement all along.

The pretty young doctor doesn’t argue.

She puts a PICC line into Sebastian’s femoral artery to compensate further for blood volume lost. She’s giving him back his own O-Positive blood, which the boys graciously provided her in sealed packets. But he’s in terrible shape, should be in a Hebrew themed hospital. The men load Sebastian onto the plane in a gurney and she goes with them, because she is essence is under contract with Hachi’s very dangerous father to do exactly whatever the fuck she is ordered to do, and has what one might call a special relationship with Mr. Adon long standing. There are several complicated loyalties being juggled about in this exchange that are certainly worth examining later.

The line is often blurred on what she owes Maya verses what she owes Perchevney and those things often overlap. In just four years her contract will be over and her father’s health secured.

Adon has a good deal of special relationships as he must, being so completely and utterly focused on the little war he’s spent about a decade waging, positioning pieces, making speeches with his hands and hazel eyes.

 

The Flickering Flame takes off under cover of sand storms and fading darkness around 04:03 am.

 

They’re flying to a Kurdish air base in Rojava, then taking an Israeli escorted cargo plane to Sinai where they can rendezvous with the Bedouin sand gypsies to move them toward the coast to catch a black freighter nuclear submarine. Nikholai Trikhovitch tells the sexy blonde Soviet taking care of his friend. She looks unconcerned, unsurprised by their tricky zealot subterfuges.

 

She’s never been a big fan of Sebastian’s close friends and they’ve never really liked her either.

“Why have you rescued me sir?” asks DeBuitléir to Dbrisk.

“No need for sir, we all work for our money brother,” says Dbrisk.

This is a highly common colloquialism in the Breuklyn Soviet.

“It is our ambition to be of service to the people of Ayiti and we’ve got a highly serious venture we aim to convince you to the take leadership of,” Dbrisk responds.

“Emma Solomon sends her fullest regard,” interjects Watson Entwissle.

Mickhi passes him a thick light grey leather binder containing the blueprint for Operation Marcus Garvey.

“Where are we ending up tomorrow tonight boys?” Dr. Yelizaveta Kay asks.

“We’re all going back to Africa eventually,” says Mickhi Dbrisk. But that just means they might all get killed.

 

In the cockpit Nikholai Trikhovitch is lighting up yet another Newport.

 

Dr. Yelizaveta Perechenova shrugs. She is after all under a long term contract and has in the last hour violated a principal sub clause. The close quarters of the cabin fill with tobacco smoke, the men remain mostly quiet while Mr. Avinadav DeBuitléir reads through an operations guide positing the logistics necessary to topple the government of Ayiti and liberate his long violated native land. The heart monitor beeps and an automated blood pressure cuff inflates and indicates that Adon is still alive. This is good, given the amount of data he’s carrying around in his head, and his place in the chain of command.

 

“For fuck sake, blat; put the fucking cigarette out Trikhovitch. I’m working here!” yells Dr. Yelizaveta Perechenova.

 

He obliges her. Only because his best friend Sebastian Adon once put a gun in his face and said, “My dying wish is that you follow that woman’s orders on my deathbed.”  And it was shortly after that moment of relative calm when some loud computerized beeping indicates that a squadron of fully weaponized predator drones unleashed their payload of rockets directed against the airship Flickering Flame.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 50

The Citadel, 2019ce

Breuklyn Soviet

 

 

Back in Breuklyn Soviet the end seemed nigh. Sky Drone raids had begun and terra drones were massing for deployment via huge airships and landing choppers. The Shi’a Muslim Brotherhood was digging in around Kensington, Bensonherst and Bayridge (Citizens Army 1); the ZOB and Uhuru had fortified the heavily urban zones of Downtown Brooklyn, DUMBO, and Brooklyn Heights and left a strategic reserve along the Eastern Parkway and Ocean Parkway lines (Citizen Armies 2 & 3). The Ultra-Orthodox Shomriim Militia men were preparing to hold Boro Park Commune and Crown Heights Commune (Citizen Army 4); the ZOB and Hezbollah had dug in deep around the Masjid St. Sophina, just north of the Green Light Zone, they were perhaps three stories below ground protecting the GHQ, protecting the pregnant Emma Solomon.

This subterranean base was also called the Citadel.

 

Two days ago Anya ordered a labor battalion to take all of the tombstones in the cemeteries around the Jackie Robinson Highway and build a barricade in case they tried to land drones on the Queens (Goddess Soviet border); and march into lawless East New York, which was presumably defended by Bloods, Crips, Latin Kings and King Pin Zoe Pound; but who knew. It mostly ate itself over the years and no one had really bothered to secure it.

 

“The missile defense grid remains down,” Anya states devoid of sentimentality, as long as it is down they have no ability to retaliate with a nuclear strike if attacked, as is inevitable.

 

“They can just roll right in and kill everybody then,” Dasha explains to her mother nervously watching on Skype from Russian Federation.

 

And then, shortly before midnight, the internet and interweb are cut off.

 

 

“Hold on to your asses,” says Oleg Leondovich Medved to his commandos departing into the vast web of tunnels and bunkers systems built in preparation of the re-occupation, everyone who can shoot has a gun.

 

 

Yet fatalistically no one high placed bought a seat on the Black Freighters. Not a single person except a couple hundred scared Ivoryish reform families and a couple thousand Russians with papers claiming to be Ivories. None of the Ultra-Orthodox budged.

They loaded out rifles and gas masks through.

 

And the air raid alarms went off shortly after midnight. Gas was rolling through the streets. And people began choking and dying in their won fluids and filth, even ones that had attended the Sarin drills.

 

As per the protocols, everyone knocks out their walls to allow roaming firing positions and the sub-basement tunnels have been du long ago.

 

 

At Midnight thirty the U.A.S Join Special Forces Operations Command orders the inevitable Attack on Breuklyn Soviet first with thousands of drones, then with incendiary bombs and finally with the gas. The nuclear defense grid is cut off and all fighting back must be done now by hand and on our turf alone.

 

 

Tens of thousands die in their homes from the Sarin type gas. A simultaneous attack takes place on all free eastern states; the UAS has assaulted 64 positions of the confederacy but is focused on Atlanta, Newark, New York, Boston, and Detroit.

 

 

 

Tens of thousands hide in make shift bunkers as mechanical drones and resistance fighters from all factions armed with assault weapons and homemade bombs cat and mouse tooth and nail; eye for microchip all of over town, position by position, district by district. Rocket crews begin firing fire bombs back over the water at Manhattan.

 

 

But almost everyone has been evacuated except a few sickos watching the repopulation called a “re-occupation”, from their high tower multiplexes.

 

Every single thing we’ve been building here is now on fire.

 

 

 

Chapter 48

The Deep Desert, 2019ce

DUBAI

 

 

The low grade sputtering of air and space and moisture striking the hull makes an erythematic distraction from the moans of this dying rebel in front of me. At least he is no longer bleeding all over the place. I am already quite stained by him. I am sewing the port of the second arterial line into his right thigh when they yell back for me to secure myself; with quickness and immediacy.

 

“Incoming!” yells the pilot, the man who had introduced himself as Nikholai back at the derelict airstrip.

 

I buckle myself in adjacent to my critically injured patient. Sebastian Adon the famous Eastern-Western Rebel. Or, the cold blooded indiscriminate killer of woman and children. Sexual deviant and practitioner of black magic. Depending on whom you believe. I don’t have beliefs. I have a contract that explicitly prevents those.

 

And then something explodes right beside the plane and it pulsates and brutally shakes the whole cabin asunder.

Suddenly my blood pressure skyrockets from catecholamine release and it feels like we are falling. Like the pilot has totally lost control, and if I vaguely remember the past, which I mostly try not to anymore; then these men are better trained at driving ambulances than airships of any kind, and my ears; they go pop.

 

I smell smoke, but its tobacco smoke and I start cursing in Russian. And I’m annoyed that Nikholai the pilot is smoking again. Even in a shit show I’m working back here! As if there weren’t already enough good ways to die today.

 

            SUKA BLAT! (Shit Bitch!)

 

Although now buckled in three ways adjacent from my patient who is tied four ways to a red long board barely lucid, we all are viciously rocked about. There are periodic shock waves which send shudders through the plane, and the pressure bursts behind us rattle through the hull each time the plane ejects sensor flack detonating the rockets fired at us midair before they hit us.

 

Each time a rocket explodes it rattles the airship which is making my work harder, the work of keeping this subversive alive.

 

Adon. His name means very little to me sentimentally, now.

 

I met him again two days ago, but I knew him when we were younger allegedly. And so says a large bale of letters given to me last night by my boss’s daughter Hachi. Alexandre Perchevney told me that he’s connected to one of the radical separatist movements back east and that he’s now entered into some agreement with them. Alexandre Perchevney r told me that he’s worth a good deal to us alive, but I don’t need to know so much about him. Alexandre Perchevney says save and I save he says heal and I heal, he says fly and I get on the plane. And it will be that way for at least eight more years until I pay off my debt to the Bratva. 

 

I was briefed only partly as to who he is and was informed only ten minutes prior to their tumultuous arrival that he had been shot several times in the chest performing a messy little job for my employer. Some kind of prisoner exchange. My medical opinion had been that if they cared for his outcome it would have done us all well not to be flying anywhere, and then of course the federal authorities stormed our base shot just about everybody and it was all very much out of my hands from that point out.

 

The three other men on the flight are in various states of hiding panic. The two in the cockpit are yelling at each other about the drones that are firing on us. That there are three of them bearing down us, or so claimed the muscular black copilot with ted red locks wrapped up in a black cap tam.

 

The prisoner with dark black skin and black eyes is strapped in the cabin with me. He’s reading a document in a leather binder, periodically he looks up to see what I’m doing.

Lifesaving interventions.

 

The bullets are still deep inside Adon so there isn’t anything we can do outside an O.R. definitively. Except hemorrhage control and reperfusion with his own blood via the central line in his femoral artery. And maintaining the chest tube keeping the air and blood from collapsing his lungs. And digging out the bullets with a Cuban magnografter. All that fine science put to work.

 

“Put the cigarette out tovarish pilot!” I yell. And they ignore me.

 

            BLAT! The plane is flying rather fucking low. I can see out the window in their efforts to evade the drones we must be only several dozen meters above the desert floor. From what I know about aviation and the Mexican border, which is only a little; but that once we fly nine clicks south all manned craft will break off pursuit because the Chicano Narco-gangs have acquired SAM systems to take them down.

Presumably us too. But the drones will keep coming until we go down.  But who knows. From that I gather someone wants this chornay prisoner pretty bad. Because otherwise they’d just have shot our plane down and not be attempting to disable it.

 

“They must want you back pretty bad black man,” I tell him in between running my protocols.

“Me or your patient,” he says with a smirk.

“I’m nobody,” he says.

“Nobody’s nobody to somebody,” I say. But that Russian idiom doesn’t translate.

Another several shock waves hit the compartment. The prisoner doesn’t seem alarmed, or stop reading.  And then there’s what sounds like hard rain hitting us, the rattattat of burst machine gun fire and it rips apart the left wing.

And the plane begins to fall.

As the plane goes down, I don’t think so much about it. I will not say I am unafraid, but I am certain that this is not how we are meant to die. Although knowing what I know of both physics and biology, there is reason to suspect death is quite quickly encroaching.

The drones finally took the plane down.

And we careen out of control in a wild plummet of smoke and flame falling toward the red desert floor on the Mexican side of the border. There is all this shouting the men are doing. It is needless yelling. They hadn’t properly gauged the full capability of their adversaries.

 

You can’t just steal a political prisoner these days and hope to fly off over the border to freedom. This is the future after all!

 

Pause. The men keep yelling. My blonde hair is tied up under my green military cap and there is blood on my white medical coat and it’s the blood of my patient, who was also once my longstanding lover, fine I’ll admit it, who is also the accused terrorist named Sebastian Adon. Who many think are dead and soon might be again. This time with more permanence. And less than an hour ago he was shot four times in the chest and stomach and I’m not sure I can save him. And this plane is going down fast.

 

Observing my actions and reaction to our collective doom is the rescued prisoner. Still quit calm through all the smoke and flashing and fire and yelling.

 

As we free fall toward the desert and all these impending signals of death are lighting up and beeping and I feel as though if they had only listened to me earlier on, we’d all not be in this situation.

 

And I was trained in Cuba so I have my life saving interventions far beyond the level of Western medicine and in all this chaos, all this fubar muck and the men in the pilot seats are loudly deliberating whether to jump and jettison, or try and land this wreck in the rocky desert sands.  I was almost certain I could save Sebastian Adon and then the plane began to come apart when hit innumerable times with machine gun fire from those mechanized drones in pursuit.

 

I begin to recall a bit about these men I will perhaps soon share a flaming meteorite coffin ship demise with. Not via a micro briefing, but a Purim dinner party years ago in Breuklyn did I meet them. Not sure how that escaped me. The things you remember as death approaches.

 

And the former police man Nikholai Trikhovitch with his dark complexion and black suit is saying he’s going to try and emergency land the damaged airship and Mickhi Dbrisk the muscular dreadlocked Jamaican with his dreads tied up in a black Tam cap is saying we all need to parajump and the dark skinned political prisoner they just broke out an hour ago in a fire fight high way man ambush has black on black eyes and he doesn’t argue, but he urges them to pick quick. And I yell in Russian which I know the Jamaican and the former cop speak.

 

“I’m not trained for this and Sebastian is highly unstable!”

 

And it was a mostly good plan to steal this man in the middle of a prisoner exchange. It was well thought out and well-funded and these four men I’m flying with all possess exceptional abilities to survive nearly anything. And the prisoner had disappeared years ago and no one knew if he was even still alive, and according to the national press Adon had been confirmed dead three years ago. Confirmed dead and body recovered in that hostage crisis near Time Square. And this former cop has nothing to live for since he lost his wife, and me, well I’m someone’s property. I belong to the Russian Crime family that paid for my education. A house doctor for the Perchevney Bratva.

 

So if this plane goes down it’s a skeleton crew of the already and dead and disappeared.

 

But Mickhi Dbrisk, the bad man Jamaican paramedic has a rapid change of heart.

He tells Nikholai, “I’m taking control.”

“Dr. Perechenova please make sure Adon is completely secured,” he yells back at me.

 

Because he has two kids and a third on the way and he isn’t ready to die. And even if we’re all hard to kill, even if on this plane are four of most wanted human rights activists, or hardened terrorists depending on who’s side you’re on or what briefings you’ve read. Even if all of us have some mental training that lets us see further ahead and much further behind.

 

Mickhi and I have something to live for. He’s the father of three. And I have an old man that needs me to stay working so he gets the care and help he needs.

 

So I stay strapped in holding the hand of Sebastian Adon who’s not in very good shape. And Mickhi Dbrisk sets up the airship controls, and Trikhovitch watches the desert floor get closer and closer and beeping of sensors and smell of smoke increases. And the prisoner looks at me with black on black eyes.

 

And as death closes in on us all I achieve total recall of the past ten years. And I place my hand on Sebastian’s chest and the bullets pop out and his abdomen closes and bleeding stops. And the prisoner with black eyes grins at me.

 

And in the face of death, I wink. It’s been a wild ride.

 

Chapter 51

The Deep Desert, 2019ce

DUBAI

 

 

Flames and smoke and carnage. The hull is a crumpled metal skeleton.

 

“We don’t have to try walk to Kurdistan, but we cannot stay here,” says Mickhi Dbrisk. And the survivors quickly pick each other up and grab what is left and portable.

I look over the hull mangled massacre of steel and siding that once was Mr. Ryder Haske’s private plane. I look over Sebastian Adon unconscious and wrapped up in blankets on a carry stretcher that these three men will soon have to schlep several clicks to the east where we will wait in some gully until someone can come get us.

The drones are the least of my concern and that is not because we have a means to knock them out the sky, it is because I am more concerned about various thing I remember.

 

Amongst them that this famous terrorist is my husband under Ivoryish law. Freedom fight rather since he’s never killed anyone. Or has he. The fog over my past didn’t lift in one burst. It came back right before I…and I throw the bullets I’m clutching into the red sands.

And then in the sky the red and blue parachutes appear and we know we are rescued. In the skies above us are nearly forty four parachutists descending upon our position from the Brigade Cinqo de Mayo all 44 Bolvarians Hachi had helped smuggle out of town and over the border and back into the skies.

 

Bedouin flown fast planes are right behind them. And over the radio we here that the Cubans are flying in low with Med-EVAC choppers and all of us will be in Kurdistan by nightfall.

 

Atrocity, resistance and historic defense of the free eastern states goes on all night and into the day break of morning. Then they managed to get the internet back on to report who’s flags were still where.

 

The Bronx Bombers bring down a flying fortress by ramming 747’s into it from Idlewild Airbase. A second flying fortress goes down the same way over Breuklyn shortly after.

 

In vast bunkers below the Masjid St. Sophina mujahedeen guard a pregnant woman in her late teens in a plush and supportive suite. She has been in a coma for 1,001 nights, the duration of the three grouped killings and four full strange moons.

 

 

The name of this woman is Candidate One, an identical twin of Emma Solomon or perhaps the real one all along.

 

 

News arrives via People’s Television satellite communications and the Fire Station that the survivors of the “99^th Special Operations Task Force”, that is to say Dbrisk, O’Domhnaill, and Trikhovitch, have successfully shot their way out of Las Vegas with Adon, DeBuitléir, Entwissle and a Ukrainian physician; crash landed in Mexico; hoofed it thirty miles under cover of darkness to an extraction point; and were retrieved by the survivors of the elite Pararescuemen detachment the Bolivarian Hot Shots of the Cinqo de Mayo Brigade, led by Raphael Ernesto Contreras. And now sixty four Pararescuemen, six rebels and the Ukrainian doctor are on Cuban fast copters headed straight for Ayiti.

 

 

But, Detroit Soviet no longer exists, bombed and gassed into nothing hood; and hand full of others took major-major bloody hits, atrocities carried out everywhere.

 

 

 

And that despite heavy hits and overwhelming casualties. The MicroRepubliks of Boston, Newark, ATL, Miami, Bronx, Goddess and Breuklyn along with virtually all of the others have held out against the many armies of General Lance Petreaus.

 

We all tip the bottle for the Detroit Soviet, where over a million citizen defenders perished.

 

At dawn it was confirmed by Rabbi Akiva Tatz, Imam Muhammad Ben Bah’allulah, and Babashanti All Stone that the mother of the messiah in the sub bunkers below Masjid St. Sophina has given birth to two bouncing auspicious babies, twins. A girl and a boy, one noire one blan.

 

And now the escapees are less than one hours estimated flight time out from Cange Outpost says the Fire Station. With them alive and well is the liberated Commander of the Ayitian–Emergency-Group. None other than Mr. Avinadav DeBuitléir. With them, and bleeding internally shot eight times and just barely alive is Sebastian Adon.

 

One certainly tense wrenching and fairly bloody hour later.

Amid a thunder of chopper blades, the mountain forest shudders. There are shouts from the night watch that the Commandos have arrived! Flying out of the Arabian deep desert a convoy of three Cuban Medevac choppers zipped across the deep desert just four hours prior and have touched down at the make shift airbase four kilometers from a Kurdish PKK Outpost.

They radioed ahead and said a member of the rebel leadership had been critically injured in the fire fight.

Paramedics from the Kurdish-Emergency-Group accompanied by a physician from the Kurdish Workers Party medevac Sebastian Adon back to a Medical Outpost along with Dr. Yelizaveta Kay. He is by then suffering from hemorrhagic shock the etiology being eight small round penetrating wounds to Left lower abdomen. For two nerve wracking hours Dr. Yelizaveta Kay has performed a range of medical interventions to keep him alive including using a snatched side arm to attempt to convince Commander Nikholai Trikhovitch to land the plane.

She clutched his bloody hand after all that could be done bio-medically seemed to only buy time; bags of colloids, the shock position, quick-clot packed into his open wound. He was bleeding inside himself. She was never helpless on the flying fortress crossing the Gulf she employed Cuban tricks, eastern tricks and Voodoo magic and biomedicine to keep him alive.

At some point Adon whispered something to her. She had turned Soviet winter pale and wiped out memories flooded back to her. Trading away ten years of life to forget him.

Dr. Emile Cange the chief physician of the Ayitian-Emergency-Group and a founder of Zamni Lasante met the dying Mr. Adon at landing field. For eight more nerve wracking hours, Dr. Cange assisted by Dr. Yelizaveta Kay, elite Cuban trauma surgeons and their Kurdish paramedic staff worked to save the pale officer’s life.

 

 

She finally wanders out of the medical bunker to find Adon’s tovarish and closest comrade puffing away on a menthol cigarette. She’s never forgotten just how hot it gets down here. She lived in Cuba for three years studying medicine.

 

 

“So you love him, again do you?” Nikholai asks Yelizaveta.

She shrugs indifferently.

“He’s been through lot. Birdy, you, and then Dasha.”

“But so have we all. He’s a troublesome man to have love you.”

“What did he whisper to you back there on the plane,” asks Trikhovitch.

She thinks about how to phrase her white lie.

“He begged my forgiveness and asked me to remember him,” says Dr. Kay.

“Sebastian never asks forgiveness for things he cannot control.”

“Believe what you want. I’ll have you know I’ve seen him beg on his knees more than twice. He was sorry I’m being hustled off to Africa when I have a sick father in Switzerland to worry about.”

Nikholai wonders how much Yelizaveta remembers. Or if Sebastian knows Dasha is very much alive back in Breuklyn Soviet. There hadn’t been time to talk heart shop.

“All he said was forgive me.”

That wasn’t true at all. He’d said another foolish thing about their past and completely failed attempts at their past love.

“Africa? You aren’t going in there. Standing Orders say no women in the war zone.” That was passed in close vote of the general membership at the last Club Congress. A hard vote and contentious issue since most of the leadership and many of the best fighters the Club has are women.

Yelizaveta just smirks, blood on her white lab coat, her hair a bit of a mess. She’s tells him to go fuck himself as her eyes flash grey, then back to gold.

Dr. Kay of course has the option to return to the U.A.S., but will chose to stay with her old friends and estranged associates for reasons not yet to be known. The contract is transferable.             Once Adon is stabilized and once DeBuitléir is sold on the plan and committed they will board a massive black freighter in the city of Port-au-Rebel, once called Port Au Prince and arrive several weeks later in the Persian Gulf.

And Adon will break and bend rules for her like usual.

 

Yelizaveta knows this because Maya has told her it would come to pass as it was written in the New Social Gospel.

 

It will take a month to get Sebastian back to relative health and ready for travel to Sinai Peninsula, then be smuggled down to the Wild West Indies. He’s in good hands on the Island nation who’s slave revolt two hundred years prior gave birth to the militant human rights ideology that the club came to fully embrace.

 

In the meantime. Sixty three rebel Free States resist union. A new ceasefire holds. And the nuclear option has been restored.

 

Most importantly. The candidate is in her third trimester.

 

Alexandre Perchevney informs his third daughter Hachi by 5am Las Vegas time, eight days after the single engine TELSA-Galati Airship named the Flickering Flame arrived safely in Rojava, that the arms and ‘assorted other collateral’ would be making its way by convoy to the Basis-Wadi-Faran as per plan sometime the following week.

 

“And where is Dr. Perechenova currently?” he asks.

“She is attending to Sebastian Adon who was shot several times during the liberation of Mr.  DeBuitléir. They are in Rojava.”

“Well then. They can keep her.”

“She’s been dead to you a long time father.”

“Well I doubt she even remembers.”

“Well you can always wake her up if it seems strategic.”

“Of course. Wake her up right next to that sleeping hero who so loves her.”

“He is incredibly hard to kill.”

“He’s more interesting and useful alive really.”

“Why are we doing this again? Helping these people I mean” asks Perchevney to his daughter Hachi in Bulgarian.

“For all the money my papa? For the power and glory added to House Perchevney?” she responds.

But Perchevney is one of the top richest self-made men on earth. And it isn’t about the money at all because sometimes, just sometimes you can’t buy revenge. You have to work hard for it just like everyone else.

 

That wasn’t just a doctor for hire after all that they borrowed. That was his first daughter Yelizaveta. Quite literally he now had skin, flesh? In the game, even if she is dead to him already emotionally.

 

Even if she doesn’t quite viscerally remember a day of her life before Cuba.

Whatever money cannot buy spiritually, it sure can buy enough sex, weapons or the high science to accomplish nearly anything else.

 

Chapter 52

Olofsen Hotel, Port-Au-Prince,

2019ce

Ayiti

 

Three of rest and love making, three months later.

 

In early 2019, once called the month of September, after just a month recuperating in the nation of Cuba; Adon, Dr. Kay, Dr. Emile Cange, and Watson Entwissle travel by jeep to Port-Au-Prince under the invitation and protection of Health Minister Geraldine Capois (twin sister of Tiputti) of the Lavalas Party; Ayiti’s predominant political organization. Minister Geraldine Capois and her younger brother the Minister of Public Emergency Tiputti Capois are now serving on the Cabinet of current government led by the ageing rebel leader elected now for the fourth time Jean Bertrand Aristide. Tiputti and Geraldine are dear old friends of Sebastian and Yelizaveta having served with them both five years prior in the Ayitian-Emergency-Group guerrilla medical column before, during and after the Great Revolt.

 

It has been rumored before and now clamor confirmed in the U.A.S. Corporate Press that he is in fact not dead, at all.

 

Sebastian is now a very, very wanted man in the U.A.S. But he couldn’t have picked a safer island to hide on. The Breuklyn Soviet and other sixty two entities in the eastern confederacy are riddled with assassins, snitches and spies. In Ayiti he and she might be the only blans in a hundred miles, but having bled for the Ayitian people in innumerous ways, both bear the Pin of Palmares which lets all know on whose side they stand.

Shortly after watching a beautiful Caribe sunset from a sprawling balcony at the Ayitian People’s Medical College in the mountain heights above the city in an area once called Kenscoff, now called Commune Amis-de-Peuble (Friends of the People); Watson, Sebastian, Yelizaveta and Dr. Emile Cange drive their black open side Jeep down Rue De Toussaint L’Ouvature, the newly built modern highway into the Capital with its solar powered street lamps, shade embankments, and fluttering flag canopies of blue and red.

This is Sebastian’s first night out since he was shot in the exodus. He is wearing a white linen suit which matches Yelizaveta’s white linen dress. Paramedic Watson Entwissle, who is an officer of high rank in the Ayitian Defense Forces on top of his affiliation with the Breuklyn Otriad, is wearing the olive green uniform of the national service with a simple pin of his rank, that of a Captain on the left lapel, the flag of Palmares on his right arm, the palm tree surrounded by cannons and flags and the tree of life. Dr. Emile Cange is in business causal having met so many world leaders over the past four decades it is rarely any cause for fancy.

 

Dr. Cange who painstakingly helped vastly expand the vast multi-national Parastate medical apparatus known as “Partners in Health” is never tired or will ever be retired. What a great man named Paul Farmer once began in the village of Cange so many years ago with the martyrs Paul Farmer, Ophelia Dahl, Thomas J. White, and Dr. Jim Yong Kim is now providing a “preferential option for the poor in Healthcare” in over sixty four nations worldwide.

He is a dear old comrade to Adon though abhors violence of all kinds. Yelizaveta Kay did her residency alongside him at the HUEH, Port-Au-Prince General Hospital at the height of the Great Revolt. Even when former Present a Second time for Life Jean-Claude Duvalier ordered the massacre of all blan on the island as final desperate measure, even after the second quake, the hunger strikes, and the flooding she stayed with Emile serving the medical needs of the Ayitian people. That’s how she earned her pin.

The jeep’s headlights cut through night, but it isn’t as bad as the old days. There are street lights now, also electricity and sanitation. Watson is driving, though Farmer knows the roads best, most of Watson’s live was spent in the Breuklyn Soviet until he and Adon returned five years ago to enlist in the ranks of the uprising led by Aristede, Lavalas, and the Ayitian peasantry against the Dictator Jean Claude Duvalier; the Brazilians, U.A.S., and Nepalese Occupational Authorities, as well as the paramilitary forces of the Ruus, Columbian, Mexican, Dominikani drug cartels. The incomplete disorder they are here to finish and bring to level.

They arrive at the fortified gates of newly renovated Hotel Olofsen at 8pm on the dot. Its white wooden gingerbread spires, its walkways draped with voodoo flags, its epic deck with view of half the city; this is where the uprising essentially began. Armed guards in black suits look them over and quickly salute Captain Entwissle, though they recognize Farmer’s face immediately and Kay shortly after and salute them too. Adon holds the rank of Staff Sargent in the Otriad, but abhors wearing uniforms unless he has to.

 

They all salute back; such a silly ritual thinks Dr. Emile Cange.

 

From the table they are seated at one can take in the full majesty of the island capital, see what has been accomplished in the years since the temblor killed 300,000 and reduced the place to its very foundations.

They can see Independence Day preparations underway across the city.

 

“What you’re proposing is not possible to accomplish so fast if you do not allow the use of lethal force against the enemy,” states DeBuitléir.

They all meditate on that, each thinking of the many thousands slain so far in the previous seven years of the revolt.

“Maya proclaims that it is,” Adon finally counters.

“It is,” she declares, “but of course not without incredible courage and risk.”

He looks into the ginger bread horizon.

“And why should I feel alright signing off my nation’s resources to Russian mobsters, and northern radicals, put myself in the debt of the Israelis and Persians, and allow thousands of armed men to run lose in my country? I feel as though you already know what I will say about your contract and operation Marcus Garvey as you call it.”

 

“Don’t forget about the Cubans and the Dominicans, they want their pieces too,” says Maya Sorieya Emma Solomon.

 

The real fucking Maya. Not the candidate brought back and protected because she was shot so many times in the Millennium raid she could never bear the promised ones again.

“Blessing to you on the birth of your children by proxy in Breuklyn Soviet,” says Dr. Emile Cange bowing his head to the two foremost leaders of the revolution; DeBuitléir and Solomon.

“Thank you brother,” Avinadav says, “peace be unto you.”

“Let us read together the communique in a seated circle,” states Maya, “as we used to in the days before.”

 

 

Communique 02

[Observances of the January 1st Movement]

 

Please remove the battery from your phone and read this pamphlet aloud with a small group.

 

Distributed 1 January, 2015, 5775

 

• Partisans Oath

 

• We all have a duty to act.
• In our hearts,
• We know that people should not live as they do.
• Humanity was born free and equal,
• Yet, across this earth lies broken,
• Dying hungry and in chains.
• It is our duty to act that unites us.
• To act in association for these promised rights.
• Medicine, Education, and Emancipatory Development;
• Are our primary tools against injustice.
• We promise to wield these tools on the front lines of suffering
• We will build the world we wish to see.
• Seed by Seed.
• Brick by Brick.
• We carry the torches of the change makers who fell before us.
• Fighting boldly for an idea.
• That we were born free woman and men.
• That we will never surrender.
• That we will never accept anything short of full freedom.
• Our numbers are man and each day multiply.
• In the face of mounting injustices.
• For while fighting isolated and in darkness,
• We have become resourceful.
• As realization spreads that this is not how we must live.
• We stand ready to defend
• The Impoverished.
• The Wretched.
• The Victimized.
• The Enslaved.
• We are prepared to struggle as long as we must.
• Generation by Generation.
• Until every last man, woman and child is also free.
• In unity there is great strength.
• Because I love my brothers and my sisters,
• My mother and my father,
• My children, my friends, my comrades
• And also the suffering stranger
• This is why I have joined the Association
• And it’s Partisans,
• Placed myself on the side of humanity,
• And enlisted in the Resistance.
• Now that my eyes are open,
• I will leave no person behind the lines of war and poverty.
• I will live my life as friend of the people.
• I will never look away from the truth.

 

Resistance, Development, Consciousness and Emancipation in the 21^st Century begins with our boldness. Our complete rejection of the atrocities and structural violence forced upon us by the world system.

 

1. We Respect our bodies and minds.

We respect the fundamental power of teaching and learning, popular education as a means to advance the condition of our collective human people. Conscious, critical thinking is the most powerful weapon we have. Our minds and our ability to utilize them in the process of the liberation struggle and beyond is the opening through which emancipation takes the form of mass awakening.

 

We can only be kept as slaves if we allow our consciousness to be subsumed by lies, stress, brutality and oppression forced upon us to keep us divided, working and weak.

 

We don’t put poison in our body. We don’t eat disgusting and unhealthy things. We don’t take drugs that don’t have an overt medical purpose for a chronic condition. We abstain from alcohol and cigarettes whenever possible. Alcohol depresses your central nervous system and lowers your consciousness for thirty days. Tobacco smoke is one of the most holistically unhealthy things you can put in your body. Avoid over consumption. We engage in regular physical activity and meditation. We dance, run, play, sing and enjoy our lives. Above all we avoid television; as well as violent pornography and video games by every means necessary. These things pollute us and prevent us from seeing the world as it really is.

 

2. Don’t believe the lies about false consciousness and identity.

 

Other than biological function, sexual orientation and the physical presence of your sex organs

all other aspects of identity; gender, race, class, caste and especially your proscribed religion and your assigned nationality were constructed specifically to divide and exploit you. We continuously urge all people to refrain from acts of organized violence driven by imaginary, unseen entities they cannot see or invisible lines across territories put there to control your movements, harvest your taxes and complete exploit you.

 

All free thinking, good people are welcome in this movement. There is no discrimination to involvement as long as the observances are strictly upheld. No identity politics. No identity based organizing, this is a movement for achieving human rights and needs; securing environmental sustainability on this earth and achieving economic equity. Securing for all people Maslow’s needs & the United Nation’s codified Human Rights via the 3 pillars of human development; these are our movement’s ends.

 

We respect and enhance the power of indigenous knowledge and do our work on the basis of indigenous need. We need to keep engaging the people in their own liberation. We need to make the raising of consciousness and the enhancement of capability the most integral aspect both the resistance and the Great Revolt.

 

3. We lead with our deeds.

 

We have no centralized leadership. We have no titles or chains of command, except when necessary to designate operational function. It is better to enter the movement with your own reorganized group, party association, union, religious or social group, chapter, detachment, otriad or cell. It is best to come to the table alongside your family and friends.

 

4. We save lives, we don’t ever take them.

 

No killing, no harming or injuring people; no weapons, no violence, no vandalism no destruction of property. Any who kill or any who destroy property [that is ours by having been paid for it with our work and taxes] is immediately disqualified from this social movement. Nothing on earth pleases then oligarchy more than violence for it lowers human consciousness to the most animal level. They have and always will attempt to provoke a violent response from the resistance.

 

5. We don’t ever underestimate our enemy.

 

 Our enemies means of surveillance and widespread application of torture and violence in particular. Their control of linguistics, history, and science. Their vast resources and their willingness to kill to protect them. No cell phones at meetings, batteries out. No transmission of sensitive materials over computers. No rosters or taking attendance. Don’t say loud and unnecessary things in cars, homes or public places. We believe in unity and only trust what we see with our own eyes. We submit every activity or endeavor to randomized control trials, we advocate and replicate things proven to work in three or more places. Do not allow the oligarchy to define the aims and aspirations of the movement. Do not allow traitors, spies and government agitators to breach your security. Do not make it easy for them to kill, imprison, harass and disappear members and sympathizers of the movement.

 

6. [Besides killing people or destroying property]; EVERY AND ANY OTHER tactic may be actively deployed against the 206 national oligarchic collectives and their exploitative agents.

 

Members of the J1 Movement are strictly committed to militant nonviolence. Violence is counter to human rights. Counter to consciousness and proven to escalate all violations of rights when implemented. Members are completely prohibited from taking human lives or destroying property. Those we fight are monsters and we must refuse to degrade our noble struggle by succumbing to their vile methods.

 

Via sustained and strategic militant nonviolence and supply side resistance we shall hit them in their pockets. It is the only thing they care about. Hit their assets; their financial architecture; their banking systems; their media communications; their elite institutions; their leisure assets; their advertising and control systems; their supply chains; their work sites, the commercial centers of major cities; especially anything that encourages labor exploitation, slavery and human rights violations at the periphery.

 

Prevent goods, commodities and energy resources to be easily carried back to the 26 nations of the global economic core.

 

7. 7. Control over the means of development is the pathway to our freedom.

 

The Resistance is founded on the world we build in front of us not upon the ashes of the Oligarchy. We are a movement founded on life and vibrancy. We are a teaching movement. We are a healing movement. A school and hospital building movement. A movement that places emancipatory development as the highest priority to activities and operations. We are therefore attempting to teach 3.5 billion people how to fish movement. We are based among the people in all 206 national plantations that suffer most under the iron heel of oligarchy. The J1 Movement and those that support it believe the best offensive against corrupt rule is to demonstrate viable functional alternatives. The duty of each state is provide for needs, rights and human development. The illegitimacy of our oppressors is based upon the notion they protect us.

 

Vast abuses in all 206 plantation states demonstrate that these governments are wholly illegitimate. Rather than fight states we shall construct parallel ones and give our people true alternatives to bondage.

 

8. Solidarity forever. Every single other human is your sister and your brother, as an injury to one is an injury to all; this movement and all its sympathizers, brigades, detachments, party groups, cells and affiliated sister groupings must keep the resistance disciplined and in the field until all 206 national oligarchies are completely defeated. Generation by generation; as long as this war must continue. Not one woman, man or child is to be left behind the lines.

 

If you sympathize with and seek to actively support the general aims & objectives of the J1 Movement; endorse this pamphlet and pass it along to another group. Do not await reinforcements or look for further direction. Engage in critical consciousness building, emancipatory development and [or] resistance planning operations in your immediate community.

 

You, your working group and your partisans must sustain the struggle as long as necessary until reinforcements are available. Do not take lives, do not take prisoners.

 

We salute you in advance for your heroism.

 

 

 

 

“That very well written, who wrote it?” Victor Emile Cange asks. Not Sebastian, it was far too succinct and to the point.

 

Emma Solomon smiles and turns to Avinadav and says, “Yalla.”

Arabic or Hebrew for, let’s go. With General Obenson Etienne, Anya Drovtich and Hachi Perchevney on the holophone; Adon witnessed DeBuitléir and Solomon sign the declaration of war on the government and occupational forces of Ayiti on behalf of Breuklyn Soviet.

 

It was immediately via Ayitian General Tiputti Capois, Watson Entwissle and Dr. Emile Cange endorsed by the Republican Forces of Ayiti-D.R and shortly after all of the Wild West Indian Federation, submitted also to BRICS, ALBA and CARICOM.

 

It had looked like rain before but right now over Port Au Prince now, it looks beautiful and clear. But that can change in the blink of an eye.

 

Chapter 53

Pic de Macaya, 2019ce

Ayiti

 

 

A year before the infamous jail break they had once sought out a man in fading years who wished to perform one more glorious act. The Commandant was a well-traveled salesman of death, when they finally caught up to him he was well within the wilderness of place called Chain de la Sella.

 

All the way up in the mountains it got cold and they could see the lights of the burning embers of villages for miles and hear the voodoo drums everywhere.

 

He’d been running from himself again. They found him using satellite tracking, but still needed to hire a native to hunt him into the Island’s desolate mountain heights of mountains beyond mountains. Now they were up on the slopes of Pic de Macaya, the highest point on the southern seaboard.

 

Watson Entwissle and Sebastian Adon, humping Israeli military frame packs led by a native boy on their goude coin named Adme, a fearless young Ayitian.

They walk up on his ‘89’ around twilight. He draws his iron on them.

“Who the fuck are you? Sand Gypsy bandits?” asks the Commandant Mikhail Mastrovitch, a Chechen War Vet and Special Forces Pararescueman with a fully loaded sholem.

And then he recognizes Adon, his old student whom he has not seen in seven whole years. Believed to be dead by all.

 

He’s got salt and pepper hair that was once according to photographs curly blonde.

 

“We are here to buy you, and also cook dinner,” states Adon.

“Buy me dinner where exactly? This is Desert ducking Island.”

“Buying you is the main objective, the Afghan dinner is complementary,” says Watson.

 

Adme in his native language Ayitian Créole says something unintelligible.

 

“I don’t speak yer native language little cousin,” bellows the Commandant.

“I said these are not blan to trifle with,” the boy responds.

“He’s quite right,” explains Watson, even though he isn’t all that blan to be called that.

There is a desperate silence in the cold, northern air of this place. No light besides the setting sun on the outskirts of civilization.

As Sebastian Adon prepares a kosher dinner for the four of them of marinated lamb, yams and pilaf, Mikhail Mastrovitch gazes off into the abyss looking for a way to absolve himself of a highly militant and at least partially wasted life. Watson Entwissle in a dark black thermal pea coat explains the particulars. Of which there were many. Mikhail stares off into the wilderness taking it in so it seems. Watson notes that the mountains here remind him of his home Black Mountain back on Ayitian Island, but certainly much colder. He also deliberates internally why his partner Adon trusts this wild aging mercenary or that Dominikani bagman that told them where he was hiding.

“Well how much combat experience to these men have?” Mikhail asks.

“Irregular amounts,” states Sebastian.

“Almost none,” purposefully lies Watson Entwissle.

“Cousin, these days no one has none,” Mikhail Mastrovitch retorts.

Watson remembers the three day battle for Kenscoff where the Lavalas peasant militia battled the Brazilian and Nepalese forces to a near standstill. And the epic mechanized surprise attack the Ayitian-Emergency-Group engaged in aided by an airborne regiment of the Breuklyn Otriad. The world hadn’t seen asymmetrical warfare like that since the Israeli land grabs of 48, ‘56, and ’67. Also ‘82, ’05, ’12 and also ’13 on behalf of the Canaanites fighting back.

“Well I’d say we’re light on our feet,” says Adon.

Sebastian Adon thinks briefly of the amount of times he and Watson have cut open sex traffickers and slavers in the fortified places they thought they could hide over the past few years.

“Well I’m glad he’s so optimistic,” smirks Watson.

“How many men did you say?” inquired Mikhail Mastrovitch.

“Right now just fewer than 2,000 committed.”

“All with guns and equipment?”

“About that pending. Actually all they have at this point is strong will and green money,” lies Watson.

“So you don’t yet have a means to even wage yer war?”

“Let me interject,” states Watson Entwissle, “our money is very, very green money. We’ll pay you handsomely to train this little battalion. And they don’t have to be able to win a land war in East Asia neither. They’re off to neutralize a marauding band of rapist brigands with pickup trucks and Kalashnikovs that won’t be but three times their number.”

“So says yer intell.”

“So says the Israeli & Cuban intell too. And that cousin is damn good intell,” cuts in Sebastian.

“You can outfit a force this size quickly?” Mikhail Mastrovitch says munching, noshing really on a cigar.

“We can have the whole battalion on the Isle of Youth by the end of the year, outfitted and armed.”

“Isle of Youth? In Cuba?”

“We’ve been offered a bunker facility by the Cubans and possible air support pending survival by the Israelis. And the administration of our own government has pledged a small sum in a round-about way.”

“Are you guys U.A.S. or Confederates?” Mikhail Mastrovitch asks.

This is serious question these days as the Second Civil War looks so inevitable, much of the ex-pat population is in general sympathy with the Autonomous Movement and the Soviet Confederation, but Mr. Mastrovitch holds several colors of passport.

“Let’s just say we all voted Obama only in the last two elections,” says Sebastian Adon.

The little Indian has his hand out for green backs. Watson Entwissle pays him. Communicates in hand-sign the boy can stay for dinner if he’d like. And everyone’s hungry who climbs mountains so the boy expediently digs in.

“How long do you expect your battalion to drill for?”

“Three to six months. Then three columns organized by ethnicity will proceed to invade the North, South and Central Ayiti by land, sea and air respectively,” explains Adon.

“Why are you dividing your men by ethnicity?”

“He’s not at liberty to say,” cuts in Watson.

“What kind of ordinance will be at your disposal once deployed?”

“Kalashnikovs, Han replications, Israeli high-tech, irregular small arms all with non-lethal ammunition and a couple dozen bullet proof ambulances,” says Adon.

“Well, I guess a bullet proof ambulance is a little better than a pickup truck,” notes Mastrovitch.

“I know who you are working for,” Mastrovitch suddenly says to Adon.

“Well I doubt you know their real names,” Adon responds.

“You’re that noire-Yid human rights mafia from the Breuklyn Soviet aren’t you?”

Adme laughs. Says something in his native.

“What was that frère?” Watson asks.

“He said, you get what you pay for,” says Mastrovitch who speaks the native language after all.

“What’s in a name?” Watson pontificates.

“So you’ll help train our people?” asks Adon.

Mikhail Mastrovitch doesn’t say anything hasty.

Watson takes a briefcase clipped onto his rucksack and opens it in front of Mikhail Mastrovitch, the brief case sneaks open with a piercing click.

“In case your civic duty fails you, here’s half a million up front, as per contract, one million more at completion of training, and four million more in the event of successful ground operations at culmination of invasion. It’s a merit based outfit.”

Mastrovitch is staring at what’s sitting on top of the money. Laminated photographs of his wife, three sons, their grandkids, and a spread sheet of every friend he has with home addresses and contact numbers. He’d thought he was a more secretive man.

“Everyone says you’re quite good at bombs and murder and to be trusted at the arts of war, and we’re bad people sometimes too, but we’re not hard criminals,” explains Sebastian Adon, “But, since we’re about to do serious work and we need you to be cognizant that we are not to be fucked with.”

“The point I think has been made before introduction. You are after all two of the founding members of the Breuklyn Bath and Rifle Club,” Mastrovitch mutters, “I’ll need three weeks to round up a suitable training crew, about a dozen men. I’ll include in my contract their salaries of course but I will need your leadership to procure some basic training equipment as per a list I’ll submit.”

“I think you’ll find our Isle of Youth facility quite amicable to the needs of your training potential team.”

“So one year from now, for a year straight after than in Isle of Youth as per contract?” has asks.

“Any questions?” Watson asks.

“Well the only one that matters. Who do you all work for ultimately?”

“For G-d and Breuklyn cousin, that’s all you got to know,” says Adon.

Commandant Mikhail Mastrovitch had trained the mujahidin who started Al-Qai’da in the Reagan-Bush years, the Anti-Contras of Gran Columbia now responsible for South to North trade in Women and Cocaine, and had built up the brutal right hand men of dictators on three continents. He’d never trained actual freedom fighters before. It would be a good last mission. A reason to come out of extended exile and early retirement. Maybe even go to heaven.

“You sure I’m the man for this job?” Mastrovitch asks.

“After all the murder you’ve created in the world to secure the white man this is the last chance you’ll ever have to cross over to the other side,” Adme retorts in flawless Americano before anyone can respond.

 

Adon grins. Breathes out cold air which looks a lot like smoke.

“What the funny little Ayitian said,” asks Sebastian Adon.

“Just teach us all how to dougie,” says Watson Entwissle.

 

 

Chapter 54

Jacmel, 2019ce

Occupied Ayiti

 

 

In Jacmel on the Southern coat of Ayiti it is almost time for another Carnival. Masques, revelry and paper machete abound. Sebastian is up and about three months into recuperation walking on the main rue with Dr. Perechenova by his side.

There’s was an amour obscure.

 

All Dasha Andreavna’s brutally short letter, handed to him in the hospital against commandant Rafael Ernesto Contreras’ better judgment told him was that she had gone back to her “husband” in Breuklyn Soviet. That she might be killed in the coming attack and real world life was too short to squander on any long distance relationship. And, that their life time was timeless, there was room for the old and the new. She wished him luck though. They just didn’t share any of the same afterlife goals.

He broke open his hand bunching a flood barrier.

 

And then the woman that saved him, the woman that he’d once saved. The first daughter of Alexandre ‘Sasho’ Perchevney who he’d saved from an upper Oligarch named Kahn and the blizzard of 2010 kissed him.

 

To keep his stitches from coming open.

 

Look blan kissing! Every Ayitian smiled and yelled and began taking camera pictures. He had her in a cab an hour later. It was just that congested with voyeurs.

The first time he put it in her it hurt. She ripped him down to size first emotionally, humbling him in nine months of letters directed to expose the arrogance of his ways. She asked him, well he begged asking, questions about all his plots, schemes motives and dreams.

That was almost ten years ago. Before the Revolt. Before the Great Disorder. Before the trial and before he first arrived in Ayiti on the eve of tremors and carnage.

They had tried to make their letter writing not turn into anything invasive. She tried rather hard not to let him kiss her too often, or to let him become an interference in her highly Soviet individualist life. But, on the last night of Hanukah and nearly seven months into their highly old school hand pressed courtship from the back of his ambulance to the University in Stonybrook by mail, well he’d won her, for a least awhile.

And soon after she let him have her. At least for a time.

He had been so dashing then, so polite and impressive in his blue uniform driving out to her university to visit on his pass days. He was an escape into a world of grand plots and mystery and foreign adventure and he saved lives for a living then. Even the idea of letter writing had been wonderful she used to lecture him on scientific advancement, marine mammals and also had tutored him in Russian and he exposed her to the wide world of the human right movement. Together between her classes and many rounds of naked showers and make out sessions where she’d deny him any gratification but to caress her, they designed the first blueprint. The operations guide used to train Ayitian emts and mass smuggle equipment and trainers into that nation. It was the only semester in in university she got Cs.

She made him wait three months before she sucked his cock and four months before she let him get take her completely. She had reveled in the control she had over him even going so far as to make him produce medical documentation that he had no diseases of the bedroom. She had only let five men sleep with her up until then and he was a carnal animal, and even though he would refuse to specify how many women he’d had, she delighted in making him work especially hard for her.

There had been some high minded thoughts about love making. But when she gave into him he ravaged her like a little whore. He pulled her blonde hair, he pushed her to her knees, he pressed her roughly against the bed, and the floor and staircase and he fucked her hard as she ordered him to. She loved it, it went on all night. It was nice to have a man make her cum with his own cock. She wanted him for quite longer then she’d cared to admit, but her powers over him were addictive. The waiting was vital. And he sure could enthusiastically fuck. There was a truly dark side of her that craved this kind of hard handed affection. But he was unaware of how to truly love then even if he thought otherwise. He had to be taught. And there were a lot of issues of course with his condition that complicated everything. But the carnal side of them both kept the relationship going far longer than she might have normally allowed a man who lived so lawlessly. And he was always getting arrested. Or faking his own death.  Most importantly her mother did not approve.

And he was a terrorist! She could never forget that. But most importantly the daughter of bipolar doctor carried away long ago to the mental hospital gulag by ambulance men, could never have a life with a bipolar ambulance man, terrorist or not.

But she loved being fucked by him. He could go for hours and hours and he’d do what she told him to and he’d love her and then brutally take control of her. But it ended outside the bedroom. He was a puppy to her when they got off a bed. Foolishly devoted and she could get anything out of him she wanted.

And then their prolonged separation at her insistence helped nothing. He erased her for some time to orchestrate the next stretch of the war. First they took Breuklyn, then all of Ayiti. And then she allowed the letters to resume, but would not entertain even the thought of a public visitation or a private one.

And all his words since Ayiti had been so sweet, so longing. But it was rough and prolonged violent sex, nine months’ worth the first time. Her naked body ravaged sometimes for several days when time allowed. He’d cuff her hands sometimes. He’d bite her tits and slap her big Russian ass as he entered her ferociously from behind with a belt around her neck.  Sometimes he could really cross a line, but she was dirty and he was bipolar, which meant he could go from very degrading hard sex to playtime and pillow forts, almost on command.

 

Now this was different. On a soft huge grey blanket on the ridge, on the eve of invasion he channeled ten years of sadness, failure and longing into rounds of pleasure worthy of her for the first time.

Sometimes long ago after their violent fucking she caught him smiling, beaming really at her like a love drunk school boy and they took each other again sometimes, sometimes with remarkable attention to depth of their passion. Not just fucking slowly as she had always assumed was the only way to teach a man from America to make love.

But tonight his rough ambulance-man hands grip her thighs as he thrusts inside her and he tells her he loves her and kisses her over and over again delighted and writhing in pleasure from the full scope of her attentions. She pushes him on his back. She bites her lip and pulls his brown hair, groaning in delight. Sweat drips across them as they slide into and thorough each other and he calls out her again into the desert night.

“Yelizaveta!” he yells out in ecstasy. If there was another name he had yelled wasn’t it just the name of ghost who had inevitably betrayed him?

What happened in Ayiti during the earthquake was a subject of some great debate.

They’d near been inseparable lovers up until his third expedition there, but that collapsed in madness too. They’d been day to night, letter to letter saving in the killing fields of Port-Au-Prince, but why-why so long apart each time?

That is because the first time was rife with tragedy and violence.

The night before deployment when Yelizaveta truly loved Sebastian within an inch of his half-Hebrew life, she swears one cannot love a dead man if you yourself fear death, but a man setting himself up to die for cause needs a good witness and partner. But this was a bit untrue. He’d have tried to do it all alone if he could have willed it. And anyway he’s very hard to kill. Supposedly so he claimed several times in pillow talk that he dreamed he’d live until age 88 and die in fire fight in the Bronx. Crazy talk from a love drunk crazy man. She loves him sometimes because he is so ready to rise to the occasion. She hates him for so many things he can’t even remember.

He has same condition that ultimately did her father in and drove the whole family into huge debt that she is still paying off with her work for Perchevney.

 

“You’re not a bad lover for a man shot just three month ago.”

“You’re not a bad lover for a woman who swore I was dog and that she could never lay eyes or hands on me again.”

“I’m staying with you here in Ayiti you must realize Neshama,” she declares.

She’s hasn’t called him that in years. My Soul. It’s what he always has called her.

“Maya says you’re wide open after saving me.”

“I told Maya you haven’t killed anyone, lately.”

“I haven’t,” he lies instinctively.

“You’re full of complete shit as usual.”

“What does your contract say you can’t do?”

“I don’t really care anymore. Who is even working for whom! My contract with the Perchevney Bratva is a little less specific than my contract with your, shall we say, your partner in high thought crimes.”

“Solomon’s a great trickster.”

“Solomon’s the big boss. A goddess amongst insects. The queen maker and the king.”

“What’s a god to a non-believer?” he asks.

“You don’t believe in anything,” retorts knowing he’s sometimes called an anarchist.

“I believe in the messiah, in the Mahdi and the blue print called the New Social Gospel written by their mother father. I believe also in love. And in limiting my killing. I didn’t kill anyone who didn’t deserve it. Even all those people held hostage shot blown up in the four so called restaurants of Vegas were buying sex and rolling dice.”

“Well you shouldn’t kill anyone anyway. It’s a war crime. Your rescue escapade certainly provoked them into attacking Breuklyn. Tens of thousands lost their lives in every Soviet.”

“We’re in the middle of a huge war in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Well stop killing people, or I can’t love you anymore like I used to. Fucking you is phenomenal. You give too much of shit.”

“I’ll try, but I think we will have to kill a few more people here and there. We’re about to, you know, invade a whole war torn genocidal country. I haven’t killed anyone lately like in the past month.”

“But you soon you will again?”

“Well only people that deserve it.”

“Fuck man!”

“Can you still love?”

“Yes, but I won’t be able to treat you. I have a real sick old man. I signed a long contract. That you do remember.”

“I know. Perchevney is paying for your father’s care in Switzerland,” he says sarcastically. Not like he’s your father.

“And my mother’s newfound life of leisure, don’t forget my loyalties.”

“And Solomon?”

“Sold her my soul. Perchevney only owns my body. So don’t get yourself shot again. I’ll treat the suffering strangers as you provide the appearance of more New Social Gospel type miracles. I can’t believe I’m following a dead man into his own hell, yet again, but it’s a ten year contract and you aren’t supposedly supposed to dying anytime soon.”

“I’d say don’t come, but you’re real a tough woman to argue with. So I’d be honored if you were watching my back again. And it’s been said I can’t die until the age of 88, so you have a good long time if you claim it. To come as many times as you see fit.”

“All I’m going to do is watch,” smiles Yelizaveta Kay. He imagines she’s blushing, but Post Soviets don’t blush.

“I like it when you watch. It makes me work harder,” he responds.

She presses a hand written note into his palm, looking at him with guarded thanks and near certain longing.

 

The note says:  “If you want it you can get it for the rest of your life.”

 

They head back to Isle of Youth to rejoin the Cuban detachment and prepare to fly out to Ayiti the very next day.

 

 

Chapter 55

The Alexy Navalny Campaign Safehouse, 2010ce

Odessa

 

 

Dr. Yelizaveta Kay has there golden eyes that fluctuate between hazel, green and stunning. She has never met an Amerikanski that can properly pronounce her last name, and it doesn’t properly fit on her identity card, so she had it shortened down to ‘Kay’.

Her eyes pierce you and judge you at the same time and that judgment is normally rather harsh.

 

They often mean to say “go fuck-you”, but they still seem to drive all the boys wild. In the summer she’s a natural blonde, in the winter a red head. She can have any man she wants, but has a very sick father and this places upon her a number of obligations. A man who in another place called the former Soviet Union was a physician, a man of power and a puller of teeth. Then, something broke in him just after they arrived in the United American States. He was quite brilliant once, perhaps still is under all the salt in the wounds. He languished for a time in and out of psychiatric facilities and the family accrued increasing debt. So Yelizaveta became Zivia Kay, and put aside other men as well ideals for cold ambition to keep her mother out of poverty and her father from the hands and needles of the hospitaliers.

And that is her story and she is sticking to it.

She was a premed Postsoviet Beauty.

The breeze is blowing on a beautiful black sea. Two women of alarming, head turning disposition sit across from each other. One has brown flowing hair and a leather jacket. The other once a blonde, now her hair has been died former Soviet crimson.

On the table is rather substantial contract. They are seated on a veranda looking out upon on the Port of Odessa. In the next room a unit of Ayitian medical officers and their Ukrainian counter parts are setting up a makeshift O.R. in the living room of the safe house. She fully intends to sign the contract in front of her.

It will affect her whole entire life. It comes with a scripted back story. She must never waver from it. And she was just eighteen years old when that happened. Shortly after a certain incident which drove she and family to the very edge. That was almost a decade ago. But she remembers the conversation she had before she signed her life away. In a playback that she rehashes periodically, it occurs as if in present terms.

 

Conducted in hushed low Russian:

“Who do you work for exactly Ms. Solomon,” she asks a buxom brunette with a brown leather jacket a red bandana tucked in the left pocket.

“Certain mighty factions that prefer three letters to a name-nameless, but nothing particularly likely to worry a god fearing, human loving person like yourself Ms. Yelizaveta Kay. I prefer, as does your potential employer your former Soviet name. It has far greater connotations of your true hadar.”

“What does that mean again?”

“A lot of things. In this case; your utter strength of will power.”

“You can call me Dasha Andreavna for all I care if my father gets better, the debt goes away and I end up with a valid western medical license.”

“Did you read the whole thing?”

“Of course, I read the whole thing.”

“The ‘patients, prisoners and students’ clause?”

“Yes. I can only treat certain people.”

“Who can’t you treat?”

“People that kill the innocents. Or kill at all.”

“Do you speak passible Spanish?”

“Yes. I used to date a passible gentleman who put me on to it.” Or bellowed it while he fucked the life out of me in hand cuffs, she notes mentally.

“Do you get along well with Noires?”

“They’re ok. Not like Adon does.”

“Fair enough. Sign and date right there, there and there. Also behind page seven, eighty six and three hundred and forty two; at the green line margin.”

“I don’t get a copy of the contract it says.”

“No, but I’ll let you read it for another twenty-five minutes if you think you missed something really, really important.”

“What happens again if I treat a killer?”

“Baby girl, you lose your second soul. Man is evil not because of his nature, but history and a dark socialization. I find the best way to program a man is to deny the validity of his history, case in point Sebastian Adon,” explains Maya Solomon to Yelizaveta Kay.

An awkward moment.

“He still loves you?” Yelizaveta inquires.

“No. He surely only writes to and about you these days.”

“My contract said nothing of what to do about Adon.”

“You’re thinking sweetly of him still are you not?”

“I wish to train to treat the body, not be distracted by yet another sick and angry mind.”

“He’s a prisoner and a student so you can treat his brains out for now my little sister.”

“What are you all plotting Emma?”

“Man is evil, is he not capable of little else but war, rape and some genocide?”

“Yes, that is mostly true.”

“Who are Dbrisk, O’Domhnaill and Trikhovitch?”

“Sebastian’s closest friends.”

“They’ve all signed contracts too you know. Why did you sign your contract?”

“To help my father and to get my mother made a hotel wage slave out of debt’s bondage. I owe you ten years and then I’m a doctor of infectious disease.”

“And such is your story and you will stick to it.”

“Humanity has caught an infectious disease when it comes to morality. Men fear neither law nor god. Your contract is to treat certain men, not others remember.”

“You are not to treat to any of the friends of Adon should they end up as your patients. They fall outside your jurisdiction. Even if he asks you to treat them you cannot.”

“What about him. I have various feelings for him that need an ocean in between us not to act on the passion they sometimes, mind you only sometimes; illicit.”

“We invested in Adon the seeds of a dream and mission. He signed a blood oath once that’s term will never expire within our camp. Come the time you are free to go: We own Adon, for him nothing is ever written, but on his shoulders quite a lot rides.”

“If I had to hedge a bet I’d say you’re setting him up for martyrdom again.”

“Don’t let his brave words allow you to absolve his ignoble past.”

“I don’t remember the past well anymore Ms. Solomon.”

“That my little tovarish is probably for the best. You won his black heart fair and square, but in the now I own both his first and second soul.”

She then signed the yellow contract with a red ink plume. There were a wide range of motivations behind it.

She undressed herself quietly, as all but one of the three male Ayitian paramedics avert their eyes. She was handed a light grey latex thin body suit. Maya kissed her forehead. Once garbed she lowered herself into the big steel bath basin. The water was warm and thick with salt.

The last thing she remembered before waking up in Havana for her first day of medical school were the Ayitian technicians preparing a series of medications as Maya Solomon inserted an IV line in to her left external jugular.

 

A doctor from the Ukrainian-Emergency-Group (U.E.G.) then dimmed the lights and put her to sleep in the bath. Away went the world, into a land of dreams and forgotten pasts swallowed by the waters of the bath and voodoo salts which entered her blood stream.

 

Chapter 56

South Overlook, Masada Citadel, 66ce

Roman Occupied Palestine

 

In a dream as Adon, Yelizaveta and eighty-two Cuban combat medics cross the Caribbean Sea, Mickhi Dbrisk and Sebastian Adon look down upon the eight Roman legions that have encircled their position and are building a slave labor ramp up one side of the cliff. The aim of these legions is to torture, foul and snuff the surviving leadership of the insurgency against Caesar.

Against all of Rome if need be.

 

“I fear that this thing will again destroy you,” says Mickhi Dbrisk.

 

Sebastian tosses a lit cigarette and hopes it lands on a Roman not a slave.

“I doubt it will be a fait accompli. They say I’m very hard to kill.”

“The Rabbis say there are no secrets between brothers.”

“The rabbis say all kinds of things. Sounds like the words of someone who wants to know a secret.”

“I know that you die every time you watch them die, and that when you are crying you are imitating a grief that you explicitly do not know how to feel. But do you cry ever for yourself?”

Sebastian flexes his arms into the warrior pose and then says.

“When no one is looking except she who I so love.”

“If you love her so much why don’t you stop fighting? Like she sometimes pauses to ask. You’ve done so much already and here we are having the same conversation we had four thousand years ago, allegedly. Four hundred years ago. That we will be having again and again we wage war epoch to epoch, husk to husk!”

“Do you remember the first job we ever did together?”

“The first job we didn’t do right really.”

“You always remember your first job.”

“When you leave your body where do you go?” asks Mickhi Dbrisk.

“I go back to Zion.”

“And what are you doing there.”

“I’m walking around on a long boardwalk. I’m running into old friends. I’m with my wife and my family.”

“How many times do you remember dying?”

Sebastian Adon looks up into the eyes of Mickhi Dbrisk.

“The body is a vessel for the soul. The flesh is a vehicle by which the soul carries out the work of Gods in the world of man.”

“Don’t recite the N.S.G. to me old friend. Don’t put on your mask when you speak to your brother.”

“Sometimes I look at my face in the mirror and I don’t recognize myself. I cannot always be clear about what I did in this life or the last that cut me so deeply or burned me so asunder. I have memories that I cannot say match records of objective reality. I would not recognize god from the devil except by the conduct of the vessels they occupy. Tell me brother when you leave your body where do you go?”

“I go back to Jamaica. I’m on the boardwalk. Running into old friends. On my way home to see my wife and my family.”

“What happened at the Millennium theatre?”

“You, Emma and twenty two fighters went in and for three days the held the elites of the city hostage. They pumped in gas. Everybody was killed.”

“I don’t remember anything about it.”

“So maybe you’re not really you.”

“How many times have you been to my funeral?”

“Twice. Right before the revolt when you and Dasha eloped into time. And right before the revolt ended, when you and Emma Solomon led the raid on the Millennium Theatre. ”

“And I died on the night of the great blizzard. And I died in Ayiti during the revolution also right after the quake.  And I died on the trains. And, other times.”

“The other times I cannot speak to. You were taken to the hospital numerous times. I have no idea. But I saw your corpse. I saw your cold dead grinning mangled body with two shots in it when we buried you the first time. I saw your corpse on national television nearly four years ago when the department of homeland security announced all of the terrorists at the millennium were dead.”

“Well here I am. How now brown cow?”

“Tell me what’s happened to you. Tell me about how you come back with all your memories intact. And so quickly. I know its all disinformation about the cloning programs and the neural uploading and the parapsychology program. I know that neither we nor the Israelis have the science exact and we will never have the science to save a man’s soul and transfer his energy with all its memory in the span of a human lifetime.”

“Do you know me Mickhi Dbrisk?”

“In a biblical sense? No homo.”

“No homo.”

“What’s your earliest memory of me?”

“You were the baddest thief and I was the goodest thief and they nailed our bodies to the tree of life alongside the promised messiah. And her name was unpronounceable by men, so we called her Emma Rose Maya Sorieya; the mother of the changes. I remember before my body died I looked out on Jerusalem and I saw ten thousand of our people hanging from the trees. And then I woke up in Africa one hundred years later and the real killing began.”

“And when the body dies the energy of the soul is reborn in another living vessel. Old souls find each other so it seems.”

“Have you no understanding of what it might be like to be like normal men?! I know I do. I know that I enjoy the caress of a woman more than a god I have never seen. I know what it’s like to see myself in my offspring and want for them to grow into proud and free beings. I don’t live in the past Sebastian, I live for now. In several lives I found you and I aided you each time. We fought wars and launched bloody revolutions, we drafted documents articulating freedom, we protected the bloodline of the chosen ones faithfully for the past 2,000 years! You tell me brother why you and I can’t just stop. And walk away. ”

Sebastian Adon says nothing.

“Every human is loved by God and that love is exhibited in the compassion and solidarity extended by the righteous to the suffering masses trampled on by cruel devils.”

“I know what the book says. I helped write it. Don’t quote low think prophesy to me. If you please.”

“What are we doing?” Asks Mickhi Dbrisk.

“We’re sticking to the goddamn plan.”

“You’re plan or God’s plan? Emma’s plan or Avinadav’s. The Cuban plan? The Blue Lodge? The Grey Cult? What about the Scientologists, the Chassids, the Baha’i, the Muslims the Buddhists’? Who’s plan? You are my oldest friend, you my brother by blood and by deed, but let me tell you one thing before we set the sky on fire yet again. I’ve seen you die. I’ve seen you be tortured. I’ve seen the oligarchs lay waste to our best laid plans. Over and over and over and over. I’ve seen man burn our people and our prophets each time we rise. Right now we are precariously holding seven districts on a war torn micro republic and the island of Hispaniola. Every single organized government on earth is fixing to break out backs. I need to look you in the eyes, and ask you, are we going to win this time?”

 

“I just don’t yet know.”

 

Dbrisk pulls off his tam and lets his thick lion locks drop out. He shakes them more a shudder than any kind of battle roar, and then he says;

“Well that’s very discomforting. To say the very least.”

 

“Ha Halom Sheli Likhiot Hofshee,” Adon thinks, my dream is to be free!! Adon wakes up on a ferry full of Ayitians and Cubans drifting toward the Isle of Youth. Yelizaveta in her green Soviet commandant hat, pinches him. And Mickhi Dbrisk, well he just makes a mental note, an estimate of the size of the payroll and army he’s gonna have to bill to protect his family in both Breuklyn Soviet & Jamaica once the war resumes.

 

And everybody dreams about their vengeance, their redemption, dreams about their baby’s face; what it used to look like. We dream about the world to come; about all the things we sacrificed to get here. This close to the mountain top. All those who died standing on the shoulder of giants. We dream about all the loose change multiplying in the world, about rubber band banks. Day of love and nights at war. The fear in our enemies’ eyes, knowing we are advancing. Despite so many setbacks! Blat.

 

We dream about the old constant grind, when we worked the plantations as wage slaves and regular slaves; when it will end; hopefully on a beach naked in our lovers’ arms. And we also dream about our coming freedom. What it will looks and taste like for our grandchildren, for those of us who survive the coming liberations wars. The grand defense; a Great Revolt mounted to achieve our rights and defeat the oligarchy in every nation on earth.

 

Her grey eyes flashed in my mind for a minute, in another waking dream. The last look she gave me before they dragged her off to die.

 

 

 

 

And then, we went back to the war.

 

Fire on the Mountain

 

 

(In four ACTS)

 

 

Act 44

 

 

[The Work Of]:

 

 

Adler S Walt

 

 

Dedicated to: Daria Andreavna Skorobogatova

& Yelizaveta Kotlyarova,

And Elena Antolievna Komarova

& Valentina Stanovova

 

 

 

 

ACT FOUR:   Stoj’kost

 

Set in Hispaniola (Ayiti & DR)

 

1 January, 2019-2020ce, AR 7-8

 

 

Set mostly on the Island of Hispaniola (Ayiti and DR);

 

Eight years after a successful uprising on the Eastern seaboard which has liberated over 64 autonomous microrepubliks; it is vital to the revolt to expand its base of support to the defeinsible West Indian islands. Amid atrocities and mounting manufactured genocide in the NGO controlled UN occupied Republic of Haiti; rebel fighters and foreign partizans from the Breuklyn Soviet will do battle with MINUSTAH UN troops, the French, the English, the Spanish, the Argentinians, the Brazilians, zombies, robots and whoever else stands in the way of completing the revolution of 1804.

 

 

 

Set in the Republic of Ayiti, 2020ce

 

“What in two fucks do you know about being in love my tovarish,” she once asked me.

 

At the time I gazed off into the night. One does not even fully comprehend the depth of incorrigible things a truly Russian woman knows how to say to an American man in eight different tenses of a lover spurned. She now says I am a terrorist! Or at best a baltering zealot.

A frank and unrepentant potential killer of other men. But you cannot always trust women. They often lie to protect the things they cherish. Their children. Also the future.

I was not always such a man.

 

No ideological calling or message from the unseen put me on this path. I don’t kill because of mere ideas. Or because of poetic visions rationalizing some means to a so-called “better world”. The terror we have unleashed was born of misdeeds perpetrated against me and mine as well as against you and yours. It is no abstraction to embrace violence when an aggressor tramples on your face. It comes quickly or it remains unthinkable. I have no time these days for pacifists and certainly not for cowardly sheep. Turning the other cheek to these people we are fighting will get you far, far worse than killed. I have bloodied my hands before as a savage avenger and certainly soon will do so again. But, I don’t kill alone like some deranged fanatic.

Oh no. We laid an elaborate plan and have subsequently received extensive support.

We are not patriots or “freedom fighters” in the traditional sense of what that means in Geneva. This is not our land, nor through the fog of war do I see freedom as our figurative or even literal ends. Our means however will certainly not absolve us in the text books of history whether we be the winners or the losers. Cloaks and daggers have long been used to abet our cause. But, the ripping of human flesh with sharp blades in close quarters and the bursting of bullets though our enemies black hearts will perhaps tarnish our family names and simultaneously bar us all from the gates of any reputable heaven. I have left men hanging in trees! But, I’m not one to believe in fairy tales. They will have to torture me for a very long time, and they will not get much for their troubles. Neither my motive nor my names are easy answers. And you probably won’t be able to pronounce it anyway.

 

I am not acting alone. If I am a so-called “terrorist” committing acts of semi-selective murder I am alongside many fellow blood soaked bandits. Our cause has a certain appeal to at least a Breuklyn few. And if she’s right about me not knowing how to love well, or at all, I absolutely do know how to struggle until the lights in my eyes go out.

 

We are called the zealots after all.

 

We are hunting vicious killers. We are grinding down these sly villains where they hide, cutting bits and pieces from this rapist ilk. We work thanklessly to remove a large array of very-very cruel, bad men from the earth. Vile parasites that suck our blood and steal our meager earnings and reduced us all to slavery. Along with their secondary officers, tertiary command of vicious enforcers, and basically anyone that gets in our way. And if we cut our way through enough of these people we will then begin to lay hands on the oligarchy.

 

Let it not be said that before we picked up our daggers and rifles we did not first spend a good many years trying all other means of more civilized change making. I loved my people, and more specifically my family, before I hated our nemesis and the cruel minority of oligarchs and war criminals that so hold humanity on a vast plantation under their iron heel, but also our common apathy.

 

Or called in Russian; Raspizdia.

One who doesn’t give a fuck about their fellow human beings?

No giving of fucks! Even really about their own sad selves?

 

Amid the thankless grind I see the face of a young woman following us where we go to commit murder. She follows just behind to save lives and heal. A physician who found herself trapped on this perhaps morally ambiguous road we travel as ruthless knock around highway men. Or so she claims. And every time I pull that trigger I fly further from the place I was boron and the good man that she once thought I was. Were it not for her, I’d have forgotten I still had one soul left with which to barter.

Our irregular military column of hearty partisans clears a rocky ridge. Forty men and one woman, all clad in dark grey or dark blue multi-forms, wrapped in tactical bandoleers carrying the tools of our respective trades—murder and healing. We men are here to kill. The solitary doctor amongst us with her implements touches the collateral of their war, but has sworn not to treat a soldier. On either side.

That morning we look for one bad man in particular.

It’s just before dawn when we finally catch up with his trail in the barrens of this dusty, dying and terrible place. The poplar trees sway heavily in the rustling morning wind, which offers our lonely column no real relief. We mill about gauging reactions, sipping gingerly on our water. A few lay down their battle rigs but keep their dusty irons always on the ready. We are hard men in rough grey khaki stained with sweat and grizzle but never tears. Some wear black or dark blue partisan caps. Others have checkered sand-gypsy scarves about their shoulders or brow. Most carry various calibers of former and Postsoviet rifles. Our doctor, she still wears a lab coat, a blue uniform, and wears a dark green military cap.

We march on.

The official name of our little outfit is the Z.O.B.-Dublin Detachment also called the Fighting 99th. It is composed of Shtarkers[78], Shatahs, Fenians as well as a popery of the Ayitian peasants from across the southland. If you’re not familiar with these particular edged colloquialisms, well I suggest you look them up in the appendix of exotic foreign vernaculars. Suffice to say they are just different ways to designate a “bad motherfucker.” Except Fenian, that is an Irish political nationalist ideology of the early 18^th century.

We go one foot after another. We walk with a heavy defiance, with cold eyes that view the barrens like hungry wolves. We are each a raw material mined from a foreign conflict, smelted at some point on Breuklyn’s coast into the violent war machine we now compose. Sun-burnt freckled faces, which had first turned cherry red in the glare of the Caribbean high noon. Dread-locked islanders with accents well edged for song. Also some post and former Soviets with shifty morals and a small band of self-proclaimed Yids that never lift a finger on a Shabbos but refrain from emasculating headwear. And the native people that had not asked us to come here look. I suppose they wonder if we foreign faces are to be the turners of a bloody tide or the worst harbingers of an impending catastrophic event. At this juncture the book is still open.

We march to this dead place to bear grim witness.

War on this island fortress, and war in the world of man have burnished us into unrepentant murderers that have killed and will surely kill again. That we kill to stave off an even greater genocide by murdering its perpetrators, is the rhetoric we hide our murder behind. And if each of us came to this wasteland below the Choke Mountains beyond Illubador out into the contested borderlands about the Valley of Antimonite with some noble pretense to liberate the Ayitian people from the iron heel of the M.I.N.U.S.T.A.H.[79] and the N.G.O. Republic and their Maccoute or F.R.A.P.H.-rapist militia bag man; then periodically, it is the low volume atrocities like this one, which sometimes take the greatest toll on our resolve.

This is sadly not G.I., the Joe; those stand for real and vile things.

Roped up from the highest palm tree visible to all we men and single female of the Z.O.B.-Dublin detachment is the ghastly site of a hanged man we all knew and like a brother loved. A thick sanguine pool had formed below him. He is eviscerated. Slashed to fleshy ribbons perhaps just a few hours before we came upon him. He had broken camp at dusk, spirited himself away and wandered out from our garrison in Cange right into enemy hands. Had our ruthless jackal opponents had some notion of who the man was, he’d have been taken to a filtration camp like the others—the poor founding bastards of the Famni Lavalas Alliance- and flayed for information, tortured until he could no longer remember his Yiddish name. Perhaps this was better albeit completely inglorious. There is nothing about the condition of his corpse to make us think his end was particularly quick.

I knew this man so long that it was like stumbling upon a fresh crime scene of a beloved family member. To others, he was a tovarish of sorts, a less than humble man who sustained so many with his savvy and stalwart acts. The rest knew him as a fearless comrade and champion to so many souls not cut of his tribe’s cloth.

We find our close compatriot hanging disemboweled from a hook—his eyes gouged out, hands lopped off, bayonet marks slashed about his body— exsanguinated in a tree of death. He is now cold, wet and dead.

“Cut him down!”

“Cut him down and bury him deep,” commands a Pale Officer.

The future was evidently to be far bloodier than the scientists and high priests had originally prophesized and predicted. The physician’s blond hair, it blows in a swift desert wind. She looks away from the bloody mess we’ve made just for an instant.

 

Violence is the longest road to nowhere, but we seem to be making great time!

 

 

 

Prelude

 

 

 

Fuck. Where the fuck am I? Where, the fucking hell am I?

What did they do with her!

Damn my weakness!

I’ve shot myself in the face and the foot, again! I know it.

 

Sebastian Adon wakes up in a small locked room in Coney Island Hospital. He’s wearing aquamarine scrubs; the left leg has the hospital name and logo on it, that’s just about the only way he knows where he is, or what time zone he may be in. Déjà vu, in the worst possible way over takes him. The last thing he remembers, or suspects is a party valid memory; he was riding in the rear of tap-tap truck into the tallest mountains of Ayiti. He was dying of thirst, amongst other things.

 

He thinks he remembers the smell of iron. The taste of his own almond bitter blood, the smell of rotting corpses and their rankness magnified by the impervious heat clearing out into cool mountain air. He is in cuffs. He is blind folded. He is huddled with other prisoners. He is then taken and shot twice in the head and the last thing he remembers is the smell of the grass.

 

            BRAKA. BRAKA.                                      

 

Gunpowder.

 

But now he’s back in Breuklyn, or is it Brooklyn; which means quite a lot hasn’t gone to plan; at least also for those that had meant to put him in the ground.

He now rubs his most groggy head.

Stands shakily up in his small locked padded room. Looks in a wall mounted mirror, all his hair is gone. He looks a little fitter, looks a little tanner, but he still doesn’t really recognize his face. His last memory of Ayiti is sitting in the back of a flatbed truck, driving into the hills to train guerrilla medical workers. Being captured and shot for it.

 

Something obviously has gone quite wrong.

 

He takes water from the sink and splashes his face. The name “Cassidy Vale” is stuck in his head, but he doesn’t remember who that is, completely, if at all. The last thing he was thinking was how fresh the grass smelled lying in it and how the tropical soil smelled as he bled into it.

How the Island might bring him back to life?

The Island and what was buried below it, and the machines that caused the earthquake.

The machines? Yes, the machines that caused the earthquake. The flying saucer men!

Mad thoughts of a Harp.

His no good, terrible, very bad year when all had completely fallen apart was now coming back in parts. 2010, a shit show. The view from an Israeli prison window was emerging; Jeremy and Maria were dead; Theodore Becker too. He was attempting to piece everything back together. And then the ground shook below him.

Knocking him to the floor, yet again.

 

            The year is 2010 Common Era in the Gregorian calendar, I live in the American Empire. He tries to repeat what he knows about himself like crazy people do in movies or bet noire lit. ‘I’m a City EMT. I’m locked up in the funny farm, again. Except, something, everything has been changed.’

 

What the hell was he doing back in New York City? This was not the plan at all.

He dashes the face he can barely recognize against the mirror.

Plow! BASH! Haldol.

 

            The next day, they discharged him as if nothing very serious had happened.

 

            They said some “special lady friend” was coming to collect him; told him to take it real slow, that he needed to take his meds and not let his mind wander; that he was “one of them”, “a hero”, part of “the department”. They told him he might have some memory lapses, but not to worry; everything was going to be fine. He had the Seroquel blues and five other various vials, lithium of course; the hand-shakes, the world was a black and white copy; he’d done this all before and it didn’t seem real.

 

This broad, who he doesn’t recognize at all, though tries to play along, with long black hair picks him up in a white Honda Civic that she says is his, but he remembers driving a white Chevy Blazer. Or a grey charger, a Civic? Who drives fucking Civic?

 

She says her name is “Maria”, but Maria is dead as far as his inclinations tell him. At least that’s what he remembers, not only is Maria dead, but that she was a red head with a little mole on the right dimple; and this girl’s hair was raven noire. He plays along though. She tosses him a pack of Lucky Strikes, but for shit sure he always thought he smoked Newports. Or Noblisse; what’s Noblisse he asks himself.

 

Never mind.

 

‘Maria’ says she’s taking him to a good Russian banya, the best one in town. The Mermaid Spa in Seagate to lounge out and get his stress out.

“My head’s all back fucked,” Sebastian says to this broad, who is apparently also his old lady, “what’s today’s date?”

 

“It’s February baby, February 13^th, 2010. You better drop on flowers and dinner for me babe.”

 

“When did I get back from Ayiti?”

 

“Ayiti? What are you talking’ about babe?”

 

“I went down to Ayiti on January 16^th.  Right after the earthquake. With the Bedstuy volunteers and the Church of Scientology. When did I get back?”

 

She looks at him a little crazy person look. She quietly takes a pull of his cigarette, she looks a lot more like a “Jessica” than a Maria, he’s not sure who “Jessica” is, but she doesn’t really look at all like his dead ex-girlfriend.

 

Maria Parsheva, who he left behind on Block Island when he swam out to the Black Freighter. And then the world ended there. And Maria was dead.

 

“Baby boy, listen, you gotta try and remember that not all you remember is real. You tried to kill yourself on February 2nd, the anniversary of Jeremy’s death. You took a lot of those blue pills. Near OD’ed; you’ve been in Coney Island Hospital since then. About forty days they wanted, but you’ve got friends in the management. Which isn’t that bad. You kept asking the doctors about Ayiti, telling um you were down there as a medic, but baby, you ain’t ever been to Ayiti. There’s no such thing as a Ayiti.”

“What about the earthquake, I mean I vividly remember going down to a place called Ayiti after an earthquake.”

“What earthquake? What’s Ayiti?” But he can see in her eyes she knows what Ayiti is.

“The big fuckin’ earthquake. That just happened in Ayiti.”

“What’s Ayiti? What are you talking about?”

She gives him a look.

“There wasn’t a big earthquake. There’s no such place called Ayiti. The doctors say you concocted this whole fantasy world after your attempted suicide to cope with the problems in your life. But it’s going to be ok. I’m not gonna leave you un-attended.”

“What do I do for a living?”

“What? Are you serious?”

“Dead serious, before I tried to kill myself what did I do for a living.”

“You’re a fire fighter baby.”

That didn’t any logical sense.

“I thought I was an EMT.”

“You used to be an EMT before you took the fire fighter promotional a year ago. You really don’t remember?” She looks at him sympathetically. Puts her finger quietly to her lips.

“Everything is big grey mess,” he says.

“Baby, you gotta be careful, you gotta take your pills, this bipolar disorder is gonna do you in. You make me so worried about you.”

“But I don’t know how to fight fires. I drive an ambulance, I carry fat hysterical Puerto Rican women down stairs. I give people their oxygen.”

 

“Are you sure about that? Think harder about that.”

 

Then pins begin to fall and Sebastian gets a shiver up his spine. He doubles over a second, and low and behold, she was right. He hadn’t been on an ambulance in over a year. The Republic of Ayiti never existed at all. He now remembers becoming a fire fighter at the age of twenty five; remembers working first on a ghetto Engine in Brownsville before getting sent back to the South Bronx, remembers it all more clearly than any of the vague notions of this “Ayiti” he’s clinging to.

Something has clearly been changed. Maria never died. Jeremey never died. They just broke up. Friends move on to different places. No one was suffering, no one he could effect. He never stayed as an EMT, why would anyone do that shitty miserable job even if it paid more than enough to survive? He’d never gone to Israel and been viciously programmed and tortured. And the earthquake never happened, because there was no such real place as the Republic of Ayiti. There had been a switch, and he was clinging to fragments of memories from a reality that was unraveling quietly.

“Get it Sebastian? What happened on that island was all in your head. You have bipolar baby, shit, you’re a sad mess my brave battered lover dear. But you baby are a hard bodied, sexy hero. New York’s Bravest. And I’m gonna stick by you no matter what, and ride the shit out of you when we get home.”

What’s real?

This broad, this broad who he’s never seen before in his life was certainly not his dead/ ex-girlfriend “Maria”. Maria Parsheva was dead, because Maria had killed herself about a year ago, and Maria was a coy red head; this girl’s hair is natural blond, but he now had fewer doubts. The name “Komarova”, was stuck in his head, who that really was he had no idea either. She’s to model like, too blond. She’s physicaly perfect and had big wandering blue eyes, that stay with him the whole time.

“How long was I in the bin?”

“Forty days Daddy. They had to use the current on you, get the pins to realign in your crazy man head.”

“It felt so real, I was in Ayiti; and I was an EMT!”

“Like a lesser paramedic baby? In Ayiti? If I didn’t love you so much I’d never be able to put up with your way too crazy shit. You know I love you so much baby, right? Otherwise I couldn’t put up with this mad shit.”

“Yeah.”

And yet he thinks, who are you again?

She’s just a Valentine present waiting to happen.

 

What had happened? The airlift, the medical internationalist column, the revolution, Cassidy, Dominich, Tiputti Capois and the machinations of DeBuitléir and now, back in New York it faded away like a bad dream. His “girlfriend” was alive, he’d never become a medical worker that long, he’d never gone to that evil Jerusalem colony; and he was severely bipolar. But you can forgive a New York City fire fighter just about anything except pension fraud. Sebastian Adon looking out the car window onto Ocean Parkway begins to cry with joy.

 

It was all just a terrible nightmare!

 

“Don’t cry baby. Men don’t cry,” the woman he’s never seen before tells him.

She opens the glove compartment of ‘his car’, and hands him a soft embroidered plain grey bandana. He covers his face with it to wipe his less than manly tears.

 

 

She makes him ride a horse. They eat steak lunches at Tatiyanas. They hit the Mermaid Spa hard and do massage and oak leave.

By the time they’re done with the banya, nine hours later and he’s naked in her arms fucking her like an savage animal, it’s as if the whole “Ayitian” episode was a spooky dream, the “girlfriend” feels and fucks familiar, as he packs his cock inside her from behind he thinks her hair color seems to change color as they tantrically thrust. Like maybe she is Maria. Or maybe she is an enemy or a set up. Or maybe, she’s all of them or none of them. Her eyes get big as she sucks on him.

He fucks her violently, it’s the only way he knows how.

 

“Val, Val, Val, Valentina!” he yells out and cums inside of her.

 

He still has a job on Engine 808, because it’s a civil service position and even firemen go crazy once in a while.

 

Firefighting. A good gig.

 

After screwing this curvy stranger in every single orifice he goes on to the roof and opens the door to the elevator gear room where he remembers there to be a small metal box. Rubber banded to the top of The Sly Fox is a dusty laminated placard which states, “IN CASE OF EMERGENCY”.

 

Inside is a pack of Noblisse cigarettes, a green signal flair, and a grey leather bound book filled with poems, some naughty drawings, some photos, letters and diary entries.

 

And that is how he begins to separate the fakeness from the real. With the help of the smoke monster, and maybe also god. All he’d needed to be well has a good hard fucking a hot banya. Good and well as new. There are many lives to live. My life is hers to give.

 

Despicable self-hate and pity, I feel almost nothing. She fucked me like an animal right back though.

 

 

 

Chapter 1

Isle of Youth, 2019ce

CuBA

 

 

When this begins, they’re gonna try and hit us all at once. They’re gonna try and hurt the people closest to us, they’re gonna go after everyone we ever cared about, everyone we ever loved even people that owe us money. They’re gonna bomb our cities. They’re gonna demolish places we went to school, burn down our churches, synagogues and mosques.

 

They’re gonna go on the news and find people to say we’re sex offenders, and cult leaders and terrorists. They’re gonna use maps and sound effects and subject matter experts to make us look like we’re thieves and killers; criminal bandits.

 

The day our boots hit Ayitian soil, there is no going back for any of us. No surrender, not even in the event of our deaths. Our three detachments number roughly 1,001 women and men, there are 20,000 lightly armed peasant fighters in position who have, maybe, one pistol, or an aging rifle to every 500 of them. We may rely on limited Cuban and Trinidadian air and naval support for resupply and evacuation of casualties. It’s a potentially small war, a company & a brigade[80] against a division of regular troops, maybe the entire Dominican Army, which has no discipline in the field. Only good at raping its own people.

 

We are facing over 10,000 heavily armed Argentine and Brazilian soldiers with full air support, helicopters, bombers and drones from the United Nations. We anticipate incursions from the Dominican Army, and likely if effective the UAS Military Garrison in Puerto Rico, which means terra drones. So, maybe one well trained division and one poorly trained division, and some fucking robots.

 

We believe we will have full popular support in the uprising, and can conquer the island with minimal loss of life.

 

 

Chapter 2

Aquin Township, 2020ce

Ayiti

 

Over and out, the speakers affixed to the sides of an armored column of type -two ambulances rolling into the township of Aquin clamor and belligerently blast the hip-hop track “Breuklyn-we-go-hard!”

 

It’s a rather loud for a surprise attack all things considered.

 

Sodium Phosphate[81] grenades labeled “MADE IN BREUKLYN” explode against the largest stucco colonial villa built years ago in this small pleasure compound in the South West Isthmus of Ayiti. The premier wakes up from his slumber next to foreign bought trafficked Russian two whores, still very goddamn magic carpet high.

 

His compound is on fire. That is his first realization.

 

His second is that apparently ‘Breuklyn goes hard.’ He hears machine gun fire everywhere. He scrambles for a fancy blaster that he just acquired in a card game with a Han oil technocrat. But he’s never fired it and he’s high as hell off Afghan brown. The door to his bedroom is being ratcheted open. Splintering apart when met with hate and zeal.

 

He, the Amir, is the Regional Section Chief of the Maccoute militia. His name is Jean Claude Duvalier II, former President for Life of Ayiti’s only son. He is feared and powerful when he walks among the powerless, but he’d have gotten robbed three times just trying to cross Flatbush Junction these days. Tonight he will die violently. Irons of Jam Rock will surely make that happen. We killed his father in 2014 with a Heart attack.

 

He screams like a frantic dying animal. His facade of dignity is completely lost in the face of impending death. His concubines are awake and shouting, looking to escape and hide. He smells the pummeling plumes of smoke. The door finally splinters apart. He can’t find the clip to his blaster. He’s never fired it before.

 

Commander Mickhi Dbrisk is the one who finally kicks in the door.

 

“For your high crimes against the Ayitian people: Die you murderous fuck!” Dbrisk yells as he blows off the Amir’s face with blast from his high powered revolver repeater. It takes off the right side of the Amir’s jaw and crimson on the tits of one of his screaming slaves.

 

DBrisk does the triple tap. One in the heart and another two in the face, they plan to use finger printing to identify and confirm the targets. The young slaves run screaming out of the villa master bedroom. Mickhi Dbrisk and his men pull on respirator masks because of the smoke. Commander Magnus Allamby works quickly to secure the Amir’s satellite phone, lap top and document case as well as the gold plated USA shooter, “for prosperity and hilarity” also because it’s made of gold.

 

Dbrisk points down toward the dead Maccoute, son of an assassinated tyrant. He’s warm dead and ugly. Gore all over a fancy bed purchased for private pleasure expropriated from poverty at the barrel of a gun. And the web cam in his helmet transmits everything to the interweb.

 

“Cut a hand[82] and take a couple pictures. Let’s get the fuck out of here,” mutters Dbrisk.

 

Bodies litter the streets of Aquin. Like a bunch of opiated Hessians on Christmas Eve these marauding mercenaries hadn’t put up too much fight. The Scarborough Column had bled them while they slept. They had reduced “Gold Boy Pleasure Compound” to ash and taken thirty eight hands: anyone with a Maccoute-band, or anyone who fired at them. As they withdrew past the shanty towns of subjugated guest workers and villagers who serviced these rapist brutes the Scarborough column dumps bags of cash they’d snatched from the pleasure compound out on the roads.

Blood in the brown dirt deforested sand, blood in their eyes, green money, green blood money fluttering down and Ayitian agro-peasants cheering gathering it up.

 

Welcome back to the long road back to mother Africa thinks Commander Mickhi Dbrisk, happy birthday black baby Jesus, the ground war has finally begun, as per the prophesy of the New Social Gospel. All blessings and praises to Commanders Debutelier and Solomon.

 

By dawn all over the inter-web they were twittering about this. On Blackberry’s and also White berries. In Moscow coffee houses & salons in Angel City, even under the bamboo-iron cyber curtain of Beijing; certainly on Ayiti and New York and far beyond. The videos and the photos were everywhere by 3am Ayiti time, soon no one could deny how hard Breuklyn went. Nick Mapfre’s team saw to that.

The invasion was being live streamed. White people love watching people get killed on live television and this shit was actually real, mad hits.

 

The cover of the New York Times reads:

 

“IRREGULAR INVASION OF HISPANIOLA ATTRIBUTED TO MERCINARY BANDS FROM THE BREUKLYN SOVIET”.

 

 

The Isle of Mann based daily’s scramble to find reports with a sensational sexualized spin, but most of the rags just copy and paste internet reports, tons o’ videos of the raiding goes up on YouTube, then comes right down. Roughly three hundred Maccoute and their ilk have been wiped out in midnight raids across northern Ayiti by an unknown irregular column of American and Fenian nationals.

 

No one takes credit immediately, but there sure were pictures to prove it had bloody, bloody happened. A photograph was emailed to all of the media outlets that “tell less lies than others”. Roughly 1,200 men lined up in columns with dark and light and blue grey fatigues by battalion. And a link to an encrypted website where they can watch live streams of the war, as well as purchase exclusive material form People’s Television News Service.

 

It was morning on a new kind of news day. The vultures would be selling papers by the blood bundle. The three columns were coming ready or not propelled by their duty to act. Out to bleed the worst kind of men as a means to send a message.

 

In the opening round of hostilities, the eleven detachments of roughly forty men apiece had blown part, set fire to, took wild pot shots at, hacked limbs off of, scalped and or emptied many a clip into the Maccoutes’ core leadership.  Many of those they had killed had been hunted and cut to ribbons in a wide range of hard to pronounce towns and villages in the North of the country.

 

The three foreign detachments are working off a sixty-four target hit to kill list of wanted war criminals facing charges in the International Criminal Court in Addis Abba, affiliated with the Neo-Maccoutes & FRAPH, the Neo-Duvalierist former Army death squad, as well as Argentine and Brazilian MINUSTAH[83] war criminals. These men had been pin-pointed by the Ayitian-Emergency-Group and were being tracked with relative precision by the intelligence arm of allies in the Lavalas[84] faction of the general résistance. The G.A.I-H.E.G. is composed of eleven factions of Ayitian EMS, civil servants and rescue workers being the best armed and supplied via Cuba.

 

“I mean, we are gonna certainly kill them all before they get to face those charges in a court, but really now, these are the real bad dudes whose guilt is assured and recognized,” explains one Commander Djbriel Okonkwo, “Kill them on site and upload the kill confirmations to the white boys at PTV. No trials gonna ever happen anyway.”

 

Now, I’m sure some people notice a real v/Q mismatch between action and rhetoric. There sure was whole ton of talking and writing and planning about non-violence; so how did the first 4 hours alone get so bloody?

 

The gun fights had gotten pretty Mongolian firebrand in the townships especially where a large brigade of the Brazilian regular military showed up to back up the Maccoute militia and shelled the local population for nine hours. Really peacefaire[85] failed immediately here.

 

The People’s Television Network via the inter-web declares that as of 1600:

Ali Kushayb: Former senior member of the Maccoute, currently wanted by the International Criminal Court (ICC). Killed by small arms fire at approximately 0005 on Brumaire 8^th in Aquin. Execution carried out by the Gold Lion Detachment of the Scarborough Column.

• Ahmed Mohammed Haroun: Maccoute ‘Coordination and Command Council’ also Ayitian State Minister of Interior. Incinerated in a rocket propelled grenade attack at approximately 0036 in Jeremie. Execution carried out by Malik Shabazz Detachment of the Scarborough Column led by Commander Djbriel Okonkwo o the Uhuru Faction.
• El Tahir Hassan Abboud: Maccoute ‘Coordination and Command Council’ also member of insider NCP party. Decapitated and hung upside down from the gates of Cayes at approximately 0032.
• Charlie Baker II; second son of local white Oligarch Charlie Baker sweat shop lord killed in his bed of a heart attack. And then someone took off his hand with ha knife.

 

Numerous Maccoute bases have been demolished and an estimated 371 confirmed combatant kills have been reported by the Associated Press attributed to the “irregular foreign invaders”. Due to poor intelligence, bad logistics, or overwhelming defenses the eight other Scarborough raiding parties largely failed to kill ranking Maccoute leaders in the South.

 

But widespread damage had been caused throughout the country and the spot light was back on the perpetrators of the genocide.

 

 

Chapter 2

Breuklyn Soviet, 2019ce

Sandooney Bathhouse

 

 

2^nd January, 2019 It was time to deliver a message to howling mobs, wanting to know how it had gotten so bloody so quick when what they were being told by their leaders in Breuklyn was that this was liberation; this was an expansion of the effort to defeat the oligarchy into other lands.

 

A press conference is being held in the main Amphitheatre of the Breuklyn Bath and Rifle Club under the Sandooney Bathhouse on McDonalds Ave, Z.O.B. command. Just 24 hours after deployment. Information and Intelligence Section Chief Anya Drovtich, the fierce Polish Islamic paramedic takes only three questions.

 

The BBC, Global Rev, Ayitian-Libertad, Al Jazeera, Der Spiegel and the New York Times were the only media syndicates allowed to attend in person.

 

The rest are local “freelance journalists” vetted by the Breuklyn Otriad and People’s Television, and the Ministry of Agitation Propaganda, Barclays General Assembly.

 

“What is the objective of the invasion?” asks the New York Times reporter.

 

Anya Drovtich has pale vanilla skin bellow her red Hijab and curly luscious black hair in well-kept dreads below that. She is wearing a grey dress suit-shirt, with a Pin of Palmares attached to the left lapel. It has been three months since rebel Breuklyn held off a full frontal assault by the UAS Military and brought down two flying fortresses over Bronx and Breuklyn.

 

“The objective is to capture or eliminate the leadership of the Neo-Maccoute militia and to completely break its operational capacity to carry on its campaign of genocide against the Ayitian and Dominican people. They are to be routed, neutralized and pacified.”

 

“Well isn’t that the job of MINUSTAH?” asks the BBC rep, “Isn’t that the responsibility of UN peacekeepers, not leftist militia groups?”

 

“To clarify, we are not operating unilaterally. The intervention force is just over 1,000 soldiers and support personnel, the majority of which are Ayitian. We are also acting on the invitation of the Famni Lavalas Political Party, which while still banned is the largest party in Ayiti,” Anya replies.

 

 

 

“Could you define blan for them,” Erza Pula Pound, the Albanian black frizzy haired lawyer and deputy communications chief interjects, also in Hijab.

 

“Evil white outsider or evil insider of any color propagating anti-Ayitian, anti-Dominican subjugation.”

 

“Who is funding and supporting the invasion?” asks a reporter from the BBC, the Black Broadcast Confederacy.

 

“It is self-financed foreign policy. The Breuklyn Otriad is merely supporting the actions of the eleven Rebel factions in the Ayitian-Emergency-Group lead by Commander Avinadav DeBuitléir.  I repeat. We have no official or unofficial support from either the United American States, the Union of Confederated States, or any other state power. Certainly, as a revolutionary human rights movement we take nothing from the People’s Republic China or the Russian Federation. This is basically a foreign legion of civilian volunteers fighting independently of at state control to end the genocide in Ayiti.”

 

 

“How much are you going to end up in Cuba’s pocket?” asks Vlad Teichberg of Global Rev, the chief media outlet of the Anarchist League, which to be honest has experienced a lot of discomfort with the Barclay General Assembly being rather dominated by Socialists, Black Nationalists, Russian Mafia Groups and Islamists sectioning off neighborhoods of the Soviet.

 

Erza responds sweetly, “This was all bank rolled in house via loans from the Bratvas. Which ones, I don’t even need to say why I can’t wont’ say. Three put money in for the weapons and logistics. Not one Shekel of Breuklyn Soviet Citizens Coin went to the intervention, nor is one single Cuban national in the ground forces.”

 

“Well, not yet,” says Vlad T.

 

“If I understand this correctly, your Association, your ‘Otriad’ is attempting to replicate its methodology and tactics four years ago on the Eastern Seaboard except this time on a far larger scale on the largest islands of the Caribbean. Is this the official beginning of a human rights revolution? Shall I go so far to say the second phase of the Great Revolt, as you call it in house” asks a reporter from Ayiti-Libertad.

 

Ayitians always ask lead along questions.

 

“I would say that is a remarkably accurate assessment,” responds Anya Drovtich, acting now as the Minister of Defense for the Barclay General Assembly, and remains a card carrying member of the Breuklyn Otriad.

 

She tosses her black curly hair over her shoulder and smiles.

 

 

 

Chapter 3

Cap Ayitian, 2019ce

Ayiti

 

 

3^rd January, elected Field Lt. Olu Okonkwo of Uhuru is a soft spoken Nigerian and a Bronx Science graduate. He has a degree in business and a slight stutter, which since being deployed outside of the city of New York has ceased to trouble him. He is so light skinned he is often confused with being a mullato while on Ayitian Island, but he is not a mullato, by the racialist definitions of the blan oppressors he is technically a quadroon.

 

            Commander Okonkwo leads a platoon of his men, infiltrates them in civilian clothes into Cap Ayitian, the nation’s only deep water port and exporting point for the entire nation’s illicit blood oil and gold pumped and drilled just to the West from Cap Ayitian and the Southland.

 

Here in Port Ayiti his detachment ambushes and executes via the rat-tat-tat of repeater rifles one Mohammed Salih Al Sunusi Baraka, a Maccoute coordinator and member of the National Assembly. They blow him away while he sits at a red awning restaurant overlooking the massive Han renovated harbor along with his wife and two eldest sons.

 

Many of the Maccoute killed in exile are Neg, or African black, many of the upper leadership being killed now are part of Haiti’s Arab population of around 20,000 Syrians, Lebanese and Palestinians, vultures that have been here since the 20’s.

 

His wife doesn’t die right away, she screams in tongues, screaming soaked in her children’s blood, and pleading with her god to avenge her husband’s death.

 

One of Olu’s men then shoots her too. A young Grenadian from Brownsville named Jerome Marcus with long dred locks. He then rolls two hand grenades into the Restaurant Omar where Baraka had just been alive eating lamb and pilaf with his family. Boom!

 

And it was all pretty ethically downhill from there as far as indiscriminate violence in the streets of a major city goes.

 

The Fela Kuti Detachment kills seventeen off duty Ayitian Soldiers, four Han Oil technocrats, and nine children under the age of whatever in the ensuing fire fight. The Qassam 4 rocket-grenades are hard to aim. The detachment loses four men getting out of Port Ayiti, another three on the roads fighting their way back to the safety of the Eastern Front safe house.

The engagement reduces the size of the Detachment under Commander Okonkwo to thirty three men.

 

“Why’d you shoot the woman,” Olu asks Jerome later at their camp.

“She married that animal. We’re not playing games,” he coldly responds.

 

We roll with some cold niggers, thinks Olu who was entrusted to lead because he is not one. He is a principled soft nigger. He is raised to not think much about race.

 

Two weeks in they’d seen further battle at Township Gros Morne, and lost four, but killed many more. The Schenectady Detachment was now working hand in hand with Commander Okonkwo’s Fela Kuti Detachment. Backed up by Lavalas Movement and JEM[86] guerillas they sabotage oil infrastructure across the North.

 

They’d managed to blow up two big Chinese and Canadian tankers in Port Ayiti with harbor mines just two days before. The Associated Press now maintains a full time field office in Port Ayiti.

 

 

The Scarcity Regime, or genocide planned by the Class ONG, (NGO Class) had at the time killed 3 million since it began in 2005.

 

 

They attempt to minimize civilian casualties by carefully picking targets and utilizing the PTV telecommunications to verify that their targets were exactly where they were supposed to be. They also are blessed by having a lot of local sympathy, which ultimately is keeping them alive. The Port Au Prince Regime is hated in the provinces. They keep collateral damage low preferring more targeted strikes.

Not killing little kids in growing numbers like certain other Detachments, monkeying around with the hearts, minds and of course the yellow media war.

 

Late Night January 31^st in the City of Marmelade, a unit of Schenectady partizans under the command of Magnus Allamby enter the hotel where Omer Baabas, a Maccoute Major sleeps in his bed. They shoot his two body guards through the heart with silenced pistols. They unlock the door to his room. He’s fat and snoring.

Eight men lay knives into him, Specialist Jeffery Derose from Staten Island seals tape and clamps his hand over the major’s mouth as the seven others dagger-man him, slicing him to ribbons.

They slip out of Marmelade without a fire fight.

            A couple days later on February 3rd, 2012 in the city of Saint Raphael, Mohammed Ibrahim Ginesto, a Maccoute Brigadier gets his brains blown out with a high powered Elephant hunting rifle fired by Netic Kinari of the Nostrand Ave Detachment.

Netic could have died an Afro-Punk favorite and star athlete. He joined Uhuru in 2003 and ended up both  5% and Talented 10th.

 

 

Chapter 4

Greater Gonaives City, 2019ce

Ayiti

 

9 January, 2019

 

 

Upon deployment they had been dropped closest to the bases of the Ayitian Emergency Group (G.A.I.-H.E.G.)[87] command so that they might deploy themselves with the guerillas already operating against the Maccoute, establish a permanent base for resupply and logistics, as well as coordinate attacks within the occupied Ayitian & Dominican Island States.

 

Gonaives is the coastal, regional capital city of the Artibonite region. It is a sprawling sweat shop boom town in the northwestern Ayiti, 120 meta clicks Northwest from Port Au Prince, which we sometimes call Port Au Rebel. A historical caravan post, an birth place of the Ti Ligliz[88] movement called Lavalas the toppled Baby Doc Jean Claude Duvalier; Goniaves is located on an elevated plateau. The town serves as an agricultural marketing point for the cereals and fruits grown in the surrounding region. It is also home to the largest concentration of Han oil technocrats and military advisors in the country outside of Port Au Prince, the capital and the resort citadel zones of Cayes and Port Salud.  It is a major refining station for oil and natural gas before it is pumped out to Port Ayiti next to Cap Ayitian.

 

The 0100 am January 10^th raid on Goniaves had been planned three months before by the local H.E.G. fighters. Its large military garrison was poorly fortified and there was some reason to believe that it served the main arms depot for the Maccoute militia in the area. O’Domhnaill and Rand had come to realize the same genius for putting out fires might be applied to start them.

 

There are many French engineers in the town so many they have their own quarter. A good many years of work and money had been invested in Ayiti to exploit their expansive oil reserves, work only the French had the wherewithal to perform in the name of national hegemony. It was unfortunate the club hadn’t launched the campaign ten years earlier when the bloodletting began, back before they killed 700,000 civilians, back before the Chinese and French gave the Ayitian Defense Force[89] and Macoutes a modern air force and a whole division’s worth of third grade former Soviet tanks.

 

Irish Fenian Specialist Robert Flannigan, an Otriad member since 2002, a childhood friend of Nikholai and Sebastian on command detonates charges planted along the massive oil pipeline. It is the nexus by which oil flows from Ayiti out Northeast toward Port Ayiti. On the outskirts of the city the three hundred fighters of the St. Patrick’s Battalion strike at the nine major pumping stations by which the crude is sucked out from the bloody desert the Maccoute had been instrumental in clearing of its native population.

 

They blow base charges[90] along the pipe three years in the building.

 

A mighty series of booms awakens a sleeping city. Thick black plumes of smoke go up and black crude ignites a flaming sludge running down slopes into town.

 

At 0101, as Maccoute-fighters, French engineers, Ayitian regular military[91] and the population of Gonaives lay mostly asleep, the Ayitian-Emergency-Group begins pounding the city with mortars and Katusha[92] rockets. There are certain ethnic rivalries that are playing out that few of the St. Patrick’s Battalion are fully aware of. The city comes awake to the indiscriminate explosions. It is hard to aim these Cold War era, truck mounted rockets. They fell where ever they fell, and kill where ever they land.

 

Economics analyst Adam Ahmed states that the “people of Gonaives are beginning to think in a more business-minded way” to make the most of their situation. Their situation being the forced migration and murder of over 200,000 original Ayitian inhabitants to make way for white (BLAN) settlers from in and around Port Au Prince.

 

Assholes. 46,000 mostly whites living with nannies and drivers and fancy French bistros while 10 million Haitians starve and die of preventable disease.

 

“It’s an NGO city now so we’ll burn it to the ground,” is what one H.E.G. commander has declared. O’Domhnaill knew this wouldn’t end well. If enough Han are killed they might provoke the escalation of an un-needed Han military presence in Ayiti.

 

But these rockets can’t be aimed. The H.E.G. fire dozens into the Han quarter deliberately. The St. Patrick’s Battalion sends their John Riley Detachment of a hundred men to destroy the Maccoute-base, kill everyone inside and capture the arms cache. The H.E.G. fighters blow up the power plant with grad rockets around 0140 and the Detachment strikes at the Maccoute munitions base shortly after.

 

They hardly put up a real fight. Many are cut down fleeing out windows. Many are murdered in their beds as H.E.G. guerillas[93] and the John Riley Detachment overruns the base.

 

Once the compound is secured Commander Rand lines up all the Maccoute militia men against a wall. They are flexi-cuffed and blind folded. The smoke is getting thick and the mostly wood buildings catch the blaze one by one. There are about seventy prisoners. Six are identified as quasi-important functionaries with the local leadership. Dozens are regular Ayitian military. Some are just boys mostly younger than sixteen. Three are Han military attaches. The John Riley Detachment loads their battle jitneys with as many crates of munitions as they can secure while Rand gets on the sat phone.

 

Thick black Smokey unbreathable death rolling out in your eyes.

 

The city is burning down, pummeling plumes of black smoke amid the crackling and gusts of ash. They don’t have proper firemen worth a damn out here. The Fenian gunmen are starting more fires. Commander Shamus Rand orders his men to torch the oil ministry.

Commander O’Domhnaill and the Wolf Tone Detachment have occupied the central rail terminal and bus depot at the edge of town. The ringing of the sat phone notifies him that that they are way ahead of schedule.

 

“John Riley to Wolf Tone,” says Lt. Rand over the uplink.

 

“Wolf Tone copies. What’s your situation?”

 

“The package is secured. Seventy prisoners being held, some are French military attaches, others rather young, NGO worker kids.”

 

“Blind the surviving French, free the young and liquidate the rest,” replies O’Domhnaill.

 

But before Rand can give any signal the H.E.G. fighters gun down everybody.

Osman Yusif Kibir the State Governor Dar Ayitian and Maccoute coordinator and a man named Sukeirtalah, the Lieutenant Colonel of the Maccoute are among those executed. Thankfully they didn’t blow away the little white bastards and trigger a French intervention, yet[94].

 

Commander O’Domhnaill orders a pull out of Goniaves at 0230. The H.E.G. fire more rockets into the city. At 0245 everyone is clear and the St. Patrick’s Battalion blows the rail station as they retreat into the desert back toward the command base.

 

Specialist Philly Hartman keeps muttering, “I killed some little kids. I killed a bunch of little kids.”

 

Father O’Sullivan holds a wake for the fallen back at command. He does his best to comfort Hartman and a few others.

When questioned, Rand replies, “The little fucking kids all had machine guns.”

They’d lost fourteen men in the assault, among them only three from the St. Patrick’s Battalion. Extensive damage had been done to the city from flame and rocket fire. Oil pumping out of Dar Ayitian ground to a halt. For about two months.

Three days later a massive Ayitian military deployment drives the H.E.G. and the St. Patrick’s Battalion a hundred clicks into Chad. Newly acquired Han bomber jets make punitive strikes on the refugee camps.

The Maccoute execute several hundred in villages around the city of Mirogane for collaboration. Nine surrounding villages are suspected of harboring the H.E.G. militants their and pale officers. Reprisals continue as long as it takes to rebuild the pumping station. About two months.

As the sun rises, those nine villages are surrounded by Ayitian military cordon. Several hundred Maccoute Militia men brought in from Kusti then enter and proceed with their foul work.

 

The New York Times runs a front page spread of the ash and rubble that was left of the nine towns. It was an aerial shot like usual. The last reporters that had gone into Ayiti were beheaded. The international press denounces the massacre of around 3,000 civilians, but mostly blames the Combined Otriad for escalating the violence.

 

Oil pumping out of the Ayitian 1/3 of the Island has been brought to a complete stand still. Gold mining has dropped to below 10% yield. You have to always hit the bastards in the pockets before anyone even cares.

 

 

 

Chapter 4

Block Island, 2002ce

First congress

 

 

A little bit more on how so many Fenian nationals, so many leftists, so many Zionists so many everyone which had never even really thought of life and conditions in Ayiti ended up fighting, and dying there. Those which served in the a) St. Patrick’s Battalion (Detachments 1 & 2), b) The Hadar Column (Detachment 3) and Garvey Brigades (Detachments 4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11 & 12) got tied up in this very bloody ground war, five minutes from nation time.

 

Let’s take it back over ten years.

 

There is a little isle off the coast of Galilee home to some eight hundred indigenous souls by their last New Year’s Eve census.

 

They are technically still part of the U.A.S., but have been a functional hub of the Autonomous Movement/ Soviet Confederation and thus the Great Revolt for over a decade. Since before 2001.

 

This little patch of rocky removed Erin green sixteen miles out into the Atlantic is called Block Island. It was once a haven for pirates, for the Sons of Liberty, a rum running prohibition busting flappers paradise, the place the Mohegan Indians met their untimely and final demise. There was black magic here, or some other worldly thing at work amid the taverns and farm houses and low lying rock walls piled by Indians and slaves at the behest of the original white settlers. There was one Catholic Church, one Prod one; the synagogue had burned down a year ago by some witchcraft. There were few indigenous Yids that arrived in the 20’s when the bootlegging sky rocketed. There was a hedge maze that took four to eight hours to navigate. There was a high rate of alcoholism, a vague sense of isolation, a separatist flag even, but only as a joke. There were definitely a coven of witches, but not particularly malicious ones. Old Man Abrams and his daughters owned three of the biggest hotels, both of the whore houses, all of the speakeasy’s, the airport, the ferry and the exotic animal farm.

 

That’s how Zebras came to New England and Kangaroos too.

 

When Nikholai, Mickhi Dbrisk and Sebastian Adon got off the boat they were not short stares. There were seldom tall, dread locked Jamaican men on the Island. Sebastian wore a brown skally cap with a yarmulke underneath it, tight faded jeans with tsetse hidden underneath, a pistol as well; a faded blue  job shirt with a Ivoryish star emblazoned within the Maltese cross, a ruck-sac with everything else he needed. Nikholai was wore a black leather jacket and a black suit with a white button shirt, Iytai and a black tie. He wasn’t carrying a sholem anymore. He’d been suspended from the NYPD for eight months after an incident he’d rather like to forget. And Dbrisk, dressed the most casual, jeans, a blue winter pea coat, a Sand-Gypsy scarf and he had rosary beads his fiancé of eight years had given him, but he never used; he also carried a small duffle bag. Filled with paper work mostly, paper work and endotracheal tubes, laryngoscope blades and IV kit, cuff, scope and gauge and the basic tools of a rescue medic. Adon basked in his Hebrew ambulance status, adored the trade, the juxtaposition, the romantic chic of it. Nikholai regretted becoming a cop, never talked about it. Mickhi Dbrisk compartmentalized the job and his life and didn’t let one war bleed into another. The three men were all in their late twenties, civil servants all Dbrisk and Adon in the Fire Department, Nikholai at least for a while more in the NYPD.

 

On the Island waiting with a car was red headed Hubert O’Domhnaill a fire fighter and rising union leader in the International Federation of Emergency Workers.

They arrived on Block Island a little after Sundown on a Friday on the 6^th of Frimaire.

 

A cop, two paramedics, and a fire man take a ferry to a New England Island begin to lay the ground work for the irregular invasion of the Ayiti.

 

They were booked into the empty Hygea Hotel on a tall hill overlooking the harbor bay. A creaky old wooden guest house painted red and white and orange. There were twenty-two club delegates at the sixteenth Congress established to merge several factions into more cohesive alliance post victory in Breuklyn Soviet.

 

It was here the latest plan was laid and outlined on the shores of Galilee.

 

Adon, Dbrisk, O’Domhnaill and Trikhovitch were at the core of the club’s conspiracy. Another silver haired Yid Paramedic named Scott Sevastra. A pair of Bengali princes named Arman and Hassan Askari. A pint sized Trinidadian sex worker named Katchya Patel. An EMT from Ghana named Thomas Ansu. An Persian exchange student named Kaveh Ali Shariati. A Unitarian priest named Kristin Reiersen by way of Norway. A Bajan businessman named Magnus Allamby. And two journalists, an Afghan named Anahita Noori and Ms. Mara Fitzduff who ran and edited the club’s now infamous newspaper, “The Banshee”. Also the human rights lawyer, a Kosovar named Erza Pula Pound. Three film makers named Justantine Tomas, Ryder Haske and Nicholas Mapfre were there filming. Justantine Tomas was a long standing member cross affiliated with Uhuru.

 

Toba Hadaad was then a newly minted Israeli intelligence case officer, assigned to channel big Ivory money into the partisan band. And also business man named Ysiad Ferraris, who was frankly an unabashed opportunist, but later 1/3 funded the insurrection in Hispaniola.

 

Also present, importantly was Maya Solomon, the first Chief of Staff, who founded the original Israeli branch of the Club with none other than Avinadav DeBuitléir, from Ayiti by way of Demona, and a teenage Sebastian Adon.

 

Those two flew in the next day. The Ivory connection is surely plain as day, now as if a beaten dead Trojan horse. This was the last American Congress they attended, as she made her way to Russia and he made his way to Libria, in Africa.

 

 

 

Chapter 5

Lower Belfast Soviet, 2009ce

Erin

 

 

The connection to Erin actually more subtle. Than the IRA connections to gun running and raising in New York and Boston that are 300 plus years old, the Irish make up over 37 million of maybe now 340 million North Americans. But, how did they end up in Hispaniola, which is this little tale; explains Hubert O’Dominhail.

 

Within a month of the 15^th Congress, held not on Block Island but in Chicago, USA. Hubert O’Domhnaill and Sister Kristin Reiersen were back in Erin, explanting the new tactics advocated the February Protocols of the Congress. They traveled North by mini-bus to Belfast to attend his father’s wake, struck down by Prod[95] gunmen during a speech just a week before. It was a very well-attended funeral[96].

 

His father was viewed as perhaps the one man who might have brokered a good end to the New-Troubles. As after Mari Faitzduff passed no one could hold the factions to the table.

 

The funeral was attended by a young lad named Dashiell Duffy, a Cajun-Fenian boy of just under seventeen who introduced Hubert O’Domhnaill to an excommunicated priest, one Father O’Sullivan.

 

There were then fifteen days of Prod rioting in Belfast due to Orange Order marching season which caused O’Domhnaill to miss his return flight. He helped put out these Fenian fires as best he could as a volunteer in one of Father O’Sullivan’s flying columns.

Father O’Sullivan was excommunicated long go for trying to bring closure and exposure to the abuse of young boys rampant in the Catholic Church for decades. Sister Kristin was a disciple of his, liberation theologians both, of the Dublin based Ti Ligliz.

The Prods then kept trying to burn the Catholics out of Belfast with renewed zeal. An orange mob burned Father O’Sullivan’s parish to the ground on the ides; Secure cables coming from the Breuklyn Soviet notified Hubert that he is needed back in the States, and he wants to go home, but he can’t.

 

Mrs. Sister Kristin around this time informs Father Sullivan of the Otriad’s designs in Ayiti.

Hubert O’Domhnaill soon after returned briefly to Dublin City in time to see his ‘mah’ on her birthday and then see worse troubles resume. The Orange Order ran further amuck. The New Provisional IRA gets back to the active bombing of chip-shops in England and Prod funerals and also pubs. Things really exploded on St. Pats with regular North –South border raiding along the border and over it..

Hubert went back North to serve as a volunteer fire-fighter. The arson got so bad in Belfast and then Derry and then more places North East. Father O’Sullivan and his men are clinging to a little patch of tenements and barely holding out in what’s left of Catholic Belfast.

The Orange Order burns their homes and shoots their volunteer fire fighters. The Catholics are being fire walled out of the North this time for good.

 

Hubert by then had become quite close with the hunted, hounded and besieged Father O’Sullivan and also the young Dashiell Duffy his young lieutenant and can man. The Imperial Black and Tans were arresting anyone the fires didn’t suffocate. All three men were on Orange hit list. But they had Catholic enemies too; the good father especially. The church is not a liberal institution.

 

“The violence in the North this time is a pretext to push the Catholics South and the Dublin government doesn’t really mind,” muttered O’Sullivan, “they’re just frothing for succession, and a reason to finally invade the north.”

 

He’d just outrun sniper bullets twice that week. A car bomb took his nerves the week before. The siege was closing in. Warrants had been issued for O’ Sullivan in the South as well as North.

 

“We could get out of country awhile,” says Lt. Duffy one night over a pint at Molly’O’Rork’s Pub, the last one un-scorched in the quickly shrinking Catholic quarter.

“Get out to where son? Any day they’ll make a mark of me,” sighed a tired Father O’Sullivan. Blood shot eyes all.

“We stay up here, the B Specials or Orange legions will hang us all. We go South the Church that is the Southern State we’ll burn me at the alter fer speakin’ of their inside crimes. North and South the Provisionals want me dead fer “escalations”. Escalations? We were just defending our homes! ”

“Look, it’s much worse here now day by day. The Catholic quarter is but less than twelve blocks and most of the civilians have evacuated. We can stay and put our burning tenements out day by day, but we all know Dublin and Derry and London are negotiating a full population exchange. All yer boys will fall into the hands of the Dublin Government and be arrested for ‘escalation or agitation or treasonous sympathies’ as soon as we get dumped on the other side of the border,” says O’Domhnaill.

“So what do ya suggest then boy?” the priest asks.

“We leave awhile. All yer boys too Fatha’. We’ve been sold down the river by both sides. Sister Kristin’s told you what we planned. Let’s go make a demonstration of ourselves in that cruel place Africa where you know is in constant deed of men with our talents.”

“Yer speakin’ of Ayiti again I see?” the father said.

“I know your far-away cause. But it is just as lost a cause as this without needin’ ta die for it so far away from home,” mutters Lt. Duffy.

Other men in plain green olive fatigues nod in agreement.

“It’s a lost cause in Breuklyn too! Of course ‘cross the lake and the sea are millions doing slaughter daily over invisible gods, and the colors on flags and that all and the like. But we ain’t doin’ any real good puttin’ out blazes that been burnin’ fer over a hundred years,” exclaimed Hubert O’Domhnaill.

“What makes ya to think our volunteers we’ll leave Erin, travel to Africa where were just as sure to burn red and die, on the basis of us declarin’ our cause in Erin lost?” yells Duffy.

“Haiti is not actually in Africa, fer the record,” states Hubert.

The fighters gathered in the basement of Fifty Shades of Green Roadhouse all nod aye.

“Because if father orders ‘um to they will. Follow him in-ta hell they would. And the fires of hell are on the edge of this embankment. And if ya tell ‘um the long stakes, it looks quite respectable for a Fenian man to have a part in Adon’s wild scheme. It’s not just a moral group suicide bombing like, it’s another way to show the world they should care about occupied Erin because Erin bleeds far and often ‘fer others too,” retorted O’Domhnaill

“Where the fek is this Ayiti anyhow?” asked Dashiell Duffy.

“It’s deep in the Caribbean boyo,” responded Father O’Sullivan. He paused thoughtfully and nursed his whiskey. It seemed the only thing the father didn’t do was take a woman to his bed room. Although once the Vatican strung him up all supposed he might.

“They will surely hang us soon, one side or another. We are after all completely surrounded here in this burned out quarter.  At least in Africa we might die as proud Fenians, sons of Erin fighting an evil and clearly murderous nemesis. Here, we mostly fight each other and it isn’t so black and white, we’re now caught between orange and green,” he said in that basement.

 

“How soon can you get our men out of this burning ghetto seige Mr. O’Domhnaill?”

 

“Just got to make a quick phone call to the Dominican Republic,” Hubert responded.

 

Two days later several hundred fighters and their families evacuated the Catholic quarter of Belfast through the sewers.

 

The North now somehow Catholic free declared its independence. The Dublin government ordered the construction of a Separation Wall to box in the six enemy counties. And a large black containership, with a naughty black mermaid painted on the side is met sixteen miles off the coast by vessels carrying O’Domhnaill, O’Sullivan, Sister Kristin, Lt. Dashiell Duffy and three-hundred-and-forty Fenian fighters off to the American bases on of the Isle of Youth, Cuba.

 

 

Chapter 6

Croix-Des-Bouquet, 2019ce

Ayiti

 

 

Deployed on the dawn of 1 January, 2020 was a total expeditionary force of roughly 999 combat troops, many emts and paramedics, 2 doctors (Perechenova and Asbunovich) and thirty-two armored solar-diesel Type-2 ambulances. Perechenova was as stated a Cuban trained physician, the only female in the column besides Katya Patel. And Dr. Dominich Asbunovich had trained in Grenada, served with Cassidy Vale and Sebastian Adon in 2010 in Ayiti.

Katya Patel was allegedly there to support the phscho social needs of the troops.

 

The South Column of around 300 was led by Captain Watson Entwissle, the Central Company was led by Captain Tiputti Capois and the North Department Company by Captain Obenson Christoph. They were nick named Petion, Toussaint and Christoph Divisions. The detachment of mostly Russian and Ivoryish foreign fighters attached to Capois was called HADAR Column, the mostly Fenian foreign fighters under General Christophe was called the St. Patricks’ Battalion, and the Pan-West Indian Brigade was called the Schenectady Detachment. These 999 fighters were supporting roughly 20,000 Famni Lavalas militia men in their assurgency. Also smaller but heavily armed groups like the J.E.M. and the S.P.L.A.

 

 

 

 “Sometime last night a song came on the radio of my ambulance and I came to think of you more fondly. To imagine you, although having only spoken with you a few times in person; to be exceedingly elegant, obstinate, determined and quite truly tough. So, quite removed from the idea that I might ever sway ‘yer energies toward the work that our Otriad performs I had a separate notion. I would like us to be friends. And our time being limited and devoted to respective industry, I humored the notion that I might write to you at times about the fleeting ideas I have at my work or the delusions and freedom songs I cling to in deed or rhetoric. And you may find this silly or random, but I like to write and I appreciate a critical audience. The act of putting pen to paper is a lost art. I hope not to suspend ‘yer offensiblities, but tell me if this game has any appeal to you, my dear.”

 

Yelizaveta reads this old letter Sebastian had written her.

 

She is seated at the wheel of one of the Herkimer Medical Jitneys her former employer Alexandr Perchevney has borrowed long term from the U.N. to sell to the Pale Officers. Like pilgrims and cowboys of the fabled wild-wild West thirty two of these armored, solar power supplemented, diesel powered ambulances are lined in circle with sentries on their roofs all bivouacked in the valley.

 

The men have been broken up into detachments of two hundred fighters each commanded by two Captains. Their force was the largest of the three deployed columns composed of sub-detachments, columns of 40 men apiece named Bielski, Golani, Betar, Jabotinsky, and Jacobi, traditional Ayitian names?

 

They had been dropped in Ayiti at dusk before New Year’s 2019 and continued to fight by night.

 

Adon made contact with the main Factions[97] less than a week on the ground. Two detachments and four Persian handlers crossed the border with them into Ethiopia to negotiate a logistics base at the City XXXX. The remaining 600 troops of the Hadar Column, guided by Eastern Front scouts began harassing the Ayitian supply lines between XXX and XXXX.

After taking increasing casualties they were pushed south toward XXXXX

On 27^th, the Dominkcan Government granted them a base outside of XXXXto refuel their ambulances, convalesce wounded fighters and cache arms. Delicate negotiations are underway to open up a sea road to Djibouti for resupply frustrated by total a diplomatic blackout between Eritrea and Ethiopia.

On January 3rd the first major Hadar raid is carried out by Commander Sevastra head of the Jabotinsky Detachment blowing up a troop train between XXX and XXXX

On Jaunary 9^th Hadar General Staff is informed of the attempted assassination attempt on President al-Talleyrand  in Port Au Prince and the decapitation of the Maccoute command in the capital carried out by Scarborough Column fighters many of which are presumed dead.

On January 14^th the Bielski Detachment under the command of Nikholai Trikhovitch raids an arms depot in the city of XXX, killing twenty eight Ayitian police and military men. They left behind them a trail of death and smell of burning buildings.

Using Ethiopian bases and calculated limited engagements the Hadar Column and their new allies in the Eritrean backed Eastern Front bring trade and traffic in Eastern Ayiti to a grinding halt. News comes in daily from Northern Command of intensive casualties and fighting in Dar Ayitian and the North.

 

 

Chapter 7

Croix-Des-Bouquet, Rue Double Harvest Basis

2019ce

Ayiti

 

3 February

 

Sebastian Adon is field stripping his Carmelite 55mm[98] long gun alone within his blue-grey sand-gypsy tent when Dr. Kay returns from her medical rounds of the neighboring villages escorted by Watson Entwissle, who felt forever obligated to protect her as Sebastian has protected his wife and forever lover Charlotte. She has a few questions she cannot answer easily. Like whom she once was and who were they really to each other. Like the full extent of her previous relationship with Commander Adon. She asks Watson to take break.

 

Her Ayitian body guard, also a General soon in the war, Sebastian’s quiet cunning partner allows her to pretend that is his intent.

 

She barges into the tent making everything less still.

 

“How did O’Domhnaill convince three hundred and forty two Fenians to up and come to Ayiti? They don’t even really like Black people!” Dr. Yelizaveta Kay demands of her lover Sebastian Adon.

 

“I suspect he has a gift of beyond adequate persuasion.”

 

“How’d those Persian Revolutionary guardsmen end up authorized to tag along? They don’t even like Ivories much less all the sneaky Israeli spies you hang around.”

 

“I suspect they like the end game of the project. The Fenians too. Everyone wants all the walls to come tumbling down or imagine that they get some stake of the black gold once the liberation occurs.”

 

She looks quite angry in her sudden thirst for direct answers.

 

“What’s the end game then for us neshama?”

 

He shudders when she calls him that, he hasn’t heard her say it in a very long time.

 

“Yelizaveta, the end game for us is still rather complicated.”

 

“I know you see it all intertwine my love.”

 

There is a seditious way she uses the word.

 

“Seeing it is one thing, explaining it is another, grasping even more elusive. But I suspect you carry the blueprint too, did we not meet in Sde Boker once a long-long time ago?”

 

“Are you telling me or asking me?” she says.

They had many years of a life together mostly in conceived in letters. They had many more years if you counted the imagined past. It was very relative what actually happened in Sde Boker, when Maya offered them the chance to bring the messiah by sacrificing their first born love.

 

“Can we talk seriously about our lives before the incident Sebastian, what do you remember?”

 

“Ah, the incident. I remember you went to Cuba to get medical training and that I wished you’d stayed behind forever with me.”

“We are hardly free agents Sebastian. I remember signing a contract with Maya to take care of my father and mother in exchange for ten years’ service to the Perchevney Bratva as a doctor.”

 

“My contact said I needed to recruit 1,001 fighters before I could set a foot back down in Zion, and then I ran the border. And Maya said she had to locate one black man who could be trained as a messiah. We all co-signed each other’s contracts.”

 

“Our memories are not our own. I remember the night we were attacked on the train and you were in the hospital. I’m fairly certain that all happened. But, that wasn’t our first date. That I know for sure. I was born in a town in the Ukraine called Beile Circov. I know my family moved to Washington Heights in the years before the Great Disorder. I know that very little after that is not a memory implant. Did you even write all those letters to me?”

“I think so. I have memories too of things that happened, but might not have happened objectively. I thought I helped found the club to fight for human rights.”

“Did you found the Breukland Bath and Rifle Club or did Maya Solomon.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Did the club get founded on Block Island or was it planned out in Sde-Boker?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” he says to he her in Yiddish.

“What’s the long game?” she retorts in Ruus.

“Some people whisper that you’re only fucking me to find that out.”

“You really don’t care do you?! They wiped your fucking mind Sebastian. You remember what we had before the incident was beautiful? You remember feeling like you could spend the rest of your life with me? Then the war separated us. That’s utter nonsense.”

“We were in love once.”

“Says who?” she yells.

“I have memories. I have a pile of letters.”

“Someone said to keep track of you. I’m not fucking you for any other reason than that.”

“Why are you telling me all this? Do you think I am unaware of how many spies sleep in our tents, of how many big powers are invested in our cause? Did you think I mistook your partnership for sentimentality? Take your fucking salt.”

She’d completely forgotten.

“The Ayitian tribe are surely not the most prolific gossipers, but they are watchful. I’d suspect your new insecurities are logged within your own ego sweetness. Everyone sees the work you do and view you with admiration. Everyone assumes you’re a Russian or Israeli spy surely, but the Hadar column is riddled with quite a few of those.”

“I am not the pale commander’s whore for fucking. I am his partner and tovarish.”

“I’d have it no other way.”

“I think you don’t remember everything I’m afraid my dear Sebastian.”

“I must concentrate just to execute the direction of this war. I remember less and less the more we soldier on. The only thing I can say is not invention is the love I have had for you.”

“That’s an invention too.”

“Take your salt Yeli, before it’s too late.”

“How can you know that even this is based upon something tangible?”

He grabs her by the arm and pulls her close.

“All the other candidates are now dead. The options are down to you, me and Solomon. Now take your goddamn salt before you go fourth dimensional and start raving like a mad woman.”

“As if any of that Tzaddik ha Dror shit is even true.”

“Our whole lives were manipulated to a higher end. We have sold ourselves to some higher cause and traded in our souls to serve our people. If in the end all that is left is our love and this war, then at least reconcile yourself to the fact that we can taste each other for a little longer.”

“It is sad that you think the war will never have to end.”

 

She takes the two large pills he has thrust into her hand and swallows them down with water from the canteen on her belt.

 

 

Chapter 8

Mirogane City, 2019ce

Ayiti

 

On 10 February the badly sun burned St. Patrick’s Battalion loses thirty eight more men in fire fight near Mirogane.

 

The Battle Buses, as the armored ambulances are called, are still running and armaments are not yet at dangerously low levels, but they are constantly pursued. The surface to-air-missiles are effective against helicopters, but not the Han bomber drones that were now being used against them. Sixteen of their men had been cut down in various skirmishes, twenty by strafing and bombing raids. Two died of wounds sustained in the battle of Mirogane.

 

The Persian Guardsmen have established a small military academy to retrain the Lavalas Army., which is not a particularly disciplined outfit overall, mostly proficient at machete charges and tire burning barricade maneuvers.

 

Commander Avinadav DeBuitléir is now commander-in-chief, the mostly undisputed General of thirteen separate guerrilla armies united under the banner of Allied Rebel Forces which seem to have no cohesive vision for what to do if they actually won the war.

 

So far removed has been the possibility.

 

Deep in the boarder wastelands between Ayiti and Dominikani Republic is a simple farm where nothing grows but the H.E.G. has established a fire base.

 

The twelve Persians have been drilling a new officer corps regularly and adjusting the loose, underground cell based Lavalas command and control modal to that of a more structured armed service, slowly and through translators.

 

Some of the Persians speak French, most of the Ayitian peasants certainly do not, but a large amount of French nouns are found in Ayitian Creole.

 

No one very much trusts the Persians and it affects the cohesion of their drills. Most of the H.E.G. factions other than the JEM are not Muhammadians. Currently Commander DeBuitléir is cut off from the most loyal segments of his army by new Ayitian military deployments in the area. The men under his direct command are not of his tribal religion or ethnic confession, but defer to his authority. His faction’s militia, some 2,000 troops are across the border in Southern Ayitian. Under increasing military pressure and falling moral he orders an evacuation of all H.E.G. fighters to several outposts in lawless Chad on the other side of the border to be rotated in an out of the Persian Military Camp. This is as much pressure from the Ayitian Regulars as to have his own faction close to the pales officers and their growing stock piles of arms.

There is a pressing need to coalesce H.E.G. and the Front into an actual army before the factions begin infighting as sometimes-sometimes happens in these Sub-Saharan guerrilla insurgencies. Small platoons of St. Pat’s fighters with H.E.G. scouts are sent back across the border to direct the pull out.

The Monday just before the mass trek into Chad a platoon of St. Pat’s fighters went on a recon mission and got hacked to bits by a Maccoute column. They have better Chinese weapons now. They are getting faster via their desperation and more merciless toward the civilians these Fenians seek to shield.

 

The Tonton Maccoutes gutted and hung the twenty men along the highway to the West of Mirogane. Vile in both triumph and fear of defeat.

 

A two weeks before Christmas most of the H.E.G. hardcore are bivouacked in the bad lands of the border region concentrated in four positions.

Commander Hubert O’Domhnaill orders the Wolf Tone Detachment of just 80 fighters under the command of Captain Philly Hartman and Captain Hunter McCord along with a few hundred of the H.E.G. men more loyal to DeBuitléir to do their best to protect the refugee camps near Lascahobas. The objective is to tie up the Maccoute and Ayitian Military in Dar Ayitian while the H.E.G. is properly regimented over the winter.

Three Persians of the twelve person team led by Kaveh Ali Shariati leave with the Wolf Tone Detachment to organize the refugee camps into a civilian defense force and prepare fortifications around the camp complex.

Now thinks O’Domhnaill: We have killed many of them, but they recruit quickly, mostly from the young and unemployed youth.

The Detachment has killed a lot of men half their age.

The New Ayitian Military (NHM) has so far avoided making deep incursions into Ayitian’s ten departments or certainly into neighboring DR, it has virtually no tested record of combat except on its own people. They have stepped up supplying weapons to the Maccoute and it is not uncommon now to see regular army officers among Maccoute columns. They’ve set up check points everywhere in cordons around the oil pumping boom towns. With new overwhelming force their focus is to crush the insurgency in the North still being carried out by the decimated Scarborough Column. Daily battles and assassination attempts and bombings have been increasing since the eve of the invasion. Scarborough dagger men are hunting down war criminals in the north and cutting them to ribbons. The Hadar column will hopefully open the Southern Front and further spread thin the Ayitian Regulars.

But with every attack against the Maccoute and Military brings more stories of civilian reprisals increasing in scale.

A deep sense of uncertainty has set in. There are grumblings, which one can hear without language hardware that the ‘pale officers’ are to blame for the government’s new thirst for atrocity.

Commander DeBuitléir has over sixty men shot, lined up tied and executed for insubordination, an apparent plot on behalf of two of the factions to kill the Persians and seize the weapons stock pile. More fighters are being processed through the camps in Chad so he can tighten his command.

Eight days before Xmas they Germinal a force of 180 St. Patrick’s Battalion troops from the Scott Riley and Michael Collins Detachments as well as nearly eight hundred Ayitian Emergency Group forces from six of the factions across the border to relieve the Wolf Tone fighters harassed by fly over bombing strikes.

 

On the back roads a mine rips through the legs of one of the freckled boys, a specialist from County Cork. He has no legs on which to stand. They carry him back thirty miles, but he bleeds out and dies for want of medical attention.

 

There’s just only so much you can do in the field.

 

Seven days before Xmas the Wolf Tone fighters securing the camps begin trekking back to Chad and the Scott Riley and Michael Collins Detachments take their place.

The three Persian Guardsmen have barely organized a trench system and civilian reserve. The nine Guardsmen still based Chad are half way through drilling a new H.E.G. officer corps.

Thus so far, in this Port Au Prince Centric country, tanks and elite troop divisions remain in and around the Capital and Port Ayiti as heavy handed mop up operations go after the decimated Scarborough fighters.

Waves of hit and run terrorism/ freedom fighting have petrified the Port-Au-Prince, Petionville elites and mortified the NGO elites. Most of their fearsome army called a defense force and national police are being used to secure the oil lines and twin cities of the Capital.

 

Sometimes called the Twin Cities because the green zone of Petionville and Kenscoff are notably different from the sprawling camps around the base and up the sides of the mountain.

 

On the evening President al-Talleyrand signs the security and liquidation resolution there are less than 1,080 armed JEM and H.E.G. and St. Pat’s men protecting roughly two dozen internal refugee camps in and around Southwest Ayiti with little more than long guns and armored ambulances.

 

The largest concentration is known as “the five camps” or Penn-Jenkins-Mershing Complex[99] resettled earthquake and economic refugees huddled out in a bad lands called Canaan.

 

Chapter 9

Fort Liberdade, 2019ce

Ayiti

 

Oxo, we blow our families kisses in the form of courier letters from the Island fortress front. Shortly after regrouping from the long march from DR two front line detachments of the Scarborough under Dbrisk and Okonkwo mobilize to intercept a Maccoute column closing in on Camp Al-Atrun known as the deadly Buffalo Brigade[100]. They are backing up the smaller John Riley Detachment, one of the three Fenian fighting units led by Hubert O’Domhnaill.

Its leader, a principle founder of the third generation Tonton Maccoute, Mr. Mercredy Mercedes is their primary target. But also with him meeting are CIA handlers Stacy and Spencer Labrundi.

Newly trained Ayitian-Emergency-Front men evacuated the camp-town the day before and all seek to ambush this particularly nefarious man Musa Halal, who is believed to have been in charge of the reprisals against the nine camps after the Gonaives raid.

The Maccoute militia rolls into an NGO township just outside Fort Liberdade expecting to slay civilians in the dust and make hard violent rape. They are the first prong of the newly approved cleansing operation.

But instead of defenseless Ayitian civilians they find over three hundred heavily armed fighters firing from dug outs and fixed positions.

From dirt huts and sand dug outs the John Riley Detachment of the St. Pats Battalion and the newly formed Nkrumah Column of the H.E.G. light up and incinerate the infamous Buffalo Brigade with automatic weapons. Three hours of gun fighting later the Maccoute are warm, wet and dead. The rebels have their hands on the mean killers, probably also CIA assets, named Spencer & Stacy Lebrundi. Looking fat and stupid as always, as they came to see a killing of what they were creating for their oligarch masters.

 

They get their hands on Mercredy Mercedes and string him up cuffed to the rafters of an old pharmacy near the edge of the camp. All his men have been lined up and shot.

“We’re going to have to torture you,” says Mickhi Dbrisk without emotion or a hint of intimidating compliance.

“Not for information, not for revenge, were gonna just plain torture you because it will send a message to your followers and your government and your country.”

The infamous Maccoute commander snivels, then spits out, “Fuck you nigger.”

The men standing in the hut snicker.

“At least he knows where we come from,” smirks a ginger haired Specialist named Mickey Donovan glibly.

“Back to the whole message,” interjects Mickhi Dbrisk, who had been a paramedic in the Breukland Soviet for sixteen years and has saved more lives than he’s so far taken.

David cracks the Commander of the most nefarious Maccoute-brigade in his ribs with a bat.

“The message is that we hunted down each and every one of your murdering, rapist friends. We hunted you all down, and we shot you, we cut you, we killed you all on by one. Sixty four fucking targets acquired and wacked in just two months. Everyone except you and the President dead.”

Mickhi Dbrisk cracks him on the other side of the ribs with the bat again. The feared and infamous Maccoute commander bellows and spits out blood.

Specialist Mickey Donovan flips on the digital camera they’ve set up to put the whole thing on the internet. He takes out a quite-official looking clip board and unseals an envelope from inside.

“We must insure the legality of the whole thing otherwise it’s just called terrorism right?” interjects Mickey.

“Read it,” commands Okonkwo.

“You, Maccoute Commander Coordinator Mercredy Mercedes are found guilty of war crimes against the people of Ayiti and Greater Hispaniola. You have been tried and sentenced by a military tribunal under the auspices of Combined Otriad’s Committee for War Crimes in Ayiti and sentenced to die.”

Mickey shuts off the camera, and says, “Death by clobbering. You have no right to appeal, you have no right to jury of your peers, you will be beaten to death on camera and the words RAPIST will be cut into your murderous face. Do you understand the charges and implementation?”

The commander snivels blood ready to die. The camera comes back on.

“Do you have any last words?” Dbrisk asks.

As the commander appears to be trying to say something, Mickhi smashes his face again with the bloody bat.

“No one gives a fuck what you have to say,” yells Mickey Donovan picking up a second bat, “NO ONE GIVES A FUCK!” he shatters Musa’s pelvis.

“YOU KILLED ALL THOSE FUCKING PEOPLE YOU RAT BASTARD!”

Crack. Crack. Blood all over the place.

They proceed to beat him into a bloody screaming pulp. Stacey barely avoids a nasty gang rape as she is taken prisoner as a CIA operative. She’s a notorious snake and killer, but punitive rape is something the enemy thrives on and we are strictly against. Her partner Spencer is summarily shot without any qualms.

 

The footage is later streamed on YouTube, around midnight, before NSA manages to shut down our feed. Once uploaded to the internet the usual pontifications and Western apologies begin a new and a-fresh. The bulk of the previous condemnations had been directed toward the veritable “indiscriminate blood bath” being carried out by Hadar and “wild urban terrorism” Scarborough detachments, this was the first time the St. Patrick’s Battalion had been denounced by name in the New York Times and the NY Post in a single day as they usually never agreed on anything.

 

The West Indians and Ivory and Yids had thus so far mostly been shooting up the North and Central districts raiding homes of Maccoute commanders and blowing up buildings. The St. Patrick’s battalion had instead focused on disrupting oil infrastructure, blowing up troop trains, placing IEDs on roads, and carrying out drills with the newly formed A.E.F. Ayitian-Emergency-Front, the merger of the G.A.I.-H.E.G., Lavalas and J.E.M. with just about everybody else fighting the MINUSTAH/ NGO Regime and foreign armies of imperialism.

 

 

 

Chapter 10

Dalliers Roadhouse, 2019ce

                                                           Ayiti

 

‘Where we’re going there are no roads’, an old quote from ‘Back to the Future’ which applies to almost all of Ayiti.

 

On February 20^th, they’re piled inside a desolate weigh station on the outskirts of Vallieres at a roadhouse called Dalliers Bon Bon. Kompa is blaring on the streets outside. It’s so damn hot that they drip into loose formation and stand at attention when the commanders enter the station.

 

The roof is made of tin.

 

The floors creak and the several dozen fighters packed inside have run out of places to sit. They are caked in desert grit. A shower for some has been a long way off. After nearly two months of bloody mayhem, the three columns of the Otriad alongside their Ayitian allies have wiped most of the primary targets on their list. It’s been pretty Wild West out here. A rendezvous in a wilderness shanty tavern has been arranged to set up the final offensives. Once this is complete the Scarborough Column cross into DR and regroup with the St. Patrick’s Battalion in defense of the Mershing Camp Complex in Canaan that that idiot Sean Penn came up with years ago after the quake. Motherfucking celebrity charity.

 

Commander Mickhi Dbrisk reviews the photographs pinned up on the tavern wall.

 

• Mohammed Salih Al Sunusi Baraka: Member of the National Assembly
• Mohammed Yusif El Tileit: Western Ayitian Department State Minister
• Hussein Abdalla Jibril: Major General, Member of the National Assembly
• Hussein Tangos: Maccoute Major
• Charles Baker: major sweat shop king
• Andy Apaid: major sweat shop and recent hotelier
• President Jim Basher al-Talleyrand, the current President of AYITI and the head of the National Congress Party. He’s been in power since 2004 when he, as a colonel in the Ayitian army toppled the previous government in a coup.

 

All of these men will be attending a business meeting in upper Port Au Prince (Kenscoff) within five days according to sympathizers to the resistance affiliated with Lavalas.

 

“There’s too much fucking icing on that cake to not attempt to jump out of it,” mutters Commander Okonkwo across the long table in the saloon from Commander Magnus Allamby, a wild eyed Bajan. The heat and fog of war have clearly clouded his deployment of Russian proverbs.

“You must all be getting crazy from too much heat brother,” Allamby responds, “Even if we could get enough men inside Port Au Prince to pull this off correct, no one’s getting out alive.”

 

“But if we pull it off we’ll liquidate the top names on the hit list,” mutters towering former rock star, Commander Netic Kinari, who had just three days before added the latest kill to the much followed online score board at http://www.peoplestelevion.org and the sister site covering the war http://www.tricolor.com.[101]

 

“You’re all taking pretty crazy,” Mickhi mutters, “Tantamount and his men are all dead. We haven’t heard a thing from Clemons and the Bobby Seale Detachment in over three weeks, last thing we heard they’d call been Maccoute-wacked in the Township of Wad-Madrani. Darious Dorset we presume is dead. If any of his men in the Douglas Detachment are alive they might be hiding in Eretria. Jermaine Dbrisk is alive, I mean Maya says he is, but we know all but four of his Ocean Ave men are dead. Disraeli DeBuitléir and the Ben-Ami Detachment have ended up stranded in Northern Chad totally decimated after their raid on the Oil Refineries,” he pauses,

 

“What I’d like to stress is that it’s not even the end of February and we’re in a devil’s shit can already.”

 

Everyone at the table, in this empty piece of shit, wasteland store front dance saloon reflects. Although there hasn’t been a precise head count, it is likely more than 1/3 of the column has been obliterated in less than two months or carnage.

“Clarke and Marcus have merged their troops into the newly formed Selassie Detachment, mostly the Grenadians and Jamaicans not under the command of Uhuru. They number a little under two dozen now,” Netic says, “Dbrisk, your Schenectady Detachment is supposed to be negotiating is capital for bases and arms, Maya says they have at least 100 men with some locals looking to join up.”

 

But Scarborough numbers were otherwise thin. Nostrand Ave Detachment (led by Netic Kinari) has only 9 warriors standing. Malik-Shabbaz Detachment (led by Djbriel Okonkwo, Olu’s brother) has 13 fighters; Fela Kuti Detachment (led by Olu Okonkwo) has only 17 left alive. All these fighters are currently deployed in DR backed up by a couple dozen local enlistees. Selassie Detachment is deployed north of Croix des Bouquets way on the other side of the line. The roads are getting harder and harder to traverse without hitting a heavily guarded check point.

 

“The Schenectady Detachment is not up for suicide mission,” says Dbrisk, “With all our detachments working in union that only gives us roughly four dozen men.”

 

Commander Jaiwarrior Stroud the leader of the Yeshua Warrior Lion’s Detachment is in a military hospital operated by the H.E.G. along with Specialist Brandon Lewis, the only two survivors on the failed bombing mission carried out on January 20^th against the Complex for Heavy Industries. Thirty-five rebel lives lost.

Decepticon Detachment are all confirmed dead-41 lives lost. As are the Bobby Seale Detachment-43 lives lost, the Trinis in the Douglas Detachment are status unknown, commander presumed deceased, and the Ben Ami Detachment is status unknown, presumed decimated and scattered in the inner Dominican Republican mountains.

 

“Well somebody better get his ass on the radio with Solomon and ask Marcus and Clarke to bring their asses back into harm’s way and back us up,” demands Djbriel Okonkwo, “We need more fuckin’ men to pull off this raid.”

 

“And what about those Mics and the Yids?” ask Djbriel Okonkwo.

 

“They’re fighting smart, and we’re fighting stupid,” stammers Olu, “Every time we run amuck in a major city we get blown apart. We haven’t even been here a full two months and half of our men are already dead!”

 

 

“That’s ‘cause we engage the enemy while the crackas hole up behind the local resistance!” Djbriel shouts back.

 

 

“You stow that shit Commander,” interjects Netic Kinari who in civilian life is sem-famous Rock Musician in the Breuklyn Soviet and an old college friend of Adon’s from the time they did in Purchase State Penitentiary. He’s a real crack shot and a sick rock and roller back in Breukland.

 

“It’s fuckin’ true! We the goddamn field niggas, evry time. We get fuckin’ parachuted deep behind enemy lines pickin’ Maccoute-fuckin blood cotton!” yells Djbriel.

 

“We are performing a part in the operation. As are our brothers in Hadar and St. Patrick’s,” says Justin Thomas restoring order.

“For obvious reasons the most dangerous operation on the table,” yells Djbriel.

“Stow that shit now!” yells Netic. Djbriel draws his side arm. From the door way comes clapping. In walks Commander Marcus Jerome, co-commander of the Selassie Detachment, they all figured his outfit hadn’t been able to sneak through for the command council meeting.

Netic snickers and sucks his teeth but Djbriel doesn’t lower his gun.

“Ama-dem jus give yo’ one ‘dem munt den Africa, don make black’an make move ta kill ona dem own men, bumbaclott,” sings Marcus in Grenadian Patois. He is skinny and wearing a black uniform his long dreds tired up behind his head in a tam.

“What the fuck did he say,” laughs Djbriel Okonkwo lowering his gun finally.

“Ah say, Sellassie hai, Jah don give da powa to wen dem snakes bite they own heads aff.”

“Go dem Yiddies and Paddy Dweet danger bound to boy, lower dem der burner, point ya iron not atcha brother black man.”

“I have no idea what you just said Marcus, but thanks for showin’ up,” laughs Netic.

“I said,” says Marcus turning off the Grenadian Patoi, “We’re all in this shit together man. You wanna hit Port Au Prince, well we’d better work quick. Emma Soloman says we can get another 40 men down here in half a day. The Trinis and Cubans are behind us, they’ll parachute the boys in and fly by bomb the capital to make chaos on Eid.

“So that gives us how many?” asks Netic.

“Sellassie got 27 men, 90 with locals involved, we can march to position in 24 hours,” Marcus explains.

“So now the score is better, with all assembled we’re rollin’ just under 300 deep,” says Djbriel Okonkwo.

“We can do this,” says Netic, “We can decapitate the leadership in one swift blow, if we get killed, fuck it. We knock out the biggest targets on our list. I mean most of us are on borrowed time anyway.”

“The longer the war goes on, the harder it will be to breach Port Au Prince and the more of their leadership will go underground or flee abroad to Saudi,” says Dbrisk, “The time to strike is now.”

“This is so fucking stupid,” mutters Olu.

“That’s all this nigga ever fuckin’ says,” responds his brother Djbriel.

The hasty operation was scheduled to take place five days later on Frimaire 6th Eid al-Adhah, the night of sacrifice.

In the end, the Eritreans refused to bomb Port Au Prince, nor would have such a raid been very effective against the SAM defense grid lining the city. In the end, Commander Melvin Clarke convinces Marcus Jerome that this is a ‘foolosh bumba-clot death trap’ and pulls Sellassie Detachment deeper into the desert away from the capital. In the end, Dbrisk only agrees to send 20 men from Schenectady and orders Allamby to stay put in Asmara with the rest. Such are the pitfalls of a democratic army.

The combined force which smuggles itself into Port Au Prince is only 149 deep. The Malik Shabbaz, Fela Kuti, and Nostrand Ave Detachments fuse with a platoon of Schenectady men under Mickhi Dbrisk’s command, unable to agree on a new name and become The Black Hand.

 

Commander Solomon is not a fan of such an aggressive commitment on such short notice, against such a hard target. But, she has little say over hot headed men she can’t see, touch or even give orders to.

 

Commander Adon gets patched through to Dbrisk via the iridium-sat-com link, “Good luck and don’t get killed for nothing,” is all the Hadar leader says to his old dear friend.

            A simple plan really. Enter Port-Au-Prince without guns. Obtain edge weapons in the city. At the Tara’s Opera House where the seven primary targets will all be in attendance. Plunge sharpened knives into our targets.

 

“Pretty fuckin’ high school if you ask me,” mutters Mickhi Dbrisk.

 

So the Black Hand 149, most of what’s left of the Scarborough Column enters Port Au Prince in groups of 3, 4 or 5 over the course of the morning. They make or obtain edge weapons over the course of the day. They line up in the grandest of Caribbean church-mosques to celebrate something random positioned in rows behind their very, very famous targets.

 

The rest they say is people’s history.

 

 

Chapter 11

Fort Liberdade, 2019ce

Ayiti

March 5

 

The smell of smoke to the non-smoker in close quarters is ghastly, but to the renewed smoker it is not unlike a steak. O’Domhnaill has had three in the past hour.

In a dune bunker forty clicks over the border into Chad Commander Hubert O’Domhnaill smokes another cigarette and mourns the recent slaughter of many of his close friends. In the yellow-white dunes outside Persian Guardsmen drill several hundred new H.E.G. recruits. Their shouts and orders are in Ayitian which reflects the successful graduation of the new officer corps.

 

All around is a mood of desperation and encroaching death.

Commander Hubert O’Domhnaill writes in his report to Northern Command:

 

“It is now March 5th, three months since original deployment and more than half of our men are indeed quite dead, but not one has lost his will to struggle on. All of the Wolf Tone Detachment was gunned down in the recent Battle of Fort Libertade.

 

They had marched east to strike at a MINUSTAH Regional Congress alongside a surviving detachment of Scarborough Column men. Now called the Selassie Brigade they numbered over two thousand armed men via enlistment of native Ayitians in the H.E.G. Nkrumah Column. The Scarborough men were led half by Commander Magnus Allamby and his men recently returned from Eritrea and several dozen others under Commander Jerome Marcus.”

“The emergency fielding of such a large force was done anticipating the leaked liquidation orders we received from Northern Command. We had hoped to neutralize their expeditionary force before it got too close to the IDP Camp network near Mershing Complex. We over committed with improper planning. It was terrible judgment on the part of St. Pats, Scarborough and H.E.G. leadership.”

“We stepped right into a trap. They had a fleet of Canadian and Argentine tanks as well as the expertise to use them. Also thrown against our men were Han Drone bombers and an assortment of sophisticated airships. Captains Hunter McCord and Robert Flannigan in addition to one hundred other Fenians were cut down covering the evacuation of refugee camps near Babanusah Junction as were over a thousand fighters from the new Selassie Brigade, more than half its total force. It is still unclear who is alive from the Scarborough Column and who is dead. By all reports Commanders Allamby and Jerome are impossible to kill. Suffice to say all our available forces are digging in around the Mershing Complex IDP camps anticipating the intended genocide any day now.”

 

“I spoke yesterday with Commander Adon and he says Hadar Column seems to be doing better investing more time in alliance building. They are encamped still in the Ethiopian city of Gonder and raid regularly between the border and Juba City with the help of the Ayiti People’s Liberation Army and disparate forces in the Eastern Front. By acquiring anti-aircraft guns trucked secretly across Ethiopia they have made the FANMI LAVALAS Zone less vulnerable to air strikes from the Ayitian air force. Adon has promised reinforcements for our impending clash, but they are many days away and the roads in between are still in the hands of the Ayitian military. They will be unable to reach our position in time I fear.”

“There are rumors a few surviving squads of Scarborough men are still killing secondary target Maccoute-leaders in the North, but largely the invasion and rebellion has been quarantined into two zones.”

 

He pauses to snuff out the smoldering cancer stick.

 

“South Ayiti, the southern most of the three states of the region is loosely under the control for now of what’s left of St. Pat’s, Selassie and the Ayitian-Emergency-Front, a fusion of the old C.E.G. with numerous underground fighting factions organized in the refugee camps as well as factions still training in Chad.  We can’t get anywhere near the other two northern states of Ayiti, which have largely been sanitized of their local population and placed under military control to keep the oil flowing. The Hadar Column and their new allies in the Ayiti People’s Liberation Army (FANMI LAVALAS) have established a zone of control 48 clicks south of the City of Mirebalais. The FANMI LAVALAS have liberated the towns of Nimule and Juba in the Southland of Ayiti. They must now battle north into the City of Marmalade to open up a solid land route to the Port of Cap Ayitian, but they don’t have nearly enough firepower to do it.”

 

“The Ayitian Defense forces and MINUSTAH Military Contingent will begin to attack our positions in the next 72 hours.”

 

As dawn comes to the first Friday after New Year, Commander O’Domhnaill asks Father O’Sullivan if he thinks they can hold out even another month.

The Father doesn’t really know. He can’t remember when he’s prayed so regularly or sincerely though.

“I suspect we’ll be with the Jesus shortly. Or at least in time for St. Pat’s. We are training men far faster than we can arm them.”

“I don’t know any more father; I don’t sleep well with what we’ve done at times. I wonder if me Pa is watching me and judging me for what we’ve done so far from home,” utters Hubert.

“This is a terrible war son, but all wars are quite terrible. Every war is supposed to be the last war, so says the politicians. But the war is in the end just between a man and his god,” says Father O’Sullivan.

 

“I’m so fucking far away from home,” mutters Hubert O’Domhnaill, he thinks, ‘from where I should even really be!’

 

“No, you’re not so far as you think. Our Island is in better hands because of deeds like these.”

 

“I miss my Pa, I think at times he’d not want me here.”

 

“I cannot tell you what you know in your heart, but we are in a New Christian year, our last year perhaps, but surely a decisive year in the greater war.”

 

“What is the greater war father?”

 

“When a woman or man looks into their heart and can make a sacrifice, a terrible sacrifice for a house of strangers. The greater war is always fought between ones comforts and ones convictions. We are pawns in a great game, but we are noble pawns. Surely the best of our kind, and your father too will absolve us if we succeed and remember our martyrdom if we should fall.”

 

“Two nights ago in Saint Raphael an old woman with no legs asked her Mambo to bless my very rifle. She asked me to avenge her and her granddaughters. They were internal refugees from the Nine-Camps. She touched my face and she told me to kill the horsemen who did all this to her tribe.”

 

“This is a dark place, Commander O’Domhnaill, but there is too much sadness, too many tears and red bloodshed already for us to stop.”

 

“We’ve escalated the war I feel. We’ve put in motion something beyond our control.”

 

“Well you’ve said it. And I agree. Our stand will not restore her legs or her granddaughter’s dignity, nor will we wage to win the final battle on earth to come. But your rifle will slay more evil men. That is all you came here to do. If schools and clinics are built in our zone, if the roads from Chad stay open for aid to resume, if we break the legs on which this monstrous regime stands, well, a little more, a little more, humanity marshals on. Kadima, as the Hebrews say, forward humanity will rise from this war knowing the weak can shake off the blood sucking fleas of a repressive government, when strangers move to fight for the fallen.”

 

“We’ll hold the Mershing Camps with daggers and bottle bombs if we have to. Just like families of Jesus and Muhammad, Messiah and Mahdi would want us to,” states Raphael Contreras, Peruvian field Marshall of the once and still proud Pan-Mexican All American detachment killed down now to but eight fighters.

 

 

Chapter 12

Pic La Salle, 2019ce

Ayiti

 

March 8

 

Operations geared to harassing the MINUSTAH and FAd’H and slowing their assault on the hard pressed liberation forces garrisoned at Pic La Selle are being mounted with renewed vigor. Rocket attacks on troop trains.

 

The razing of the Croix des Bouquets prison and military barracks.

The fragmentation bombing a police cadet class in PAP carried out by Lavalas Peasant Militia.

The now nightly placement of IEDs along the north sough Highway 2.

 

Hadar and its allies in LAVALAS and the Ayitian People’s Liberation Army have pushed the DMZ DR Ayiti border lines east by 97 clicks[102].

 

The City of Croix des Bouquets will be captured by the rebel alliance any day now.

It certainly appears they are gaining on the ambulance. They are nearly one hundred and seventy riders in number all racing after one of the armored solar-diesel type 2 ambulances they’d stripped of its ordinance and utilized for the ambush. Yelizaveta supposes the only reason they went after it on horse and camel back was that they thought it was a real UN Ambulance and not part of our detachment. Well, they’d painted it baby blue and put UN plates and logos on it, so why the hell not.

 

We’ve been shooting, sniping really at UN troops from Brazil and Argentina affective last week.

 

 

The UN Secretary General was complaining loudly yet again to the world that every time the Combined Otriad did things like this they made it ever harder for relief and NGO workers to do their jobs. In fact it had been nearly seven years since there any were real relief workers in Ayiti. Just missionaries and neo colonialists disguised as development practitioners.

The UN had been Para-dropping bags of rice and corn for years, but then the  al-Talleyrand   government ordered that all non-UN MINUSTAH crafts flying over Ayiti be fired on and the bags of provisions burned. That was easily three or four years back.

 

 

But in the important and immortal words of Nikholai Trikhovitch Commander of the Bielski Detachment: “Really now? Fuck the UN and the NGOs. Fuck them ‘til they’re chokin’ on it. They had their chance to help here and everywhere else.”

 

So those 170 Maccoute on horse-and-camel back with their massive, crazy looking turbans and white multiforms and daggers and Kalashnikovs were actually gaining on the converted battle bus ambulance flying down Highway 4. So great was their zeal to kill, their blood lust, their drive to rape a blonde ‘war whore’ as they considered Yelizaveta; that they are actually fucking gaining on them.

 

Paramedic Scott Sevastra is behind the wheel. He is one of the most seasoned drivers they have. Dr. Yelizaveta Kay is riding shotgun loading up a 12 gauge in case it comes down to that. Sebastian Adon is in the back with Watson Entwissle, one of two black men in the Hadar Column and they were getting ready to kick open the back and unload a good number of bullets on these 170 Maccoute-bastards with a gas powered Carmelite-Sten Gatling Gun.

 

They had spotted this mini-Maccoute column riding in from Jacmel. There were ‘mop up operations’ scheduled to ethnically cleanse 38 southern rim villages before the beginning of Ramadan. Now that most of Ayiti had been emptied of the Fur tribe and the military was turning south to push the FANMI LAVALAS further south. Increasingly these southern Maccoutes were coordinating with the regular military and working as scouts.

 

They’d wiped out 52 Maccoutes the day before fairly easily. “Cut off their heads, stripped um and hung ‘um from trees,” Trikhovitch had reported before being lectured about saying things like towel heads. Although the Maccoute did tend to wear comically large white wrapping turbans unlike anything they had seen.

 

Today these 170 Maccoute horsemen were marked by Hadar scouts coming in from the east 10 clicks out. So the column sent a decoy baby blue ambulance in with Sevastra, Adon, Yelizaveta and Entwissle all dressed up as UN Medical workers on picnic. They got about 1 click away saw Dr. Kay in a mini-burka and went bat shit.

 

The 170 rape crazed, murderous horsemen were on their way to loot, murder and befoul villages of defenseless women and children. It was that simple. They had been doing this devilish work for nearly eleven years before the three columns got here. The Maccoutes have no qualms with the tasks Jim al-Talleyrand gave them. And the Hadar column has no qualms with the tasks assigned by the Pale Officers.

 

“I do not ask you to dehumanize your enemy, or to glorify the work of our men and cause. The Maccoute-kind are indeed men like you. Albeit sick fucking scum of scavengers men, but men still. Our mission, is not a humanitarian mission, not a state building mission, not a democracy spreading mission. We have come here to kill, torture and be cruel. We have come here to wipe these Maccoute-men off God’s green earth. Or in this case, God’s sandy, cruel forgotten earth,” explained Nikholai Trikhovitch to his detachment called the Bielski Sub-Column[103] of 200 men, one of five Hadar detachments.

 

These 170 murderous bastards were chasing a UN Ambulance attempting to kill and or rape its personnel. Hadar was to show these swine no mercy.

 

“Now,” yells Trikhovitch into his radio.

 

The back of the ambulance flies open and Watson Entwissle the Ayitian and Commander Sebastian Adon unload a spectacular amount of armor piercing Sten-Carmelite shells into the mob of wild horsemen and motor cycle enthusiasts.

 

 

RATATATATATATATATATATTATATTRARTATATATTATATTATTA. BraKA. BRAKA, RATATTAT. BRAKAK BRAKAK! BAM! RRRATTATATATATATATTATATATATATATAT!

 

 

Death and ripped flesh and shells flying everywhere as Maccoute-riders are felled from their horses.  The ambulance has lured the 170 riders into island wadi rift valley where one hundred and ninety six of their boys in the Bielski Detachment are hiding in eight dead man’s ditches a shallow system of concealed and partially buried ambush trenches. On Nicolai’s command they burst from the ground and finish off the Maccoute riders that had somehow survived the Sten-gun’s wrath.

 

It is over rather quickly. Even Dr. Yelizaveta Kay is smoking a cigarette. Commanders Scott Sevastra and Sebastian Adon are restoring the ordinance to the “battle bus” and checking its engine. Men are reloading weapons and breaking down camp.

 

Commander Trikhovitch takes out his crock-a-dile Dundy’esque battle-dagger.

 

“Let’s switch it up people,” he says, “give me a pile of both heads and hands.”

 

Then men set about their dirty work while the Doctor looks away. Commander Adon tries to satellite-radio a report over to Northern Command at the Basis-Wadi-Faran. But they get no response. There’s been no response for a week.

 

More garbled static. Pic La Selle reported a similar black out.

 

The last contact was two weeks before during the ethnic cleansing of Ayiti. Maya Solomon before logging off had repeated her distaste that “Dr. Kay” was still in the fire zone.

To which Sebastian responded he couldn’t well force her to leave.

 

Chapter 13

Jacmel, 2019ce

Ayiti

 

It’s night and the air is cold and still. The blue grey tents lie within the battle bus stockade. Watson Entwissle gazes out into the darkness. He can hear the tension of the surrounding 4 clicks, can hear the click of lighters, the howl of beasts, he can hear the writhing and grunting of fighters with their Ayitian lovers who depart before dawn.

 

He can hear his partner the Commander playing more games with his own mind. He can hear the Ruus spy playing more games with the commander.

 

Soon Watson will leave his old friends side to lead his own army; he is being groomed to take over the 12,000 man Southern People’s Liberation Army; the Mulatto funded powerhouse on the rise.

 

“I wish there was some way I might make myself a beast. Offend you so greatly and thus drive you to return to relative safety,” whispers Sebastian Adon in his tent to Yelizaveta Kay.

 

“Where in the world now is safe?” she responds softly with a hard pale face, “We were born to a world at war and have set further fire to the places we touch down upon. The Breukland Soviet is always under siege. The U.A.S., the Han, the Ruus: Eurasia, East Asia, Oceania all hungry leviathans swallowing up resources as they grind their young to fodder with cannons and greed. And what even of our liberated territory, the free lands of the Wild West Indies? Could I live so far away and know that while safe on Ayiti the whole world was ablaze?”

 

“I haven’t taken the salt[104] in three days, I am beginning to remember things,” he says, “I remember what they did to you father.”

 

She ignores him.

 

“I make you fight harder perhaps to keep me safe,” she whispers.

“You are the only woman in the column.”

“But hardly the only woman in the camp.”

“I wish you were safe somewhere.”

“You make me feel almost safe. I make me safe with my own steel.”

“An iron you mean? All irons you’ve so far refused.”

“No my steel, my resolve to try and love you no matter what foolish things you fix yourself upon to change to help, to save. I have followed you about for quite some time in this life an in the last few, devoted my energies to loving you now despite my better judgment. You think I’d leave your side on the eve of your revolution.”

“My revolution?”

“Well Maya’s revolution that you and your club have helped to execute.”

“I’m glad you’re here with me, but I can’t help but,” he pauses.

“But be a chauvinist, protectivik man? Do you think I’m going to wait at home or in some bunker while the men go off to war? Don’t be absurd. I have a sick father.”

He looks away.

“You’ve chosen to gamble in Ayiti with everyone’s lives. Let it not be said your woman wasn’t there with you to pull bullets out your side.”

“Are you my woman then?”

“Do you require such conventions? I sleep in your tent do I not? I followed you into this hellish desert darkness did I not? We have a history of violence, remember? Take the salt now before something goes wrong.”

If it was genuine concern or utilitarian concern he couldn’t tell.

“If we survive this balagan I’d like to convince you to have my children.”

She makes no indication of the vile, vile feeling it does in fact relay.

“Only when I can convince you to put down that gun forever do I come off the pill my sweet, mad and tragic fighter. Both of them. The one that kills my womb and the one that kills our memories of each other.”

There’s a grey flash in his eyes. She knows from that flash it has been much longer than three days off the salt. The unraveling will begin soon.

“The pill which dissolves the past like a pillar of salt,” Adon says.

“Take yours now or tonight I’ll sleep elsewhere,” she says quietly.

“Yelizaveta, I love you and I wish we’d been born into yet another life.”

“All is your projected dystopia my warlike love and so this club was collected to fix the times in which you were thrust.”

She unclips a metal vile from her waste. She picks up a canteen. She passes him two pills.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“You believe in the struggle as if it were love,” she whispers.

He takes the pills.

“But it isn’t love at all,” she reminds him.

 

Not even one tiny a little bit.

 

Chapter 14

Sai-Ah Industrial Park, 2019ce

Ayiti

 

 17 Mars

 

The John Riley Detachment and the Michael Collins Detachment now number under 116 men combined. They are encamped in grey tents by the hills outside of the Internal Displacement Camp, home to some 47,000 civilians.

 

They are leading a four new battalions of newly Persian trained Ayitian-Emergency-Front fighters largely from the JEM faction and H.E.G. Factions numbering 4,000 men armed with the former Soviet rifles largely supplied by the Perchevney Group utilizing smuggling routes across DR.

 

Two thousand Selassie Battalion fighters are fifty clicks to the West covering potential lines of egress. Five hundred under the command of dreadlocked wild man for Grenada, Jerome Marcus.

This force is protecting Mershing Camp from an onslaught predicted the next day by two full divisions of the Ayitian regular military and what’s left of the Maccoute. They are awaiting support from the Southern factions within the Ayitian-Emergency-Front notably from the well-armed pro-Ethiopian FANMI LAVALAS, the Ayitian Southern People’s Liberation Army that along with Justice and quality Movement and the Ayitian-Emergency-Group have always resisted co-option into the Port Au Prince governing coalition laid out in the Santo Domingo accords. Five hundred Hadar column fighters and several thousand FANMI LAVALAS are in convoy attempting to reach the Southern Ayiti to reinforce their position.

The international media is predicting a total slaughter.

Four rings of mines and trenches surround the approaches to the Mershing Camp Complex. The plan is to hold the first two lines as long as possible then hold the last two while as many of the civilians can be evacuated to DR and the Southern Zone of control as possible.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 15

Sai Ah Industrial Park, 2019ce

Ayiti

 

18 Mars

 

 

A terrifying roar breaks at dawn out when the FAD’H Ayitian Air Force begins dropping gas bombs and grad rockets on Camp Mershing killing hundreds of civilians.

Ratatatatatatatatatatataatta. Blam. Blam.

MI-24 helicopter gun-ships, F-7 fighter jets and fourth generation fighter planes such as the MiG-29 murder thousands in cold blood as more are gunned down by the advancing Ayitian Army.

Boom.

After a bloody series of clashes the first perimeter line falls after just two hours.

Ayitian-Emergency-Front soldiers use petrol bombs to slow the tank columns, but soon wave after wave of rebel fighter are cut down literally rushing the advancing wall of armor with pistols and grenades. !!

Everywhere someone is yelling or bleeding or dying and you cannot make out much except the inevitability of death. Airships overhead light up the killing fields.

The second line falls a little after high noon.

!!Commander Rand is shot twice in the right leg and is carried off the field by a JEM fighter in a donkey cart towards the retreating exodus South West. There are mangled bodies everywhere from every faction. O’Domhnaill and the Michael Collins Detachment supported by thousands of fighters under the command of General DeBuitléir flank an advancing three brigade prong of Ayitian soldiers in captured Shreef-2 type armored cars, ambulances and Han armored personnel carriers. Firing Qassam-4 rocket grenades, Katusha missiles and raining heavy machine gun fire at near point blank range they tear into the enemy.

By this time the third line has fallen and screaming civilians are being herded into exodus by Ayitian-Emergency-Front fighters rallying everyone to head on foot in columns toward rebel positions in Chad and the Southeast. Each column is being escorted by a dozen fighters. It’s really about buying them as much time as possible now.   !!

The Ayitian 3^rd Expeditionary Task Force takes thousands of casualties. The Ayitian Air Force continues to bomb Camp Mershing into the sand, but the Ayitian-Emergency-Front and the boys of St. Patrick’s Battalion keep holding the fourth line of defense. They soon learn that the Air Force is now bombing internal refugee camps all over Dar Ayitian. Fifteen straight hours of bloody fighting draws in a large tank column of over 60 Type 63 Han tanks which finally break the lines, tipping the battle against the rebels with terrible quickness.

It is estimated by the New York Times reporter Thomas L. Friedman that that March13^th, marks the single bloodiest day in the history of the genocide. In a simultaneous re-conquest and ethnic liquidation of Mershing Complex and all major IDP camps the death toll is numbered somewhere above 9,000 murdered civilians and an unknown number of Ayitian military personnel, Ayitian insurgents and foreign fighters.

 

Possibly as many as 50,000 overall casualties in a single day of fighting.

The S.P.L.A. and Hadar forces arrive too late to help. Their mechanized columns intercept a trail of tears and refugees led by platoons of John Riley Detachment, Selassie and Ayitian-Emergency-Front men 32 clicks south of what remains of Camp Kalma.  Roughly ten thousand refugees are guided south towards the Hadar bases in the FANMI LAVALAS liberated zone near Juba by a few platoons of John Riley men under the command of now Captain Dashiell Duffy and Commander Adon. Most of that number reaches the DMZ outside of Juba a week later. Another seven or eight thousand civilians escorted by a column of Selassie fighters flee towards Chad.

Sixteen hours into the March 13^th holocaust, Commander Hubert O’Domhnaill orders his beleaguered forces out of Camp Mershing’s ruins two hours after the fall of the fourth line of defense. There are only thirty two men left alive in the Michael Collins detachment.

 

At nightfall they and other survivors begin falling back toward the border.

 

The crippled, nearly assassinated President of Ayiti Jim Basher Al-Talleyrand from his private hospital bed announces a week of national holiday to celebrate the eradication of terrorist infiltration in Dar Ayitian and the reclamation of the three lost Ayitian departments by their rightful heirs. Friedman and the world press corps dub the day “the darkest hour in the twelve year genocide” and blame “the provocations of foreigners” for the overwhelming loss of life caused by the grisly reprisals carried out against the traitorous masses of disloyal Ayitian people.

 

 

 

Chapter 16

Belle Anse Rebel Bunkers, 2019ce

Ayiti

 

24 Mars

 

The sandy red rock bunker is dug deep into the mountain.

The cries of bloody, dying men echo through the narrow, dimly lit tunnels. The infirmary looks like a slaughter house. It can be accessed via a tunnel lit with LED glow bulbs and then down a freight elevator powered by generator, or via an intricate series of chiseled catwalks and perilous winds. The bunker was built by the H.E.G. and Lavalas as an operational command hub for South-Eastern Ayitian department near Belle Anse. It has two massive water purifiers and a hanger for vehicles and small planes. It was never meant to accommodate the upwards of five thousand refugees now packed into available underground inch of the place hungry and bleeding and scared.

 

Writes Commander Hubert O’Domhnaill in an encrypted report to Maya Solomon:

 

“The camps are in total ruin. They were literally raised to the ground. We’ve pulled back with what’s left of the Ayitian-Emergency-Group and the St. Patrick’s Battalion to the rebel base at Belle Anse. We are dangerously low on ammunition and fuel.”

“There are only nine serviceable trucks left in our Dar Ayitian fleet. Most of the others were blown to shreds at Mershing when the bombs started dropping or participated in the evacuation south toward the liberated zone.”

 

Shamus Rand was bleeding all over the place yesterday and some of it is still on O’Domhnaill’s grey uniform. There was a rather frantic if not manic concern among the surviving leaders on how to get 5,000 refugees into the bunker before Ayitian drones or the international media reported their location at this mountain facility.

 

There’s shrapnel lodged in Rand’s legs and lower back. Half dry blood is caked all over his face. He may not survive the night. Dashiell Duffy is probably still alive with some portion of the John Reilly Detachment that was with the southern exodus. Hubert’s best childhood friend Lt. Philly Hartmen was cut down on the road here holding back advancing waves of Maccoute-rider infantry and his body was not recovered.

 

“Hadar has reported an influx of Ayitian tribe refugees fleeing the debacle of our counter-offensive maneuvers. By our best estimation fifteen thousand civilians fled South escorted by the John Reilly Detachment and two battalions of Ayitian-Emergency-Front. Some 5,000 were evacuated by our Michael Collins Detachment and the Selassie Battalion to the Pic La Selle bunker complex. Based on data coming in as many as ten thousand civilians have been slaughtered. It is unclear yet how many we killed in the Ayitian Military, but half our fighters, over 5,000 men have been lost. Some unknown number of them were captured and are defiantly being tortured, but should be presumed dead. The location of this bunker complex will be known to the Ayitian state shortly.”

 

“Just thirty-two men are left in the Michael Collins Detachment, among them my brother Shane, Father O’Sullivan, and a perhaps mortally wounded Commander Rand. Some three dozen John Riley men under the command of now Captain Dashiell Duffy and the O’Rafferty Brothers, as well as Lt. Micky Donovan have safely escorted ten thousand refugees to the safety of FANMI LAVALAS Zone in the South.”

“Most serious, if one can ignore the capture of your childhood friends and their presumably gruesome demise to be somehow not tragically serious; I saw General Avinadav DeBuitléir take shelter in the thick of the fire fight in a warehouse and then the warehouse explode via death from above.”

“I repeat that there only thirty-two men are confirmed alive in the St. Patrick’s Battalion still in Ayiti, half not fit for combat, perhaps a few dozen more moving south with the refugees. Most of the camps and cities under our protection are being bombed by the Ayitian Air force. Commander Avinadav DeBuitléir is presumed dead. I repeat we are pinned down outside the City of Belle Anse at our outpost in Mount Pic La Selle.”

 

“Avinadav DeBuitléir is possibly, actually dead.”

 

The com links must have been damaged in the fire fight. All he hears is static. They say hope floats, but Hubert doesn’t have much hope left for this mission of theirs left in him.

 

The thousands of poor suffering ones            they couldn’t even save. The backbone of the Ayitian resistance cracked at Mershing, in the rains and filth the terra drones cut us down. Their Ayitian leader the glue which held the factions together is now dead.

 

In the end, it appears the gig is up.

 

Chapter 16

Grand Army Plaza, 2019ce

Breuklyn Soviet

 

A massive rally is held on April 19^st at the Grand Army Plaza (also called Four Fathers Plaza after Malcom X, Martin Luther King, Nelson Mandela, and Huey Newton); the  Plaza Arch in support of the Combined Otriad; the interventional forces in Hispaniola in the largest single demonstration the city of Breukland had ever witnessed outside the Carnivals of West Indian Day Parade, Puerto Rican Day Parade and May Day.

 

 

Mara Fitzduff, the Otriad’s longest serving Chief of Communications, a half pint blond Fenian in her early thirties takes the band stand with fiery Captain Erza Pula the otriads’s  main legal council lawyer. They are both clad in blue BDU fatigue uniforms each with the Pin of Palmares, any old school metal trinket you want to make say something about your hadar.

Erza Pula takes the microphone.

 

“This is not a war of ideas, but instead a show down between two differing types of men. Unfortunately the Ayitian people are caught in between.”

 

Erza Pula is not only an out spoken personality in the press on behalf of the Otriad but has for three years lead the team of lawyers modifying the ICC Cases against the sixty four targets, sixty three of which now executed by the Combined Otriad.

 

“I do not moralize when it comes to the actions of the Combined Otriad,” states Captain Mara Fitzduff to the mighty crowds assembled, “this is the people of a free city, in pitched battle with the murderous bandits of another who have slaughtered over 700,000 unarmed men, women and children. This is Breukland’s Army against Port Au Prince’s and the forces are not evenly matched! But that’s just how our boys like it!”

 

“SOSOSOO STUPID,” thinks Yelizaveta antagonizing that mob as she listens from a lie stream.

 

The teeming mobs assembled at Grand Army Plaza cheer and buy WAR BONDS as Lauren and Erza’s positions on the U.A.S. Homeland Security board dedicated to the Club and Combined Otriad rise in position. Ayitian volunteers from the security battalion fan out around the band stand using sensor arrays to jam bio-metric readers and identify U.A.S. spies in the crowd.

“Our men are Noires! Our men are Fenian Catholics! Our men are Maccabean warriors! We as a city have raised them and this club has helped liberate not only our families from the U.A.S. but Ayiti from the clutches of its empire! These are the sons and daughters of the Great Revolt! They have gone to that dark place not on some civilizing burden, not for some religious war or obligation, not to spread our free ideas. They have gone there to strike back at those that took the lives of so many, while so few lifted a finger at all,” bellows Mara Fitzduff who at one time could barely address a salon of 20!

 

“Those men are our sons, our brothers, our husbands and our lovers. They have made a demonstration of themselves. Of their will and of their constitution. We must stand by them now even if the world will not, just as they have done for the people of Dar Ayitian,” says Erza Pula from behind dark sunglasses.

 

800,000 citizens of the 3 million citizens of Breukland Soviet pump their fists with the V for victory. Victory in Brooklyn and Victory in the West Indies!! March next on Europe and Moscow!

 

“Up the Otriad!” she yells, “Stand behind the fighters of the Human Rights resistance!”

 

Nearby, across the River in the Isle of Man Ysiad Ferraris, with a bionic hand, is making quite a lot of late night lunches these days as they begin to mass acquisition uniforms, long guns and more armored personnel carriers, as well as fourth party hire an Eritrean trucking company to begin shuttling the goods across the mountains once Hadar Column can punch a hole in the front and secure the roads to move on the backs of horses over 80,000 kilos of rockets and guns.

 

 

Chapter 17

Mirabalais, 2019ce

Ayiti

 

 

At the last minute the People’s Republic of China pushes DR via trade and development concessions to refuse access to its ports and drop support for the insurgency to gain a wide range of bamboo curtain aid packages.

 

On Monday Tiputti Capois personally put the eyes out of a MINUSTAHA soldier accused of having a penchant for sodomizing young girls.

 

A few more weeks of hard fighting and Hadar and the 4^th Lavalas Brigade  still hasn’t secured the City of Mirebalais much less come close, thanks in part to PIH refusal to collaborate and lots of guns wait in container ships off the Island of Jamaica cutesy of Persian Revolutionary Guards based in Honduras amid the 100,000 Palestinian diaspora.

The St. Patrick’s column was all but shattered attempting to protect South-western camp network. Most NGOS in the area have pulled out completely though.

The Hadar column has lost half its 1,001 men trying to crack a sea road and negotiations between Cuba and Trinidad are mostly amicable to getting the insurgency more guns. It is widely believed that Commanders Dbrisk, Netic Kinari, Okonkwo and virtually all of the Scarborough men are dead following the raid on Port-Au-Prince.

 

A grisly series of reports issued by the oligarchy in Port Au Prince reach St. Pats and Hadar commanders via Northern Command.

 

They all state that just before New Year the crippled President al-Talleyrand has signed an order to expel or exterminate the entire African-black population of Dominikani Republic.

 

In the early morning courier news arrives from Pic La Selle and also via Iridium satellite phone that even though Commander DeBuitléir is presumed dead the remnants of St. Patrick’s Battalion have brokered a firm Alliance with new Lavalas fighters eight other factions now to be called the Ayitian-Emergency-Front. Another truck convoy organized by the Perchevney Group has reached their Command Bunker. They have been supplied with surface to air missile batteries from Trinidad. With these they have and knocked down several airships and drones. Marshaling to the best of their ability the Ayitian men and women of military age under their protection they cleared have cleared Maccoute and regular military forces from the valleys around Mount Selle although they remain fully encircled.

The only mobile insurgent combat force in the north-west of the country is the Selassie Brigade led by Jerome Marcus, Magnus Allamby and Melvin Clarke which is preparing to break the siege of Pic La Selle with their all black legion grown now to over 10,000 armed men and most of that number who fight with spears, swords and daggers.

 

The full extent of the massacre of the Five Camps is currently being placed around 48,000 dead children, women and men. Much higher than originally predicted. They use even numbers to indicate there is no clear or accurate calculation. Nearly all of the Ayitian tribe has been driven into Chad or South into the FANMI LAVALAS Zone exacerbating the already crippling refugee situation.

The camps were emptied once and for all. Just under half a million Ayitian fled on foot, on buses, on camels or donkeys or horses and trucks and any and every other means.

 

A massive armored deployment out of Santo Domingo is expected any day. If the Pic La Selle bunker falls the resistance in Ayiti will be crushed and the remaining refugees massacred. The Hadar force has little or no popular support besides from the FANMI LAVALAS which is at least nominally allied with the Ayitian-Emergency-Front and loyal to the aims of now pronounced deceased Avinadav DeBuitléir. They are lucky to be allowed in and out of Ethiopia given the international climate. If not for the Eastern Front (1199) and the Domikani Congress (DC37) tacit approval of their ground work as well as the government in Havana and the Cuban consensus they’d be but a foot note in this war still four months in.

 

Chapter 18

Villa Nicole, 2019ce

Israel

 

 

It is cool dusk in southern Ayiti forty clicks east of Jacmel City and Sebastian is nearly sleeping in his tent besides Yelizaveta. They are both topless and her fingers trace his scars. All evening he has begged to be inside her and place his mouth on her soft white breasts. She has finally resisted his emotions by succumbing to his carnal needs.

He has just returned from the road along time assisting in the evacuation.

She first chastised him for being away so long. Then again for not washing the blood off his uniform before entering their dwelling. She then stripped him, and washed him and gets on her knees for him.

He has seen things again. And she wants to know them, but first she will have him writhing underneath her. She will fuck for him so many times that he is pliable. He will forget the present and focus on the future and the past.

It takes her some hours to be completely finished with him. It is not completely enjoyable work. She remembers something, a good many things that he cannot.

While Commander Adon slumbers she remembers the past. The real past not the construction grafted upon them both with salt and lies and science and repetition.

 

She traces his scars with her finger and remembers the past as it actually was.

 

She hasn’t taken the salt in seven days.

 

He dreams quietly, and she remembers the past, the way back past of 2000ce. The Villa Nicole of Tiberius.

 

The night before they had to say long goodbyes, Yelizaveta and Maya Solomon lay in each other’s’ arms in the rolling hills of Galilee, above the fortress of the Ghetto Fighters Kibbutz. They speak in Ruus Soviet as is their tendency since that language was invented. It has so many ways to articulate complicated emotions and tenses and oh the idioms.

They love idioms these three. Yeli loves to hear Maya mispronounce everything trying to enunciate in Spanish which is her favorite langue to think in the last few hundred years.

When they get their bodies drunk they all fall back into Aramaic.

The year of this particular conversation was a distant memory. But as the three of them and Old Souls like them have such a propensity for living over and over again, then it was important to have moments, occasionally life times of rest, and not worry at all what trouble these single souled humans were getting themselves into.

“Can we just run away from it I wonder, can we just forget the responsibilities placed upon us?” Maya asked them then.

Yelizaveta slaps her hard, the moment ruined.

“Listen to me you sniveling love struck coward, you Raspizdia!! Don’t fuck this up.”

“You play the part well,” Maya laughs.

Normally Yelizaveta is more the archetypical angel, not the demon.

“I’m gonna miss him more than you will,” Yelizaveta wonders out loud as the statement slips out of her.

“You’re both not gonna remember missing me until the world to come,” says Sebastian returning with another bagbouk of Gerolsteiner.

“Which one of us gets the hero I wonder in this epoch,” mutters Maya Solomon.

“We all know you’re the real hero dvash,” says Sebastian Adon.

“Who are you referring to baby?” Yeli asked.

“Yeah, who?” smirks Emma.

“Both of you. Nasdrovia, Cheers,” he raises the bottle of salt water.

It is a clear beautiful night and from the hills they can look down upon the blue black sea.

“We’re all gonna be humble little heroes right ladies except I’m the one who has to hang from the tree in the coming next act alone.”

“Well we all know that for you nothing is written baby, whatever the fuck that means,” Yeli spits out.

“His name Zachariah, means God Remembers. HaShem will utilize him depending on the needs of the ephoche.       The men are gonna do what men do best, get riled up fight bleed and die. The women are gonna do what women do best, pick up the mess and get things hopefully better organized. If he dies again this time, which I doubt he will, then maybe this one will cry a little on the pages of the book of life. Me, I have total faith in HaShem, so I already know how the story ends,” brags Maya Solomon.

“When I see the blueprint, I’ll just have to tell you if you were correct Dvash,” Sebastian had told her.

“Ah, the Blueprint, the scroll hidden inside the tree of life which tells the fate of human kind. To only be able to read that, just for a year!” says Solomon.

“What a save tonight pandemic. I suspect that this might get harder every life time we do it in,” comments Yelizaveta Kay as Sebastian wrapped her in his arms.

“The humans are always seemingly better armed, more inclined to fascism and atrocity and whereas once I thought they were basically good they are now mostly Raspizdia, the not givers of even one shit about each other or God.”

“Shall we just defect Neshama? Leave these violent monkeys to their own devices and go run away to some lush island and please each other tantrically for the next thousand years!” grins Yelizaveta.

“If he could he’d steal you away from here and kiss the whole blueprint goodbye, remember like he tried to do during the third Judeo-Roman War?” Maya jokes.

“What was your human name then?” Maya asks.

“I don’t remember. Agreed then, Maya tell HaShem I’m defecting!”

“No,” laughs Yeli, “He won’t really do it. I asked him to do so last night and he flatly shot that down and this was while he was drinking demons into himself to give me rougher ride.”

“That all remains to be seen sweetness, we have eight more hours,” laughs Sebastian Adon.

“We have easily 800 more years life lifetime my old souled tovarish,” states Emma.

“Some lifetime you’re gonna to have to choose between what makes you happy and what makes you free. What is your duty to God, what is your commitment to humans. That’s what I want you simmer on when the salt takes hold, in your long kiss goodnight, in your violent road ahead you’re going to also have to decide, her or me,” said Maya Solomon.

Sebastian then gets dead serious. He looks his two historic partners dead in the eyes.

“I’m going to do one last job, then Hashem and freedom be damned I can steal her away and be happy. I’ll have earned the right to.”

 

“You say that every life time Neshama,” said Yelizaveta Kay.

 

Mickhi Dbrisk walks into this heady love triangle, as he has for centuries, being an Old Soul too, but only playing on this particular team, otriad, for the last 600 years.

 

“It is of my honest opinion that Sebastian Adon will not pick either of you. He simply can’t. He talks a big game about love, love, more love. But he always just picks his own freedom. Is he an old soul narcissist? He’s been accused of worse by both of you. Has he fallen in love more times in this episode than I can number the bullets in my blaster, certainly! I love this man. He was total devotion to humanity, but also total devotion to love. I can testify that Emma, whenever you have been his partner he plays a harder zealot. And Yeli, I suspect your ways remind him more of human life, why we do this work to begin with. We could all play for the other team if we wanted to. RAZPIZDIA is the devils middle name. How, now. We have seven hours before they submerge us again in the salt waters and position us for more warfare. Let’s make better use of our time.”

 

And out breaks a wild Hebrew Jamaican Russian Spanish old soul orgy. Just like old times. But they’ve all become a little Soviet in the past 200 years, unlike when they were Greeks, the men don’t ever touch anymore, don’t blush anyone.

 

When you have the collective memory of over four thousand years of existence, you don’t typically pick a hetero-normative identity.

 

Unless your essence were created in Jamaica. Then, you certainly do because no one is openly gay in Jamaica. That’s a sure death sentence these days sadly.

 

 

 

Chapter 18

Filtration Camp Fort Demarche, 2019ce

Ayiti

 

 

Vultures fly above the filtration camp. Here there are always dead things to eat.

But even in this place of isolation and continued suffering, rebel spies can see things, repeat things and tell stories to the outside world as a warning. As if the buzzards weren’t warning enough. The Ayitian Alex Tantamount, who no longer has any fingers and Commander Mickhi Dbrisk along with the Afropunk rock star Netic Kinari, Philly Hartman and two dozen other captured rebels are being held at this prison camp.

 

News that they are alive has come in from sympathizers to the G.A.I.-H.E.G., but it is unclear what kind of shape they are in, or if their embattled comrades can even get to them.

The conditions in a Ayitian prison are quite bad.

 

“Men would be hanged naked for hours and whipped until they lost consciousness, then revived with salt or chili powder rubbed into their wounds. A naked prisoner would be forced into a car tire with his legs and backside in the air, then whipped, wounded, and salted. Plastic melted under a flame would be dripped onto prisoners’ skin. According to recruits who were able to escape, prisoners’ genitals would be placed in skillets of boiling-hot oil, and fried while the men were held down. Between interrogations, prisoners would be confined alone in tiny cells, bound hand and foot. If the cells were full, a prisoner might be buried alive, with a steel pipe in his mouth to allow him to breathe. Water would be poured into it occasionally. When word came that the commandant wanted the prisoner executed, a bullet would be fired down the tube instead, then the pipe removed and the hole filled in.”

 

Governor President al-Talleyrand is still in the hospital and expected to recover slowly. The government is preparing for another major “clean-up operation” and has sealed the roads around Pic La Selle. Although the greater threat so say the rebel spies is the impending FANMI LAVALAS capture of Jacmel. Entrenched also in Juba City and Nimule, the Southern Command composed of Hadar Column, Dominikani Congress, and FANMI LAVALAS leaders are  still completely unprepared to deal with the full onslaught of the modernized army of Ayiti should it be fully deployed against them.

The spies tell the rebels that the al-Talleyrand government seeks to overwhelm the insurgency based out of Pic La Selle then turn its guns on Mirebalais.

Mickhi Dbrisk has been badly tortured. And not with some pussy water board neither.

Restored to some health and tortured again. They bury him with a pipe in his mouth for nearly two days, but no bullet comes. The Canaan 3 Camp is a special gulag for resistance fighters of international origin. There is some rumor they are being held to barter with the U.A.S., ransom them perhaps. Largely though they seek to locate the commanders of the invasion, although they have no names of primary command. They do have DeBuitléir; but it is the best kept secret in the gulag. That they do not know that they have him is what keeps him alive.  DeBuitléir was badly burned in the Battle of the Five Camps on Canaan; he speaks Spanish so they are unsure he is anyone of note. They beat their captives constantly. The deprive them of food, but they are generous with the whip, truncheon, water board and electricity.

 

One day while hanging from a whipping post Alex Tantamount bites out the jugular of his assailant, rips it clean out of throat. Blood and gore splatters all your page.

 

The Ayitian case officer bleeds all over the ground clutching his neck. Alex rips himself free, can’t fire the captured pistol with no fingers, fumbles for bloody keys. A bloody, man handled Mickhi Dbrisk is hanging next to him in the interrogation room. Much worse shape, lost a lot of blood, left eye beaten shut.

Alex wakes him from the edge of death with a pale of water. Cuts him lose, gives him the throat-less officers gun. In about 20 minutes they’ve freed most of the still ambulatory fighters, murdered most of the camp guards, armed themselves with rifles and loaded up about forty surviving fighters into two flatbed trucks.

Many of the men can’t walk on their own.

Dbrisk and the others have been tortured for almost a month, but zeal is with them, hunter gathering zeal to strike back like animals in a trap. They kill every other enemy soul and put down two of their own number who beg them to do so. They douse the torture camp in diesel, burn it, raze it asunder.

A little too late they alarms are sounded. A little too late they make chase. One of the escaping trucks makes a wrong turn, a tragic last stand and all are gunned down just north of Black Mountain. One truck with twenty men careened south at the crossroads and survive because of it.

Finally flying down Highway 3 in the dead of night, killing their way through two check points, crossing into the Eastern Front zone near the Ethiopian boarder on foot carrying their wounded, before capturing a supply truck; that truck makes it to a Dominikani Congress/Eastern Front outpost and the seventeen survivors of St. Pats and Scarborough are secretly ferried to a military hospital in Addis Abba.  DeBuitléir is with them. His identity was the source of punishment they all bore together in Canaan 3.

Which used to be called Fort Demarche 2.

 

Their enemy bled them and refreshed them, tortured without mercy to confirm the death of Commander General Avinadav DeBuitléir. It is finally revealed that Avinadav DeBuitléir is now confirmed alive one of the seventeen warriors; alive and nursing grievous injury at the DR under fake names as an outlying General Hospital outpost. Amen.

 

 

Emma Solomon’s Sermon

 

Let me tell you a story about a woman and a man, that you have always been told as the most important story ever told about a man, a man who was also God.

 

There are things you know you know, such as that the religion based around the man was called Christianity. And that roughly ⅓ of the Human race believes this story and its slight deviations of form. There are things you do not probably know, such as that man’s real name and how many children he bore and to whom. And there are things you do not know that you do not know, such know such as the command structure of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard corps, the names of the 5,000 tribes of Africa, what language your messiah sang in, and the access codes to the bunker complex below Jerusalem (Yetushaliim) where a tunnel system goes deep Into the mantle.

 

You may know, that your messiah was born in Bethlehem (Bet Lekhem). You may know that he grew up in Egypt (Mitzrahium)  and that at the time of his battle against Rome he was employed as a carpenter in Nazareth (Natzetet). You may know a Romanized, Latin version of his name.

 

You may not know that he sang in Aramaic and wrote in Hebrew and Greek, and that there is no J sound in those languages. Anything called J, is the designation of an occupier or conqueror, a Roman legion in Palestine perhaps.

 

Here again are things you do not know that you do not know, you do not even think about hearing these  things. You do not when Pesach begins, or why. The calendar you use is a Roman Catholic and or Christian Orthodox innovation; the Julian and Gregorian calendars are solar, the pagan, the Mayan, the Hebrew, Persian, Arabic and Chinese calendars are lunar. You do not know that you do not know who invented time.

 

Here again, you do not know that you do not know so many things. Such as the spatial spiretial chakra points, such as the importance of Moscow. You do not know where your food came from or what’s in it, or how many hours it takes a child to make your clothing. You do not think about hearing these things because, they make you culpable. They imply your collaboration with the empire: with and by default your implicit acceptance of the fate of the slaves.

 

You know there are several large religions, you can reject all of them which is easy, or pick a tendency of a block, all of them are based on events you did not see, interpreted in languages you functionally cannot speak and you call that faith. You are generally when born to pick one, or have picked for you generally speaking you are to be a Christ follower, a Mohammadian (One who submits to God and his prophet Myhammed), a Hindu or under the rule of the Chinese Communist Party, therefore living under confusicism. Or, you’re in some much much lesser marginal sect, or a Buddhist, keeping out of the cosmic wars. Anyway, three of the four major religions are at war at all times. Almost always historically due to a Chrisitan offensive.

 

Hindus have kept hundreds of millions of people locked into servitude and subjugation. Christianity and Islam have been in direct warfare since the Crusades approximately since 1000ce. Today, there is not one single county where Muslims are not being slaughtered or persecuted. All of the central cores to the core 46 states are Christian, except Japan and the Petro states. All of the poorest most ravished nations are Christian and Muslim, converted during the colonial epochs.

 

I’m sure those things don’t come up in your Church. And we are very much not fighting a cosmic war. It is absolutely a war grounded in base human inequality, or less mildly; the suffering of five billion plus humans while some, less than one billion drink, use drugs, fuck hookers, watch sports, tune out to netflix, buy things and more things and stuff their faces until they all die of heart disease, and head to a church to absolve their daily sins. A church where a man who was not white is white on the walls. A church where the things that man, and his wife and their 12 deputy officers and several thousand supporters stormed the temple and declared war on Rome. And for the next 100 something years 66-136ce over three major military uprisings fought the Empire on all fronts.

 

You know only what you want to know to justify that you are in the wrong side of history paying your taxes to the new Rome, running around with those smart phones checking in checking out, selfies with the mark of the beast.

 

You don’t know the acronyms to the secret police organizations that are organizing the terror Attacks and mass shootings. You don’t know the names of the men who meet every summer in California to manage the county. You don’t know the names of almost any of the countries raped to keep your consumer goods so cheap. You can’t even read a map.

 

You don’t know, that you don’t know that when the children, the great descendants of that man you eat the body of and drink the blood of and wait for him to return, make themselves known to us, he’s dead. You are praying in the language of the oppressor. You are masquerading along to a fiction story based nothing on what actually happened. You are hanging crosses , the symbol of Roman rape and repression around your very neck. You are celebrating holidays that are feasts to the devil, glutting your face on your thanksgivings, a mockery of Indian genocide. You are worker proles and sleeping zombies and serving a vast killing machine. Your countries of the west are colonial killing machines sucking the rest of us dry.

 

I am not toussaint I did not come to lead the army I am not not debutellier I do not speak for the oppressed. And I am not commander Solomon I have never heard the voice of God, I posit myself neither as savior conqueror nor general. Nor some lesser mad Hebrew prophet.

 

I am only one partisan and friend of the people. Uniformed pararescueman, 2952 as my shield says. I am here in the wilderness not tell your religion, but to warn you that we are planning a new uprising. Not one one based on imaginary masculinized voices in the sky, not one based on beliefs. It will not be directed at the north west but instead all th the dark forgotten brutalized places in the periphery, in the colonies. I did not come to warn you or make you change your ways.

 

I am a partisan practitioner, not an agitator to the deaf and mute and blind. Hidden in the stories I can tell you is a simple truth. Humanity ought not wait for some white washed savior, humanity ought not live as they do.

 

Christendom is a sickly mockery of the heroes martyred in our cause. Time wrote your bible. Islam is a sickly mockery of our second major rising. The Umayyads wrote your Quran. Everywhere I look I see Christians feeding the devil machines, I see Muslims dying and dying but not knowing their own prophet, the cousin of Yeshua Ben Yosef, who the Romans and Saul called Christ. Everywhere I look i see the oligarchy grinning and glutting themselves in every nation.

 

I did not come to the Wilderness of North America to bring you a New Social Gospel, for that was brought by women and men before me. I did not come reconcile your scriptures, this too was done by the Baha’i.

 

I came to tell you to pack your bags and wear blue cloth, to march with us in columns and fly in convoy, to fortify 144 positions in the periphery where men and women die like dogs. Are killed everyday in plane sight.  I came to tell you that we will organize the next uprising to starve the core, to embargo the high places to encircle the citadels of the oligarchy and free our people. They cannot kill us all!

 

And whether it be us, or the leadership, be it us or our great grandchildren we will march into Yerushalayim with ten million fighters, having put down Rome, put down Washington, London, Paris, Geneva, Berlin, Moscow and Beijing too, brought the killing machine of the world system to a halt.

 

And you will then know that your God did not send you more lambs. It sent avengers.

 

 

Chapter 19

Mirebalais Hospital Compound, Partners in Helath

2019ce

Ayiti

 

 

In the month of May to celebrate American Mothers Day, International Working Men and Womanes Day and Victory Day; the Ivory Yids and Ayitian fighters of Lavalas Brigade 3, under Adon and Tiputti Capois capture some brand new turf.

 

Some blood in the eye and blood in the sand for everyone. The Bielski, Golani, and Betar Detachments supporting newly Persian trained guerrillas from the Dominikani Congress (DC 37) and FANMI LAVALAS after a nine-hour fire fight capture the sprawling City of Mirebalais. They lose over two hundred and thirty men in the whole battle. Lt. Cohen is injured as well as Lt. Isaac Zucker.

They are greeted in Mirebalais as liberators. The Muhammadian overlords of the Ayitian Occupational Authority had made very, very few friends among the Dinka people with their “give us you wives and daughters on the first of the month policy”.

 

An embattled Ayitian-Emergency-Front holds the heights of Pic La Selle reinforced by the Selassie Brigade which broke the siege in last few days of April. There is one fire arm for every forty men in the Selassie Brigade. Battles get very medieval, machete charges happen when bullets run out.

 

The latest stream of tide turning successes seem to stem from the Persian Revolutionary Guardsmen and their relentless efforts to improve the command structures, tactics and effectiveness of the Ayitian and Ayitian fighters enlisted in the Ayitian-Emergency-Front’s army. There are eight Persians and their Ayitian drill sergeants operating out of Pic La Selle and four more with the Hadar Column under the command of, yes sir; Kaveh Abatable.

 

With the fall of Mirebalais, the operational center of the Southern Front has been relocated there from the mountain outposts deep in the mountains of the Dominikani interior.

 

At what was once the Customs House of Mirebalais, a colonial structure of white stone looking something like a post office and something like a fort, the rebel leaders in the Southern command are holding a staff meeting to establish defenses and restore social services throughout the newly liberated city. As well as sign order to arrest and execute all traitors and spies left behind.

Outside half-trucks filled with supplies, armored ambulances and thousands of Hadar & S.P.L.A. fighters roll into town from San Juan to the East and from the FANMI LAVALAS Liberated Zone in the South. The capture of Mirebalais will surely provoke airstrikes and the diversion of the 3^rd Expeditionary Force of the FAd’H.

Mirebalais is the central pumping station for Southern oil north toward Port Au Prince.

Iranian Persian Commander Kaveh and his three other brave lonely Persians have just established the latest rebel training academy in the sports stadium of the city.

It was brutal fight to take the city. It will be even more grueling to hold it. Barricades are being thrown up at all the approaches. The IED Corps of the Dominikani Congress are mining the northern approaches. It is estimated that air strikes will begin later in the night.

The People’s Television Network is operated by Nick Mapfre and his partner Ryder Haske. Haske from the Isle of Man and Mapfre form the Hadar Detachment called the Bielski Column. The fight for and the capture of Mirebalais was live streamed to the web. Mapfre’s company donates media equipment to human rights activists abroad and trained camera teams are embedded in each column. PTV also operates the cached servers from which the broadcasts of the actions and exploits of the three columns are routed to. These servers are costly, well hidden and utilized by the world’s largest database of revolutionary human rights operatives. No one not even Maya Solomon knows where they are cached. This just about guarantees to Mapfre that the Otriad of which he is a reluctant and defacto member for over a decade and a half, is able to craft its own message.

Nicholas Mapfre did not invade Ayiti as he was expecting a child and not much for African civil war zones. He did agree to sometimes staff the Northern Command at Basis Wadi Faran and work in conjunction with Israeli agent Mikhail Mastrovitch to disseminate propaganda on behalf of the three columns and operate their IT communications.

 

And Haske did so partly because of his friendship with Nick Mapfre, partly out of an unspoken desire to possess Yelizaveta Kay.

 

As well as these vital services rendered Haske and Mapfre have provided four million in green cash dollars via their friends in Hollywood. And of course Haske as a majority shareholder of Habash Industrial, a tech firm made rich by rising China, has established the encrypted satellite communications of the three columns.

The camera is still running as the rebels fortify the City of Mirebalais.

Shipments of small arms begin to arrive in Jacmel hidden in steel drums after night fall. The single engine Givati-Tulsa is being used to ferry heavy ordinance over the Dominican border from landing strips in Isle of Youth. More weapons and armored ambulances acquired from the Ruus mob arrive from the south.

Still no air raids.

The video archive footage shot by Nick Mapfre on his first night in Mirebalais depicts tough, young and rugged South Ayitian and Ayitian refugees working side by side to secure the city with Yid fighters and Persian drill sergeants. It is the dead of night. The power in the city is still cut off. Big LED white lights illuminate the feverish securement of the citadel and its outlying districts.

“What a web of overlapping ideals, interests and raw ambition fuel this project,” muses Kaveh to Adon.

At some point around 3am over a burning sweet mint tea Commander Sebastian Adon palavers with him about the prospect of getting further Persian support for the rebellion under the auspices of Shi’a hegemony in the region.

“Not publically anyhow,” was Kaveh usual response.

“The Persian Mullahs won’t be in power forever and we get more hits from Iran than any other single location” Nick Mapfre says to Kaveh.

“Farsi is the fourth most prolific language on the internet I read,” notes Adon.

“I bet I can get a few dozen more drill instructors once the smoke clears tom.”

Sebastian smiles, Sebastian hardly ever smiles. His smile insinuates a half thank you.

“Any word from Northern Command?” Adon asks Mapfre.

“Nothing at all.”

“It’s highly dangerous when Maya Solomon gives a man the silent treatment,” says Sebastian Adon.

Or when any woman does, means she’s livid.

“You know I know her birth name right,” says Mafre.

“You’re an intrepid little journalist. Of course you do.”

“So you were briefly married, openly fucking the shit out of the most likely person to deliver humanity since Yeshua and Muhammed?”

“I know you’re a Jew and Russian, but that’s a little crude for a description of the Mahdi no? We were married briefly and made love often.”

“Well it’s true.”

“I guess I was.”

“Hali Vik is Emma Solomon?”

“Yes; that’s mostly true.”

 

 

 

Chapter 20

Road to Camp Pilor, 2019ce

Ayiti

 

May 15

 

Commander & Captain, a title presiding over a Battalion of 1,200 fighters; retired peace officer Nikholai Trikhovitch is driving a truck full of Hadar Column men at the head of a convoy speeding south with a Newport dangling out his lips.

Sebastian Adon is yelling something in Creole into a smartphone linked to a sat-com relay hoping he gets through despite them being likely being jammed.

The convoy is composed of eight grey armored ambulances and three flat-bed trucks. All are moving south as fast as fuel and physics allows, pursued down the wide black XXX Superhighway by a swarm of the New Ayitian Military bearing down behind them and gaining with choppers, mechanized half-trucks, armored personnel carriers supported by over 50,000 infantry men.

 

The dawn is breaking. It’s been a long night.

The air is hot and the breeze nearly stagnant, but Nikholai is about to break a hundred miles-an-hour. The rocky stretches of barren nothing out here in the deep desert play games with the mind and tricks on the eyes. One hundred men under the command of Scott Sevastra and Thomas Ansu who had both been paramedics back in the more normal life before, lay buried in dug outs along the black Highway Pilor that cuts like an eight lane ribbon against red dunes and white wasteland about twenty minute hard driving ahead of the convoy. Each man lays buried in his own grave, dug the night before along the highway’s edge twenty feet apart. Each had dug three feet down then gone to sleep on benzos. These dead-man-dives were then insulated with refrigerating cooler-bunting, inside each man lay with an oxygen tank, two liters of water, his rifle and his spare bullets. It can get quite hot in your own grave even with science as your friend. Each dug out was then covered with a weighted earth colored tarp. Another 100 men camouflaged the tarps buy covering them lightly in the sand. Each man has an air tube and a tank of oxygen good for 6 hours.

Like well-armed moles, as the sun rose they were buried with roughly less than 6 hours before they’d begin to truly suffocate in their dead man dives.

The ground crew of 100 then blockaded the road with four of the armored ambulances, covered them in sand-tarp cameo, then with pessimistic goodbyes; 96 took recon positions throughout the wadis to set up sniper positions and listening posts while four hiked the ten clicks out of the fire zone to Wadi Gerba where the field camp is situated near an abandoned mine shaft. From their they’ll use the lap tops and satellite uplink to command and control the forward defense of Highway Pilor north of  Bor. And bear the first wave assault from the FAd’H regulars as well as what’s left of the Maccoute Militia.

Highway Pilor is the only paved eight lane highway the Maccoute militia will take to chase what’s left of the Bielski Detachment led by Commanders Sebastian Adon and Nikholai Trikhovitch after they blew the shit out of Maccoute Administrative Facilities in Jacmel with Katusha rockets and Qassam 4 rocket-grenades just two hours ago.

For two hours a fierce fire fight has been raging across the city between 200 men under the command of Adon and Trikhovitch and several thousand irregular Maccoute troops. At some point most of the Bielski fighters had run out of ammunition and begun to retreat on foot out the Southern sewer system and camp complex still under heavy fire.

 

 

 

While the communications with Northern Command were lost four days ago, Nick Mapfre has been using the PTV servers to relay messages back and forth from Pic La Selle.

It had been just an “ok plan” on paper.

But the Captains never counted on Regular Army reinforcements with armored personnel carriers being nearby and a “whole fucking Division” of the Ayitian military on hand to press a counter attack.

The Bielski Detachment had gone north to shell Jacmel in the hopes of prolonging the assault on Pic La Selle which has a greater concentration of civilian juxtaposed to armed rebels with guns. A rather bloody rampage later and eighty-seven of their Yids are dead, Jacmel is half aflame. A lot of civilians be clipped getting in the cross fire. Little kids too. The raid was met with a heavy defenses, air support and a determined enemy. The Ayitian tank columns run over screaming non-combatants and open fire mercilessly on their own countrymen.

Rebel spies from Dominikani Congress (DC 37) brought word the city’s population was considering joining the general rising. That was very poor information. That was their trap and the Yids sprang it at the cost of half their detachment. But the rebels have a trap too.

Counting on their men making it out alive, they figured they’d get chased down Highway 4 right into the blockade and ambush of their dead-man-dives. 100 buried men rising from the earth to open fire.

Adon, Trikhovitch, Mapfre still shooting grisly B-Roll and roughly 110 at least partially wounded survivors pile hurriedly onto flat-bed trucks and armored solar-diesel ambulances bivouacked at the city’s southern limits. It is now getting near sun rise and they only fight by night. That’s that is the reputation anyway.

So fifty clicks south of Jacmel on Highway 2 the men in the Betar Detachment receive a garbled transmission by satellite phone that “quite a lot of_enemy vehicles_are trailing” their brothers bearing rapid retreat south under fire. They figured it would be the usual pick-up truck armada ambush against a few hundred Maccoute-tops. But they’d made a shit storm out of Jacmel. The 113 surviving fighters with virtually no ammo left are drawing half a Ayitian military Division and a few hundred Maccoutes into that checkpoint.

 

So, this was either pay-dirt or death for two whole detachments roughly a third of the Hadar Column’s remaining muscle. 400 men, 87 already dead and the weekend has really just begun.

They have less than half an hour to either reinforce the ambush point quickly from Bor or order then men to get the hell out of harm’s quickly gaining way. Commander Scott Sevastra is relayed the information from Adon and told to make the call. If Adon and Trikhovitch were to perish he is the next up the chain of command.

 

A portly silver haired fellow in his forties Commander Scott Sevastra comes from a long line of emergency workers, cops, firemen and paramedics. He holds a masters in Emergency Management and is the father of four black children one of which is biologically his own. He is married to the famous Uhuru Movement spokeswoman Jasmine Howard and has helped raise three of her children from earlier less fruitful relationships. Jasmine Howard, the human rights lawyer Erza Pula Pound, and Chief of Communications Mara Fitzduff  are the tough, lovely and articulate three faces most of the world now associates with the club’s Lobby on Ayiti back in the U.A.S. and the Breukland Soviet.

 

He is also a club founder.

 

“Why are you doing this again,” Jasmine Howard had asked him the night he flew with several hundred of the Ivoryish fighters on an Ysiad Ferrias paid for charter plane to Sharm-al-Sheik from Ayiti. Her question was more about his being a father than her zeal and support for the mad plots of Sebastian Adon.

 

He had told her he believed it was important and she endorsed him still.

Sevastra, now informed that the Battle of Jacmel has drawn an entire half-Division of the FAd’H and some several hundred Maccoute into their under equipped checkpoint cum death trap has only twenty minutes to make a bad call. Either pull out the fighters in the Betar Detachment from the ambush point and leave the Bielski Detachment victim to its diminishing fuel and bullet ratio; or reinforce the checkpoint with another 96 Betar fighters holding sniper-recon positions which would still make them outnumbered some 300 Hadar men to a 50,000 strong force of Ayiti regular military with choppers and air support. Scott Sevastra has read Herodotus and isn’t really so happy with the Spartan outcome and they had a narrow pass going for them at Thermopylae.

He keys up and attempts to radio the command base at Mirebalais and is patched through to dispatch. A woman answers the phone. It’s Maya Solomon. Her voice is hoarse. She’s just Para dropped in to see what position their condition is in.

“Sebastian, Trikhovitch and roughly one hundred more survivors just shot their way out of Jacmel and are just under twenty minutes North of your position bearing down fast on Highway Pilor. They are being pursued by an entire division of the Ayitian military, easily 50,000 men,” calmly explains Solomon. “You are ordered by Commander Adon himself to pull your men out of the valley, break down the ambush and leave them to God.”

“You can’t be serious,” mutters Sevastra. No one’s ever given any orders in the Breukland Otriad before. He doesn’t know how she got down there to command and as of when they started taking orders.

A rank and file fighter named Abner Washington places his hand on Scott’s shoulder, gives him the shniah hand sign, and takes the comset from him. Scott Sevastra, vaguely mesmerized doesn’t offer resistance.

Abner begins to speak to Solomon in hard guttural Yiddish which Scott cannot understand. He then turns and barks something authoritative to the radio man Karl. Scott notices his radio man Karl salutes Abner and then shuts off the uplink. This is odd because Abner is just a Staff Sargent in the Hadar Column and Karl Katzer is a Radio Technician First Class.

“Pull our men out of the valley Commander Sevastra, so they do not get incinerated in the missile strike,” says Specialist Abner.

“Missile-strike?”

Several memes bounce of inner dialogue bounce around Scott Sevastra’s head all at once. What missile strike? What did those guys just say in Yiddish? What the fuck is going on here?

“Oh wait.”

“Let me introduce myself in another capacity commander,” says Staff Sargent Abner Washington. My name is Case Officer Abner-Mikhail-Washington-Ringelbloom of the Mossad here to infiltrate your column on behalf of the Israeli State. We have men in all of your three columns to advise our government on the progress of this wild operation.”

Commander Sevastra was impressed with Israel as always, without still yet admitting he was a benefited Yid.

“Order the pull out quickly. Four squadrons of Ram2 and Sufa4 fighter planes have just been ordered out of Uvda Airbase in the Negev to bomb the living piss out of that approaching Division. It appears you’ve all made quite an impression on the government of my country. And it wouldn’t be the first time we’ve cluster bombed Ayiti.”

Sevastra doesn’t say anything. He gets on the internal radio and orders the 196 Betar Detachment fighters out of their dead-man-ditches and to quickly scramble toward forward base. Case Officer Abner on his own satellite phone speaking in more hard Hebrew to a general in the Negev is told he has less than 10 minutes to get all non-hostile vehicles “painted true blue” so the incoming IAF doesn’t wipe out the babies out with the tide of bath water.

Sevastra gets on the garbled medium-coms with Sebastian, who’s firing an assault rifle out the back of a Herkimer Medical Jitney now in the rear of their retreating convoy.

 

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” bellows Adon.

“I REPEAT! YOU NEED TO PULL THE FUCK-OVER! YOU NEED TO PAINT ALL YOUR VEHICLES IN BLUE WITH THOSE CANS THEY STOWED IN THE BUSES! YOU NEED TO DO IT NOW BECAUSE THE CUBAN ISRAELIS ARE ABOUT TO BOMB THE LIVING HELL OUT OF THE DIVISION PERSUING YOU!!!”

 

Scott Sevastra repeats the message, yells it over and over and over on the secure com line as his Betar men load up into their trucks and get ready to pull out.

Finally, in the eleventh hour Adon gets the message.

Their EMT drivers swerve the trucks into a semi-circle defensive position. The Bielski Detachment fighters open fire at the approaching division with everything they have left. Sten guns, Armalites, pistols, Qaasam 4 rocket propelled grenades. Sebastian and Trikhovitch run bus to bus shouting to hold position, “For just 5 minutes so these buses can get painted.”

“Painted” is in reference to using tactical halogen, neon spray glaze to spray a blue coat of bloody mist all over the roofs of the ambulances and flatbed cabs so they might not be “completely blown to shit’ by the Israeli hellfire air-to-surface missiles.

Machine gun fire erupts all around. One of the ambulances explodes hit by a tank-rocket. The completely asymmetric forces are less than a Breukland city-block apart firing wildly on each other. Trikhovitch is running roof to roof with four cans of tactical gloss spraying the convoy.

 

A bloody melee ensues as the forces engage at point blank range.

Bielski Detachment loses lose two ambulances and twenty-two more men to the enemy rockets before the convoy gets rolling under the cover of Qassam-4 and Katushas and white phosphorous smoke.

The Betar Detachment cleared the wadi just five minutes before the fleeing, flaming and assaulted convoy buckles in. Ambulances are only a little faster than all the APCs and half-trucks and tanks on Ayiti’s Highway Pilor.

And then the Valkyries[105] come swooping in with a sonic boom. What ensues is death. Highly modern death flying technological mechanized death that only takes a few seconds to strike.

Four squadrons of the Cuban piloted IAF take only thirteen minutes to sweep down over the Dominican Boarder from their hosted bases and obliterate a half Division of MINUSTAH troops, tanks, and armored personnel carriers.

Like fiery snap shots.

In the blink of an eye a wall of encroaching death, a full third of the best of the FAd’H has been reduced to smoldering piles of useless nothing.

“It was like the wrath of god struck them,” an old Ayitian man named Widney who’d been with the convoy as a driver told a BBC reporter once they’d finally reached the Cap Ayitian City green zone DMZ.

 

Sebastian and Nikholai are dancing the hora on top of one of the bullet pocked blue streak painted battle jitneys.

The IAF and Cuban Defense Ministry reports one minute and 16 seconds later they are over Trinidadian airspace refueling then returning to base.

 

 

“Total-obliteration. No-crews-lost. No-friendlies-hit. The Ayitian Third Expeditionary-is-KAPPUT.” And then the same in Spanish.

 

All over Mirebalais City a street party has erupted. Even the Persians are dancing with the Jews. Tens of thousands of Ayitian refugees are cheering and singing and chanting in their nineteen sub languages, hugging the Hadar boys, singing so loudly a popular new RarRah[106] song with the chorus:

 

“It-has-been-a near-life-experience-for-us-all.”

 

Recounts a Dar Ayitian a young refugee named Amelia to some news reporters gathered in the DMZ[107] near the Dominican border, “The Cubans and Israelites have saved us. Saved us all. GOOD YIDS! GOOD YIDS!”

 

Maya Solomon has been a busy woman, she’s known for that. Maya in six days has crossed the Atlantic twice. Timed with a precision you could only assume was planned from above, four prongs of a total Cuban-IAF strike across Ayiti neutralizing the Ayitian Military staging positions that by nightfall that Friday would have been moving simultaneously against Mirebalais and Pic La Selle with the latest Chinese hardware. Reduced to ashes and mangled steel a full third of their army and much of its air force has been shattered.

 

The Israelis blame the Persians, who in turn blame the Israelis, the “Saudi pigs” and U.A.S. imperialists. And MINUSTAH Governor/ President for Life Lately Jim al-Talleyrand in a faltering televised statement claims some kind of odd victory too. The Dominican government denies Israeli bases in their country and continues to publically call for a Ayiti for Ayitians and for 200,000 of its own citizens of Ayitian descent to be sent there to fight for their own country. Not dominated by blancos or mulattos or Arab overlords. But not living in DR either.

 

But the fact is that over half of the oil and gold wealth of the nation and nearly three tenths of its territory are no longer under the government or the UN’s control, so actually little has changed except now there is a five front war on the island.

 

The Central Rebel Army, under Tiputti Capois and Adon fighting the Brazilians and Argentine armies in the Central departments have killed so many they must hold their men back from seeking to invade the mainland.

 

The Division under Tiputti Capois encircling the capital from Carfare Fuelle engaging the Proxy Forces of the Ayitian Army and the Macoutes, leae over 7,403 dead by counting of scalps.

 

The Third Rebel Army under Lavalas GCC, lead by Obenson Etienne; “Dessalines II” then fights in the North; they take Cap Ayitian in three days. Between U.A.S. and Proxy Ayitian few Americans are left. The Second Army under Watson Entwissle (Petion) and Netic Kinari (Uhuru) and Gen Christoph secure the South lands, and the Cuban/ Trini/ Bajan expeditionary force route the Dominicans and take Jarabacoa.

 

 

Chapter 21

Road to Leogane, 2019ce

Ayiti

 

May 20^th Offensive

 

 

 

Adon writes in his courier letter to Emma Solomon in Hebrew, assuming the role of grim central narrator:

 

“It was again a very close call.”

 

The Ivorite, Cuban and Trinidadian foreign ministers have categorically denied having bombed Ayiti but the inter-web says our approval ratings are way up for once. A press conference is being organized in the Isle of Man by Erza Pula Pound our lawyer and Mara Fitzduff our Communications Chief back at Home Command. Mapfre says our website gets more hits than Red Tube and that is quite a feat. Violence is more addictive than porn it seems, for an hour or two. What a stupid fucked up world.

 

Many of the refugees in the camps along the DMZ have sent their young men and women to reinforce the united Hadar Column based in the City of Mirebalais. Our Persian guerrilla instructors Gyve Safavi, Kaveh Abatable, Arman and Hassan Askeri have established a third Persian training base in the mines of the Northern mountains as well as a Free Ayiti Football League. From the window in the Customs House I can see our Persian terror masters and our now revealed Israeli spy masters squaring off and placing bets on a team of S.P.L.A. fighters kicking off against guys fielded by the H.E.G.

 

It seems that between our daily raids and the supporting Cuban airstrikes we have broken the Maccoute completely in the South Department and that the al-Talleyrand  government has now largely drawn its Bar Lev line around PAP and Le Cap.

 

Reinforced with thousands of new Ayitian Lavalas volunteers, now able to arm many of them with more than cane knives, we are planning a big operation to establish a chain of outposts and secure the roads between Jacmel and Pic La Selle. We control the South West and the Artibonite & Centre, we also hold most of the contral island high mountains of the DR, though not getting aggressive wit hthe Domincan Army, yet. Once this has occurred we will begin restoring social services to the substantial rural populations outside of the several cities we now control.

 

Under the guidance of solid Breuklyn born Hadar men and Persian handlers too the Jacobi Detachment led by Simcha Rathajzer and Isaac Zucker our old friends from Bronx Science are attempting to raise a full Divisions worth (10,000) of newly armed and trained native fighter’s each-one-teach one style.

 

A new song has come out by a famous Zouk band called Flexi Bangle, its chorus goes:

“We are winning, because we are mostly still alive.”

 

It’s a very catchy tune with Sax, Juba horns and also steel drums. There was no ways so many West Indians could be at war so long without introducing steel drums, Juevert and Carnival.

And every faction has now sent a witness to Addis Abba where Avinadav DeBuitléir restores his health and hands. The rumors are indeed true. The factions are fully united and the great snake President al-Talleyrand  is to be dealt with very soon. The ranks of the Maccoute are completely thinned. MINUSTAH troops are morally bankrupt as nation after nation pulls their commitments except the Argentines and Brazilians. A true fear of the resistance has taken hold among the Ayitian elites in Port Au Prince. Random acts of violence against the military and police authorities are common place now in the outer provinces.

 

A formidable counter offensive has now begun via the four local Generals of Lavalas; Aristede as their master. The elite of every oligarchy had once cast cynical bets how long this campaign could last. They are now in terror over us.

Because soon the war will spread to their castle and plantations too.

Yelizaveta has travelled West with a contingent of PIH-ZL doctors to survey our medical infrastructure. When she lies next to me all is peaceful. When she is near it is the only time I feel even the slightest sense of feeling. The passion that washes over me for the continuation of the war is a duty. My duty to act on behalf of the people of this nation and all nations. The concern I feel is subservient to the pleasure she brings me. It is not concern for her for none is tougher, not even Maya Solomon.

 

The concern is for myself. I worry that in loving her I will become completely vulnerable. To the tyranny of her moods. To total wrath should harm ever fall upon her. But mostly to the realization that sometimes, when I am with her and so in love, my Neshama could ask me to run away from this war and this duty. And I’d do it.

I see her smiling, I see her laughing and I imagine having children with her, being old with her. Having a normal life. But the road to Zion goes first through hell. She is a brilliant doctor. She is safe throughout South Ayiti, because she has brought so much healing. She also travels in the entourage of General Salva who has fought the Maccoute and Talleyrand for over twenty three years.

 

Also because she is with Watson who’d kill his way through a legion of slavers for her safety sooner than report to me that “my woman was taken”.

 

And lastly because I can see it. When my eyes turn grey.”

 

 

ᴥ

 

 

Black night falls and Dr. Yeli-Kay, as many of her patients call her, has just returned to her base at the Juba City General Hospital. Juba for over twenty years has been the official capital of the resistance. Her blue BDU uniform is dusty and wrinkled. She has been accompanied in her travels by the Injun-Yid Nick Mapfre, a film crew of Ayitian journalists, as well as towering Obenson Etienne. He is a powerful man with a full beard and black boy hat, the Chief of Staff of the Ayiti People’s Liberation Movement/ Army; MASHA SECOURES. They along with senior FANMI LAVALAS official Dr. Justin Thomas have been taking a select group of foreign medical workers on a guided tour of the rebel infrastructure established across “South Ayiti”.

 

Accompanied by a small platoon of Ayitian-Emergency-Group paramedics as well as foreign Dr. Michelle Kaku and Dr. Joia Mukherjee the PIH’s Chief Medical Officers; all are taken on a tour of clinics, schools, medical outposts and cooperative farms established using the “PIH Blueprint for Medical Infrastructural Development.”

 

The findings, films and the reports issued by Dr. Arop, Dr. Kay, Dr. Kaku, and Dr. Mukherjee will be smuggled out of the country and used to foster greater support for the international community to intervene.

 

It had been a two week survey expedition and Yelizaveta was quite tired and in need of a cold shower. She had heard Sebastian is out on a long range survey of the border roads. He’d have otherwise surely been happy to see his childhood friend Michelle. Happy to see her too she supposes.

 

Dr. Yelizaveta Kay composes a letter to go along with the humanitarian report.  It is to Dr. Emile Cange of the PIH-ZL. She had met him five years ago in Havana when he came to lecture at her medical college. She did her residency under his supervision on Ayitian Island in the City of Port-Au-Prince.

 

She writes with a gold and black Soviet style stiletto:

 

“We have completed our rotations through all the communes of the liberated territory from over and past the Dominican border. A fairly well-organized network of community clinics, training school and medical outposts have been set up by the local rebel leaders. Many in the JEM, FANMI LAVALAS and CEF leadership are medical professionals and development practitioners. The blueprints provided to us by both PIH-ZL and the Israeli development firm Mashav are well designed the intuitive. The Rebel leadership projects that a continued lull in the fighting will allow for most basic human rights services to be restored by the end of the month.

“There has been almost a whole two months without an exchange of fire or atrocity.”

“Our most massive gain lately is that now South to South-East the roads are open. Which means the FANMI LAVALAS Food Program trucks can better supply the massive series of Ayitian and Dinka tribe refugee camps our war has certainly exacerbated. Ferraris & Polidoro Industries have signed major contracts with the World Health Organization and have begun shipping a veritable armada of Spiruleena cultivation tankers into the Port of Jacmel which is now still in our hands as well as endless crates of expired medical supplies.”

 

“Slowly by surely those relief supplies are trickling in from Dominican Republic via our smuggling conduit facilitated by our sympathizers affiliated with Don Filip Felix Diaz, most notably their Minister of Defense allies.

 

“Of course nothing those profiteers do is devoid of violent intent. They are taking money with one hand from the Otriad to move in more weapons, while taking money from the NGOs and the UN to bring in more aid. Their blurring of that line surely complicates things.”

“By month fifteen, we’ve largely succeeded in reducing banditry and Maccoute-type marauder operations in our Zone of control now being called “South Ayiti” by the international community. After six months of patient training our Persian drill sergeants and the men of the Jacobi Detachment have outfitted a 12,000 person Brigade of Dinka and Fur being called the N. H.D.F. or the New Ayiti-Defense-Forces. It’s an Persian joke at Israeli expense.”

“Each of its 1,000 person Battalions is being led by a seasoned platoon of Jacobi Detachment and FANMI LAVALAS fighters. Arming them is now the more difficult part. While I am happy to safe that medical development and security are taking hold here, please know that the Port Au Prince government could undo everything we’ve accomplished in just 48-hours, most of the guns in the rebel’s hands are empty. I ask you and your organization to honor your mutual-aid-agreement commitments to the alliance and proceed with all promised support for Operation Marcus Garvey based on the benchmarks I have brought your witnesses to verify.”

“I write to you as a former student as well as a disciple.”

 

Noticeably absent in the letter was any mention of her medical work. If one took every seventh letter going in reverse the access code and its data told Dr. Cange exactly what he needed to know to begin preparations in Cuba, St. Lucia, Jamaican, and Grenada for the events which would soon be upon them. We’re about to be re-supplied and rein enforced

 

 

ᴥ

 

Just east ten clicks from Jacmel City on a Congress of the many factions is underway at the Villa Nicole.

 

The indigenous language with the most speakers is Ayitian Creole and also Ayitian Creole. Some, maybe 5-10% speak fluent French, many more actually speak Spanish from time share cropping in servitude in the DR. French is the country’s official language although of a population approximated at thirteen millions, 80% are functionally illiterate in all languages except Ayitian Creole.

 

In a massive light blue sand-gypsy tent adorned with dozens of rebel flags a Congressional Council of Allied Rebel Forces is underway to plot the next stages of the war and sign formal mutual agreements between all of the various factions.

 

The Port-Au-Prince government has been mobilizing its troops and our spies report that after nearly two months of undeclared ceasefire, the New Ayitian Military is ready to test the rebel lines with Dominican Army, UAS and MINUSTAH support. The PRC has over five thousand “technicians” in country setting up advanced drone defenses in the Capital and reequipping the air force and armored corps.

 

Commander Maya Solomon is in country now less than two weeks, but everyone knows who she is. Her reputation precedes her and she conducts the meeting dancing between eight local different languages. Hebrew, Farsi, French, Spanish, and four types of Ayitian Creole.

 

Commander Adon and Captain Entwissle are helping her facilitating this sit down between the rebel factions. It is being conducted largely in Ayitian Creole, but also at times in Spanish and Breuklyn dialect Americano.

 

The Ayitian-Emergency-Front (G.A.I.-H.E.G.) represents the largest factions of the Ayitian natives who are non-Lavalas, the Justice and Equality Movement (J.E.M.) which is Muhammadian-Noire, and the Ayiti Liberation Movement (H.L.M.), which is Socialists as well as the South-Ayiti-Liberation-Movement (S.H.L.M.) which is an armed group that operates in the southern departments and is connected to Mullato drug running. The S.H.L.M. was declared to be unaligned until recently slaughtered back in by Watson Entwissle.

 

Famni Lavalas (F.L.M.), the Waterfall Family, the Big Cock, the Cleansing Flood; is clearly an all Ayitian grouping, the largest single faction except for the Muslim one. They have over a million members. So 1/10 of the country easily carry their Cock Koru card.

 

Officially representing the J.E.M Block in the votes to come are Gibrl Ibrahim and Khalil Ibrahim, brothers and co-commanders of the Muhammadian Justice and Equality Movement (JEM) as well as Eltahir Elfaki the General Secretary of JEM’s legislative council are in attendance. At their side are St. Pat’s commanders Hubert O’Domhnaill and Father O’Sulivan.

 

As well as Commander Jerome Marcus and Michel Magnus Goldbar Allamby of the Haile Selassie Division, a force contributing 1,200 Rastafarian fighters to the Ayitian Defense Forces pool from all over the world.

 

According to their reports S.E.F.-N.S.D.F has over 55,000 fighters holding western coast positions between Jacmel City and Gonaives and in the new camp compounds across the border in DR. They have no aircraft or tanks. Stores of armaments are dwindling and offensive capabilities very low. Food is being rationed strictly. The only thing not in demand is fuel. The several dozen missile batteries they have gotten into the country are being used to guard Pic La Selle and the refugee camps around it. Less than sixty Fenian nationals are still alive. St. Pat’s has dissolved as an independent force.

An empty chair is at the head of the table thus symbolizing that Commander Avinadav DeBuitléir is still recovering from his torture in Cuba.

The Dominikani Congress (DC) representing the Dominikani Nationals and the Rashida Free Lions (RFL) representing the Rashida Tribe agree to dissolve their autonomous command of the Eastern Front and formally merge into the S.E.F.-S.D.F. They had mostly been concentrating on striking strategic assets, such as the Port Au Prince-Port Ayiti Highway, the oil pipeline, and the military installations defending them. They do not have a significant fighting presence, having fewer than a few hundred fighters and operating under the close control of the Eritrean military. The BC did achieve a number of modest military victories and has the ear of the Eritrean government.

At the war table sipping mint tea and chain smoking cigarettes are:

Commander Sebastian Adon, leader of Bielski Detachment. He is in dark grey fatigues and the brown partisan cap beret he is well known for. Commander Nikholai Trikhovitch, leader of Betar Detachment. He has dagger of alarming size always dangling from his hips. The other three Hadar detachments have been phased out and reabsorbed due to casualties. Commander Scott Sevastra is there but abstaining from the vote as usual.

Representing the Ayiti People’s Liberation Army (S.P.L.A.) and Lavalas explicitly is the towering Commander Obenson Etienne Mayardit. He is a powerful man with a full beard and black boy hat serving as the Chief of Staff of the Ayiti People’s Liberation Movement/Army. Also present is the S.P.L.A. official and Chief Medical Officer Dr. Justin Yac Arop.

There are other armed factions of various sizes. Kaveh Ali Shariati representing the increasing presence of Persian military handlers. Abner Washington the de-facto Israeli representative, and Nick Mapfre is now in country filming the whole thing for posterity.

Captain Watson Entwissle is now serving as “official observer” for the military of Ayiti and Dr. Yelizaveta Kay an “official observer for Partners in Health.” Others watch from the sidelines.

“So D R wants to keep the war cold still correct?” Commander O’Domhnaill asks.

“Check,” responds Trikhovitch.

“They are asking us to break down our bases there banking on great power intervention within the next several weeks,” says the deep voice of Obenson Etienne Mayardit. He is the closest thing Avinadav DeBuitléir has to a friend or family member.

“They are asking us to remove our bases near San Juan and Jarabocoa now that we have so much real estate in “South Central Ayiti”. The way their Defense Minister is talking on television, it might do us well to evacuate the POWs and Commander DeBuitléir lest they get any very sweet deals from the U.A.S., Han, IMF, or anyone else,” explains Adon.

“And Cuba has been promised it will receive a substantial investment from Ruus Federation not to grant continued smuggling access via Ile a Gonave right?” asks O’Domhnaill.

“Correct. That port will be closed to us shortly,” states Commander Trikhovitch.

“And Perchevney can’t subvert that somehow?” asks Magnus Allamby.

“Not enough money on our end to try,” says Yelizaveta.

“And Puerto Rico has been sold to Saudi and US oil money? Wants nothing to do with us?” posits O’Domhnaill.

“That is correct,” says Adon.

The three dozen members of the leadership are quiet. The smoke hangs low in the tent. They gaze at a large map of Hispaniola and its surrounding nations rolled out over the table. If they cannot find a road to the sea they will hold the South much longer.

“Well,” says Scott Sevastra, “scariest port in a shit storm, but have we contacted anyone in Trench Town lately?”

“You’re talking about off-loading in Jamaica?” asks General Obenson Etienne.

Berbera is a city and seat of Berbera District in Somaliland, a self-proclaimed Independent Republic with de facto control over its own territory, which is recognized by the international community and the Government as a part of Jamaica which hasn’t had a formal government in forty five years. Located strategically on the oil route, Trench Town has a deep sea port that was completed in 1962, and which is still the main commercial seaport for Jamaica.

“Jamaica seems like the only way to play,” Trikhovitch says.

“We need to crack open a road to the sea,” explains Adon, “any day now President al-Talleyrand  will regroup. The Chinese are very serious about not losing their foothold and oil concessions here. They’ve already re-armed and have technicians on the ground showing the Ayitian military how engage in effective counter-insurgency. There People’s Army trainers swarming all over Port Au Prince. Al-Talleyrand  will roll his 2^nd Expeditionary Division South down Highway Pilor and soon realize we have a big army without many bullets. He’s got two infantry Divisions left intact. That’s 60,000 fully armed men supported by armor and Han fighter jets. They will do an epic amount of damage to our lines.”

 

“Our most sophisticated weapons on hand are the three dozen SAM Batteries defending the camps near Pic La Selle and under a dozen now moved just North of Bor. Other than that it’s mostly all camels, half-trucks, armored ambulances, sticks and stones,” reports O’Domhnaill.

 

“You know what they say about sticks and stones,” says Obenson Etienne Mayardit with a smile.

“They can break your bones?” asks O’Domhnaill.

“No,” says Salva, “they’re completely fucking useless against advanced air support and a modern armor.”

Yelizaveta Kay chuckles. She’d grown very fond of the burly cowboy hat wearing FANMI LAVALAS leader in their two weeks of travel and survey. She hopes the pacts formed at this Congress will avert an eventual power struggle between Capois, Etienne and DeBuitléir.

“So what about this Jam Rock option?” she asks.

“It involves us capturing a lot of real estate along Highway 2 and it will piss off the Dominicans to no end that we ran so many toys across there border,” responds Allamby. He is highly familiar with Dominicans as he used to fuck one for years, Jamaica having been serving recently alongside Dominikani Congress and aware their knowledge of Euro-Semitic languages is very poor. It will allow the small ship armada of the resistance to outfit and off laod and reload in its turf to smuggle weapons to the coastal cities the résistance is holding.

“Well we’re going to be the world’s most infamous paper tiger in less than three weeks when all that Han Armor starts rolling South down Highway Pilor,” states Adon.

“Jamaica is the only viable option,” says salt and pepper haired paramedic Scott Sevastra.

“He’s right,” mutters Abner Kreminizer the Israeli agent with intimate knowledge of Ethiopia and the Caribbean and the prophesies, “We need those guns very, very badly. To get them here we have to neutralize or bypass enemy fortifications in Jacmel, then secure Hannibal Highway 2 out to the border. Then quietly occupy the Dominican Choke Mountains along Highway 5,” she traces this with his Semitic paw along the map, “We then slip quietly via the sea-route Highway 4 past Adama and Mojo to Jijiga City. After that we move along the empty border roads to Hargeisa then on to Berbera. Once that road is open we will have a less than twelve hour window, tops, to move a convoy from Berbera to Bor. Any longer than that Dominican or MINUSHAH forces will jam us up heavy off loading swift boats.”

“That’s a rather ambitious commitment of troops and vehicles,” says Watson Entwissle.

“Anything less than the entire commitment of our fleet will not suffice. We will not get the sea roads open twice,” rhymes Magnus Allamby.

“Well I suspect fully capturing Jacmel and Ile a Gonaves will not be difficult. It’s lightly fortified since they seem to have pulled the bulk of their First and Second Divisions back to Port Au Prince,” says Sevastra.

“I have something a little lower profile to suggest,” states Commander Maya Solomon.

She largely left the inter-group alliance building to Adon and spoke little until now on the war strategy.

“If the Ayitian-Emergency-Front’s Selassie Division, JEM, and what’s St. Patrick’s Battalion, beleaguered as you are can completely seize Jacmel and Goniaves then that will draw most of the 2^nd Ayitian Army Expeditionary into the Centre of Ayitia thinking that’s our main offensive and leave minimal resistance along Hannibal Highway 2. Goniaves in particular is their last serious crude-pumping station. If you take those two cities, bypass Jacmel on Highway 2 and get the green light from the Dominicans to turn their eyes for twelve or forty hours, then pay off whomever is charge of Trench Town Gaza or Gully; these days, then I think this might go well.”

“I like the sound of that,” says Salva.

“Twelve Sea Stallions worth of long guns, ammunition, and at least nine-hundred Katusha rocket batteries are waiting for us in cache ships off the Trinidad islands, but we have go nowhere to land um, until now. We could put a weapon in the hand of every partly trained rebel in the country and young kids too,” explains Allamby.

“We were negotiating for rights to Port Massawa but the Trinidadian Government is still “neutral” and won’t let us move them across their turf even with Dominikani Congess escorting and cut off the top. Mr. Ferraris also has three container ship filled with an arsenal to match everything we’ve got stashed here and on that Island, but we ain’t got a friendly port unless Trench Town is golden,” he continues.

“General  DeBuitléir long with the surviving Scarborough Commanders Dbrisk and Tantamount, St. Pat’s officer Hartman and Duffy along with 12 others are still in Addis Ababa and must be evacuated quietly before this gamble,” says Adon.

“Let’s get DBrisk on the smart phone,” says Salva, “maybe he can make the Jamaicans an offer they can’t refuse.”

It makes for a good Segway to dinner, prayer, cigarettes or whatever else the leadership needs to smoke after an entire day of planning.

They do not have to wait long for good news. General Avinadav DeBuitléir and Scarborough Commander Mickhi Dbrisk have shortly met with the Jamaican Military attache in Eithiopia. Apparently the U.A.S. is making some rather insulting offers of aid and the government there wants to pay Ayiti back for all its years of aggression. Not only will Ethiopia turn a blind eye, it will lend trucks and driver to help with the treacherous movement across its mountainous nation.

When the congress reconvenes two hours later there is only good news to report.

“Affective immediately upon arrival, for twenty-four hours the Provisional Revolutionary Government of Jamaica will allow us to offload the vessels of Polidoro Industries and Ferraris International a their deep water facility in  Berbera and the government of D R will allow transfer of our weapons via a safe highway into Ayiti. And here is where the problems begin,” announced Maya Solomon, “the Ethiopians had been watching the fighting from the highlands above Southern Ayiti. They had already agreed to allow us to build a weapons dump and training faculty in the city of La Vega, as well as hospital and military college in San Juan, but until now had stayed out of most of the military operations we collectively conducted against the al-Talleyrand  government.”

“We will have to create a massive diversion to convince the MINUSTAH Military forces to leave the XXXX Highway relatively free of checkpoints and road blockage then cross by night at XXX Crossroads and traffic nearly 700 flat-trucks worth of guns undetected or unnoticed across the state of a sovereign ally. Then make it through Jamaica without upsetting the trial authorities. A cake walk as you can see.”

“Well looking at it on a map it doesn’t seem like a much worse plan than the execution of the Eid-Massacre,” notes Salva.

“Or the very idea of coming here,” glibs Trikhovitch.

“So by your proposal the CEF’s Selassie Division, JEM and St. Pat’s will attack Jacmel City and their hold outs in Goniaves in the evening before the operation, cause general havoc and get the Port Au Prince Government to think we’re fully mobilizing to seize all of the Dar Ayitian oil fields?” asks Captain Entwissle.

Many nod at the ambition in all this.

“Yes, then in  early morning Hadar, S.E.F. and S.P.L.A. brigades will seize Jacmel and get a seven hundred truck convoy rolling over the border, into Ethiopia, down into Somaliland to load up in Port Berbera,” says Commander Maya Solomon.

“That will take 72 hours to do properly,” says Adon.

“So that’s how log we’re going to have hold onto those three cities for,” says Trikhovitch.

“A lot off eggs into three baskets,” says Commander Salva.

“Gotta sometimes trade in eggs if you wanna have a cock fight,” says Watson Entwissle.

Everyone chuckles at just how many sayings don’t translate amid the diversity of the alliance present, but that Ayitian adage somehow did.

“And we’re also going to have to move General  DeBuitléir, Commander Dbrisk and fifteen others out of Addis Abba without alerting the Ethiopian government of this,” adds Maya Solomon.

 

“Well it looks like a real shit show,” states Trikhovitch.

 

In a unanimous vote the thirty two-delegates representing the thirteen major SEF-FANMI LAVALAS factions, along with three votes from the Breuklyn Otriad cast by Adon, Allamby, and O’Domhnaill, and witnessed observers from Cuba, Ayiti, Israel, Iran, and the PIH-ZL; the war machine prepares to launch Operation Harbor Road an completely violate the undeclared ceasefire to move a veritable arsenal across the lawless Choke Mountains and into Ayiti by boat, plane, and donkey train.

 

ᴥ

 

The morning before Operation Harbor Road, Maya Solomon patches Commander Adon through to a secure line, into space, back to Norway, triangle scrambled and then to an Addis Abba registered grey berry. Dbrisk is calling in from Cuba where the badly tortured survivors of the prison break are concentrated once evacuated into two covert medical facilities there.

 

“I heard you were dead like eight times,” exclaims Adon to his dear friend and partner.

“I get that a lot my dude,” comes the rough response.

“How many of you are still alive?”

“Seventeen. Might be fifteen rather soon. Two in real bad shape. I’ll know exactly by tomorrow. Only eight from my original detachment are still with me. The sympathizers smuggled us out of the hospital rather hastily. I assumed moves were being made on your end.”

 

“They sure are. The rest of the Scarborough survivors are with Allamby and Marcus somewhere outside Mirogane Tonight will be a big night. We all heard about your raid on Port-Au-Prince. That was some fearless bad man shit brother.”

 

“What fuckery. We thought it could end the war sooner to kill al-Talleyrand with two shots to the head, already dead. No dice.”

“You still got both your hands?”

“I’m one of the lucky ones.”

“It will be safer for all of you in the South. We control the roads all the way up until nine clicks South of Jacmel. The surviving Fenians, the JEM and the SEF hold most of the Southern State of Dar Ayitian with their combined forces and the mighty, mighty Sellassie Division. That’s where Allamby is enlisted by the way. Juba City is the capital of the rebel zone. The roads are finally open and we can communicate again, but we’re very low on ammo, armor or aircraft of any kind. ”

“Well small favors and some good news.”

“We always need some good news. You all need to be ready to leave tonight. At sundown the Selassie Division is going to attack Goniaves and the SEG-JEM-St. Pats are going to storm Nyala City with twenty thousand newly trained fighters. It’s all a big diversionary maneuver” states Adon, “We’re going take Jacmel in the early morning and then move you all and the arsenal from Berbera to Bor.”

“That sounds like a pretty ambitious undertaking Boichik[108].”

“Just get ready to rock and roll when the covered wagons come through.”

“10-4. We’ve killed just about all of ‘um right? 62 out 64 of our targets are bled and dead,” states Dbrisk.

 

“According to our best estimates that is correct. We’ve killed just about all of the men responsible for the genocide. The Maccoute effectively have no leadership to speak of as per Maya’s summation latest report. We’ve murdered the bulk of their militia. Along with roughly two divisions of Ayitian Military regulars. The Israeli-Cuban Airstrike reduced their air force to nearly nothing functional. Although the Chinese & French have resupplied them with tanks and mechanized infantry. President al-Talleyrand is holed up in Port Au Prince just back from Saudi. Our work is almost done. ”

 

Mickhi laughs a little at the prospect. Thinks about all it has so far cost.

 

“Two bad men left, the hardest two to get at. We have come very close. The Frenchman will get away you know, prepare yourself for that,” Mickhi states coldly.

“I’m sure only time will tell.”

“Snakes and rats flee fire, rapists too.”

“There’s news of an attempt against Jim al-Talleyrand’s life every other day. Even his own people want him dead, his own generals and bag men. Everyone hears about ‘life in the South’ and can smell what freedom and human rights might look like.”

“We plan to crack the road to Berbera in eight hours. So be ready to move.”

“We fuckin’ with the DR’s now for real?”

“Not Somalia. Somaliland, it’s the quasi-stable northern break away of that very broken nation. And yeah, that’s crazy talk of the hour down here at the Southern Command. Stand ready for EVAC[109]. I want every one of you alive and on the convoy to Bor.”

“See you at the crossroads,” Dbrisk says in Ayitian Creole.

 

That’s a saying about the afterlife.

 

“Don’t be a wise ass Mickhi.”

“Don’t trust her Sebby. Remember what she did to you the last time you let her this close. She has that very sick old man and you know exactly what happened, even if the salt blocks it. You know.”

“Mickhi. Just get back here alive and we’ll worry about the girl later.”

 

But, Commander Mickhi Dbrisk has heard those words before.

 

 

ᴥ

 

 

 

 

To My Colleague Dr. Kay,

 

I have observed the conduct of the Banshee Otriad-ZOB now and again with a troubled disposition. It cannot be said enough times that your husband and his team possess zeal and unusual talent at both killing and healing. In the years since encountering them during the revolution on this Island I have never doubted the sincerity of the leadership only the judgment. I am an old soul, like many of you, though in the field of service I have many more years. This perhaps makes me wise, but certainly makes me cautious. I am not the demagogue and egoist Adon has times accused me of being as he falters back and forth between his hero worship and his total defiance of me. I am proud of you both as healers; it is your other impulses that worry me.

 

What was accomplished on this Island took two hundred years to socialize, twenty years to organize and just two years to achieve in totality. The Ayitian people were made independent and human rights loving by fate and history. They were made free by the unity of forces brought to bear. Certainly it is clear that boldness of Adon, Cange and the siblings Capois brought the struggle to decisive conclusion while we in the old guard thought the victory would be much further protracted.

We didn’t invite Adon to Ayiti. The earthquake brought him. I didn’t ask him to stay in Ayiti. In fact I agreed with his initial deportation. History proved us wrong. He did well. You all did. But this operation is completely different.

As Partners in Health prepares to open four medical outposts as part of a pilot program in Ayiti. As the Aristede Government prepares to commit three companies of GAI paramedics to your effort and continue of course it’s unofficially role as an operational hub. As the Ayiti Emergency Front, Ayiti People’s Liberation Army, Justice & Equality Movement, and the three columns of the Otriad prepare to brazenly violate the UN ceasefire and re-arm via Somaliland and Ethiopia. Know that we are all watching you.

 

We, the eyes of free world and forces of international human rights movement.

I know you to be a physician of remarkable ability and empathy. I have watched you grow as a doctor and as a champion of the wretched and poor. But a lot of killing has happened in the past year to keep your boots on the ground. And a lot more is coming. Such killing taints our vision and poisons the wells of the world for those who dream of real change.

 

I beg you to temper Adon. To bring the reign of violence and terror unleashed to some conclusion even at the cost of half victory. You do not need to take Port Au Prince. You can secure the Ayitian, Dinka and the two hundred tribes without storming the Twin Cities. The Maccoute are done for. Half the country is now in the hands of the rebel alliance. If you all push to far, too fast the repercussions will be dire.

 

Dr. Kay, I implore you to stop Adon and Solomon from pushing all the way to Port Au Prince. Things will spiral completely out of control.

 

You friend and mentor,

 

Dr. Paul Farmer

 

ᴥ

 

 

That morning the pale officer awakes after just two hours of slumber to the breaking of a 5am dawn. He finds Captain Watson Entwissle, his multiform crisp, awake as well standing on guard over the assembled fleet and convoy of ambulances, half pickups, and reinforced armored personnel carriers ready to ride on Berbera. The late great re-supply to tip the scale in the favor of the beleaguered resistance.

An arsenal larger than that held by the NYPD[110] prior to the Great Disorder combined must find its make its way half-secretly across Somaliland, Ethiopia, and Southern Ayiti without killing anyone, breaking down or blowing anything up.

“I suspect the operation may become complicated,” Watson notes.

Adon says nothing.

“How many more of your people will you sacrifice for them?”

“How many did we sacrifice for yours?”

“We were different.”

“There was no black gold under your mountains. It made them easier to take.”

“I can see the foreign vultures flying above Ayiti waiting to move in and take things they didn’t pay for in blood.”

“Agreed.”

“When the blade falls it will always fall on your house first. No matter what you do, no matter how many we kill, or how many bad men and violators fall by our sword, it will never be enough to wash your hands of this calling. Doesn’t that make you tired?”

 

Adon looks off into the wasteland.

 

“I want you to summon Papa Legba.”

“You’re playing with fire again,” Watson says in Creole.

“Better fire in the wounds than salt.”

 

Lies, knows Watson.

 

ᴥ

 

 

 

Back in the disremembered past.

 

Captain Watson Entwissle and Paramedic Sebastian Adon and the Doctor Viktor Emile Cange, a Ayitian raised in Breukland Soviet have trekked into the Forest Mountains of Ayiti and DR to find a mambo name Amelia Danto, who was once named Jessica Pilot.

Amelia Danto conducts her practice in a cave that can only be accessed through the floor of hut in a village that does not look much different than it did in 1750. The heights needed to be bested, the strength needed to climb has made this place a simple ghost story to the various factions that have struggled to control Hispaniola.

 

Although for the first time those struggles are nearly over.

 

The travelers are all wearing the blue fatigues and covered Velcro medical patches of the Gwoup Ayisyen pou Ijans, the Ayitian-Emergency-Group, the guerrilla medical outfit lead by Tiputti and Geraldine Capois, the brother and sister whose organization of a volunteer ambulance service is what finally secured the revolution here. They are caked in sweat and jungle. Not even much water left is in their canteens.

 

Adon walks with a slight limp in his left leg. You wouldn’t notice unless you were following him. Someone once shot out his knees. Emile Cange is slender for a Ayitian and darker than Entwissle though he has Arab complexion being of long removed Libyan descent.

The Syrian and Lebanese population here has been largely unaffected by the recent rising. If anything it has grown in the years since the Arab Spring.

Doctor Emile Cange and Adon carry red medical trauma packs. Entwissle carries an olive military ruck and pistol on his hip with three bullets left. Although they are largely illegal throughout the island. Lethal bullets of any kind. Everyone has a pistol.

They are greeted at the edge of the village by the sentries. It is dusk and the sun is setting somewhere in the adjacent range where the trees are still thick as they were in the days of the Taino. They are offered foot and water immediately. Cold water from the caves below.

Darkness falls and one can hear all kinds of noise in the jungle. Echoes and ghosts, spirits and the moans of occasional zombies. The village is lit up with a blue light LED grid, stored solar energy collected over the course of the day.

A lean and muscular Ayitian officer dark as the night itself arrives and they arise to salute him. He is an old dear friend, but formalities are observed so they can be disregarded

 

“You’re late. This is unprofessional,” says Tiputti Capois the Chief-of-Staff of the Ayitian Emergency with a smirk.

Adon and Capois embrace.

Sebastian Adon says via his eyes which flash grey and his ESP; “Mountains beyond mountains.”

Tiputti was young when Adon and Cange met him years ago at the General Hospital six days after the quake killed 370,000 of his people. He has grown into quite a force. His medical flying columns have a three minute response time in urban areas, eight minutes in the rural interior. His ambulances and his foreign friends have secured the entire island.

 

“They’re all in the temple below,” he says.

 

ᴥ

 

 

There was once a hotel in the City of New York named the Hotel Benjamin.

 

It was sacked and torched during the Great Disorder, but had been rather fancy once. At least enough so to make it a destination of choice for a wealthy French fancier and upper oligarch named Dominick Strauss-Kahn. He was an Internal Monetary Fund president, a bunga bunga[111] enthusiast and set to be the first Jewish President of France.

He was a bourgeoisie through and through.

And that is not meant to connote so much his tastes, but more so relate to his impunities. Like so many bourgeoisie before and after him he had so much that precious little remained exciting and thus grew a penchant for debauchery. Before his fall from all public grace due to his actions being broadcast upon social media; he was the president of the International Monetary Fund and a leading candidate for president of France. His hobbies if you could call them such, were boating, collecting sports cars, human trafficking and cruel rape followed by the disgrace of his accuser. Normally the women of Eurasian, although sometimes even hotel maids in the fancy places he stayed.

In the scheme of wanted war criminals his rank was supposedly low due to the fact that he was a blan and a man of westerly influence and had not directly presided over any large scale accts of ultra-violence.

 

Also because the ICC tends to focus on crimes against humanity and not crimes against class.

 

And also because the ICC like so many other multi-national institutions are dominated by men that the financier who is also a serial rapists plays somehow second fiddle to a wide range or African war lords.

As if there is something novel about kidnapping a woman and forcing her into a cage then transporting her across an ocean so you and your wealthy friends can have some fun and take some turns with her[112].

The judgments based in the Hague[113] often bear more publically upon vile men of color. Not men of so called breeding from Western metropoles. Men who climb to the top tiers of finance and government. Men who consider themselves immune from the wrath of the mobs and masses.

 

But all who know history know what crimes have come out of Europe.

 

 

ᴥ

 

Before “ceremony”, as the process was called Adon and Cange are stripped naked and cleansed in a scalding hot chemical shower before donning the grey groin and torso rap that seemed no thicker than skin. And then smelling something like citrus and something like formaldehyde they follow Tiputti Capois through a series of chambers and onto an elevator to the caves within the mountain, far below the village, below the jungle, concealed from the drones and satellites that never leave the reborn nation alone.

Until recently when the Israeli and Cuban army installed the laser aerial defense grid and armed the rebel nation with atomics and intercontinental ballistic missiles.

There have been no land incursions, no more Pigs arriving in the bay since those missiles were aimed at the cities of the United States.

 

Now just things flying far above attempting to take pictures of the liberated people organizing below.

 

ᴥ

 

The rape of the hotel maid was hard and vicious, she was an engineer in Bulgaria and Ukraine and sorcerous in reality. After inviting her inside, a woman in her early forties to his room he bolted the door and curtly ordered her to perform felatio on him. He tossed her a photo of her young teenage daughter Yelizaveta and told her if she didn’t “suck his balls dry” he’d have her seized and deported to indefinitely service the Eurasian front[114], to get gag raped by American and German troops thirty men a day. And so she complied as this is what mothers have done for centuries to protect their children.

And then he decided to break her jaw.

 

ᴥ

 

Viktor Emile Cange the spindly physician enters the inner temple to engage the Lwa the old spirits. He passes through a hermetically door behind a large grey banner bearing the veve[115] of Papa Legbe, the guardian of the crossroads. The door allows only one person in at a time. Tiputti Capois holds Sebastian back.

“Old friend wait,” says Capois in Creole.

“Aye?”

“I am reminded of the first time you came to this island. Five years ago. Or was it 500? I am to remind you that every time you ride with the Lwa there is tremendous capacity for bloodshed. You are not just a pale horse, you are death. The man in the grey mask.”

“This round will be different friend. I will be mitigated by the iron will of the other candidates. These woman and men will guide the sword differently.”

“You prepare to kill my brother. What pray tell is different about this rising than the last?”

“This will be the last violent rising.”

“You say that every rising. For man whose trade is healing and saving you certainly have quite a stomach for murder my brother.”

“The last time. After this round we can try it a new way.”

Commander Tiputti Capois, one of the most powerful men on the island bows his head to Adon his old friend and mentor.

“There is one more thing,” he adds.

“Aye?”

“You partner left a letter for you she said I must give you before you join her on the lines.”

“What’s the use, the salt will wipe away her bitter sweet words.”

“Yes, but before you cross over, you can at least take a little comfort in that she does her best to love you.”

“In the world to come, I suspect she’ll cut my heart out before admitting those words were hers.”

“Old soul, you have so many more lives to live. She will forgive you eventually.”

“Only after she has slaughtered Kahn.”

 

ᴥ

 

 

 

The sun is setting on the enemy lines.

 

Anti-tank mines and IED have been laid as far as forty five miles North of Jacmel and a series of trench works have been dug amid a graveyard of derelict vehicles that could not be salvaged for the coming arms convoy run. Conspicuous along the line are eight highly modern looking SAM anti-aircraft batteries brought from DR. They are invaluable in keeping the drones at bay.

Yelizaveta finds Nicolai Trikhovitch on the barricades in order to speak with him about what revenge really means.

 

“Spirulina[116] is a lot like anal sex, if you were forced to have it as a kid, you won’t appreciate it as an adult,” states Lt. Moishe Cohen Klein matter of factly.

 

She ignores him completely and heads toward the blue tent she knows him to be residing in to avoid the dangerous solar barrage inflicted here.

“If he makes one more comment to me, I’m gonna cut his balls off,” she tells Trikhovitch who is reviewing a map of the defense grid with a Noblisse dangling from his lips.

Trikhovitch gently orders two Ayitian Captains out with of the room with a slight twitch of his head.

“And how are things today at the hospital Dr. Kay?”

“There’s nothing to eat but Spiruleena and all the synthetic medications are three years expired. Where is Sebastian?”

“He’s gone out with the scouts to survey the roads to the border.”

“You look like death.”

“Is that a medical opinion?”

 

She takes one of his cigarettes and lights it. He says nothing verbally.

 

“I suspect once the ceasefire breaks down tomorrow the Han Republic will alert Talleyrand of the convoy and he will scramble his fighters. If General Allamby doesn’t crush the 4^th Army in Mirogane it will make it nearly impossible to hold Jacmel. And then the convoy will be stuck in DR and wide open to airstrikes.”

“Endless clustery,” she says as if almost bored.

“Where do you plan to be tomorrow during the offensive?”

“Jacmel General Hospital.”

“Once we seize it.”

“Once you seize it. I’m a lady, I don’t seize things.”

“Adon said you’d had another vicious fight. If that’s why you’re here, that’s not what they pay me for.”

“You think that’s why I’m here?”

“I don’t care. However easy you are on the eyes to him you’re grating on the nerves to me.”

“I’m here for a gun.”

“A gun? Why does a doctor need a gun? You’ve never asked for one before.”

“A few things change tomorrow.”

“You’ve refused him when he tried to force you to take one in the past.”

“I will not fall into the hands of the enemy.”

“Are you worried about our defeat suddenly? Why now?”

“We’re stretched too thin. Our vehicles will be tied up on the road. Our ammo will run out somewhere between holding Jacmel. The 4^th Army will show up. I won’t end up like my mother.”

“You don’t think we’ll protect you?”

“I think they’ll kill you and him and the others. They’ll keep me alive for worse things.”

Nikholai looks her over. Thinks they just might. And not for her talents in medicine. It’s idiosyncratic of her to ask for a shooter now. They’ve been out gunned and on the run before. She always just stuck near Sebastian and rolled with the punches. He figured she was either a pacifist like her famous mentor Dr. Farmer, or she couldn’t shoot.

He unclips his sholem from his belt and slides it over the table to her. Passes her the belt and the four clips.

“He’s not gonna let them take you,” is what he’s saying, but ‘I wonder what you want the gun for is what he’s thinking.’

“Thank you,” is what she responds, but ‘fuck you,’ is what she thinks.

“I don’t mind the Spiruleena. It tastes like spinach,” says Nikholai.

“You’re going to die tomorrow Nikholai Trikhovitch.”

“What makes you think some morbid shit like that, besides the obvious,” he says.

“I have a dark mind since the incident.”

“A messy incident to be sure.”

“Your wife as well I heard?”

“Ex-wife.”

“Krissy was her name?”

Nikholai Trikhovitch engages in a forty yard stare. He looks up at her rather sadly for a former Soviet.

“Da.”

“Is she still alive?”

“I don’t know. They took her sometime before the revolt. If she is somewhere it’s not my duty anymore to cry for her in public.”

“You seek revenge?”

“Do Ruus like herring? Do you take me for a black wolf or a drunken rabbit,” he spits out an old proverb.

“Answer my question in Americano, tovarish.”

“I was there when Adon founded the club. He says I played some part in that. I don’t believe him. I was there in Ayiti the day it was liberated. I was the third volunteer to enlist to come here to fight and shed the blood of our enemies. I had this blood on my hands before and after the rising. Revenge is not the right word. Revenge is what you two do to each other every round, epoch, whatever. Revenge is his letters and your mind games. Revenge is a low burning flame. I don’t take the salt like you two do. I live with what happened to Krissy every single moment of my life.”

“She left you long before the revolt did she not?”

“Aye. The slavers took her sometime during the anarchic battles for Strong Island. I can only hope that if taken has she killed herself. I can only pray she isn’t at some comfort camp near the Eurasian Front.”

“So revenge isn’t why you enlisted? It’s redemption then like Adon? Duty to act? You’re a noble a zealot?”

“Who ya gonna shoot with that there burner Yeli Kay?” he says changing the subject.

“Myself if captured. I have no taste for double anal.”

“Not that I in any way doubt your capacity for self-destruction matches that of my dear tovarish, but I must now ask. What did you really come to speak to me of? You’re the only blonde blan bombshell in this heart of darkness, the lover of Adon and a physician of wild renown throughout the liberated communes. If you wanted a fucking shooter, there isn’t a person who’d deny you anything around here.”

“You’re not a drunk rabbit after all.”

“How now Dvotchka?” he says slamming his fist on the table.

“Vendetta. I’m here to kill one man whose death means more to me than the liberation of this entire pathetic species. Do you think when I kiss him, stroke him; let him cum inside me night after night that I can forgive what he once did? Even a whore has honor. Has motive for being a whore.”

“He knows not what he did. And he did it in another life.”

“And only because of that is he still alive.”

“So you lie beside one you truly hate? To what end does he serve?”

“He is the only one that can get me close enough to put my blade into Kahn.”

Nikholai Trikhovitch allows himself a rare smile.

“I know you love him as a brother. So I will tell you what I plot to do. So you will help me for his sake.”

“Will I now?”

“For Krissy’s sake too. If you cannot find her or the men that took her away, know that Kahn is guilty of the crimes that separate you so horrifically from your estranged love. Know that helping me kill him will avenge her too.”

“I don’t see how. The world is wide and filed with slavers, violators and rapists it seems. That is why we are never able to switch tactics. We’re always doing bloody damage control. Perpetuating the violence we fight I increasingly have grown to believe.”

“Jacmel will fall. And before it does you will have the opportunity to get me to Port Au Prince before this revolution swallows the whole land and makes my quarry hard to find and there by murder.”

“Jacmel will not fall, because we will hold it securely until the convoy breaks through.”

“So you won’t help me cross the lines and strike at Kahn?”

“Not for your sake, not for his, and certainly not for Krissy’s. You are a candidate not a murderer. You will wait to have your revenge along with everyone else here.”

“HE WILL SLIP AWAY! He always does!”

“Not this time.”

“What makes you so sure of that?!”

“All I know is that by this time next year I will be on beach in the Caribbean. The war may not be over, but I will have a bottle of Baboncourt and a sexy Caribe by my side, and I will certainly know that we liberated not one, but two nations, two hopeless places. And I am sure, like I am sure that I like rum and also fucking, that as I relax on that beach I will hear the noise of your bickering and his.”

“So sure are you of this?”

“As sure as I know that I can’t get you and I alive anywhere near Port Au Prince to strike against that man, not until the re-supply, not until we arrive at the gates of Port Au Prince with seven full armies and spill an ocean of our blood to end the battles here for good.”

“Tell him not what I’m planning.”

“I’m sure he’d help you. Don’t become a killer like the rest of us.”

“Have you ever questioned that we are not serving the same Lwa?”

“And that’s why some of us are candidates and the rest of us are comrades. We serve our human loyalties before we serve your old gods.”

“Don’t tell him I plan to slip away.”

“If you slip away, I will chase you and I will return you to him in cuffs.”

“He’d probably find that arousing.”

“Certainly more arousing than news of your gang rape and capture.”

“Touché.”

ᴥ

 

They tear into each other with passionate glee and fuck like animals on the carpets of the Sand

Gypsy tent, she takes him again and again and again. Wild eyed, mad passionate fuck is what they make, he takes her everywhere she’ll let him and she lets him put it everywhere. They have hard Arab fucking, wild passionate Africa tent sex. All the killing, all the war, his dead friends and brothers, his shattered mind, his lost ideals translated into ravenous passion. She is the water in the warzone and he drinks deeply.

 

More!?

 

“I love you even if you can no longer love yourself,” is the last thing she whispers to him slipping out of white satin and into a dark blue multiform.

 

In the morning the Human Rights Commission tries to convince her to fly out toward Cuba or at least the DMZ and soon by dawn the next day, the initial shelling of Jacmel began again in earnest. She refused of course to evacuate. She got ready to storm the City alongside the Hadar and FANMI LAVALAS men.

Adon is not the same without her by his side, but those that have come to know him before and during the war doubt he can ever be whole again until his zeal is exhausted and in some Zion, some world to come he’s laid to rest.

It has taken all the energies he can muster to convince her to leave of the front lines as they prepare to storm the heavily fortified Jacmel lines. He had only nearly succeeded with a deal. If she agreed to wait in Mirebalais until the assault he will promise that this will be the last war.

Yelizaveta contemplated traveling south into the DMZ but knowing she may have been lied to eventually refuses.

“How many times into this escapade have I risked exactly what you risked? Don’t make me suffer the side lines while you and the men move in for the final kill. If you are to die and I am to live a relic of your protectionism, how could I go on?”

“It was of course a test which you’ve passed time and time again.”

“I’m not like other girls. I don’t need your tests.”

“You’re not like other girls, but everyone needs tests.”

Yelizaveta strikes him with the back of her hand.

“What’s wrong with you! How far do I have to go to show you that you are loved by a living breathing person?! Can’t you be content with that! Can’t you act like a human being and not a fucking slave to your own zealotry? How far does this all have to go!”

He stares at her enraged. Wasn’t the first or last time she’d struck at him.

“That’s what you loved in me Yeli isn’t it?”

“That’s not true at all. I love you as a man, a good man taking on always too much and going too far, but still a good man. But you have to stop after this. How many more friends will you have to bury before you get to this Zion in your head.”

“As many as I have to.”

“Including me?”

“I told you to travel south didn’t I? I want nothing to befall just one hair on your golden head. But I can’t change my stripes to the tune of your harp and fiddle; I cannot.”

“You’d have me flee south to save me from your martyrdom. I followed you to Israel. I followed you to the Port-Au-Prince. I’ve stuck by you through the hospitals, though the terrorism charges, when my own mother disowning me. After all that you have the gall to send me south for my alleged safety?!”

“Fair enough. Don’t go anywhere.”

“Don’t be indecisive. It makes me love you less.”

“Know that I live a life of night my dear Ms. Kay, know that as long as the night persists there can be no quarter given, no time to sleep as we Germinal on that the den full of predators.”

“All this time we’ve tried to love each other is just part of game then? You never had any intention of calling it quits?!”

“I think we all have our orders do we not.”

“I haven’t been under contract since I followed you out the jump of that plane.”

“Follow me only as far as you need to.”

“I’ll follow you only as far as the gates of Port Au Prince. If you leave me there, know I may wait for you until the sky falls down, or I may soon move on, but it was you who lost your chance to be a man when you put me in that position.”

Adon looks at her in the flickering candle light. Her golden eyes tell him stories he’d like to believe are real.

“I for one know quite well why the road stops for you in Port Au Prince. Don’t play me for a fool,” he says.

“The round will be ours, but I have an itch that even you cannot scratch.”

“I can’t live without you. Please, never leave my side again.”

 

She kisses him with a gentle passion, on his forehead and then on his lips.

 

“I will love you forever, no matter what you think I’ve done. Or what you do to me,” he tells her, “I am dedicated to you completely. As I promised your father.”

 

“My father is a very, very sick man.”

 

 

ᴥ

 

 

The sun sets behind towering Pic La Selle and distant border-wastelands with Chad.

The lights go out and the war resumes.

Commanders O’Domhnaill, O’Sulivan, Allamby Goldbar, Jerome and twenty thousand lightly armed rebels in blue, grey and civilian dress with a pistol gun for every fifty of them, a rifle for every hundred follow narrow mountain roads on foot, horse, donkey and camel toward the town of Menawashei? No one knew if that was its actual name, the NGO had invented it.

 

Where the Selassie Division divides at the crossroads after capturing the town without much enemy resistance. Most of the men are armed with daggers, swords, kitchen knives and sharpened wooden spears. There are no vehicles on hand to participate in the coordinated attacks on Nyala City to the South and Goniaves to the North.

Marmelade is a hot bed of rebel sympathizers and should be easy to take. Goniaves is swarming with government collaborators, former Maccoute, and Han technicians. It is also the primary crude pumping depot of the region.

They plan to burn it to the ground for the second time after bleeding the 4^th Army there for seventy two hours first.

Anything that rolls and can carry cargo is heading toward Jacmel to storm the enemy defenses along the White Nile and then drive over the border to participate in the greatest arms smuggling run the world will ever know.

At 1845 ten thousand Ayiti Defense Force fighters from the Selassie Brigade ALEF led by General Allamby attack Goniaves with Katusha rockets and morters. Another ten thousand fighters from the BET Brigade lead by Jerome Marcus attack Cap Ayitian from the South.

At 1900 after passing through the rebel controlled villages of Dibbis and Kas; 15,000 lightly armed JEM fighters attack Cap Ayitian from the West in the second prong of the assault. The garrisons of the FAd’H are quickly overrun.

By 2300 Cap Ayitian is completely in rebel hands with no massacres having occurred or scalping. This time men that surrender are hand-cuffed and taken as POWs, not slaughtered.

Goniaves for the second time this year is heavily shelled and in again in flames.

There is at least nine Companies of heavily armed Ayitian Military regulars and Han People’s Army handlers operating Pegasus anti-infantry guns.

News of the fall of Le Cap invigorates the fighters under the command of recently promoted General Allamby. He is told to expect reinforcements from JEM and B Brigade in under an hour heading North in captured armored personnel carriers and civilian pick-up trucks.

Ghost fighters in 9 person units line the ridges to the North, East and South of Goniaves. Katusha rocket batteries on portable launch silos are fired down at the city in the hundreds, then the men shift before the Han can return more accurate fire.

The objective is to lure the Ayitian 4^th Expeditionary Army away from its base in El Obeid prior to the FANMI LAVALAS, BC, RFL and Hadar Column raid on Jacmel.

Scouts have radioed that the 4^th Army is now mobile heading our way. Satellite images collected and transmitted to the Rebel Commands in Juba City and Pic La Selle reveal that the 4^thArmy will arrive to secure Mirogane no sooner than 0300. Giving General Marcus and the JEM ample time to support the attack.

The objective is to fight in the city for as long as possible, doing maximum damage then fall back hold the mountain roads pinning down the 4^th Army down in the highlands outside Goniaves and if necessary Cap Ayitian.

Shortly after midnight the FANMI LAVALAS and Hadar seize Jacmel opening the highway over the border. Wearing grey cloaks thousands of rebels surprise and quickly overwhelm the army regulars. Many of the enemy surrender without a fight and are placed in the Jacmel stadium and the Central Bus Station under guard.

At 0100, with confirmation that the 4^th Army is heading West toward Mirogane, the massive convoy of seven hundred vehicles begins to make their way toward the Red Sea to load up in Port Berbera, refuel and turn around as quickly as humanly possible. General Salva leaves Commanders Adon and Trikhovitch along with 502 hardened Hadar fighters, 10,000 FANMI LAVALAS fighters, and 45,000 poorly armed CDF irregulars to hold Jacmel for at least the next 72 hours.

Commanders Entwissle, Solomon and Sevastra, and 64 of the best Hadar fighters supporting 2,000 FANMI LAVALAS regulars are to secure the convoy.

 

By 0245 they have crossed the border into DR.

 

 

ᴥ

3 am in Cap Ayitian:

The City is deathly quiet and the power station has been occupied and the juice turned off. The population is very sympathetic but whispers fly everywhere that the 4^th Army will massacre everyone here once they are done with the rebels fighting fiercely in Goniaves.

Everyone gathers around radios turned low or TV sets with satellite access to watch Al Jazeera’s front line coverage of the Goniaves inferno. Many in the population are part-Ayitian or part-Dinka from all the years of sexual violence. Even the Arabized-Noire population has been brutalized by the secret police, the Maccoute and the military.

A skeleton crew has been left to hold Le Cap while the bulk of the fighters travelled North in captured vehicles. Father O’ Sullivan has been left in charge of Le Cap with only 5,000 men, only thirty-six survivors of the St. Patrick’s Battalion.

 

There are whispers among the men to massacre the hundreds of Ayitian soldiers being held in the Agricultural Ministry. Commander Father O’Sulivan triples the guard detail around them.

 

There are no more massacres to occur. This is a command order from the very, very top. All the way up!

 

ᴥ

 

4am in Goniaves:

The night is ablaze. General Allamby orders wave after wave of fighters to storm Goniaves’s defenses. Black plumes roll like cloudy towers into the stars. Helicopter gun ship from the 4^th Army strafe the outlying districts held by the Selassie Brigade Alpha. Missiles are flung without any sense of aim into the heart of the city.

Screams of the dead and dying are heard everywhere. Sometime around 04:30 with the arrival of the 4^th Army at the Eastern outskirts, Commander O’Domhnaill orders a team of sappers to demolish the Ministry of Oil, the primary refinery, the pumping station, and thirty other installations.

A free fire zone has been declared throughout Gonaives. Any male of military age can be shot without question. But everyone remembers the last time. Remembers the Massacres, remembers the Battle for Mershing and the five camps.

 

RAT TATATA. BLAM BLAM, atrocity. The onimonpia of war.

 

With fires burning throughout the west of the city, with rebel troops digging in throughout the districts they’ve captured. The 4^th Expeditionary mechanized infantry brigade is ambushed near the city center.

 

General Obenson Etienne orders his commanders to, “Give them a third Grozny[117].” Kill everyone with pale skin.

 

ᴥ

 

 

4:35 am in Jacmel:

Reports reach Jacmel via the sat-coms that Gonaives has erupted in block to block urban warfare and Nyala has been captured without much of a fight. Solomon says that the convoy is making excellent time and near the border with Somaliland.

 

There are 2,082 Ayitian Military prisoners held in the Jacmel Stadium and another 423 in the Central Bus Station.

 

They had taken the city rather quickly aided by sympathetic locals who poisoned the water supply plant used by the enemy troops. Most of the city was taken intact and the sick and puking prisoners were all now concentrated in two locations.

 

General Salva and Commander Trikhovitch have been arguing what to do with them for about an hour. They are only planning to hold Jacmel until the return of the convoy much to the chagrin of the locals. Salva argues that leaving alive this many prisoners will be a seriously liability.

 

“And our enemy Jim al-Talleyrand has so far not taken many prisoners either,” he states.

 

“In the beginning of the war, when our numbers were few will killed indiscriminately and murderously because we thought that would terrify our enemy and break their resolve to fight. What our media specialists told us was that while the word was highly sympathetic of our cause, they were appalled by all our blood thirsty carnage.”

 

“I don’t answer to the whole wide world. Fuck the stupid UN and its evil occupation of my country. I answer only to Ayiti,” says Salva.

 

ᴥ

 

5:45 am in Gonaives:

 

Flame and death. Ever small a burning body wrapped in tires to burn it alive. That’s what was happening to the Argentine soldiers. No differentiation of innocent and guilty, civilian or combatant. The City burns and the black gold jets burst from the earth like dragon breath and explode into the night. Gun fire is unceasing. The rebel advance is turned with Han Tanks, this time with Han People’s Army operators. Hugh O’Domhnaill refuses to order the retreat. General Allamby has promised Rebel Command that they will keep the 4^th Army occupied. They must hold out until the morning, and not retreat until the trucks reach Jacmel laden with arms.

 

The fighting goes on. Cat and mouse, street to street, burning building after building.

 

ᴥ

 

5:50 am in Jacmel:

 

The dawn is about to break. Adon fought with him about it until the end. Trikhovitch threw down his rifle and yelled they were no better than their enemy. General Salva is insistent that all the Ayitian military prisoners be executed.

 

“Look what these animals did? The 600,000 murdered before we invaded. The 80,000 since?! Millions more driven into exile their homes looted and burned. It’s an eye for an eye brother,” General Salva explains.

 

“An eye for eye?” AN EYE FOR AN EYE! We killed the Maccoute because they were rapist brigands. These men are prisoners of war! If we butcher them, if we slit their throats while they sit blind folded and tied on their knees we are no better than Al-Talleyrand  himself!” yells Trikhovitch.

 

“I don’t condone it either,” says Adon but then, “but I am not a Ayitian. A Dominikani or an Arab. And we didn’t come here to lead we came to tip the point.”

 

“Of course we came here to lead! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT! WE HAVE SACRIFICED EVERYTHING FOR THESE PEOPLE. I WILL NOT PARTAKE IN ANOTHER NEEDLESS SLAUGHTER HOUSE!”

 

Nikolai Trikhovitch throws his dagger on the ground and storms out of the command center. The Ayitian logistics staff doesn’t understand Americano, but they know exactly what the fight was about. General Salva, who never yells or loses his temper gives an order in Dinka.

 

He speeds through the narrow street toward the General Hospital. He knows that Dr. Kay is the only person who can influence the sometimes rash and violence nature of General Salva. Surely she can persuade Adon.

 

He is informed by the FANMI LAVALAS and PIH-ZL medical team at the four story hospital that Dr. Kay has not been seen for any hour. He is handed a letter by one of her orderlies.

It’s in Hebrew so he can’t read it. But he knows where she’s heading.

Before he departs he orders the Hadar men guarding the prisoners to turn their guns on anyone, including Adon who orders the killing of the 423 POWs held in the Central Bus Station by the Nile River.

 

Nicolai in a bloody, bloody rage jumps in his jeep and takes off onto the north road. Sentries tell him she left by motorcycle an hour before.

 

“Why the hell didn’t you stop her,” he yells in Ayitian Creole.

 

“She is the Pale Commander’s woman she can do as she wishes, as he has always said.”

 

Idiots. They don’t care how many of us blan die for them, thinks Trickovitch.

 

ᴥ

 

 

0600 in Mirogane.

 

General Magnus Allamby’s parents were born on Tobacco Island and then moved to Staten Island just south of the Isle of Man before he was born. He remembers the Noire Ghetto at the North of the Island and clearly remembers his Iytai and Fenian neighbors burning and looting the district during the Great Disorder.  Now Staten Island is a listening post and military garrison for the U.A.S.. And he’ll probably never see his parents, if they are alive, and his home if it wasn’t destroyed ever again.

 

Magnus Allamby doesn’t have what you might call “beliefs”. The war is not a war of ideas or dreams or promises. His legacy is entwined with that of the club. He will capture Mirogane not because of the blueprint, but because it expedites the needs of the Otriad. He is the cousin of

 

Mickhi Dbrisk and was there the day they put the machine in motion, but blood is always, always thicker than ideas.

 

The sun begins to rise and through the falling ash and grim fog of war the rebels still control more than half the bombed out, burned down city. The Han military handlers and half of Ayitian 4^th Army have retreated to the eastern city limits and dug in.

 

The other half of the 4^th Army is dead.

 

Battling all night in the allies and low rise urban trenches with small arms and gasoline bombs, 44,000 rebel fighters are dug in and waiting for the orders to storm the enemy lines.

 

ᴥ

 

At 0700 am an hour west of Port Berbera Commander Maya Solomon watches the endless metal snake wind its way through the rugged mountains short range aircraft on flatbed trucks, armored omnibuses and 4,000 camels laden with sacs to move rockets, ammunition, long guns, small arms and all the rest of the inventory needed to wage this war. More than 800 assorted vehicles are being utilized in the second largest, irregular military resupply in the 21^st century.

Mickhi Dbrisk and the other fourteen escaped prisoners are with her and also General Avinadav DeBuitléir who jokingly suggests that in his absence General Salva will likely launch genocide of his own.

They are greeted at the water front by the Defense Minister of Ethiopia, the President of Somaliland, and Ysiad Ferraris himself. A vast welcome center has been set up by the loading docks. A buffet has been set up and meals packed for rebel drivers. Showers, coffee, and the full works courtesy of Polidoro Industries. Each vehicle had two drivers on it, one for each leg. They will be loaded back up to the hilt with arms and routed right back the way they came.

“I’d say this is as logistically sound as we can get it,” says Solomon.

“Well your boys have basically burned Goniaves to the ground to capture it. Oil exportation completely halted. They continue to hold Jacmel and Nyala without any opposition. And the 4^th Army is dug in outside of Goniaves with only half it men alive, looking like they’re ready to fall back to Al Umayyad. That’s what the reports and the satellites are now confirming,” says the Ethiopian Defense Minister, an old friend of Maya Solomon.

“Massacres anywhere?” asks General DeBuitléir embracing the President of Somaliland, an old friend and ally.

“None so far,” says Solomon.

“Smashing,” says the Defense Minister of Ethiopia, “so hopefully we’ll all be back where we’re supposed to be by this time tomorrow.

It’s been a happy past three months for Ethiopian and Somaliland infrastructure. As a part of the ongoing negotiations between DeBuitléir & Dbrisk and the governments of Somaliland and Ethiopia, over two thousand miles of freshly paved road was laid from the border with Ayiti to the sea in contract with Ferraris International, aid for in an oil-for-access and development pact signed by Ethiopia and the internationally unrecognized micro-nations of South Ayiti, Somaliland, and Puntland.

Over breakfast, as vehicles load up at the Port up one after another like a conveyer belt of circulating mechanized death, the President of Ethiopian, the Defense Minister of Somaliland, along with General DeBuitléir and Commanders Solomon and Dbrisk discuss just how much oil lies under the Ayitian State and Ayiti Southland. They discuss just how many miles of paved road, how many modern hospitals and universities that black gold can buy in all three of these nations, ranked lately in the bottom billion poorest nations on earth.

 

“With the completion tomorrow night of Operation Harbor Road, I would suspect that not only will the rebel alliance be in control of 2/3 of Ayiti, but you will be well armed enough to hold onto it for some time” says Ysiad, “if the right deals can be negotiated there is lot of good this nasty war can bring to the people in all three of your countries. And I know that both myself and my business partner Vincent Polidoro would like to invest in the infrastructure to turn your newly liberated reserves into an investment in your people’s future.”

As talk of education, medicine and infrastructure goes on so does the endless convoy of trucks, buses, ambulances and camels sending the tools for more killing back to Ayiti.

 

ᴥ

 

Around 10 am the ruins of Gonaives are all in rebel hands and the murder of the prisoners begins in Jacmel. News that what’s left of the 4^th Army is being re-routed to attack the returning convoy under orders from President Jim al-Talleyrand. Informed by Chinese Military intelligence that a vast and alarming arsenal is being moved into Southern Ayiti all available troops not guarding Port Au Prince have been sent south.

The Ayitian Air force is on standby. An Israeli diplomatic cable has been sent to the Chinese Embassy stating that if that if the Ayitian Air Force is deployed against vehicles traveling through the territory of its ally DR or Trinidad, the Cuban IAF will have no choice by but to intervene.

 

The People’s Republic of China politely informs Israel and Cuba that if it so much as flies a cargo plane south or east of the Sinai Peninsula:

 

“We will fire atomic weapons at all your major cities, with little regard for the consequences. What’s Chinese for wipe out all Cubans and Jews with just three missiles? Confucian story time.”

 

In the meantime the head of the convoy had just crossed back into Ethiopia.

There are no Ayitian Military prisoners left alive in the Jacmel Stadium and still 423 in the Central Bus Station due to the insistence of Adon and Sevastra. Adon is informed just a little after ten am that Yelizaveta has deserted the hospital and headed north on a motor cycle with Trikhovitch pursuing her.

 

“What do you want done about it,” asks Scott Sevastra.

 

“We will hold the city until the convoy returns. Either Nikh will find her or they will both be captured, but our job is to hold this road open and that is what we will continue to do.”

 

If the man was blinded by love, it was he who put his own eyes out to not see it before him at moments just like this.

 

ᴥ

 

It’s now 1400. The convoy is now just south of Addis Abba with helicopter gunship escorts from the Ethiopian army. Nyala City is being fortified with the aid of its population. Over 60,000 rebel fighters on foot scorching the earth and oil fields behind them are marching on the city of Al Ubayyid.

 

Oil is no longer flowing out of Ayiti. Over the course of the evening hundreds of Han technicians and soldiers posing as engineers were killed in the mêlée street battles in Mirogane, now a bombed out, scorched, leveled and looted ghost town. The Han People’s Republic has moved their 7th Fleet into the Indian Ocean off the coast of Djibouti.

 

The Israeli Air Force is on red alert. The convoy rolls on, music blaring through the mountains. All are aware that the Han supported Ayitian air force has the capability of obliterating them on the mountain roads.

 

Without much effort the JEM Brigades and the Halle Selassie Division take the towns of Hinche, then St. Marc, Gros Morne, Wad Banda and then before 1500 En Nahud and Mole St. Nicolas. This brings most of the North and Centre under rebel control as well as all the countries oil under rebel control.

ᴥ

 

Emma Maya Sorieya Solomon is looking over some satellite maps on her laptop as the armored ambulance being driven by Mickhi Dbrisk grinds along near the front of the convoy. The mountain roads wind, and although recently paved just for this undertaking, have perilous guard rails leaving all staring into the deep ravines below.

The Cuban helicopter gunships fly overhead, but will not provide any true protection from the several squadrons of Ayitian MINUSTAH bombers about to take off from Sennar Airbase to obliterate them. She is also aware that a reinforced 4^th Expeditionary Army is moving south from Kosti toward Jacmel.

 

“If there are any gods you gain comfort in praying to Captain Dbrisk, now would be an excellent time to remind them of your piousness and the righteousness of our cause,” says Maya Solomon. Her brown hair blows in the wind.

 

ᴥ

 

NSG

1. A Good Friday to you all in Babylon. Struggle people, struggle on.
2. I say to you this Friday I am a woman who has been bred for struggle. When our leaders emerge are you ready to struggle with me?
3. The gate and messenger, the long lost brother and sister.
4. The House of Yitzhak is the House of David, of Yeshua, and Baha-ullah. The House of Ishmael is the House of Muhammed, and the house el Bab.
5. A son from the house of Yitzhak has been born within its gates.
6. A daughter from the house of Ishmael has brought to this city.
7. It will soon be time for our people to arise and fight.
8. All tribes await her by the tree of Life in Brooklyn. So long have our kind been crushed under the bloody iron heel of government and religion.
9. The Mahdi need not expel, nor slay her enemies. The Mahdi wins her wars first with reason and second because she is the bringer of unity.
10. The Army of the Mahdi will march from the City of Many, Many Lights, the Oasis of the Apple; 12 million strong.
11. But whereas Muhammad and his Otriad over time was pitted against his original three protectors, and was forced to slay and expel each.
12. Far Far more.
13. Our Mahdi will find more opinions and more challengers and more spectacles of debate in the Apple than Muhammad had at Medina.
14. And if the Islam of Muhammad was a product of Hebrew and Christian questioning and influence (as surely it was).
15. Yet this daughter of the house of Ishmael will correct our four thousand years of wandering in darkness.
16. I will tell you that the coming of the Mahdi will cause calamity.
17. I will tell you that the Mahdi will be challenged first by her own people then the world at large.
18. United we are stronger, more voices and more opinions on what is God’s word and what is the voice of man.
19. And the man called Jesus, Yeshua ben Yosef; what know you of his 30 years in Mitzraiim (Egypt)? What can you tell me of El Amin?
20. Moses was but one man of a vast tribal confederation in the Wilderness of Sinai to whom would argue with him on his revelation?
21. Will weave and wind from those of the 270 ethnic groups at our Oasis of the Apple. Just imagine such a thing.
22. So as a man such as Muhammad took refuge from persecution in an oasis with two different religious groups imagine what our coming Madhi must face.
23. She would say that God needs numerous voices, numerous mediums numerous narrators. Yet still is one.
24. And the night as it dissipates; And the dawn as it breathes away the darkness.
25. (Then) shall each soul know what it put forward; So verily I call to witness the planets, that recede; Go straight, or hide.

 

As Gonaives smolders and General Allamby presses the attack toward Fort Al Umayyad, as the convoy passes the “red line” the Han have declared will be the bench mark for air strikes, as the Persians sink derelict vessels and mine the narrow Straights of Tiran cutting off the spigot on a quarter of the world’s oil; as Israeli fighter jets are readied across country, as two U.A.S. carriers sail toward Port Ayiti while a Han Vessel waits 18 miles offshores; as President Obama and

 

Chairman Hu Jintao haggle in Mandarin about hegemony, as Father Timothy O’Sulivan argues with is men about killing the prisoners in pacified Cap City; and as Maya and Mickhi continue to watch the skies above the convoy:

 

Nikh speeds off to toward death. He follows the only road north knowing if he doesn’t catch her she’ll run right into the enemy lines. Maybe that’s what she wants. The sun rises and the heat gets real and he never finds her. He finds the enemy first.

Nikholai Trikhovitch meets a gruesome end along with thousands of others that vicious afternoon. His jeep speeding north encounters the entirety of the 4^th Army advancing its lines just outside of Kodak.

He is pulled from his vehicle, tortured, mutilated and hung upside down from a poplar tree.

And he awakes as if still dreaming, yearning if for a moment to break away from something intangible as if for a moment to cling to precious cognizance of life before all this. And the dew of dust and ash he found had settled upon him. In the twilight he realized how far he’d come from what was once his home but also what was once his conception of himself. And the less he slept, the less he tried to escape or dream away his life the more he focused his will and cunning on the terrible task at hand. And he made himself a black machine, a forge of some arcane old notion of death and heroism. Like a Soviet novel he unwound himself and looked deeply upon intention. And as the nights were made less, left to his own notions of what was fate to be made he drew inspiration from a single dark fact. That he had been asleep too long already, that it was in fact death’s cousin, and the more he slept the more tired he grew as death was made a bed fellow.

And he missed the thought of her. His other distraction from sleep. His lost lady love Krissy. A woman he’d divorced years ago and was the only thing tying him to the word of man anyway.

Once his lady had told him that when the night became us he was found more alive, more alert, more ready as if the daylight exposed something in him he did not wish to see. As if oblivious to basic laws of nature, the moon was his balm and he basked in it.

But disgusted by the war he’d driven far north into the enemy hands and their advancing lines. Nikholai had found many others like him, those cheating death hour by hour, grappling with the dawn as if locked in mortal struggle with the inevitable reaper being kept at bay.

Nikholai awakened now with a light yawn from something some called sleep with a twitch and shudder.

He was alone under a sea of oil black azure illuminated by a blood red moon and each star itself like a glimmering candle for a murdered foe or fallen friend. Into the heart of darkness they had thrust themselves uninvited by man or nation, or maybe invited by those same whispers that drew him to distrust sleep.

 

His trusty barking sword, his lance of wood and iron and the death it threw lay abandoned in Jacmel. His pistol he’d given the girl and his long dagger tossed. Even his second dagger he threw out long the road as the dawn broke. He only wished to be again nestled in the arms of his last lover who he hoped was always watching him. There was no god to a man like Nicolai Trikhovitch. Only really comforting were the face of his lady, the moon and also the inevitable face of death.  Who shortly before noon he was staring at both.

 

And the faces of dead friends whom he had mounds of hope and trenches of faith he’d never see again.  Nikholai stumbled into dreaming-hood, he had fought off sleep, and hard enough though he’d tried with is his body and forced his mind into retreat.

 

If the battery of human life was a rough a hundred years; then the bottle and the Noblisse would steal at last twenty, his love of wakeness compensating maybe five years more of waking life, his friendship with Mr. Adon would make all these calculations of longevity arbitrary.

Nikholai Trikhovitch, called the Pale Officer, called the Golem, called pookie, called Nikh, called a lover, called a dear friend. Nikh was about to wake up dead, a month before his 29^th year.

 

He had driven too far from the false safety of Jacmel and the safety of the sentries, he’d left himself exposed. He found himself driven off the road and completely surrounded. He was trying to prevent the lover and comrade of Adon from doing something very, very stupid. He had failed.

 

He awoke briefly from his beating to the butt of a rifle striking his face. A bag pulled over his head, and then true, true sleep.

It was just like death.

 

“Do yer fuckin’ worst,” were the last words of Nikholai Trikhovitch. And they did. As is done in war time to a pale enemy in a black place. Or a dark enemy by a pale officer. With a drone you see nothing. These men used their hands.

 

 

ᴥ

 

And everything else that afternoon was called history.

The Army of D R with over 100,000 Ayitian mujahedeen light infantry invades from Fort Aswan and advances with armor and mechanized infantry all the way south along the Massacre River to Croix des Bouquets.

 

Their motivation was the settling of a long border discrepancy with Ayiti and kicking an enemy while they are distracted, as well as ensuring that their deal with DeBuitléir and the Otriad is honored via their boots on the ground.

At 1600 what’s left of the Ayitian Air force takes off from the Sennar and Singa Air bases. Most of the pilots are Han nationals. Their objective is to bomb the convoy into the ground. At 1604 the Israeli air force takes off from bases in Ethiopia to engage them in the skies above the Choke Mountains.

Chinese Air craft Carriers are eighteen miles from Port Ayiti. Then the Persians announce they will permanently close the straights of Tiran to oil shipping and cut off supplying East Asia and Eurasian companies until Han interference in Ayiti ends.

The United American States warns the Han People’s Republic that if they even think about attacking U.A.S. allies Israel, Egypt, or neutral Ethiopia they run the risk of total war.

The red phone that directly links the U.A.S. Capital in Chicago with the People’s Republic Capital in Beijing goes off.

 

“Well of course it’s about the fucking oil,” says President for Life Trump in a press conference at 1420 to the nation the media no reporting extensively on the quickly escalating conflict.

 

The Cuban Air force smashes the Ayitian Air force in the skies above Mt. Gonder, Mt. Gore and above Hannibal Highway 2. As the rebel convoy glances at the flames, fireworks and fury in the sky above they mostly keep their eyes on the road home to Bor.

 

Emma recalled Sebastian’s favorite threat, “you harm one hair on her head and I’ll change the color of the skies above our city!”

 

Around 1530 the rebel army nears Fort Al Ubayyid but stops outside it twelve miles to the west in the made up NGO town of Bethel. At 1600 the Battle for Jacmel begins as the 4^th MINUSTAH Expeditionary Army advances on the Northern fortifications erected by the Hadar and FANMI LAVALAS fighters.

 

The whole world has their eyes or their hash tags on the war. #1804

 

 

ᴥ

 

 

The People’s Television press release on YouTube racks up 100,000,000 + hits in the first five minutes quickly going viral three minutes in. The website used by the club to host the live streams apparently has over two million viewers watching by the time the air skirmishes began.

 

 

“This is Nick Mapfre a People’s Television Correspondent reporting live from the Jacmel defensive lines. As many of you know from watching the live streams we are currently engaged in a risky three front offensive and resupply across the border with DR.”

 

 

Capois, Adon, Sevastra and General Salva savagely hold the city of Jacmel against the 4^th Army. The fighting is some of the bloodiest in the whole war. Dug in all over town fighting their enemy outnumbered 5 to 1, the rebels bleed the 4^th Army; lure them into the narrow alley ways. Set them on fire with Molotov cocktails and booby traps and blades. By the time the convoy can be seen from the sentry towers, after almost all ammunition has been exhausted and bodies litter every street in the city, the Nile red with the blood of martyrs, the 4^th Army is in shambles and retreats.

The convoy shores up the Jacmel defenses. The beleaguered survivors embrace their comrades as hundreds of vehicles head south and south west to shore up the tremendous gains of Operation Harbor Road.

Three major cities and three dozen towns are in in rebel hands. The Ayitian Air Force is finished. Egypt’s Army has invades the North and Ethiopia’s Senate is voting to invade from the East. U.A.S. has forced the Han to back down. Iran has sealed the Straights and cut the world off from a quarter of its needed oil. And re-supply has occurred.

 

But when Mickhi Dbrisk sees the face of his friend Adon he knows before he is told.

 

“Zamni Cherie, what foolish things has she done to you now?” asks Solomon.

“Give me forty of your best men, we’re heading north,” says Mickhi Dbrisk.

 

He knows what they’ll find.

 

“A waste, a silly waste,” says Solomon.

“At least wait for night fall.”

 

That very evening with little sleep in any of them, Solomon, Dbrisk and Adon lead a reconnaissance team heading up river toward Kodak. Solomon knows what they will find but says little.

Sometime around the dawn they leave the river boats behind and trek to the place where Maya has located Trikhovitch via a tracker she once put inside him.

Sebastian finds his best friend in the world hanging disemboweled from a hook, eyes put out, hands cut off, bayonet marks slashed about his body, hanging from a poplar tree, cold wet and dead.

 

“Cut him down and bury him,” commands Sebastian Adon.

 

In his pocket is a letter written in Russian. There is no sign of Dr. Kay. The letter has To S.A. written on the envelope. It says:

 

I’ve gone to Port Au Prince. Don’t be afraid for me. I do love you. I will make quick work of this. Stay calm and carry on.

 

It is signed Y.K. It says also:

 

 

            P.S. If you love me too you won’t forget to take your god damn salt.

 

ᴥ

 

 

At a press conference is being held at the Baha’i World Center on the Southside of Union Square in the Isle of Man. It is perhaps the best attended press conference focusing on a foreign rebel movement in the history of the City of New York since the Cuban revolutionary Fidel Castro spoke in Harlem almost a hundred years before. They might have had it at the UN except the Secretary General had spent the last year condemning the actions of the Breukland Otriad as a “vile terrorist cult hell bent on setting back development and relief efforts in Africa by 400 years.”

 

Lights flash and cameras roll. It is a starship spectacle. Mara Fitzduff in blue fatigues facilitates the interviews and presentations alongside Erza Pula and Paramedic Jasmine Howard.

 

At this press conference numerous rebel leaders including Avinadav DeBuitléir, General Obenson Etienne Mayardit, Mickhi Dbrisk, Djbriel Okonkwo, Hugh O’Domhnaill and Scott Sevastra address the free press via PTV sat-cam and paint a carbon copy of the situation on the ground in Ayiti. Testimonies from civilians are live streamed via the website and the elected representatives of Juba City, Bor, Nyala and Jacmel attest to the real developments on the ground. Schools, hospitals and agricultural cooperatives where once there were only missionaries, NGOS (10,800 of them) new oil wells, disease, cholera, repression and brothels.

 

The world gets truth this time. Sees the full magnitude of it all. Sees the heroes’ faces, hears the voice of a people on the eve of being free. About to rip asunder the limbs of the iron heel upon their neck. The media puts faces to rumors, puts people’s names to deed and legend.

Erza Pula, the famous human rights lawyer and attorney on call for the Breukland Bath and Rifle Club reads off a list of the executed Maccoute and Ayitian military leadership and for what heinous crimes they were cut down.

 

Of sixty-four primary targets only President al-Talleyrand is still alive.

 

Commander Maya Solomon via satellite holo-cast from Juba City says it well, “We’re just everyday people acting on a promise they once made to our grandparents. They once sat in ivory and iron towers and wrote down “rights”. So called “human rights” and dangled them in front of us for over one hundred years while kicking in the faces of our children. They told us that this was your nature. That without government and without religion you’d all be eating each other. And then they dined on you. What we have started in the land of Ayiti will soon wash upon your shores. What we did in Palmares took less than five years without much blood. But you didn’t pay enough attention. If you’re watching this from home, just tuning in: we’re just five minutes away from nation time again. There are no borders we are prepared to respect. It’s time you asked your governments about the human rights they took from you. We had a non-violent modal to attain universal human rights. And now we have violent one too. Those that aim to keep you from dreaming, know we possess the zeal to keep them from sleeping and bringing their oligarchies one by one to their knees.”

 

Erza Pula faces the camera with her pale beautiful face and hard thankless Albanian eyes.

“Let me tell you now viewers at home the issue at hand. Let me make this explicit so into your minds it will sink. I come from a place called Albania and you have heard of it, but tuned it out. Once a decade past a people called the Serbs came to my city Pristina and did unspeakable things to my family and my people. And you in the West did almost nothing until the deed was near a-fait-complete. In the last twenty years there has been more ethnic warfare, more vicious blood-letting, more human slavery, more human rights violations than in the totality of the last two hundred years. The marked difference between this holocaust and the last was its diversity. The pot my friend’s has finally boiled over and all of us are made black. And with your wireless access to the world-wide-web, your plethora of so-called free news agencies, your broadband, your satellite radios and your smart-smart fucking phones you are all accountable for what has happened. You are unable to look me in my beautiful eyes and tell me that you didn’t have knowledge of what was happening. And you did nothing. You watched more movies, and drank beer and made babies while more than three quarters of the human race wrenched and wrangled and found itself crushed under the iron heels of despots and tyrants. Mark my words. The rising has begun and there truly are only two sides. Our enemies are minuscule in number. Their greed and vile rapes rely on your complacency. My name is Ezra Pula. I am a human rights lawyer. I would have liked to see President al-Talleyrand and his ilk dragged before the Hague years ago like the brute Milosevic. But to be perfectly honest, and I think I speak for many Dinka, many Ayitian and many Ayitian when I say this: maybe we have to get ultra-violent so we can send you all a message in Eurasia, East Asia, Oceania and the U.A.S. If you don’t give us our human rights, our democratic process, and our total freedom: we’re going to burn your capitals to the ground one by one. And the rapists, the violators, the collaborators and those that sit on the fence as humanity is marshaled. Your numbers up.”

 

Just before midnight http://www.tricolor.com and http://www.peoplestelevision.org and http://www.wikiresitance.com begin uploading the Blueprint, “a digital manual for organizing, development, and general human rights based resistance.” Viewers at home can download to their smart phones and computers a veritable media compendium of lessons and tactics learned over the course of human resistance to tyranny.

 

In one single hour the servers hidden in Norway register that there have been 39,775,992 blueprints downloads. Ryder Haske and Nick Mapfre are on PTV-Secure-Skype. Ryder winks from the Isle of Man, Mapfre fires up a Cuban cigar from Juba City Media Operations HQ.

 

“Let the hungry games begin,” says Nicholas Mapfre.

 

ᴥ

 

 

For eight days the remnants of the Hadar Column retreat with the body of Nikholai Trikhovitch to the D R highlands near Gore where they bury their dead. They take with them in chains the 423 Ayitian prisoners they had held under protective custody in the Central Bus Station. On the road to DR Sebastian shaves his head and upon arrival in Gore fasts for the period of Nikh’s Shiva.

 

After a single year of fighting there are less than two hundred men left alive in the column.

They are a wretched and haggard lot, all seen desperate evil things men do in wartime.

For eight days their commander Sebastian Adon is utterly despondent. When no one is looking besides his God or sometimes Mickhi Dbrisk, he cries out his water and beats the red earth with his feeble fists.

 

He feels for the first time, that this place had taken from him more than he is ever able to give. Lt. Moishe Cohen, a few years his elder, by far the most outwardly devout man in the column when not making dirty jokes takes a census of the surviving fighters. They had taken quite a beating in Jacmel. For every four that marched in one had marched out.

 

Not a one among them wishes to return home. Surely they would no longer be recognized by their lovers, friends and families. They in fact surely can no longer recognize themselves.

Out of the 1,002 Yiddish and Soviet fighters who had crossed the border in Brumaire only 193 are left alive. Most had not had the luxury of either burial. Only luxury was a quick death which not all got. The makeshift cemetery in Gore has only thirteen bodies interred inside it. They sing a vodka soaked Kaddish for all their fallen brothers. It echoes through the valleys. Some agree to keep the Shabbos with Lt. Moishe Cohen leading some degree of the observant in prayer. To others religion is a dirty joke.

 

“Who better than Moishe to personify it in this yarn,” states Scott Sevastra.

Moishe tells a joke to the men.

“The queen of Sheba was going to marry and evening of her marriage King Solomon wrapped upon her chamber door, and she said I offer you my honor, King responded I honor your offer and then it was on her and off her all night.”

Fewer laugh than even usual at Lt. Moishe Cohen’s latest dirty joke.

As sun fall on Sabbath. Adon emerges from his tent accompanied by Watson Entwissle. They are carrying Machetes. Sevastra and Moishe Cohen attempt to stop them, but they are ready to play hatchet men again. To slaughter and sacrifice, sin against the God of mercy for the old gods who thirst for blood and play on men’s emotions. Some of the men eagerly follow them, their blades ready. Others lack the will.

Sevastra sits with Moishe by the fire they have just kindled, the Shabbas over.

“Nikh’s last orders before he got himself killed going after your woman were that these men would be spared,” says Sevastra.

Adon doesn’t miss a beat. Doesn’t think about it. Doesn’t care.

“There he goes again,” says Lt. Moishe Cohen.

 

The massacre of the 423 prisoners with hatchet and machete, musket and with dagger takes less than sixty minutes. Their grisly screams travel throughout the valley. The slaughter and gore and wet work of hatchets is made easier in that the prisoners are all bound.

The screams go on for sixty four minutes. Adon returns completely covered in blood.

 

They rest another day, burn the enemy dead in a shallow grave petrol pile and get back to their terrible work.

 

ᴥ

 

 

 

Writes Adon in a letter to Jessica Pilot, his highly fickle self-absorbed Jewish American princess literary agent, who is also a Mossadnik:

 

“A lot of saber rattling goes on in the days to come. And some saber swinging and heavy iron barking too. Bangladesh, Egypt, Ethiopia and the United American States all pledge forces for a UN Peace and Stabilization mission. An oil grab by any other name. The Selassie Liberation Legion and the remnants of St. Pats strike mercilessly at Al Ubayyid held by remnants of the 3rd and 6^th Brigades of the FAd’H (the New Ayitian proxy MINUSTA Army). Retaking the city, they slay its Ayitian military occupants and dig in reinforced by every man the Ayitian-Emergency-Front has in the area.”

 

“The vast and Chinese and French modernized Armies of Ayiti are not worth much now. All the remaining hardcore loyalists are being called back to the twin cities,” states General Salva.

“They do still have vast warehouses of artillery shells and drones and they use them against us with brutal effect. Waves of drone airstrikes have reduced much of Al Umayyad, Nyala and Jacmel to ash, but the population soldiers on building new settlements below the ground of these rocket scarred battlements once called cities,” states General Allamby.

 

“We have evacuated most of the non-combatants back behind the SAM batteries which guard expanded South Ayiti,” writes DeBuitléir.

 

The survivors of the Hadar Column; Sevastra, Mapfre, Rathajazer, Entwissle, Cohen and the others merge with what’s left of the St. Patrick’s Battalion to form the Z.O.B.-Dublin Detachment to hold the lines at Jacmel. General Allamby along with the surviving fighters of Jerome Marcus, Okonkwo, Dbrisk and Tomas hold the lines from Al Umayyad.

DeBuitléir leader of the SEF has brought his full forces to Nyala and the Al Umayyad Front. General Salva leader of the FANMI LAVALAS has his armies ready Jacmel.

 

“The only thing President for the rest of his short life Jim Basher al-Talleyrand controls are the three cities of the Capital where he has dug in to hide,” says Adon to  DeBuitléir.

 

He pauses.

 

“Her letter tells me her intention is to murder Dominick Strauss Kahn before he can escape the impending siege of Port Au Prince. She tells me not to be scared for her well-being. That perhaps she can kill Al-Talleyrand and Kahn together and avoid the bloodbath of the final siege. She tells me she will consider forgiving me. A girl has to avenge her mother.”

 

“Apparently at the cost of your best friend,” DeBuitléir responds.

 

ᴥ

 

She jettisoned the motorbike not far North of Bor. She then took off her blue medical multiform and donned the black burka so readily imposed now in the Capital. She clipped Nikh’s pistol to her waste below the folds. Fluent now as she was in Arabic she then paid some fishermen to bring her up Nile until the outskirts of the city during the night. By this time the 4^th Army has been decimated. By this time the rebels are unloading an arsenal in Juba, Nyala, and Bor. Then carefully, very carefully she arrives at the forward lines.

 

In flawless French with her hands in the hair she walks into the hands of the enemy and says,

 

“My name is Dr. Yelizaveta Kay, chief physician for the rebel armies. I am here to negotiate a ceasefire with President Talleyrand. I am armed.”

The Republican Guardsmen keep their rifles trained on her as she slowly prostrates herself and carefully lays the burner on the ground.

 

“I am acting as the direct emissary of Emma Solomon and Avinadav DeBuitléir. If a hair on my head is harmed not one of you will escape this country alive and my husband Commander Adon will change the color of the sky above the city to black grey and ash,” she says.

 

Through her dark grey burka the only thing her enemies can see are her eyes flash grey.

 

ᴥ

 

In the bunkers below Al Ubayyid all are pacing restlessly.

 

“The rumors are true brothers,” states Avinadav DeBuitléir, “At 0600 this morning four brigades of the U.A.S. Marine Corps have landed at Port Cap Ayiti and conquered the city without much resistance.”

“President Obama himself has ordered and I quote ‘an immediate end to the genocide in Ayiti via the multi-national occupation of the country’,” the soft spoken leader Commander Avinadav DeBuitléir informs the council.

 

“In coordinated maneuvers the D R forces have advanced forty kilometers north of the Capital and the D R armored corps has advanced forty kilometers to the east,” he states.

“The enemy is boxed in within the Twin cities and Port Au Prince down to 80,000 soldiers, two of the hardest divisions. At least a thousand tanks. Down to their loyalists and their profiteers. Everyday thousands flee the city. Talleyrand now has to keep his own people under siege. Nine million civilians locked down at the fork of the Massacre River.”

Sebastian embraces DeBuitléir. This is what they’ve spent nearly two years fighting to accomplish. They’ve finally dragged in the Eagle and the Bear. They finally have Talleyrand surrounded.

“The Maccoute are finished. Their scattered rank and file fear for their lives and have gone into hiding or fled the country. Suffice to say we are in the last stages of the national struggle, but we have not won yet,” explains General DeBuitléir.

“The Ayitian Military is preparing to mobilize a thousand Han tanks and half its remaining 80,000 troops against us. Despite our superior numbers these are the hardcore of the enemy forces. They are better armed and better trained and they are fighting with their backs to the edge of total oblivion. President al-Talleyrand has pledged to burn the entire country into the sands before the Americans can capture Port Au Prince,” announces Commander O’Domhnaill.

“In just two day’s time the last of serious forces will arrive at Rabak cross the White Nile into Kusti before they Germinal on the gates of Al Ubayyid,” states Commander DeBuitléir.

 

“We must destroy them in the dunes before they reach those gates,” he coldly states.

 

Children are playing in the green fields of the south land and pointing to the sky. Thousands of red and blue parachutes are descending carrying men and crates. These men possess medical training. They are also skilled in nation re-biding having to have had recently rebuild their own countries from scratch.

 

The people cheer, “It is the Cuban and Breuklyn Soviet reinforcements!”

 

A vast wave of foreign volunteers takes a real leap of faith out of a fleet of Sea Stallion Cargo planes in the skies over Jacmel and the Southland. There haven’t been this many Caribes & internationals in Ayiti since the blood lettings of the Earthquake, the first and last colony. Thousands of Cuban and Ayitian paramedics, nurses, surgeons, teachers, engineers and development practitioners shoring up the rebel zone on the eve of the final battle. Jumping with them are elite teams of Israeli combat medics, civil engineers and parastate specialists, also members of the Black Cats, otherwise known as Unit 669. They land near Jacmel City, Mirabelais, Gonaives, Nyala, Al Umayyad and proceed to erect many blue tents. Nine 4,000 bed hospitals sprout out of the ground just beyond the two lines anticipating the coming clash of wills and destinies.

 

GAI medics and PIH-ZL MD are supervising physicals and psyche exams on the men in the trenches. Behind the lines they are fighting mass illiteracy and rebuilding homes.

Dr. Yelizaveta spends much of the week in a cell. It is widely believed that without some divine intervention of massive and unexpected Han air support then the allies in the Ayitian-Emergency-Front and the FANMI LAVALAS will overrun the capital before the American, Ethiopian, or Egyptian reinforcements can be put to use to secure their claims.

 

The Ayitian military is executing any person who flees the capital.

 

The 1^st Division of the Ayitian Military has dug in around the capital. The first division is also called the Black Hand all from the house of Al- Talleyrand  and the oligarchy. What’s left of the 4^th and 5^th Divisions batter Al Umayyad, Nyala, Bor and Jacmel with drones and rockets, but the Banners of the Combined Rebel Forces are united under the leaders Avinadav DeBuitléir and General Salva and vow to hold these cities against the aggression of the usurper, “his name be cursed and a black death upon him.”

On the ninth day of the offensive, 9 Floréal, the four captured cities are still in rebel hands. There flags still fly and President al-Talleyrand , his name be forever cursed he hides in his capital, and an international arms embargo has prevented the Han from getting him more fire power.

He has kept the Ruus doctor as a hostage for a week. But is aware that she is perhaps a bargaining chip. She has said nothing and he has asked nothing. As the Chief Physician to the insurgency she must have quite a message.

Still he leaves her in the dungeons below the Imperial Palace in isolation.

The beleaguered remnants of the 4^th and 5^th Armies are again ordered to attack the major rebel formations garrisoned at Al Umayyad.

And soon after they are broken.

 

The New York Times runs a full page spread on the cover:

 

“The Battle on the Dunes of Al Umayyad Township: the latest serious Ayitian government defeat in the war. No air support to cover tanks.” Burnt out hulls litter the badlands. Cheering rebel armies are advancing now from the South and West. In the days that follow the Armies of the Ayitian-Emergency-Front capture the Cities of Kusti and Jeremie. While less than 100 men of the original invasion forces are alive each now leads newly trained Ayitian-Emergency-Front Battalions in Emiley after bloody victory against the Army of Ayiti.

Closing in day after day on Port Au Prince.”

 

In a letter written by Sebastian Adon:

 

“This week brought the closing in on the Northern fortress built about the capital. To the West the Liberation Legion of Haile Selassie led by Commanders Jerome Marcus, Magnus Allamby Melvin Clarke is now 85,000 strong. A much smaller St. Pats Battalion is along with it with several dozen Fenian staff sergeants now made Captains. The Alpha Brigade of U.A.S. 82^nd has fortified Port Ayiti. Along with an army of refugee Volunteers from Chad they are a mighty albeit irregular force. To the South two divisions of the FANMI LAVALAS, CEF, and the small hundred man Z.O.B.-Dublin Column amount about 130,000 men. They are supported medically and logistically by thousands of volunteers from Cuba and Palmares Island. To the East the D R Armored Division exploits this disorder and digs in ready to shell Port Au Prince. They have roughly 700 Merkava tanks, the only true armored section supporting the rebellion. To the North, the full the forces of Dominican President Ayman Nour are gathered some 100,000 Mujahedeen light infantry and the second company of the 82^nd Airborne called the Bravo Brigade.

 

That is a mighty force assembled. All eying each other suspiciously with very loaded ready weapons.

 

A meeting of the factions is again called. A mighty war tent is erected.

 

“We must secure the capital before another government can,” said DeBuitléir on the field phone to Commander Adon, called by many a man between towns.

“I fear that we must secure also it before he burns the country to the ground.”

“And how might he accomplish that?” laughs Salva, “We control almost the totality of Ayiti. Before the end of the month we’ll be turning our concerns from Talleyrand to each other and all these foreigners in our midst. I jest, but let’s be realistic. Many promises have been made and not all will be honored.”

Maya speaks up.

 

“He has atomics. Possible a dozens of them purchased from the North Koreans. And he certainly has enough drones to fly them toward us, toward everyone who’s been working to make his regime fall,” says Maya Solomon.

 

“Why hasn’t he utilized them before?” demands Salva.

 

“Because he didn’t think all was hopeless until Fort Al Umayyad fell and all the foreigners invaded and then were routed. It has always been understood that DR was a U.A.S. Client, Ayiti a French one and Israel a U.A.S. client. But now whispers will be less influential. He is desperate. We are on his very doorstep and he’s down to his last men. He’s killing his own people now just keep them in his lost city.”

 

“The creation of a recognized DMZ in southern Ayiti has been a boon to the humanitarian and emancipatory development endeavors as well as the war effort. But about us vicious vipers set to section off the people’s victory if we don’t act and act fast. The U.A.S. troops safe guard Port Ayiti because from out it flows the oil. The Cubans and everyone else wish to see the war end and the spoils divided with minimum engagement.”

 

Watson Entwissle bursts into the room, “The capital is now completely surrounded. We must prepare at once to attack.

 

“It has been taken care of already my brother. Dr. Kay has requested an audience with President Talleyrand to deliver our terms of his surrender. She is in Port Au Prince about to be granted audience with Talleyrand,” states Solomon.

 

“She will tell him there are to be no terms for surrender.”

But women sometimes lie.

ᴥ

 

Mr. Adon has grown despondent and prone to flashes and floods of anger most directed against their nemeses but also himself. He is often alone and without Yelizaveta to instill him with a lost humanity he is gone for hours on walks about the ridges swooning as a lover does, although never in front of the men. They were odd in public toward one another, but it was of course obvious whose tent she shared. He has lost the two things closest to him after Nikh’s execution and her disappearance. Little to restrain him now.

There was much talk about the commander’s love life, as if the rumors of it make good yarns. In between meetings of administration and command or killing runs against the enemies of his latest adopted people he might be seen upon the ridge composing letters to his lover, making sketches of the forces arrayed and towns liberated as if to impress her. Increasingly, below his raven nappy hair tucked below his brown skally cap beret, the men might look upon his eyes and see a dimming fire. As if by each step, each battle that brought these motley forces toward the capital he calculates how soon until he might finally spend peace time alive with his love.

“If she is alive,” says Watson.

But Adon sees things others don’t always see.

But, was his love a tangible one? Was it based on dreams of progeny, of retirement from war and political machinations into the arms of soft and lasting embrace? There was only one man who might have adequately answered that, and that man they had buried. Separated by the theatres of war from Mr. Dbrisk and Mr. O’Domhnaill, the men Adon leads know him not as who he once was but by zeal he exhibits at present.

Yelizaveta knows him. At least she thinks she does. And she swears that one day she’ll cry for him, because when this is all done, if he is destined to survive, there might not be much left of him to love if she isn’t alive too.

“I know your eyes Sebastian when something you are seeing troubles you,” says Watson.

 

“We are at the crossroads mon ami. I see a good many possibilities, but they are all quite bloody before the dawn breaks.”

 

“That’s’s not what Im referring to.”

 

“Komarova?”

 

“She’s gone.”

 

 

ᴥ

 

 

“Bring her to me,” says President Jim Basher Talleyrand.

Dr. Yelizaveta Kay is still wearing her black burka. She has been unmolested not because of this piety but because she is a messenger and evil a brutal tyrant wishes to hear a message. She is lead into the Imperial War Palace in leg and arm irons and locked to the floor before his desk throne. Forced on her knees.

“Speak,” he says to her.

“I speak on behalf of the rebel armies assembled at your gates. I bear a message from the allied rebel supreme military council. DeBuitléir, Salva and the foreign insurgent commanders Adon, O’Domhnaill, Allamby and Dbrisk AND Solomnan. I speak with their authority.”

“If what you say lacks merit I’ll feed you to the men.”

“I fear none, but the wrath of my Generals should this message not be delivered to you in full.”

“Your grey eyes reveal you are a voodoo witch. Speak witch before the flames consume you after my men do their worst.”

“Your capital is completely surrounded. Your army is in total shambles. There are no less than thirteen insurgent armies composed of your own abused countrymen. There are no less than four world powers with boots on your soil. Your air force is in shambles. Your drone fleet is exhausted. Your one mighty army has been decimated. Even in your dungeons I can easily buy the information I require. The oil has been cut off now for a month and even your Han handlers are making deals with the rebels and the U.A.S. to get the pipes flowing again. The only thing keeping the nine million hostage civilians in the capital is the butchery of the first division.”

“These facts are not unknown to me. You might have purchased them with your mouth witch doctor,” he sneers.

“There are many men who want you dead. Others who want you arrested and put on some international stage for the human rights trial of the century.  DeBuitléir wants your skin for what you did to his whole family. Salva for what you did to his four sons. The JEM wants you to be put to death as a kafr. The Breukland Otriad wants to make an example out of you. The Egyptn, Han, Rus, Persians, Ethiopians, Israeli, and what’s left of the U.A.S. just want your black gold.”

“I will burn you all, and the capital and the twin cities and the Nile itself and the oil below the ground if I must. I will never allow you victory. I will light the world ablaze.”

“I know you have atomics. I don’t know how many but I know you have enough to scorch the region. I know you are planning to incinerate Israel, Egypt, Ethiopia and Iran. I believe you have the cruel will to do it.”

“Quite a mouth you must have.”

“It’s my eyes I am known for President.”

“Grey like the soulless demon Yid God you serve.”

“What time is there now for talk of piety? You have been made no offers by the rebels because they aim to kill you or if they are kind humiliate you on the world stage and use your former republic as a springboard for world war against despots and tyrants and so-called people’s republics. I speak for the intentions of the rebels, but I have a master as we all so. We all answer to someone, especially when we do not answer to God.”

The fat President is astounded at her audacity and gaul.

“Leave us alone!” he commands the black uniformed imperial guards out of the room. The doctor in in manacles and he has a pistol on hip. He rips off her shawl and draws and cocks his weapon. He levels it to her face.

“What offer can you make me that I could tolerate? And on whose behalf!?”

She stares up at this dictator in full defiance.

“The Perchevney Bratva.”

There is no a man alive who deals in sin and violence who has not at one time made a deal with that brotherhood.

“Tell me your name.”

“I am Yelizaveta Kay Perchevney Adon. My mother is Marina Kay a former hotel maid. My father is Alexandr Perchevney head of the Perchevney Bratva. And we require a man that you trust be delivered to us to pay for his treachery. A ruinous treachery against my mother’s honor and my father’s sanity. You harbor him in this very citadel. And my father will ensure you safe passage from Ayiti, along with your family and your fortune to any place you desire if you turn this man over to us.”

“You are also the wife of the Pale Officer who brings with him death.”

“Yes, but only you and I know that President. It is a marriage of vast convenience.”

“What if instead I make you my hostage and trade you for my passage.”

“That would gain you nothing. Adon has sacrificed me before and I am not my father’s only daughter.”

“You are very brave.”

“I would like you to spare millions of lives including your own. I would like you to yield not to the god of pride, but the gods of profit and self-interest.”

“You think I have no honor? I can reduce this country to a land of ash. I would sooner do that than give your father my only friend and ally as a sacrifice. I ought to give Dominick you instead as a bound present. He’s still very feisty although advanced in years. He’d make quite a sport out of the daughter of Alexandr Perchevney. That would get his blood pumping in the final hours we have.”

“He is not such a martyr as you. I would suspect that he’ll flee you like a rat on a sinking ship the minute the rebels distract you enough.”

“Do you have any idea what they will do to you tonight? Have you any notion?”

“Do you have any idea what my husband will do to you if a hair on my head is misaligned?”

“I have atomics. I will incinerate the black fields and reign death on my enemies! They will know the wrath of Ayiti. You will serve you last hours as the whore of my old dear friend Kahn and then we will burn together.”

“Do it from Kingdom Saud. Burn these rebel scum and your own land if you must, but survive. I am the only one who can offer you that. I know you can fire the atomics from the air. I also know that Kahn is fleeing you as you speak.”

“How do you know so much witch?”

“I either have a great tongue, or grey eyes and deep, deep pockets. And only a captain goes down with a ship, not a French Yid opportunist. Besides, you and he both are unbelievers so the whores in Saud Kingdom are more real than whores in the world to come.”

He yells for the guards.

“Find my Dominick Straus-Kahn. Find him now!”

 

ᴥ

 

The Black House of Chicago is very structurally similar to the now long destroyed White House of now long evacuated Washington District of Columbia. Except that it has a better ER and deeper fallout shelter on premise, which is important when right before the beginning of your sixth term someone shoots you in the face.

 

The couple that managed to execute U.A.S. President elect Barak Obama with two plastic snub nosed Calvary Zip guns made in Utah did so because they believed their Mormon God had wanted them to do so. They believed that by murdering the President they were carrying out an act of great faith. Ushering in the end times. He died from his wounds less than an hour later in the ER below the Black House. The Mormon’s that executed him, Mr. and Mrs. O’Domhnaill are a young, good looking couple from a small polygamist town near Salt Lake City, in the Mormon Free Zone. They were not on the guest list for the Passover State Dinner for Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu. They simply crashed the party by being young, white, well dressed and reasonably attractive.

 

The State dinner was to have been a pretext to quietly and informally negotiate a peaceful settlement in Ayiti. Israeli involvement in the raging and internationally divisive Ayiti-War is making it hard for the U.A.S. to sell this as “Peace Keeping Operation” and not a “Resource Grab”. Obama was hoping that the War in Ayiti might result in a deal sealing for the separation and economic development plan he’d been long arranging along the Israeli-Canaanite Green Line which was believed to be imminent. And the paving of the way to peace with Iran.

Mrs. O’Domhnaill cuddled right up to the President while Mr. O’Domhnaill took a photo. They then took out two guns and shot him in the heart and the head. They then swallowed cyanide and died soon after.

 

They died believing they had the man Christ in their hearts even if they were controlled on remote by the Church of Scientology.

 

American public opinion in the hours to come stymies much of the now murdered President Obama’s Ayitian Intervention Initiative. Most Americans have absolutely no idea where Ayiti even is on a map.  Hilary Clinton briefly becomes President but is toppled in a coup led by the rightest Giuliani-Trump-Romney triumvirate which cancels the Détente with the Confederacy and vows to crush the newly independent Eastern Seaboard Soviets with force to restore the Union. Martial Law is declared in the U.AS. Both the U.A.S. and Confederacy ready themselves for war and round ups begin on both sides.

 

There is very clear evidence that everyone with power in the post-coup government of the United American States wants this intervention in war torn Ayiti to end. The rhetoric of the new oligarchy is “Union by Force!” No more foreign adventures, no more wars of conscience, not while America is divided.

 

“Focus on the family and focus on the home front,” proclaims Palin. And an American public which has an ongoing taste for bread and circuses applauds loudly.

 

ᴥ

 

A man like Perchevney has for years learned how play vicious games of cost benefit analysis with the lives of whomever he must. And when comes the call so close to the end game that informs him so viscerally of a certain ransom he has long prepared himself for, he prepares to pay because it will facilitate the vengeance that so much blood and dollars can buy. He thinks back to days long past before the war and remembers a certain pact.

It was very cold that winter. The blizzard and a Sanitation strike made the city impassible. Adon was ten years younger, fewer scars from the trials of Palmares Island. He was still reckless and in love though. That never seemed to leave him.

 

Perchevney was living then in a two bed room apartment in Fort Washington and so was his wife Marina and his daughter Yelizaveta Kay. And Marina was a hotel maid and Alexandr was an underground unlicensed physician and the incident hadn’t happened yet and this young dashing EMT in a beige-gold protective suit had just crossed that blizzard twice to retrieve their daughter who’d broken her leg and was stranded in the storm. And Adon went to get her, and bring her to a hospital and they loved him, loved him like only Soviets truly can for doing reckless heroic things to rescue people they love. And the night was dark, and the city was impassible and the lights were out and Marina and Yelizaveta were asleep and Adon and Alexandr were sitting smoking Noblisse cigarettes in the narrow kitchen passageway and they had a bottle going.

“What-did was very-strong.”

Alexandre barely spoke English then. And he was a former Soviet unlicensed physician not a king of pins, not a vory-v-zakone[118], not a boss not an engineer of serfdom, not a black business man.

And Adon wasn’t yet a zealot, not a yet a killer, not yet a person myopically driven toward his own self destruction.

 

And they drank as a young blond shivering, Yelizaveta slept doped up on her pain killers, her left leg cast, slept under quilts and covers. And Marina took the next week off from the Benjamin Hotel, proud her daughter had a good man now and a rich one too, an Ameikanski that was shaped like a Soviet and was at least tough like one, and rich which was important too.

And Adon and Alexandr embrace.

 

“You-love-daughter?” He asks, heavier then. Thick black glasses. Sly eyes with the bipolar grey flash.

“I will do anything for her.”

“I will have you prove this.”

And that is why so many years later, as Yelizaveta lies in a prison cell far behind enemy lines of the fortified citadel and Alexandr receives a cash figure from a Ayitian middle man, how much he must pay for Mr. Strauss-Kahn and his daughter, he feels still like haggling. Because he knows that Adon will do absolutely anything to free his daughter.

 

He’s seen Adon do it many times before.

 

ᴥ

 

Tense times for the world at large.

Everyone everywhere has their eyes on “the Crisis in Ayiti”.

 

The United American State pulls out of country just one week after assassinated former President Barak Obama ordered them in. A new political regime is taking power in the United American States one which looks forever inward and has no time for ‘wars of conscience.’ Personified by Donald Trump and Rudolf Guiliani.

 

The daily shelling of Port-Au-Prince and skirmishes at the gates are told in the world’s papers that the end of the al-Talleyrand regime in only days away.

 

Vast piles of sandbags are now gone up around the twin cities of Port Au Prince and Petionville where the Massacre River forks. The enemy forces are massed just five clicks outside its gates. They’ve set up artillery, heavy machine guns, the dead sand around its suburbs a death maze of mines and booby traps. This is the citadel, the largest city on earth home to some 4, many NGO affiliated million souls who benefited generously from these twenty years of internal war. Finally as the rebellion hardens its lines all have moved their forces to the evil center of this dark place.

 

An estimated 80,000 Ayitian soldiers, the hard core, the elite.

Holding hostage over over 3 million privileged citizens and their salves and dependents. Armed with Atomics that can hit as far away as anywhere but East Asian, Eurasia or Oceania.

 

100,000 lightly armed Muhammadian Brothers to the North. Two Divisions of Ethiopian Armor and light infantry to the East. Over two million irregular fighters in the Ayitian Defense Forces and rebel Alliance; a million under General Salva west of Port Au Prince, and million under  DeBuitléir to the south.

This is not to mention the 10,000 Israeli, Cuban, and Ayitian medical contingents and “engineers”. The 40,000 Han support staff still in Port Au Prince. The Persian navy blocking oil flow from the Straight of Tiran.

 

And U.A.S. and Chinese Atomic saber rattling.

And enhanced proxy arming.

Calls for calm coming out of Europe.

And the Russian Federation too is wondering just how to get in on the game this late I the blood bath. Perchevney tells Putin to wait it out.

 

The President al-Talleyrand  sits in the Imperial Palace, his last city under total blockade, he sits at a computer screen reading that the world has largely abandoned him. The blond witch is in one cell, his former financial advisor who his men caught fleeing in another. Bodies lie rotting in the heat as his army guns down thousands trying to flee.

“We cannot have a situation where foreign armies of any kind remain in capital after it falls. If they seize the city first then they will remain after to claim the oil as their prize,” notes Avinadav DeBuitléir to the assembled staff and leadership within the command tent.

“Well then we’d better make sure that all factions bleed equally in the capture of Port Au Prince,” says Salva.

“This is a bloody mess no matter how you run the war game,” states Father O’Sullivan.

 

 

Everyone stands except for General Salva and Avinadav DeBuitléir as Adon and Solomon enter the room. Then both Generals rise to salute Solomon.

 

“We are requesting you delay the final offensive by four hours,” she says.

“We are certain that as soon as we breach the gates, that that vile beast will fire off his atomics and order his army to assist the population in collective suicide,” says Adon.

“We would like four hours to attempt to secure the Imperial Palace with an airborne assault of the Z.O.B.-Dublin Company. We’d like to fly in tonight, real-real high, paratroop about a hundred men right down on top of them at the Palace while a crack team flies four 747s  loaded with explosives into the Ministry of Peace, Ministry of Love, and Ministry of Truth as well as the Trade Tower,” says Solomon.

“We think we can pull this off with just 99 fighters,” Adon remarks.

“Which is actually all the Breukland Bath and Rifle Club has left alive or combat functional in country,” Maya notes.

“We can wipe out the government administration centers for war, torture, propaganda and trade, storm the palace, capture Al-Talleyrand  and Strauss-Kahn, halt a potential nuclear inferno, and maybe even save his girlfriend.”

“Wife,” Adon corrects her.

“In your mind alone sweetness,” says Maya playfully.

“So you’re basically going to pull a Condoleezza Rice-Paul Wolfowitz circa 2001?” asks     General Salva.

“I think we can give you four hours,” smiles DeBuitléir.

“You’re going too, warrior woman?” asks Salva to Solomon.

“Of course Gentlemen, I wrote the blue print for the whole fucking plan.”

“You sure are one surely Messiah commander Solomon,” says DeBuitléir in Hebrew.

“Black cat’s out the bag,” echo’s General Salva in Aramaic.

“What’s the word of a Messiah to her cousin the Mahdi,” she replies.

“Touche mon Cherie,” says Avinidav, the 14^th generation descendant of the Prophet Muhamaed hidden until now in occlusion.

 

ᴥ

 

Across the country the Ayiti Defense Forces under the banner of DeBuitléir’s Ayitian-Emergency-Front are rebuilding the nation in the wake of the war, rebuilding infrastructure and villages the Maccoute once wiped out. This is nation where not an inch of earth or a single centimeter even is not pocked with a bullet mark or liberated with the cost of much blood.

After two whole years of total war, the Dar Ayitian region knows some peace.

Every woman and man above the age of 13 who is not a coward has packed their bags and headed to the outskirts of Port Au Prince. A sprawling encampment of tents and artillery, barricades and civilian patriots with arm are growing daily ringing the line of siege.

There will be one last battle to end this war and it may be fought block to block, house to house. Across this land the people of Ayiti realize that the massacre of their brutal government is near.

There are many things in abundance that there were only some of before. Spiruleena is as if a national dish. Where two years before Ayiti, as per the policies of President al-Talleyrand  over 82 % of the population was illiterate, now there are schools in abundance, where before only the madrassas taught. There are arms in the hands of the minorities whereas before only the Muhammadians had arms. All in the liberated zones have healthcare.

There is a vast and epic array of battle works and war weapons to be found in the blue tent city erected in but three week on the Western edge of Port Au Prince, just four clicks for the Citadel. The total liberation is in its last few hours and the factions have assembled to lay the final plans. There will be no quarter asked or given. It has been like this since the first day of the war. As Ayitian and Dinka and two thousand other tribes oil and load their weapons; as Israeli technicians set up field hospitals and communications arrays; As Persian handlers drill up until V day itself; as JEM fighters trade war stories with young boys from the Eastern Front; as Ivoryites and Muhammadians tell jokes and compare notes on who’s G-d is on who’s side and if this is prophesy. Or just bloody comedy.

 

These forces have pledged to defeat the army inside Port Au Prince and topple the Ayitian Government once and for all in a war that began so long ago in 1956.

The rebel troops will begin storming the gates at sunrise.

On a landing strip prepared for “Operation Project for a New American Century” 150 Z.O.B.-Dublin brigade fighters take supper together after wiring four 747’s with enough ordinances to vaporize three metal pyramids and on high tower. There are no speeches. There isn’t anything left to say. All of them are experienced paratroopers.

At 2300 eight grey Givati-Tulsa airships carrying 142 fighters will take off and climb high until they get way above the SAM grid and drop the fighters en mass over Port Au Prince around midnight. Using a tracking signal from the GPS inside Ms. Kay left tibia, they will lock the position of the Imperial Palace.

 

With five minute lag, the eight Z.O.B.-Dublin pilots will utilize 747’s are missiles above attempt to   get out of the vessel’s before impact.

 

“Many of us will soon be joining our brothers tonight in the world to come,” says Moishe Cohen.

 

“See you all on the other side,” says Maya Solomon.

 

She rips off the Velcro of her patch cover. It is a six sided star of life with a snake around a staff,

blue, black and grey. Its writing is Hebrew. Once side says “Paramedic”, the other side says

 

“Banshee Airborne.”

 

ᴥ

 

Darkness falls on a bad man place. The Flickering Flame 2 and seven other Givati-Tulsa airships are lined up on the secret runway. Behind them are four 747s acquired in the last 48 hours via Polidoro-Ferraris International Development Firm, written off for tax purposes via the newly formed NGO “Foreign Friends of Ayiti”. Miles and miles, kilometers even of distance to the East one can see through the wastelands and dunes to the millions encamped outside Port Au Prince, a people’s army of two million CDF fighters, 100,000 DR Ayitian Fedayeen and 160,000 Dominicans with armor from the days of the Great War on Terror which caused only much more terror.

“This is a suicide mission friend?” asks Mickhi Dbrisk to Hugh O’Domhnaill as they prepare to join 25 Scarborough and St. Pat’s fighters in the hull of the Flickering Flame.

“I suspect only if the shoot doesn’t open,” Dbrisk responds.

As each fighter double checks his partners shoot, each one rips off the Velcro of the left arm patch to die, if it is their fate to die true colors exposed.

“You find yourself praying the longer the war goes on,” says O’Domhnaill.

“1,001 fighters went in, and now there are 125 left including Maya Solomon. And we’re going to fly three miles right above Port Au Prince and say a quick prayer and jump out the belly of these planes. And we’re going use our jump training, and our kill training, and our 4d powers and the rest of everything Mikhail Mastrovich taught us. And the fuck it, yer right, we might all get killed, but we been knowing that for years,” says Dbrisk. Stubs his Noblisse cigarette rips off the cover patch.

“You know this isn’t gonna be the last jump” says O’Domhnaill as he rips off his covering too.

“Ya know, you just keep saying that until the world to come comes.”

“Remember serving under Bolivar?” asks Dbrisk.

“That’s what he was calling himself then? Yeah those were some jumps.”

“Remember serving under Collins?” asks Dbrisk, his eyes flash grey.

“And Gandhi?”

“Or Nelson Mandela?”

“These humans are getting closer and closer.”

“The trouble with the humans is that they have been enslaved for so long they know longer remember their initial potential,” notes Dbrisk as they head up the ramp and hydraulics begin raising the hatch.

“Don’t lose hope old soul; I suspect the world to come is finally coming.”

 

ᴥ

 

The plate in Yelizaveta Kay’s left leg, affixed to the tibia has a tracking device, a neural transmitter, and a tephlon dagger. These are all gifts her father gave her. Fear or anger produce neurotramitters, pressure points and osteopathic activators do the rest. And there’s also the ESP, all guiding 125 Z.O.B. fighters on eight small planes over the city, right to the palace. Helping guide her boys and Maya to the choicest targets.

 

She knows her father has paid off Al-Talleyrand, knows the President will take her, and Kahn and some of the haram, and his family, and a platoon of his Imperial Guards and take a long tunnel from the palace to an airfield just outside the city where he thinks he will be escaping to Kingdom Saud.

She’s cuffed and dragged from the cell, stood against the wall with Kahn, sees him old and shriveled and vicious and thinks of triggering the blade right then and there. They arrested him the day before attempting to flee. The deal is safe passage to Kingdom Saud in exchange for Kahn and her being turned over to Perchevney after safety is achieved.

 

His yellow rat bastard, rapist French stink is appalling. Her quarry is close and he has no idea. She’s nothing to him.

Another girl in the harem.

Not long now to the kill.

The big-fat kill of listed target 105.

 

ᴥ

 

The moon is full but the planes fly very high and death from above strikes quick as gravity will allow. The Givati Tusla pilots are all Ayitian airmen. They will transmit the second the Z.O.B.-Dublin Column jumps and the 747’s will take of shortly after. If the Lwa are riding with us and the Good Lord allows the jumpers will be crawling over the palace just five minutes before the 747’s obliterate the three ministries and the trade tower.

And as soon as the rebel armies see the tower go up in flames a four hour clock will tick down. The Z.O.B.-Dublin Column will either report the kill or capture of the enemy leadership and the negotiated surrender of Port Au Prince and the Twin Cities, or at 4am the rebel alliance and the armies of Egypt and Ethiopia will storm the city, at a very high cost in blood.

 

The Givati-Tulsa squadron takes off at 23:00 as planned.

 

Other than a few Ayitian technicians and the Persian ordinance experts that are running a final check on the rigged up commercial airliners, of the rebels its only 8 left on the runway partners doing final checks on the shoots. This is a complicated jump, as the airliners will be making a high angle nose dive it is often tricky to clear the jet. But all the best pilots are Yids and the Yid god says suicide is a huge thankless sin, so no one plans to die except for Adon who always hopes to. So he never has any more duty to act, never has to worry about is she alright, worry about does she love him really truly. The others though, they want to live. They’re drilled for this maneuver hundreds of times.

Adon checks Maya’s shoot. And Watson checks Moishe Cohen’s. No dirty jokes at this 11^th hour. And Dashiell Duffy checks the shoot of Father O’Sulliven. And Thomas Ansu checks that of Scott Sevastra.

“You’ve all done this drill numerous times,” says Solomon.

“Lock the clutch, secure the throttle, activate the extrication rip cord, blow the side door, clear the plane at mid altitude, and glide toward to tracker in Dr. Kay’s heel. Don’t get killed,” states Adon.

“A wrist tracker lights up on each of them.”

“Luck,” says Solomon to all.

“Luck!” they all say back.

“Have anything to add Father?” Adon asks O’Sulliven.

“Good Lord Bon Dye, Ha Shem, Allah, Mother love and Jesus Christ also, and Papa Legba and the Virgin Mother, Erzuli Danto all the other spirits too. Bless us in the completion of this most dirty work. Allow us to strike most finally at evil men, and retire promptly and alive to a warm beach in the Caribbean.”

“Amen,” they all say.

“We are equal opportunity miracle employers,” says Raphael Ernesto Contreras.

 

ᴥ

 

Once Mickhi Dbrisk stepped out into the sky above Port Au Prince the ground races toward him.

Mickhi hates swimming but learned to do it for the sake of the survival. He hates jumping even more. It’s not natural to tempt god and physics so. There could be little else as dangerous as a 3 mile high jump.

Perhaps moto racing in the Breukland Soviet, or being the best friend of anarchist revolutionaries.

But they had practice in the jumps. They were near effortless. But she still always crossed himself and prayed to the man Jesus and also Legba the Guardian of the Crossroads, and often by the time he could begin to see the lights below, he might even ask Bon Dye directly to help him survive.

The jump is like dying, each time the rush the prayers the total exfiltration of loss of control. A three mile jump utilizes the atmospheric disturbances caused by global warming which make anything flying that high untraceable even via satellite. And an upper atmosphere jump also puts all the fighters high enough above target that landing where you need too gets easier.

The lights explode out of the clouds. Port Au Prince’s sky scrapers and search lights and spot lights and the lights of the rebel army encircled in siege and the thick blue vein of the Vile River, the crosshair of the landing where the White Vile and the Blue Vile split south into Sub Saharan Acadia. The lights are blinding.

Mickhi Dbrisk deep, deep in prayer, in drop formation with 117 other Otriad fighters glances at this altitude clocker, and he prepares to rip the cord. This is the most dangerous part because although these shoots are designed for death from above raids, for the next five minutes the 117 paratrooping guerillas will be snipable floating ducks. And then five minutes as soon as they land the others are going to light the city up.

The rush the Epi hitting the Alpha 1,2 Beta 1,2,3 receptors taking fighting and flighting to the next goddam level. Jamaica never had a great bob sled team and neither had Erin or Israel, but they took skydiving to new dare devilish heights that night.

Rip chords. Back flash. Swooping impending doom. Stabilized descent. 117 Blue and Red circles with a symbol at the center ot a tree and six cannons, and six flags in the shape of star. A snake wrapped around the tree. Ayitian Parachutes. The Vile Crossroad’s speeding towards us. Bright, white tight light and prayers not to die, not to die. Five minute on the clock until the diversion the flaming jet fuel, light up like 2001 plus one diversion hits. The ground looks close. Blasters and burners are now out. Touch, touch, touch down. Thump thump thump,  one hundred fighters whisper prayers, landing all over the tennis courts and gardens of the Imperial Palace. They each kiss the ground, cock the rifles. Rush across the grounds and get in position.

Hugh O’Domhnaill using hand sign directs one group up the marble stairs. No shot fired yet.

No resistance. No guards.

Everything is lit up, the whole palace.

“Place is a graveyard,” says Dbrisk with grey eyes in ESP to O’Domhnaill.

Empty sentry points.

Dbrisk and sixty fighters gain entry the Breukland way. O’Domhnaill leads his detachment through the maze of well furnished rooms. The palace is empty. There aren’t even any guards.

Beep. Beep. Goes Dbrisk’s watch.

That means two minutes to the secondary strike. And he knows something is wrong. No one is home.

The blue print to the Imperial Palace paves the way. One detachment moving up on side of the palace, one securing room after empty, suspicious room. Not even one shot fired.

“WTF guys,” says O’Domhnaill in grey flashes.

117 fighters arrive at the big wooden doors to the Presidential Office of Talleyrand in two prongs.

Hugh says with hand-sign “take the door?”

“Door is open B,” says Mickhi Dbrisk breaking the silence, “there ain’t no one home.”

The room is filled with maps, its filled with books, It stinks of cigar smoke even though the ceilings are fifty feet tall. And a balcony opens up on a vista of the whole city. Which is all lit up in military strobe and for a city of 14 million is suspiciously quiet.

“Where is everyone?” asks Rand.

Dbrisk is going through papers on the desk. They are in Arabic, but he can read Arabic.

The vast palace officer and its thick onyx throne were all abandoned hastily.

“So he’s fled?” asks O’Domhnaill.

Mickhi Dbrisk puts his Sten Gun on the long mahogany desk covered in scattered war papers.

“Everyone’s dead,” he utters.

“What are you fucking saying?” says O’Domhnaill.

“They’re poisoned all the water. Everyone in the city is dead. And if we kill Talleyrand it’s going to make things go from real fucking bad to pretty much a lot worse.”

The wretched veneer of modernity which encases this city was built with oil money and Han expertise in a gold rush and genocide that’s nearly a hundred years old. And everyone living in Port Au Prince was living well and they knew what was happening in Ayiti and the Southlands, but they had a near European life expectancy and creature comforts and so they let it slide. The city of glass and steel was so bright and so quiet and you could almost hear the rush of the mighty Vile River.

Mickhi looks highly concerned.

“Where the fuck is that bastard Talleyrand?” he asks.

“How should I know,” says O’Domhnaill.

“He’s rigged his neurals. If he dies it’s gonna trigger a few dozen atomic happy endings for the whole damn region.”

“Beeeeep.”

Goes everyone’s trackers.

Having a good and epic view of a terror attack is really the specialty of Philistines and Israelis. But its only terror when you kill indiscriminately. Or kill the innocent. Or so they write it off rhetorically.

A 747 is not unlike a very, very large fast Molotov cocktail.  The Ministry of Peace was where they planned war against their own people. It explodes first lighting up the whole skyline. And then like a ripple seconds later KABOOM and there is no more ministry of Truth where they for a hundred years made so many lies. And BLAM a third pyramid erupts as the empty airline loaded with ordinance incinerates the Ministry of Love where all the worst brutal tortures occurred. Last went the Trade Tower build by the Han. And the 117 fighters gathered on the balcony of an empty Imperial Palace, stood witness to a smoldering four structure fire where no one died. Because everyone was already dead. Everyone smoked um if they had um.

 

“Do we have anyway to raise Solomon?” asks O’Domhnaill.

“Nope.”

“Hmm. Fuck my life, as the chornay say.”

 

ᴥ

 

 

Hardest part when you light up a mostly dead city with four 747’s is you have to be careful to not land in the smoldering jet fuel which burns for days and blackens the sky. They all have oxytanks and respirators because although they’d jettisoned half a mile ahead of impact, the smoke would be quite thick.

It was a pretty, well lit although mostly dead city below.

Mostly dead city because there were about forty thieves and Ms. Kay still alive. Not everyone drank the Kool-Aid called the city water supply with Polonium 402 for flavoring. But twelve million did. And most of the remaining troops too.

The forty thieves include President Al-Talleyrand , his three wives, his nine children, and an assortment of  choice concubines and bodyguards, an oil minister, Dr. Kay and of course Strauss Kahn. The tunnel they are driving through in a small convoy of jeeps heads out from below the Vile River to small landing strip where a fueled Han jet awaits.

But this plan was very well conceived.

And when the convoy reaches the hanger all the technicians are dead and there are eight rebels seated in the wings of the evacuation plane.

“Don’t do anything rash Zamni, he’s wired to blow,” says Maya Solomon.

“Slick-Ha?” Adon says excuse me in Hebrew.

The convoy slows to a halt.

“She said don’t do anything rash,” says Watson.

“What’s rash to you?” Adon asks. His heart is lighter seeing his wife alive.

“Don’t, I mean by any means necessary Do not let Al-Talleyrand  die. He flat lines and his neurals trigger drones strapped with atomics to take off toward, well everywhere else fun around here,” says Solomon calmly.

There about twenty black uniformed Imperia Guardsmen yelling in Arabic brandishing fearsome Aramalite blasters.

Kahn, Kay and Al-Talleyrand  and the Oil Minister are in the rear most car.

Moishe Cohen cocks his rifle, adjusts his kippa. Scott Sevastra and Thomas Ansu keep their burners trained on the enemy. They’ve spent their save a long time ago. Father O’Sullivan and Dashiell Duffy drop off the wing and get some cover on the tarmac. Watson Entwissle sights the highest ranking guardsman.

Maya Solomon lowers her burner and yells, “ENOUGH!”

She then drops into flawless Arabic.

“President Al-Talleyrand , order your men to put down their weapons. We are not here for you and your family, or your guards or whores or certainly your oil minister. We want the Frenchman and the Doctor. And you can then get on your way to Kingdom Saud.”

No one lowers anything. It’s a standoff on the tarmac and each is either a Mexi-can or a Mexi-can’t.

“You know the terms. I know how much Perchevney paid you. And I will double it if you get on that plane. All I’ve wanted for nearly three years is to see you dragged in front of the Hague. Now that you’ve poisoned 12 million of your own mostly loyalist citizens something tells me that we won’t be the only ones after you. ”

“You my friend are the definition of a war criminal. But you know what? Giving us our friend and your sniveling bourgeoisie rapist Frenchman is going to probably secure you financially in exile and let you live out your natural life on some Sand Gypsy Oil Sheik’s pleasure compound. If you don’t let her go, if you don’t give us the man who raped the wife of one of the world’s most ruthless and connected Voorhees well then, it’s anything goes.”

Talleyrand  stutters. “She is my collateral, so is the Frenchman. Once in Saudi you can reacquire them.”

“We all know that what goes into Saudi is often hard to get out of Saudi,” states Adon.

“We know your black heart is a nuclear ticking time bomb. That in itself kept our bullets from piercing your flesh before you even saw us. That in itself is quite a lot of collateral.”

“Let us on the airship or we will eviscerate this Ruus whore right in front of you!” yells Talleyrand .

“You aren’t taking them with you to Saudi. We’d rather just unload on you and slaughter your whole family right here,” says Solomon calmly, “that’s what I meant by ‘anything goes’ in case that didn’t translate.”

Watson Entwissle lines up a second target slowly with his sure shot revolver. He counts out twenty Imperial Guards each likely a damn good shot. They all have Carmelites which means they can light off a pretty full clip in under thirty seconds. He glances at Maya who hasn’t even drawn her burner. Ansu, Sevastra, Duffy, Adon, and Cohen all have Macro-Uzis which you can barely even aim. Father O’Sulliven has a Sten Gun. Even with all their Voodoo magic and powers of the fourth dimension they are still a bit out gunned.

You can feel the building dynamic tension, the catecholamines racing within these vaguely scared, poorly rested and heavily armed men.

 

“Give us our lady doctor and you keep the dirty old pervert Frenchman,” suggests Solomon.

 

“Those are not acceptable terms, this kafr dog!” yells Yelizaveta.

“We can triple all your money,” suggests Solomon.

“There are too many Maccoute,” whispers Watson to Adon. We can’t kill all of them fast enough.

 

The black shirts are looking increasingly twitchy. So does Talleyrand  who is sweating like a pig profusely.

 

“I do not negotiate with fucking little terrorists!” yells Talleyrand .

“Fair enough,” mutters Maya Solomon, “Kill everyone with a gun folks.”

She quick draws her 8mm shooter and puts down three black shirts before diving toward the floor. And a fire fight erupts on and across the tarmac.

Macro-Uzi’s have no aim. You point and spray and hit everybody you can. And it all happens damn fast. Scott Sevastra gets his right knee blown apart and falls to the ground bleeding while lighting up a jeep load of black shirts in his bellowing back fall. He keeps firing from the ground. And Dashiell Duffy is shot multiple times in the chest and he gets off a round or two then dies quickly.

 

And Dr. Kay is in cuffs but gives Dominick Strauss Kahn a good kick sending him sprawling out the vehicle. She head butts the Oil Minister and makes him bleed all over his suit. And she drags Talleyrand with chains around his neck down on to the ground, under the jeep and out of the line of fire.

 

Adon glances left and sees Father O’Sulivan picking off blacks shirts one by one with lightning fast wild-west Belfast speed. And then he looks back and priest is slumped over dead. Bullets ran him through him and he topples resting in a bloody pool.

Ansu drops and rolls and fires his macro-Uzi until all the bullets are done. And takes cover behind a baggage truck and reloads. And then he gets shot in the shoulder and cries out.

Moishe gets clipped and he loses his yarmulke as he falls backwards on his ass. But he’s wearing a vest so maybe he isn’t dead.

And there are dead black shirts and empty shells and blood everywhere.

And Adon and Solomon move like they are dancing. They cover each other and advance on the remaining survivors rolling and ducking and unleashing fire. Firing 8mm parabellums and macro-Uzis until everyone’s dead except Talleyrand , Kay and Kahn.

And Watson Entwissle can’t help but be a little sentimental that he’s standing over the dictator’s dead family. A few of the children were rather young. But Jean-Claude Duvalier was rather young once and keeping him alive and enriched in exile once cost many-many Ayitians their lives.

Everyone’s panting and smeared in various red and clear fluids. Everyone who’s left alive. Shattered windows in the cross fire.

“On your fucking knees,” says Cohen.

Maya frees Yelizaveta from her manacles. Kahn and Talleyrand  are placed on their knees.

The Fenian priest is dead. As well as Duffy and Ansu. Sevastra is dying. Watson attends to him best he can with what he’s carrying.

“There are no words of magic that I can say that will make the world freer, but perhaps your trial will open some eyes. Though ultimately this was a harm reduction mission above all other things. You and your bloody hordes have done great harm. And now you are finished.”

“Hold him for me,” Yelizaveta commands Adon. And he does. Adon lifts Kahn up from the ground and grips him by the biceps bracing himself for what’s coming.

“You don’t have to_,” Maya begins.

Yelizaveta has a dagger out of her leg before the sentence bears completion.

She stabs Kahn again, and again and again. Jams the knife in his chest over and over until he wretches up blood. Then she cut his throat and Adon lets him drop to the floor.

“Well that’s all she wrote,” mutters Watson Entwissle. He gives Sevastra some morphine sulfate IV and lays him down likely soon dead.

 

And then Al-Talleyrand drops to the tarmac.

And that isn’t good because neurals link the firing of his neurons to a wireless signal which activates a launch code. And that is all he wrote.

 

“Fuck he’s warm and very dead,” shouts Maya checking his carotid.

“What!?” exclaims Watson.

“He’s infarcted. He has no pulse.” And Adon gets Al-Talleyrand ’s cuffs off and begins CPR.” “GET THE FUCKING JUMP BAG!” Maya yells to Lt. Cohen.

And if there ever was a mega code this was it. But they’re all medical professionals. Though other than Dr. Kay all they’ve done for two years was kill, and kill some more.

And Solomon intubates him, and Cohen gets the monitor on him, and Entwissle takes over CPR, and Adon gets a 16 gauge line in the right AC, and Kay sets up the Vasopressin, and the monitor says ventricular fibrillation, and they shock him at 200 joules, and more CPR, and they shock him at 200 joules, and more CPR, and 40 units of Vaso go in; and then 300 mg of Amiodarone go in, and the CPR and ventilations continue, and they hit him with EPI 1:10,000, and shock a third time at 200 joules. And holy shit. He’s got a pulse. Thank god. Nuclear holocaust adverted, and they get cold fluids in him and they raise Commander DeBuitléir on the radio.

 

And they package up Talleyrand in an extrication taco and hold tight. And Adon has blood all over his uniform, and Moishe Cohen Klein can’t find his kippa, not at all. And Maya is on the radio. Watson fires off the blue and red flares to signal the helicopters for medevac.

 

And Yelizaveta takes Sebastian’s hand wrapped in blood bandages, like the last scene in the capnography of Fight Club.

 

The dawn is breaking. And they’ve won. The battle is finally over. But all around them is black smoke and smoldering rubble and piles of bodies and the ghosts of friends that perished along the road to Zion. The West Indies and eastern seaboard have been taken, fighting is happening all over the United American State with the military in full revolt against the Oligarchy and Trump secret armies and militias, and the white supremacists.

 

 

ᴥ

 

Interim acting President of the new Ayitian Free State (the Third Republic), the second largest autonomous entity in the Wild West Indian Federation behind Cuba but above Jamaica; General Avinadav DeBuitléir, the Lion of Zion looks into the broken eyes of his old friend and comrade, the pale officer Sebastian Adon.

 

These are eyes of a 4,000 year old war torn tribe. It is unclear still when the rebel leader will eventually go to sleep. His eyes are pure green.

 

There are millions of bodies that have to be buried in mass graves outside of Port Au Prince. Before plague sets in. General Salva has moved the Second Army North in case the Egyptians decide not to fully remove their forces off Ayitian soil.

 

Al-Talleyrand is being held in Port Au Prince General Hospital under heavy guard.

 

Port-Au-Prince has finally been completely liberated. The revolutionary war in Ayiti has been won!

 

The full extents of Al-Talleyrand ’s and the Class ONG crimes are now clear to the world at large. News has arrived via the People’s Television Network and the Fire Station that thousands of arrests are being made in the U.A.S. They are rounding up our sympathizers across the nation real and imagined. We all watch the telescreen as they announce that the Breukland Soviet may be attacked any day now.

 

Many members of the club’s families have been seized as hostages and prominent sympathizers have been detained. Many of our friends and lover fell in the terrible Grozny battle’s for the Bronx and Goddess Soviet.

 

Again Adon’s head is shaved morning his scores of lost friends and comrades. Also the millions of lives the revolt has claimed so far. He has become quieter. At least for now.

 

Sebastian salutes President Avinadav DeBuitléir as he enters the chamber where the man has established his command just four hours into 22^nd of Nivôse, just three hours after news of the collateral obliteration of the city’s population at the hands of the deposed regime.

 

“Completely unnecessary, old soul blood brother,” DeBuitléir tells him.

 

“Tomorrow you and what’s left of your detachment leave for Madeira Island?”

 

“Such is our plan.”

 

“Do you have any new news of your families’ locations?”

 

“Not yet. Thousands have been put into detention camps. The only free states left standing on the East coast are Breuklyn and Atlanta.”

 

“There is a very high price on your head old friend. And no one, not anyone wants you taken alive.”

 

“My skin has been made thick here Avinadav, but we are not short of friends as you know. They’ve arrested our families to punish us for what we organized. The U.A.S. Federals have attacked our city and burned our homes twice this year unsuccessfully.”

 

“Tell me anything you require and I will get it to you. Don’t be rash. Let the smoke clear and we can send you back with men and arms and the support of a new nation.”

 

“I am no longer sure I am welcomed by this club you speak of. I think all of us will have to answer to our own community on what has transpired here. We must now expedite our return. To secure our city. And rescue our families. ”

 

“We welcome you here forever. You and your club will be hunted when you leave Ayiti. You will be hunted, captured and handed over to your government to face charges as master terrorists. The world calls now for still more blood, you and your Otriad are marked.”

 

“Still, tomorrow we leave indirectly for home turf.”

 

“You will sleep here tonight?”

 

“No sleep ‘til Breukland Avinadav, it’s kind of the survivor’s song these days. Our warriors must not abandon our kin to that alien land.”

 

“I expected no different reply from you Sebastian. My generals want me to impart that if you decide to remain here in Ayiti we will grant you all full pensions and positions in the Provisional government. But I have told them you are zealots and will return to Breukland.”

 

“You understand why of course?”

 

“I know of what cloth you and your columns are cut, yes. We will await your return.”

 

“The Satmar Rabbinate in Breukland has called us the bringers of catastrophe. Most global media outlets call us the Abu Nidal-Jabotinsky Cult of Adon. My parents are long murdered. My brother is under arrest in the Russian Federation,” he doesn’t go on.

 

“Your god, our god I should say, the only G-d Jah; will not abandon you Mr. Adon. And my people will never, ever forget what you and your Otriad have done here.”

 

“I hope you are correct. Fidel Castro said history would absolve him. It didn’t and I have ten thousand times the blood on my hands.”

 

The two men sit across from each other. Sebastian in normal tradition would fire up a Noblisse cigarette, but he’s run out.

He finally just quit.

“When you bring your people up out of bondage you will be welcomed here like conquering kings. My people will learn to survive as your people have, by embracing your faith in humanity, your endless well of hadar and your fascinating ability to uphold unity,” he utters.

“I have lost much of my faith my dear comrade.”

“But, you still carry fire.”

“Much to my woman’s chagrin.”

 

“Which woman,” he laughs, quite literally there had been four that probably all still controlled his heart and governed his behavior.

“Ha.”

 

“I was surprised to hear she permits you to head so flagrantly toward certain death or capture.”

 

“I am surprised I do so little to act like a man in more love.”

 

 

“You believe in the struggle as if it were love,” notes Avinadav DeBuitléir, “that doesn’t make it love.”

 

 

The now 35 year old Sebastian Adon and the hundred-handful of surviving fighters prepare to re-enter the now highly militarized post-coup United American States to rescue their families as the newly elected President Avinadav DeBuitléir, a survivor of the genocide adopts the UN Declaration of Human Rights as the charter for Dar Zion the new name of what was once called Ayiti. He separates religion from state and opens the doors of his newly un-recognized country to Iraqis, Persians, Afghanis, Sand Gypsy, Philistinians and Israeli fleeing the wastelands and war zones that are now their respective countries.

 

The world’s governments are moving toward full containment.

 

Night falls and it is Rosh Hashanah, the dawn of a New Hebrew year. The surviving members of the Breukland Bath and Rifle Club cross the Atlantic from Madeira Island on a Polidoro Industries container ship crashing through black waters for the coast of Breukland. The ship has a naughty black mermaid on its side. Hugh O’Domhnaill looks out into nothing, the black blue stormy abyss. Mickhi Dbrisk is smoking a cigar on the deck with his cousin the Bajan General Magnus Allamby and Watson Entwissle contented that Sebastian is finally asleep in the cabins below. The four commanders are joined by Moishe Cohen who everyone has nicknamed “the bad rabbi” who was once a Lt. in the F.D.N.Y. before he joined the rebels. He passes them two small loaves of bread, and they remember what to do because they did it once in Brighton Beach with Sebastian what seemed like a life time ago.

 

The five men toss crumbs into the water for sins which each committed in the war. They make their tashlik together as perhaps some Hebrew god codifies the things to come and amends which must now be made as the book of life cracks open yet again.

The waves crash against the hull. It is a lullaby to these weary men made violent.

Yelizaveta is not with them. She has been asked to serve as an attending Physician of Hadar Hospital, what was once the Port Au Prince General Hospital. Maya Solomon is not with them either. She is leading the armies in the North against the armies of Egypt who have treacherously invaded to claim oil they didn’t bleed for.

Sebastian had asked Yelizaveta to stay there and attempt to wait for him. She promised nothing. Maya doesn’t ask anyone anything. But she has seen the world to come.

 

That evening as their remaining men; the survivors of the Fighting 99th bordered the aircraft to the rebel base on Madeira Island Dr. Kay wept just a little.

 

She cries with a measure of cruel nobility over a letter Sebastian wrote her long ago on the 6th of Brumaire, a year before that most terrible blizzard.

 

Yelizaveta,

 

I believe only strangers can present to each other honest opinions or accomplish together great works. In my line of work which is to say ambulancing, art making, and war, to parlay Palahniuk, ‘life is one of single serving friends’. That is to say the incredible honesty of strangers is routine.

 

Your friends will tell you what is in your interest, but not always what you need to hear. I think friend too is a term misused. I may know of you and you of me, but about each other we know precious little. I say all this as a preface. We are not always what we appear. I do not like phone calls. I like to work with my hands to form ideas even. It is old soul what I propose, but I have an old soul. If I wrote you where you sleep would this offend? I would like us to write to each other the slow way, because it has more character.

 

More hadar.

 

You gave me your address once, but I have lost it about my houses. I will write you eloquent letters on large things if you will promise to attack them or critique them or put a stranger in his place. I dream one night the strangest dream my Yelizaveta dear. I dreamt from out a deep abyss, an endless mine and cave I crept towards the light and light soon found me. Squinting I heard whispers, which said that for me nothing is written. Indeed? I asked these whispers in a dreamy haze.

 

Ain Davar; I respond, it is good to die for your people’s final freedom. With nothing apparently written I seek to write for you my open soul and sincere convictions.”

 

She finishes yet another letter to him, seals it with blue wax and the seal of Dar Zion (House Zion) and goes to sleep in her suite at the Imperial Palace. Her father had called earlier from Switzerland to chastise her for dispatching Kahn so quickly. Her husband, a funny word as there’s was something of a desert marriage, had lay in her arms the night before. It didn’t need to be said, but she said it “don’t tempt god.” She was not much of a true believer.

But after all this war, she doubts he can know peace.

“God grant him all the fucking luck he ever needs,” she whispers.

And God says she will.

A man like him could never quit, never retire, a man like him was almost impossible to love. If Maya was the promised messiah she’d gambled high with the lives of the Ayitians. If Adon was a soldier; well most of his original army was dead and buried.

And what of Dr. Kay young Ms. Yelizaveta Kotlyarova, the third candidate from Sde Boker who also refused to die. Well she’d treat the patient and hold out while step by step her classmates moved to eradicate the disease.

 

That old epidemic called Raspizdia.

 

She finally, finally after all this fog and fire of war she cries. For her brave partisans and the terror unleashed now by what they’ve done and the future still being written by what the viewer and reader at home chose to do.

 

“Fight, fight, fight; night to day and day to night, the burden of survival is that one must continue to pray for the dead and fight like hell for the living,” and that was all she wrote.

 

 

Epilogue

 

 

 

“We really have to separate them completely. They do that every single drill,” notes Tiputti Capois in Ayitian Creole.

 

The steam from the bathes rolls throughout the cavernous bunker of the Sde Boker Medical Outpost, “the third temple” deep in the mountains of southern Ayiti. Flashing LED lights and the clamor of heart monitors alerts the medical support staff and doctors on call that the candidates are coming out of hibernation.

 

“She’s so angry. He’s too caught in foolish unquestioning love. It’s a terrible look for a candidate either way,” says Nikholai Trikhovitch groggily overcoming the prolonged sedation of his parasimmualtion. He is handed a smoked Baboncourt on the rocks.

 

He’d tipped 4,000 Goude (about one hundred old American USD) to make that happen expediently upon awakening against all medical advice.

 

Maya Solomon nods in relative agreement as she helps Nikh climb out of the chemical bath and into a soft grey robe. They’ve been in stasis for three long months. Even with the neurostimulants and calcium aggregators their muscles are very weak.

 

“You all set some new records in there,” notes Dr. Michelle Kaku sweetly in her best Ayitian Creole.

 

The caverns of “the third temple”, as the villagers above call it are massive. There is a veritable honey comb of medical stasis bathes installed in long rows. The set up allows parasimulations with up to 1,200 participants, although this round was only run with just eighty four candidates due to its projected mental toll and extended duration.

 

The Ayitian Emergency Medical Corps paramedics and nurses are running physical exams across the floor, helping the eighty eight candidates into recovery pods. Taking vitals, offering encouragement and passing out robes, and protein-mango smoothies. In the case of Nikholai Trikhovitch, getting himself another drink.

 

Standing before them is Instructor Coordinators Mikhail Mastrovitch and Abner Kreminizer as well as Commander Avinadav DeBuitléir himself. All men who never waste any time.

 

Avinadav addresses all assembled in the Third Temple.

 

“Everyone, everyone! Much congratulation is in order. This was one of the best simulation runs so far. We all fought like hell and it has made quite an impression on President Aristede, Defense Minister DeBuitléirs (his wife) and the Eighteenth Congress most generally. You gave us three months in real time, but I know to most of you it felt like ten whole vile years! We were going to cut it shorter, but the data was just too goddamn real, you’ve given us names, logistical hubs, bank out account numbers, predicative movements nuclear launch codes even digging into the minds of the enemy. So we’re all off, soon as you all are vetted to Port-Salud right after 48 hours of medical evaluation. You friends are going to get six months of R & R, right in time for Karnival Season. You performed very well this round brothers and sisters, we believe that now we have the elements in place to assure victory over the Oligarchy. The President himself thanks you for your trying and terrible commitment yet again to the people of Ayiti and surely the world at large. We’re going to put you up in some swanky safe houses and give you six whole months to get fat, tantric, tan and sated before we throw you back in the bathes again. The Command Orders have been issued by the Eighteenth Congress. Based on the data from this simulation, we are officially moving into Phase Four. If you agree to it and sign the new contracts you will be lithiated after your break and sent under again. To run the same scenario from the top. This time with no guns. No bullets. No weapons of any kind.”

 

Everyone in the bunker clamors with excitement and the room erupts in cheering and embrace. Phase Four is what they’ve been drilling and training for all this time, for nearly 300 years. The end of the world system and the defeat of the oligarchy.

 

“We’re going to let you play hard then we take it again from the top. After the successful completion of the Fourth Phase Trials the simulations are over and you will be carrying out the blue print of the New Social Gospel on the African Continent in real time. Real stakes. Real Victory. The Nation is rooting for you and so is the world.”

 

“It’s time to bring the revolution of 1804 to its final fruition. L’union fait la force!” bellows Avinadav DeBuitléir the founder of the Z.O.B. and a major leader of the militant human right movement.

Emma Solomon lights up a Noblisse Standard, knowing that the flesh is finite but her old soul is infinite.

 

“L’ Union fait la force!” she yells and salutes the candidate fighters emerging from the bathes. A grand orgasmic battle cheer. And all jump to casual attention.

 

The end is pretty goddamn nigh.

 

Everyone is waiting for what Emma Solomon the Messiah is about to say.

 

“Death to the Oligarchy and long live humanity free,” she proclaims.

 

“L’union fait la force!” we all bellow together. “Zealots over battalions, zealous over battles!!  MESIACHK! MAHDI! Power to humanity and defeat of the oligarchy!”.

 

“This is not a war to the death,” she declares, “and we are not prepared to die without our children being brought forth into first into Zion. The Oligarchs are scared, they know that we have magic, and weapons and outnumber them a seven billion to one. They know that the people are now awake. They know we have operating bases in every city, every village every plantation. They have brutalized our people, they have hit our families to defeat our will. What began on this island will soon be at the gates of London, Washington, Beijing and Moscow. The Vietnamese said they would fight generation by generation. Every effort on earth to genocide the Ayitians has failed. You my sisters and brothers will not have to wait a generation to see the liberation times. Its 5 minutes to nation time, their age is over. We have survived the night and will now hit them with everything we have in the morning.”

 

And such were the words of our G-ds chosen candidate to deliver us from the evil and greed of man.

And all in the bunker we break into Partisan song.

 

With over forty-five active violent conflicts raging across the earth; with many millions outright starving or dying of preventable disease, and over 3 billion human beings caught in varying degrees of wretched poverty at living on less than $2.50 a day we declare that “Northern” economic policy; NGO “development enterprises”, and multilateral conferences on broad based humanitarian goals have been a true and horrific failure.

 

In a most unreasonable framework, the former colonizers have dictated economic terms and trampled on our universal rights, which via so-called “aid” buttresses the most despicable regimes on the planet.  We believe that in every nation on earth there is a spirit of resistance growing stronger as the conditions resulting from rights violations grow more egregious by the day. We wish to enlist you in our movement as active partisans or sympathizers and thus may we all be networked in horizontal alliance to bolster our international efforts.

 

We ask you to join us in building Massive Capacity. That all communities should be trained to administer social services and possess needed skills and management systems to vastly increase their own agency and control their means of future development.

 

We ask you when necessary to wage all out resistance; that by any non-violent means necessary we will secure and advance universal human rights for all. That even though our nemesis is nasty, brutal and heavily armed we will demonstrate the futility of waging armed conflict. Regardless of the scale of atrocity perpetrated or the crimes against humanity unearthed.

 

We are advocating the full international coordination of a resistance movement within the mechanisms of the Development Enterprise into a fully mobilized and highly decentralized tactical alliance. We will ascribe a name to that movement in this pamphlet, but of course, a movement in the shadows has no agreed to name only a common cause.

 

For several hundred years, the vile forces moving against the will and interests of humanity have relied on their brute strength, overwhelming resources, savage barbarism and our disunity. Lacking good data and lines of communication most of the resistance had been cut off from each other until the advent of the internet in the end of the 20^th century. We should not trust statistics and data collected by any apparatus of the oligarchy.  For all those reading this document. We must organize ourselves into a broad yet highly decentralized framework. This is not a revolution. We must examine the last three hundred years of freedom struggle and declare that we are holding on to besieged and tainted turf. The “nations” liberated in the last two hundred years have been quarantined, ghettoized and driven into proverbial bunkers of their imagined identity. The children of believers and populations they have “liberated” are in some of the darkest corners of the killing fields. They have no collective unity of theory or ideology, race identity or creed. The only thing these slivers of turf and those that govern them have in common is that they have temporarily delivered their population from occupation, subjugation or genocide often at the expense of normative civil and political rights. Some are far worse than others, some more reactionary some more progressive, some not even bound by territory. We must however reinforce them with every available tactic. They are not asking for reinforcements to hold their positions but it must be made clear that no regime, not a single government on this planet has will or intention to relinquish power once it is seized. Be clear that what was done to and inside France, Ayiti, Russia and China was the perversion of emancipatory revolt. Be clear that we are not in an ideological confrontation or a spiritual war.

 

We are engaged in a visceral battle against extinction.

 

We are offering to reinforce any position from a block to a barrio; from a village to a city; from rebel zones to quarantined states; to lonely outposts deep in the core nations being held in or outside the Parallel State.

 

For the Para State is not a specific place, nor is it the cumulative land mass liberated in years since some amongst our species came to believe that we were not born to be chattel slaves. It is also not some utopian ideal. It is the reclamation of both minds and spaces. More precisely, it is the creation of functional infrastructure and realization of human rights via mechanisms that unleash human capability. It is the maximization of life via the conquest of the means of development. It is the balance of the ecological, the economic and social spheres under a theory of abundance. It is a realization that we do not have to confront governments and topple states to enjoy our rights and freedom. There are ways to organize the good things of life without engaging the corrupt and self-serving architecture of the state system and those it serves.

We aim to bond our struggles and experiences with those of you and your compatriots who share an affinity with our cause. Our cause is full actualization of the universal human rights as a starting conversation in the dawn of a newly conceived epoch. Our mass capacity will now be unleashed.

 

We aim to marshal our detachments, utilize our networks, partisans and sympathizers; call upon our allied sister organizations working in direct coordination with yours to stage a rising the likes of which the oligarchs have never seen coming. We are calling not for an insurrection or a general strike; (at least not in historical terms) but instead the embrace of emancipatory development used towards a highly particular end.

 

Governments everywhere have justified themselves on our supposed nature; that we are supposedly savage, selfish and disorganized as a species. Under the auspices of our projected “nature” they have reduced us serfdom via a sophisticated management system this manuscript will outline. It is not our aim to engage the state system in warfare. That attempt has failed every single time it has been utilized in human history.

Our aim is to use the development technologies to sever unnecessary dependencies. Woman to man; subordinate worker to management; urban to rural; peripheral nation to core humanity to the oligarchy and the people to their governments. It is time to break bonds built to extract from us the enjoyment and goodness of life. They, and it surely is a ‘they’ that profit off of how the world is organized today; they gave us tools so we could be more productive serfs, subjects and consumers but we will train each other in the means of development and we will make them obsolete. We were all born into bondage but we will not die as their slaves.

 

The aim of the entire Great Revolt therefore is to take full control of the means of development at the most localized level without using violence to do so and harness our collective might to secure our human rights entitlements once and for all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE Oligarchy’s GLOBAL NETWORK

 

DYNASTIC FAMILIES AND INSTITUTIONS

EUROPEAN DYNASTIC FAMILIES

CHINESE PRINCLINGS

RUSSIAN & POST SOVIET OLIGARCHS

HOUSE OF WINDSOR (Great Britain)
NETHERLANDS
BELGIUM
LIECHTENSTEIN
LUXEMBOURG
SPAIN
DENMARK
NORWAY
SWEDEN
MONACO

INTERNATIONAL BANKING DYNASTIES

ROTHSCHILDS
ROCKEFELLERS
KUHN LOEB
WARBURG
LAZARD
LEHMAN
GOLDMAN SACHS
ISRAEL MOSES SEIF

 

INTERNATIONAL INVESTMENT BANKS

ROTHSCHILD BANK OF LONDON
ROTHSCHILD BANK OF BERLIN
WARBURG BANK OF HAMBURG
WARBURG BANK OF AMSTERDAM
LAZARD BROTHERS OF PARIS
ISRAEL MOSES SEIF BANK OF ITALY
KUHN LOEB BANK OF NEW YORK
GOLDMAN SACHS OF NEW YORK
J. P. MORGAN CHASE BANK OF NEW YORK
LEHMAN BROTHERS OF NEW YORK

 

THE CITY OF LONDON CORPORATION

THE “CROWN”, THE “CITY”, THE “SQUARE MILE”

THE VATICAN

THE VATICAN BANK

BANKS

CENTRAL BANKS

BANK OF INTERNATIONAL SETTLEMENTS
FEDERAL RESERVE
BANK OF ENGLAND
CENTRAL BANKS OF MOST NATIONS

 

GLOBAL BANKING CONGLOMERATES
THE 25 LARGEST BANKS

DEUTSCHE BANK
HSBC
BNP PARABIS
INDUSTRIAL AND COMMERCIAL BANK OF CHINA
MITUBISHI
CREDIT AGRICOLE
BARCLAYS GROUP
ROYAL BANK OF SCOTLAND
JPMORGAN CHASE
BANK OF AMERICA
CHINA CONSTRUCTION BANK
MIZUHO FINANCIAL GROUP
BANK OF CHINA
CITIGROUP
AGRICULTURAL BANK OF CHINA
ING GROUP
BANCO SANTANDER
SUMITOMO MITSUI FINANCIAL GROUP
SOCIETE GENERALE
UBS
LLOYDS BANKING GROUP
GROUP BCPE
WELLS FARGO
UNICREDIT
CREDIT SUISSE

 

CORPORATIONS & FINANCIAL INSTITUTIONS

TOP 50 TRANSNATIONAL CORPORATIONS AND BANKS WITH THE GREATEST GLOBAL IMPACT

1 – BARCLAYS PLC – GREAT BRITIAN
2 – CAPITAL GROUP COMPANIES INC. – UNITED STATES
3 – FMR CORP (Fidelity Management) – UNITED STATES
4 – AXA FR 6712 – SWITZERLAND
5 – STATE STREET CORPORATION – UNITED STATES
6 – JPMORGAN CHASE & CO. – UNITED STATES
7 – LEGAL & GENERAL GROUP PLC – GREAT BRITAIN
8 – VANGUARD GROUP, INC. – UNITED STATES
9- UBS AG – SWITZERLAND
10 – MERRILL LYNCH & CO., INC. – UNITED STATES
11 – WELLINGTON MANAGEMENT CO. L.L.P. – UNITED STATES
12 – DEUTSCHE BANK AG – GERMANY
13 – FRANKLIN RESOURCES, INC. – UNITED STATES
14 – CREDIT SUISSE GROUP – SWITZERLAND
15 – WALTON ENTERPRISES LLC – UNITED STATES
16 – BANK OF NEW YORK MELLON CORP. – UNITED STATES
17 – NATIXIS – FRANCE
18 – GOLDMAN SACHS GROUP, INC. – UNITED STATES
19 – T. ROWE PRICE GROUP, INC. – UNITED STATES
20- LEGG MASON, INC. – UNITED STATES
21 – MORGAN STANLEY – UNITED STATES
22 – MITSUBISHI UFJ FINANCIAL GROUP, INC. – JAPAN
23 – NORTHERN TRUST CORPORATION – UNITED STATES
24 – SOCIÉTÉ GÉNÉRALE – FRANCE
25 – BANK OF AMERICA CORPORATION – UNITED STATES
26 -LLOYDS TSB GROUP PLC – GREAT BRITAIN
27 – INVESCO PLC – GREAT BRITAIN
28 – ALLIANZ SE – GERMANY
29 – TIAA US 6601 – INDIA
30 – OLD MUTUAL PUBLIC LIMITED COMPANY – GREAT BRITAIN
31 – AVIVA PLC – GREAT BRITAIN
32 – SCHRODERS PLC – GREAT BRITIAN
33 – DODGE & COX – UNITED STATES
34 – LEHMAN BROTHERS HOLDINGS, INC. – UNITED STATES
35 – SUN LIFE FINANCIAL, INC. – CANADA
36 – STANDARD LIFE PLC – GREAT BRITAIN
37 – CNCE – FRANCE
38 – NOMURA HOLDINGS, INC. – JAPAN
39 – THE DEPOSITORY TRUST COMPANY – UNITED STATES
40 – MASSACHUSETTS MUTUAL LIFE INSUR. – UNITED STATES
41 – ING GROEP N.V. – NETHERLANDS
42 – BRANDES INVESTMENT PARTNERS, L.P. – UNITED STATES
43 – UNICREDITO ITALIANO SPA – ITALY
44 – DEPOSIT INSURANCE CORPORATION OF JP – JAPAN
45 – VERENIGING AEGON – NETHERLANDS
46 – BNP PARIBAS – FRANCE
47 – AFFILIATED MANAGERS GROUP, INC. – UNITED STATES
48 RESONA HOLDINGS, INC. – JAPAN
49 – CAPITAL GROUP INTERNATIONAL, INC. – UNITED STATES
50 – CHINA PETROCHEMICAL GROUP CO. – CHINA

 

MONEY LAUNDERING CORPORATIONS

HSBC
BANK OF AMERICA
JP MORGAN CHASE
CITIGROUP
WELLS FARGO
WESTERN UNION
AMERICAN EXPRESS

 

OIL CORPORATIONS

SHELL
CHEVRON
BRITISH PETROLEUM
EXXON

 

WEAPONS MANUFACTURERS

LOCKHEED MARTIN – USA
BAE SYSTEMS – BRITAIN
BOEING – USA
NORTHROP GRUMMAN – USA
GENERAL DYNAMICS – USA
RAYTHEON – USA

INSTITUTIONS, ORGANIZATIONS & JURISDICTIONS

SOCIETIES, CLUBS AND ORGANIZATIONS

UNITED NATIONS
WORLD TRADE ORGANIZATION (WTO)
WORLD BANK
INTERNATIONAL MONETARY FUND (IMF)
COUNCIL ON FOREIGN RELATIONS (CFR)
TRILATERAL COMMISSION (TC)
BILDERBERG GROUP
CHATHAM HOUSE / ROYAL INSTITUTE OF INTERNATIONAL AFFAIRS (RIIA)
CLUB OF THE ISLES
PILGRIMS SOCIETY
CLUB OF ROME

 

THINK TANKS

CENTER FOR STRATEGIC AND INTERNATIONAL STUDIES (CSIS)
BUSINESS ROUND TABLE
EUROPEAN ROUND TABLE OF INDUSTRIALISTS (ERT)
INTERNATIONAL CHAMBER OF COMMERCE (ICC)
WORLD ECONOMIC FORUM
WORLD BUSINESS COUNCIL FOR SUSTAINABLE DEVELOPMENT (WBCSD)
BROOKINGS INSTITUTION
RAND CORPORATION
HERITAGE FOUNDATION
AMERICAN ENTERPRISE INSTITUTE

 

TAX-EXEMPT FOUNDATIONS

ROCKEFELLER FOUNDATION
FORD FOUNDATION
CARNEGIE ENDOWMENT
GATES FOUNDATION
SOROS OPEN SOCIETY FOUNDATION

 

TAX HAVENS, SECRECY JURISDICTIONS AND MONEY LAUNDERING CENTERS

HONG KONG

WALL STREET (NEW YORK CITY )
STATE OF DELAWARE

CITY OF LONDON

LUXEMBOURG
MONACO
SWITZERLAND
ANDORRA
LIECHTENSTEIN
CYPRUS

PANAMA

BAHRAIN
DUBAI

UNDER BRITISH CONTROL
ISLE OF MAN
ISLAND OF GUERNSEY
ISLAND OF JERSEY
BAHAMA ISLANDS
BRITISH VIRGIN ISLANDS
CAYMAN ISLANDS
BERMUDA ANGUILLA
ANTIGUA AND BARBUDA
BARBADOS
DOMINICA
GRENADA
ST. LUCIA
ST. VINCENT AND THE GRENADINES
ST. KITTS AND NEVIS
TURKS AND CAICOS ISLANDS
MONTSERRAT

UNDER NETHERLANDS CONTROL
ARUBA
BONAIRE
CURAÇAO

 

THE OLIGARCHY OWNS OUTRIGHT OR CONTROLS

CENTRAL BANKS
LARGEST PRIVATE BANKS
CORPORATE MEDIA (AND MUCH OF THE ALTERNATIVE AND PROGRESSIVE MEDIA)
MOST INLFUENTIAL TAX-EXEMPT FOUNDATIONS
MOST INFLUENTIAL THINK TANKS
MAJOR UNIVERSITIES AND OTHER EDUCATONAL INSTITUTIONS
LARGEST ENVIRONMENTAL ORGANIZATIONS
POLITICIANS AND POLITICAL PARTIES
NATIONAL ECONOMIES
NATIONAL CURRENCIES
MAJOR STOCK MARKETS
LARGEST TRANSNATIONAL CORPORATIONS
LARGEST INSURANCE CORPORATIONS
LARGEST PHARMACEUTICAL CORPORATIONS
LARGEST ENERGY CORPORATIONS
MAJOR ENERGY RESOURCES INCLUDING OIL AND GAS
GOLD, DIAMOND AND ESSENTIAL MINERAL MINING AND DISTRIBUTION CARTELS
AGRICULTURAL LAND
WATER AND WATER SYSTEMS
LARGEST WEAPONS MANUFACTURERS
DRUG-MONEY LAUNDERING NETWORKS
INTERNATIONAL DRUG TRAFFICKING NETWORKS
MAJOR ENVIRONMENTAL ORGANIZATIONS

 

 

 

 

Gotta catch them all.

http://www.friendsofthepeople.org

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Walter S Ⱥdler also called Zachariah by his friends and comrades in the resistance, when, one day dead; to his lovers, to his Wife and Children; his living children, his New York and EMS and Hebrew and Carribean and Post Soviet people, other people’s people, his brothers & his sisters, his comrades, the D/U, the Z.O.B. and the Banshee Otriad, Jah-Jah bless us all and keep us on the path of the righteous. We walk the Zion road. Thank you to Valenina Stanovova who pushed me to finally complete this five year undertaking.

 

http://www.waltadler.co

http://www.developmentunion.org

 

If you enjoyed this book; American Refugee is the Prequel, Anfom Frere is the story of our times in Haiti, Unlimited Operation is a book of poems for Russian women and this is Epoch tale of the Zionist War called the Great Revolt. My poltical writings are mostly aviailable on request as PDFs and white papers.

 

 

 

 

 

[1] Means gangster in Yiddish.

[2] The UN Military Occupation of Haiti since the 2004 Coup against President Aristede.

[3] Southern People’s Liberation Army, 12,000 mostly local Mullato fighters based in Montaigne Noire

[4] Gwoup Ayisyen Pou Ijans; 2,000 local men means Haitian Emergency Group, mostly previously medical.

[5] Hadar Column; 300 men, 300 deployed to Ayiti

[6] Saint Patrick’s Battalion; 1,200 men, 343 deployed to Ayiti

[7] http://www.un.org/en/universal-declaration-human-rights/ for their most basic list of demands.

[8] The hyper-organized collectives of hyper elites in each nation presiding over the World System economy and political process imposing their will on humankind and reducing us to slavery.

[9] Majik is a generic term for Eastern & Pagan sorcery of the Golden Age Old World, pre-1492.

[10] World’s last functional Communist nation.

[11] The year of the April 17^th Warsaw Ghetto uprising against Nazidom.

[12] The New Social Gospel of Emma Solomon and the collective Ba’hai revelations.

[13] Where a Civil War in 1989-2000 resulted in a genocide over 300,000 people, largely targeting Muslim Albanians and Bosnians.

[14] Demons, or Djinn are both human and spirits, they are devils which feed on human discord and madness.

[15] Bulgarian national beer.

[16] Heroic revolutionary commander alongside the Castro brothers in the 1959 Cuban Revolution.

[17] A Ghost Shirt organization is a skeleton crew carrying out agitation propaganda bluffing its strength and actually quite miniscule forces. Ghost Shirt organizations are either carrying out a false flag for a larger, organized intelligence service or are acting out of scarcity and desperation.

[18] The Catholic time of giving up things to mourn the death of Jesus.

[19] The Old Spirits of Africa and Siberia. Also called the Lwa, not to be confused with Greco-Roman Pagan ‘Gods’.

[20] Two diseases manufactured by the Oligarchy to reduce the global number of Africans and Afro-Americans.

[21] Founder of the Black Panther Party for Self Defense

[22] A dance mostly from Jamaica and Trinidad where a woman backs it up and grinds her bumper all over a man’s business.

[23] Capital of Communist Vietnam, Cuba, China, Vietnam and Laos are the only four countries with a governing Communist Party, although really only Laos and Cuba are socialist countries economically speaking effective 2017.

[24] Angola fought a global proxy war on its territory that went on from 1975-2000, during this proxy war the Apartheid Regime of South Africa was defeated by the armed forces of Cuba in 1981.

[25] The two million plus person carnival which is about to trigger the Uprising, also called the Labor Day Parade, or the West Indian Day Parade.

[26] Gangster, or gangsta, or Shatah can mean many things but generally it means a tough guy character affiliated with some form of organized crime. In the case of Mickhi Dbrisk, he was a made man in the Jamaican Mafia, but relinquished his earning power to join the resistance and take on leadership of the Banshee Otriad, and subsequently the Z.O.B.

[27] This is the rowdy all night pregame party to the parade which normally claims the lives via gun murder of 5 to 10 people.

[28] A cell is tight, decentralized unit of 8-12 persons carrying out clandestine terror or guerrilla operations behind enemy lines usually in an urban environment.

[29] 3 million estimated person capital of Republic of Haiti.

[30] A psychiatric torture facility on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.

[31] Known for their acumen with moto vehicles, racing them and modifying them. Guyana is on the east coast of northern South America across from Trinidad. Guyana has been a long time base for resistance forces before and after the CIA massacre of the People’s Temple Agricultural Project training base as a “cult” in 1978.

[32] A good pistol according to Nicholai Trickovitch, Chief Logistics Officer of the Z.O.B. is either the Glock 19, the S&W 5946 or the Sig Sauer P226 DAO, as these are the three fire arms the NYPD carry.

[33] The highest and most defensible district on the Isle of Man.

[34] This national uprising was crushed completely with infiltration, batons and tear gas within the first three months.

[35] Where an NSA consultant made off with an enormous trove of intelligence data.

 [36] Hong Kong was territorially reabsorbed in 1997 into the PRC, but will retain financial linkages and independence until 2047.

[37] Jewish Oral History accompanying the Torah.

[38] In 1965 with logistical support from the CIA, the government of Indonesia brutally killed upwards of 500,000 people with explicit or inferred Communist beliefs. At the time the Communist Party of Indonesia was the third largest on earth, behind USSR and China.

[39] Separatist region of Northern Spain/ Southern France largely contained by the year 2010.

[40] The KGB’s successors are the secret police agency FSB (Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation) and the espionage agency SVR (Foreign Intelligence Service).

[41] The White Church is the broader derogatory name for clandestine secret societies embedded in the Catholic and Orthodox Churches linked to Crusading orders which plot the Jewish return to Israel, their obliteration and their perceived return of Jesus Christ, their perception of the Messiah.

[42] The Syrian Revolution/ Civil War broke out in 2011 and the largest concentration of rebel fighters were then holding the city of Aleppo. At the time until the inevitable bloody suppression of the Syrian revolt in 2016, we viewed some of the leftist factions as our allies in a parallel fight.

[43] A major street demarcating China Town from the Financial District.

[44] A training center for Paramedics, Radiology Techicians and Sonographers.

[45] A colleague in a political struggle, an antiquated term associated with the USSR. Tovarish, in Russian.

[46] A Muslim minority population of Southern Russia’s Caucus region associated with the criminality and terrorism of the 1994-2010 sepeartist war which killed somewhere near 270,000 Chechens.

[47] Russian Mafia term

[48] An elite Israeli Pararescueman unit called unit 669.

[49] Created by two Greek priests to teach the Russians the bible.

[50] Pro-Communist Russians, as opposed to White Russians which supported the Czar.

[51] Much feared head of the Bureau of Homeland Security, known for his personal rape and debauchery and atrocities against accused subversives.

[52] The Pharisees were a faction of the Jewish priestly class that killed Yeshua ben Yoef; Jesus.

[53][53][53] An enormous unmanned flying bomber and rocket drone the size of a stadium.

[54] How

[55] The Muslim messiah of the blood line of Muhammed.

[56] The Jewish messiah of the blood line of King David, tribe of Judah.

[57] MINUSTAH rapes children, kills protesters and is largely staffed by 12,000 regular troops from Brazil and Argentina the two favorite ironically Football teams of the occupied people.

[58] A compendium of Persian stories.

[59] 1^st: Fighting 99^th, 2^nd; UHURU, 3^rd; Muslim Brotherhood, 4^th; IWW + CCP, 5^th Party of G-d (Hezbollah), 6^th; Satmar, 7^th Irregular, 8^th Conscripted, 9^th Garveyites

[60] Infidel non-believers.

[61] Every Hebrew letter has a numerical value.

[62] Ocean Ave and Z; used to be called Romanoff.

[63][63]

[64] Comrade

[65] Famous painter.

[66] Leader of Hamas

[67] Western 1/3 of Palestinian territory; 1.3 million person cage.

[68] A city in Israel in rocket range of Gaza.

[69] Fucking Crazy in Yiddish

[70] Synthetic Chinese champagne.

[71] A derogatory word for Palestinians.

[72] Owner of Dutch Kills & Weather Up, two Banshee friendly haunts.

[73] A favorite Israeli export.

[74] Melting people in an acid bath is the preferred Chinese way to dispose of a body in an urban setting.  Hydrochloric acid is best.

[75] Chai Feldman advocates any country worried about invasion to have nuclear weapons.

[76] A notorious youth prison in the South Bronx, NY until 1999 when it was renamed Bridges Juvenile Center and 2011 when it was closed for a history of poor conditions and brutality against children of color.

[77] A gangster, one who shoots first.

[78] Means gangster in Yiddish.

[79] The UN Military Occupation of Haiti since the 2004 Coup against President Aristede.

[80] A company typically has 100 to 200 soldiers, and a battalion is a combat unit of 500 to 800 soldiers. Three to five battalions, approximately 1,500 to 4,000 soldiers, comprise a brigade. A division is a large military unit or formation, usually consisting of between 10,000 and 20,000 soldiers. In most armies, a division is composed of several regiments or brigades; in turn, several divisions typically make up a corps.

[81] What is Sodium Phosphate you ask? A simple improvised explosive device of thick white powder fog.

[82] Scalping takes longer and leaves for a variety of psychosocial problems. Hands allow for finger print ID, one finger is rarely enough to be certain.

[83] MINUSTAH is the UN lead military occupation that took over Haiti in 2004.

[84] LAVALAS is the largest pro-democratic, pro-socialist, pro-Cuban party in Haiti and the largest in general. It has been banned since 2004.

[85] Peacefaire is using non-lethal weapons for combat against armed actors violating human rights.

[86] Justice and Equality Movement (JEM) is a Arab Haitian movement to oppose the occupation lead by Arab Haitians in diaspora. It is the second largest opposition group to Lavalas.

[87] Gwoup Ayisien Pou Ijans G.A.I. Haitian Emergency Group (H.E.G.)

[88] Means little church, or the liberation theology church Socialism + Gospel = New Social Gospel

[89] The Army was restored in 2017 it’s acronym is FAF’D.

[90] Blowing up oil pipelines is one of the major tactics advocated in Adon’s guerrilla war guide The Encircling Game, available at http://www.developmentunion.org

[91] Called FAF’D

[92] Soviet era rockets that can be fired from metal tubes fastened to trucks. A Palestinian and Shi’a Lebanese favorite.

[93] Partizans typically focus on terror and infrastructure and are urban and forest, guerillas are more often combat troops utilizing deep jungle cover to attack troops. Almost synonyms.

[94] The French regular armt invded 4 months into the Liberation War on April 17^th, 2019.

[95] Deragotory slur for Protestants.

[96] His father was Catholic, his mother was Protestant and both were lifelong Sein Feiners.

[97] JEM representing the Arabs, Lavalas repensting the poor blacks and SPLA repreenting the interests of the middle class Mulattos.

[98] An enoumous non lethal  shot gun cannon.

[99] Actor Sean Penn for whatever reason helped build and pay for one of the biggest concentration camps in Haiti post 2010 quake to clear a gold course for the Petionville elites.

[100] Notorious Killers with chapters in both CONGO DRC and Sudan.

[101] The colors of the Resistance are Black, Grey and Blue.

[102] I have no idea what a click is, probably a kilometer.

[103] A Column has less than 100 men typically.

[104] Lithium Salt is commonly used by people with bipolar disorder to stabilize their powers.

[105] Modified Soviet MiG fighters.

[106] Haitian voodoo music heavy with drums.

[107] Demilitarized Zone

[108] Yiddish for, “my boy-brother”

[109] Helicopter based flight medic evacuation.

[110] The NYPD had before being disbanded in 2015 an arsenal bigger than 144 developing national militaries.

[111] Raping hookers and escorts by a pool.

[112] This is what DSK and the President of Italy & Prime Minister of Italy call Bunga Bunga.

[113] Bombed in 2019.

[114] War between the E.U. and Russian Federation resumed in 2012.

[115] Voodoo symbol

[116] Seaweed algae food mix for the ultra poor.

[117] Grozny is the Capital of Chechnya, the southernmost state of the Russian Federation which attempted to separate in 1994. Between 1994-2010, over 270,000 people lost their lives and Grozny was twice raised to the ground.

[118] A Thief in Law, or the Russian mafias word for boss.