Names Never Die-People Do
By by NLK and RTH Brown © 2012 by R. T. Hamilton Brown Chapter 1
I had been sitting in this effing car for three hours and I finally gave in to my bladder by pissing in the large size McDonald’s cup. I knew it was going to run over; and then it would just serve as an excuse to blow my top and get the hell out of here. Surveillance is 100% boredom and 0% action. The past thirty minutes or so I had worked myself up into a good rage thinking about my old man. I can’t call him Father or Dad. He was never one of those. And, that’s all he ever called my mother, old lady, “Bring me another beer, old lady,” he’d yell. He was a drunken son of a bitch. My mom put up with him for twenty five years. God knows why. If we ate, it was because she put food on the table by cleaning offices at night and rich people’s houses during the day. My old man would always be at home when he knew she was getting paid. She was pretty good about hiding her cash. She was always paid in cash because her bosses were too cheap to pay her social security benefits. But most of the time, the old man would find what she had put aside to see us through another week and would go on a bender. If he came home at all, he was always in a foul mood and my mom and I would get whacked around a bit. That stopped when I was about thirteen. I had reached almost my full height of six three and was skinny as a whip. He whopped her upside the head for not having the dishes done and I shoved him out the door and threw him across the back porch rail. At thirteen, my voice had just changed, but, with only a squeak here and there, I told him if he ever touched either one of us again, I would raise his voice three octaves, permanently, and then I’d beat the living shit out of him with my Louisville Slugger. All the time my mom was crying and saying that he didn’t mean it and to please let him go. Anyway, he never touched me again; and, he never hit her again as far as I know. Anyway, that wasn’t the only reason I hated the son of a bitch. I hated him for what he called his sense of humor. Black humor. Gallows humor. Call it what you will, but never call it funny. Call it ridicule. Call it hate. Call it revenge. Call it abuse. Psychiatrists would call it projection. His sense of humor pleased him mightily the night I was born in the county hospital for poor folk. You see he named me. And he took unholy delight in it all my life, until the day he died. My mother always said what didn’t kill me would make me stronger. The name he gave me made me stronger all right, and it has almost gotten me killed more than once. So, here I was, a college graduate, peeing in a cup with a name that the vilest human slug on earth should’nt have. I’m Dick-----Dick Hedd, private investigator. Now don’t think I’m Richard; I’m not. There was a time in my life when I tried to adopt Richard as a moniker, but it didn’t work. People always shortened it to Dick anyway. I can still here the old bastard cackling, “Hey Dick Hedd, run down to the corner and get me a pack of Luckies.” You would think the joke would wear thin after so many years, but his sotted brain still thought he ranked right up there with Jackie Gleason until the day he died. So, I was bored, I was cramped, I was hungry, and I have no place to put a very full cup of yellow liquid, and I was feeling very pissed off about shit that happened years ago. My cup really did almost run over and I call this a job. So I had worked myself into a rage that doesn’t include the meaning of life and was just about to pull the plug on this whole escapade, when I heard the scream. It wasn’t loud, mind you, more like a keening yodel. I was just supposed to watch, nothing more, but when it sounded like the whole of the Crystal Palace was being bombed, I jumped from the car and limped toward the house. I couldn’t run. I was too stiff from sitting. The whole time I had been sitting there, nothing happened. Not a sound, not a light, not a blue flickering TV, nada, zip. When I reached the porch, I thought I saw the front door standing open about three inches. Now, this part of the job, I don’t like. I pushed the door in, and just like some private eye in the movies, shoved it way back to smack whoever might be hiding behind it. It was as dark as a witches heart in there. I stood with my heart hammering for what seemed like an eternity, but it was probably only two or three minutes or so. I reached out to see if I was in a hall way, and felt the wall. The only thing is, the wall was sticky and had the faint odor of rust. Giving it the old, “What the Hell,” I reached for a light switch at flicked it. The room was filled with sheet covered furniture. The sheets were supposed to be white, I think. Now, they were splattered with a red pattern that would have made Jackson Pollack proud. She was there on the floor. That is, what was left of her. Chapter 2 I had just returned from a weekend in LV, that’s Las Vegas for you folks who don’t speak Mexican. I had gone there with the three grand from my last job. My rent was due, my car payment was over-due, the electric company had just sent final notice number two, and my ex had just left a message on my machine about going to the prosecutor and having my license revoked because I had kicked her door in to get my clothes outta her bedroom. She said it cost her thirteen hundred bucks to get it all fixed up. Hah! Probably three hundred tops and the other grand to keep her big fat mouth shut. That’s not ex as in ex-wife. Just ex as in ex-celent lay, ex-celent spy into the secrets of the PD since she was the secretary to the chief publicity officer, and ex lady friend. And, that is another story, another time. Anyway, I was all stressed out and needed some R&R. I also figured to double my three goobers at the blackjack tables, something I can do if I really put my mind to it. Well, Mitzy the wandering cocktail waitress, latched on to my mind after three shots of rye whiskey and my three grand went bye bye in thirty minutes. Oh well. So I was in the office at 7 AM going over last Saturday’s mail trying to figure out how I was going to come up with the cash to keep myself going until I could score another three grand from some poor soul who had just gotten wind that the good old spouse was banging the meter reader and needed proof for the judge. Among the usual crap there was one hand addressed letter with a real stick-em on stamp. I tore it open and read, Dear Mr. Hedd, I recently read about your recent success in helping the police solve Jerome kidnapping and would like to hire you to help me with a little problem that has crept into my life. I tried to call you last week and your phone was temporarily out of service according to the recorded message. Therefore I have taken the liberty to write to you asking for help. I will be out of the state when you receive this and will be in contact with you in a week or two. Time is of the essence and I assume that you will be willing to work for me, especially since I have enclosed a certified check for $5000.00 which is twice the amount quoted to me by another investigator for contracting a job of this short duration. All you will need to do is to watch my house for three days and make a record of whoever comes to call, a photographic record, and anything else that might identify the individual. You would have to start on Monday night, June 13 and on through Wednesday, June 15. After that time your services will not be needed and I will contact you as soon as I return. Sincerely, Jane Dougherty Shit. What was this? A joke? Jane Dougherty my ass! Any ten year old could see that she was trying to scam me with a fancy Jane Doe. But, five big ones??? That’s a pretty expensive joke. Ain’t nooobody I know got that kind of joke budget. Hoo haa! She didn’t even put an address down. Oops, there’s a return address on the envelope. The letter was hand written on a very expensive stationary in a very beautiful hand. The address was in a very high scale residential neighborhood, not gated, but very private and secluded. The check looked like a good one. I was at the bank ten minutes before it opened. I had four thousand smackeroos in my depleted checking account and ten hundred dollar bills in my pocket two minutes after it opened. Naturally, I decided to take on this so called very easy job. Chapter 3 As I stood looking at this poor woman I froze like a stalagmite on a cave floor. “Move feet!” I thought. Nothing happened. As a former Navy Seal, I couldn’t believe my body was absolutely refusing to obey my mind. Finally something, I cannot name, kicked into gear and I started to look more carefully around. Navy Seal or no Seal, I had never seen anything like this; and, I could never imagine anything like this. The room was almost empty with only an old Boston rocker slowly rocking back and forth without benefit of human help. The floor and every wall was sprayed and dripping with blood. It would be difficult to walk over to this unfortunate creature without tracking through the red sera of life. She was dead all right. No need at all to check for a pulse. She was lying on her back and she had been sliced from throat to pubis. Entrails Had been pulled from her body and were scattered about like plates full of thrown spaghetti with the lumps of organs along for the ride. Her throat had been slashed from ear to ear and she had a cut across her hairline also going from ear to ear. Was the monster who did this trying to remove her face. With all of it, she was a beauty. Coal black hair was matted with blood, and her nude body was perfect in shape and proportion; and, with all the degradation I could still see the face of an angel Finally, I recovered enough to know there was only one thing to do. I pulled out the Blackberry and called Elk Heart Yankovitch. We were Seals together and he took the high road becoming a cop, while I, wanting more freedom and not wanting to continue to deal with military type hierarchy, chose to become a private dick. No time for humor here, but that’s me, Dick Hedd, the Dick. When Elk came, I was sitting on the front step trying, in a manly way, to keep my cookies down. Unsympathetic to my pale face and shaking hands, he asked, “What in holy Hell have you gotten yourself into now?” Bravely and with studly bravado, I limply waved my hand toward the open door like a gay disco dancer without saying a word. Then I heard, “Jesus Christ, what HAVE you gotten yourself into?” He came out and sat down beside me not looking much better than I did, I’m sure. And, this is a guy who has seen murder victims, accident victims, and battle casualties and then asked “When do we eat?” We sat a few minutes processing what we had seen without saying a word. Elk had dark brown eyes and hair that was usually pulled back in a pony tail tied with a strip of black cloth. When he was feeling particularly anti establishment, he might stick a gull feather of medium size through the ribbon. This of course drove the cops toeing the corporate line crazy. I have actually watched as his dark brown eyes became coal black as he gave a piercing gaze to a perpetrator of wrong and evil. He was six feet three inches tall and weighed over two hundred pounds. As well as I know him, the actual Native American tribe of his immediate ancestry remains a mystery. With a slightly round face, he manages to have high and proud malar bones, that look as if they could cut paper. A taciturn man, Elk, would gladly put his life in jeopardy to save yours. He has done this a few times for me. It was never discussed nor were thanks needed. We will be friends until one or both of us find our way to our Happy Hunting Ground. However, if Elk heard me say that, he would probably give me the coal eye stare, then lift his massive shoulders in disgust. We just are; we don’t talk about it. “Damnit Dick, say something. This ain’t lookin’ too good for you. You have blood on your hand and it looks like you’ve been stomping grapes the way you’re trackin’ it around. I can’t believe my ol’ bud did anything like this. Say something, what the hell happened?” I looked at my hand and saw the blood that must have been the sticky stuff I felt on the wall and a couple of dark red footprints leading over to where I was standing. Shit! There’ll be prints on the wall and prints on the floor. They’ll probably be the only prints in here, anyone doing anything this mess probably was encased in plastic from head to toe. “I was on a job, I was hired to watch this place and make note of comers and goers. I heard a noise, a bad noise and I came in to see what it was. I found this mess.” I managed to get out before I puked out my guts leaving even more evidence I was here. “Okay Kemosabe, we have to clean up everything you touched, every place you stepped. Get those shoes off and put ‘em in a plastic bag, I have a roll of ‘em in my backseat. And watch the fuck where you step.” I took off my new Merrills and went to the car and put them in a blue plastic bag. Elk had followed me and put bags on both of his feet and plastic food handlers’ plastic gloves on each hand. I followed suit and we went back to the house with a roll of paper towels, bags, and a couple of cans of beer. I carefully went over my initial route into the killing chamber and we wiped down everywhere I might have put a hand or a size eleven with Bud and Bounties. Elk made me scoop up my last meal’s remains and wipe that mess up myself. It made a mess, but at least it was an unrecognizable mess. Everything went into the blue bags and we took off for the desert, Elk driving his old Pontiac station wagon, he was a loyal Red Man, with me following in my old beat up Taurus I use for surveillance, and for everything else. He stopped once at a pay phone and later told me he had called the cops about a body in a house at such and such address. As I said, Elk had become a cop, taken the high road. But it ended when the city fathers passed a new rule that all city employees had to live within the city limits. Few of them did and a few tried to use an address of one of the several mail drops as their address, but when the city fathers made a rule, they made sure it was going to be followed to the letter. They checked everyone’s address and the cop either moved or was fired for cause, whatever the hell that meant. Elk lived in a tipi on 40 acres a few miles out of town. It was desert land. And it was actually four tipis. They were made from a concrete sprayed on a removable pole and canvas form which was removed after the concrete cured. He could not move them to the city and zoning laws would not allow him to build similar structures in the city. Elk Heart Yankovitch retired. We parked, took the cleanup materials, which included my new Merrills, to Elks stone ringed fire pit, added a gallon or so of kerosene and burned it all. We planned to scatter the ashes the next day after they had cooled. This was all done with a minimum of words passing between us. “We talk tomorrow,” Elk said, “now we sleep. You take tipi three, nice bed, satellite TV, fridge with Beer.” Sometimes Elk liked to sound like an Indian. Chapter 4 I’ve often tried to pin Elk Heart down on which tribe his forefathers belonged to and every time he answered it was a different one. I can only remember a few, he was first a Lakota, then a Plains Apache often called Kiowa Apache, which I believed was his favorite since most of the bad ass Injuns from the old movies were Apache although I believe the Comanche might have been a little more fearsome. From things he has told me about his youth I have the feeling he might have been Ojibwe from the northern Midwest, probably from Minnesota. Another thing he was always evasive about is his last name, Yankovitch, which one does not often find in the Native American ranks. He has told of his great grandfather, or maybe it was his grandfather, or even his father who legally changed the family tribal name. I believe it must have been his grandfather because the numbers support that thesis. Also, on two occasions I accompanied him to family functions. Now this wasn’t exactly just a family of uncles and aunts and brothers and sisters, but a family of tribal descendents. Every single one of them dressed in the costume of the Plains Ojibwe and when the music started Elk Heart’s dance moves were definitely that of a polka. And, there were several times when he had a little too much firewater and he would insist in singing songs he grew up with. The most notable being, ‘The Beer Barrel Polka’ which was popularized back in the forties by Will Gahle and by many other notable entertainers during WWII; and then again, by Cleveland’s Frankie Yankovic in Elk’s youth. It was a staple of dances in the Polish-American neighborhoods of Chicago to Duluth, the latter being pretty much in the heart of Ojibwe country. See the connections, the last name spelled incorrectly, but virtually the same pronunciation, especially to a Native-American, and the popularity of Polkas in the former Heart of Ojibwe country here in the United States. They don’t call me a Master Sleuth for nothing. Of course tipis were not the usual abode of the southwestern Indians, but that didn’t seem to make no never mind to Elk. I think he got that idea from some forties motel in Arizona or Kentucky. Morning rolled around in no time and Elk brewed up some excellent Kona coffee in a funny little coffee maker that made one cup at a time. He told me that the name, something like Koorig, was an old Indian name and the original design was stolen by someone named Custer who suffered for his misdeeds against the Red Man. “So, you called the cops. I sure as hell hope we got it all cleaned up. If anyone happened to see my car I’m pretty sure it’ll just be another fairly beat up old Taurus to them, there are more of those around here than anything.” “Let’s hope no one took down your plate number.” Elk said. “Not to worry there, I use a plate I made with phony numbers when I do surveillance. You can’t tell it from the real plates. If anyone traces it they’ll find a Miata or maybe even a Hummer. I buried it out back last night and put on my real plate. It’s not made of metal and won’t be found by someone with a metal detector.” I told Elk. “How’d you get your stupid ass involved in this?” Elk asked, “I’ll bet it was some chick with big boobs who wanted you to watch someone she thought was messing with her man. Then something happened to push her over the edge and she took her revenge forgetting you were watching. They don’t call you Dick Hedd for nothing.” “That’s my name Elk Dick, and it’s Richard to you and anyone else who values their left gonad.” Then I told him of the letter, which in his mind confirmed his theory. It didn’t set with me though. I wondered why a jealous woman would want me to watch the other woman’s house and then do something nasty to the suspected hubby hobby while the PI she hired was watching. It seemed a little counter fucking productive to me. I stated that to Elk Balls. Here’s exactly what I said, “Elk Balls, you have shit for brains. No one’s gonna hire me to watch the house of someone they’re out to kill, get with the program.” “You make fun my name I show you how my Mishomis Assinclouds, treated you white men back in the old days.” “Who’s this Mishomis Assinclouds anyway,” Isaid. “White man ignorant as duck. Mishomis means grandfather and Assinclouds is his given name. All you white eyes know is Crazy Horse, Sitting Bull, and Tonto for Native American names.” Then Elk switched into his cop persona, grilled me about everything; went over the note which I had stuck in my small computer case with my Toughbook. Hey, what else do you think a rough and ready guy like me use, a candy ass Sony? I had formed my pet theory and I finally convinced him about it. I told him that I thought the note and the money came from the murdered woman who had hired me to watch her place. I believe she was expecting trouble and knew about my reputation as an old fashioned tough as nails dick. Maybe she thought the five grand would hire a back door watcher too, maybe it should have. I didn’t dwell on it, I used the info she gave me, she could have told me more and not been so secretive about it. Elk turned on his 56 inch plasma TV just as the news went into its ‘Breaking News’ mode. The local anchor woman, Pia Lott, was standing in front of the house I had spent so much time in front of myself. There was yellow crime scene tape strung all over the place and you could see about 17 cops in the background. Pia said, frowning into the camera, “And that about sums it up, a woman whose mutilated body was found in this house, after an anonymous call to the police, has been tentatively identified as Jane Dougherty, who has lived here for the past three years. When I spoke with Chief Chris Robbins all he would say is that suicide was a remote possibility, but he suspected that it might be homicide and was proceeding under that assumption. He did let it slip that the medical examiner mumbled something about there being enough blood spilled for two people. We at channel 69 ask, ‘If so much blood was spilled, what was it spilled from?’” Then she signed off with her trademark byline, “I’m Pia Lott, from the 69 News Team.” Elk said, “Well, looks like you’re out of it now, my old buds from Metro will handle it from now on. Sure was a quick five grand you made there.’ He gave me a squinty eye that never landed on me and said, “I’m beginning to think I should have gone after my PI license when I left the force, seems like easy money to me.” “I don’t know about that, Elk, following philanders around day and night can be pretty mind boggling after a while. Then you have to try and squeeze the money out of someone who hates your guts because you verified their sweetie was doing the horizontal polka with the insurance guy.” “God, I love a polka,” said Elk breaking into his favorite tribal chant, “Roll out the barrel, roll out the barr....... Hey man, where you going, you can’t leave yet, we have a murder to solve.” “For crying out loud, stop that infernal catterwalling and I’ll come back and hear what you have to say because I’m up the proverbial creek without an idea anywhere in the gray cells,” I said. Elk put on his serious face, cleared his throat a few times, hemmed and hawed awhile, and finally said, “Ummm, grrckl, szzpzh…aww…um.” “Lordy, lordy, are you speaking in tongues? Resurrecting some old tribal language from ages ago? Hocking up something unmentionable? Or have you totally lost your mind?” I screamed in frustration. I took a good look at my trusty sidekick and saw that, even with his dark redskin complexion, he was actually blushing. He said, “Well, you see…damn this is hard. Oh well here goes, “Uhhh, ummm!” Turning around I yelled, “That does it, the firewater has finally pickled your brain. I’m outa here.” “This is embarrassing but, you see, I did get my Private Investigator license when I left the force. I’ve been waiting to tell you when the time was right. Ummm, I guess this is it, right?” I was struck speechless. I was frozen on the spot. Finally, anger kicked in and I found my voice, “Right? Right?” I screamed, “You were waiting until the time was right for eight fucking years? I thought we were best buds. I thought we went down to the wire together. I thought we saw alike on most things. I thought you were an honorable, dependable, if not quirky, upright, righteous, straight arrow, forthcoming, tall in the saddle, honest Injun. What were you waiting for,” I yelled, “The Apocalypse? The reincarnation of Crazy Horse? The return of Quetzacoatl?” Okay, I admit, I overdid it a little, but I couldn’t have been more surprised if he had told me he wasn’t Native American at all and was really the illegitamate child of Charles de Gaulle and the secret lover of Mirrielle Matthieu. “I’m finished. Start talking, Red Man!” He said, “Well, you see, I applied for the license on a whim thinking that from time to time we might have a joint venture. Then you were involved in that Le Febre caper and ended up in the hospital for three months. Then, there was all that rehab and recuperation time. Then you had to get your mojo back because you were all messed up in the head; and the time wasn’t right because of one thing after another, so I kind of forgot about it.” Since, Elk is the reason I was able to be sitting outside his concrete teepee by a nice little fire, I couldn’t stay steamed at the guy because what he said was true. I was truly fucked up for a very long time and if it weren’t for the Indian I wouldn’t be here at all. So, taking a deep breath, thought about things for several minutes and finally said, “OK, pardner, let’s get on with it and figure out what to do next.” Chapter 5 Elk got up and went in the concrete tent and came out with an old worn leather bag with a lot of fancy hand painted decoration. He loosened the thong tie and upended it and the contents fell out on the hard packed dessert floor between us. “Times like this we have to smokum peace pipe, become of one mind, think like brothers. Me have-um here ancestral pipe handed down for many moons, many generations.” He said as he picked up a polished aluminum pipe of peace and another small bag which held some fine looking peace tobacco. “Uhnn, I don’t think we should partake of this little ceremony right now. We need all of our facilities operating one hundred percent. If we were unlucky enough to have the local lawmen visit us we would be in heap big trouble. I think you better stash your stash as far away from tipi town here as you can.” “Ah man, you are one party pooper as our old medicine man used to say. It just seemed like the thing to do to celebrate my coming out.” “Holy shit Elk Breath, are you now going to tell me you’ve been a closet queen? This is just too much for one night; I’m going back to town and take my chances with John Law.” “Damn it Dick Hedd, I ain’t no fucking three dollar bill. I’m talkin’ ‘bout my coming out in regard to my telling you about getting my private detective’s license. Sheeess, you are one stupid white man. If my ancestors had you to deal with back when your ancestors came plundering across the country, you and your grandpappy would be the ones tied to the rez and eating that shitty fry bread. You’d be livin’ in a mud hogan or under a smelly old buffalo skin drinkin’ cheap hooch to numb your mind.” “Oh,” I said, as Elk Heart stood and pulled himself to his full height looking so much like Crazy Horse I felt a little chill go up my spine. He gathered up his stash, er, medicine bag and marched off to the far corner of his spread to hide it where old John Law would never look’ down in an old abandoned one holer. When he returned we put our heads together to map out the events of the past two days. Our list was pretty short because neither of us had a clue about what was going on. Here’s what we had. 1. After returning from my own pity party in Vegas I found a note from one Jane Dougherty hiring me to surveil a certain house, her own house she said, and make note of anything and everything that happened there for three days. A check for five grand was included. It was a very good check and did not bounce. 2. Toward the end of the first day I heard a god awful sound coming from the house and even though I was not supposed to do anything but watch and note, I just had to investigate. I went to the front door and entered when there was no answer to my knocking. I felt I was not remiss in doing so since the sounds I heard made me think someone needed help as soon as possible. 3. The house was pitch black inside and I felt my way along by reaching out to feel the wall. It was sticky and there was a strange smell hanging in the musty air. 4. I found a light switch and when I turned the lights on I saw a mutilated body and blood everywhere. I inadvertently took a step toward the body but stopped when I realized that whoever this might be, she was in too many pieces to be alive. I must have stepped in some of the blood on the floor because later I noticed my own footprints leading from the scene. 5. I withdrew from the murder scene and called Elk Heart Yankovic who came immediately. 6. He was the one who noticed my handprint on the wall and several footprints I had left. 7. We washed all of my traces away since I, of course, did not do this heinous thing and there was no point in making it look like I was involved in any way, shape, or form. 8. We retreated from the scene to go to Elk’s home at the desert’s edge. 9. Elk Heart made an anonymous call to the police and advised them of the body. 10. When we arrived at Elk’s place we burned and buried all our clothing and clean up materials. 11. The late news reported the mysterious murder and that the police had little if any information to go on. Elk had his idea of what had happened and I had mine. We went over both ideas once again, and had to admit we were at a loss for any sensible explanation. We added a brief description of these ideas to the time line we had just developed. My only idea was that it was not the poor dead woman who was keening and screaming. She was viciously attacked and would not have had time to utter those hair raising screeches. Also, from the stickiness of the blood, I am assuming that this atrocity was committed some time before the lamenting begain. So, I’m wondering who the other woman was. From the soprano timbre of the screeches and the absolute dejectedness of them, I, deduced that this second person was a woman and that she was emotionally involved with the dead woman. She was fond of her and she was heartbroken and probably scared silly. Elk wondered if this had been a lesson to someone. Of course, he didn’t know who. I certainly didn’t know. We both agreed that if this murder was to teach someone a lesson, it was a bit of overkill, to say the least. I told him that the mob usually did their dirty deeds quickly and cleanly. The illegal drug industry might be a bit more bloody, but not to the extent that this poor woman left her mortal coil. “What’s left?” I asked. Obviously, Elk Heart was in a pensive mood, when he didn’t answer, but stared at our little campfire as if the secrets were to be found in the flickering flames. I knew when I should shut up, so shut up I did and joined him in the staring-at-flames activity. At last, he stirred, said nothing and went into his little adjoining woods. I thought he was now meditating with the trees and such. Instead, I heard the liquid sound of Angel Falls and realized the big Indian just had to take a leak. Patience is my name, so I continued staring until he decided to return. At last he said, You have given careful thought to and covered several reasonable possibilties; however, there is one frightening one that must be considered. Remember when we were in Iraq and we saw evidence of what the Taliban and Al Quaida could do to the human body? Remember, too, that your weak Caucasian stomach could not accept these sights, and there too, you embarrased yourself by barfing all over the place? Since I am your closest best buddy, your weak stomach was an embarrasement to me too.” “Okay, okay!” I said. “I remember. And, yes, my stomach rebelled again. But, what has that got to do with this situation? “Well, Kimosabe, there are people, and you know this, who like to commit atrocities just because it is fun. These people are usually serial killers or, as we found in the Middle East, they use atrocity to prove their religious zeal.” |
This is a first draft. This is all there is. Collaboration makes it difficult.
|