Warped Reality

From the Stoa this day, I wish to unburden myself from all the "Politico" speak going about during this election season.

I have heard things that just make me want to sit down and shake my head. That there are reasonable and intelligent people among us in indisputable, I simply am having a hard time picking out the wise ones. Intelligence does NOT equal wisdom or a good and moral character.

So, here they are in no particular order:

Obama kills the XL pipeline that was to run from the Canadian oil shale and sand formations down to refineries in Texas. Local supply. Does not put money in the pockets of terrorists. Puts LOTS of people back to work on a major project.

He kills it because of environmental concerns in one state. Actually, one section of one state. Must have had something to do with the 68th avenue field mouse or something.

Then, as his union buddies finally get a clue and wonder why their man is making the unions pay for HIS support of the environmental nuts, he makes the statement, "I'm NOT against the pipeline. The GOP messed with things so bad I simply had to make them start the process for approval over again. Go ahead and start building the pipeline.

So, we are going to build a pipeline that, if Obama stays in office, will never flow with oil. Is he for the environment or against businesses that he does not control?

I recall a big dust up in New York a while back that was just like this. A new sky scrapper was going to be built and it was going to be so GREEN that it all would kneel before it in awe. Well, one element of this green-dream was waterless toilets. Wow, would that really save the environment. The plumbers then figured out that they were going to lose a lot of money on this. No toilet pipes? Wow. So they did what they do best. They threatened to walk out on the project unless this money somehow migrated to them. Paid for work they didn't do. It was worked out that they would run all the plumbing for the toilets, they simply would not be hooked up to either a water supply or the toilets.

What will future archaeologists think of this? Pipes that don't actually hook up anywhere? They may see it in both this building and the XL pipeline.

Second:

Romney continues his annoying march across the GOP landscape. I think what bugs me the most about him is that he will not accept responsibility for the universal health laws of Massachusetts. Not only does he not take full responsibility, but he feels that the law is good and affordable.

First, healthcare is horrible in that state. Second, it will fail under its own weight.

If Romney had stated, "The States are the experimental labs of the Republic. I admit that this experiment has not served the People the way it was intended. It was my mistake. A mistake that will not happen with me as President."

Bam, I would have liked him for that. Instead, he adopted the mantel of the slimy politician.

Third:

Obama hates oil and coal, but loves hybrid cars and solar panels. China makes solar panels cheaper than us and is killing our industry. They have more control over the rare earth elements needed to make these panels. Therefore, they make them cheaper. They even make them better. American companies, actually, companies that donate money to Obama, are getting huge handouts of my money to build an inferior product at twice the cost of Chinese panels. Yep, don't think this is sustainable, there, Obama.

Fourth:

The US will not support military action in Syria, despite sending drones and soldiers into Libya, Yemen, and other dirty little countries. Syria has killed civilians numbering to date nearly 10,000. Hillary and team keep denying Syria honey and lemon aid while their people are butchered. Yet Libya got all the help they wanted. Yemen has got all the help they wanted. What's up with that?

This Stoic is busy and must return to working for the tax man.

Peeone.

Live well.

--Zavost

The Unwashed of Lake Michigan

From atop the Stoa this warm winter night, I will spin the yarn ever again for our Moderator roaming the nation gauging the mental acuity of our population.

The road was choked with cars, walkers, bathers, bikes, and motorcycles leading into the Holland State Park. It took over an hour for the Moderator to inch his way into and through the toll booth. Another twenty minutes to find a parking space that was forever away from the iconic pier and lighthouse.

It was a warm Memorial Day. The sky was clear and there was only a gentle breeze. Though the water was still too cold to really enjoy, there were brave souls willing to wade into the cool waters of Lake Michigan.

The people were friendly and had come from all over the mid-west to enjoy the holidays on the sandy beaches of Western Michigan. Several had even gathered around him to get his autograph.

He went from umbrella to umbrella, listening to the conversations and arguments. Some were listening to radios. One person was talking to his wife about some riots that were going on in Stamford, Connecticut.

He was a little concerned, he owned a beautiful home just on the outskirts of Stamford. He paid people lots of money to keep his yard and home looking beautiful.

The older, well-to-do visitors were generally pretty good about answering questions and getting them near enough to right. Of course, there were those that seemed to live in their own reality.

Three girls were sunning themselves on the beach. Randal stepped on one because he was using the zoom function to look at another girl wading into the water.

After making apologies, the girls were happy to appear on the show.
"Girls, where is Canada?"
The one that had been stepped on answered, "it's like over near Wisconsin." Vaguely waving a hand out over the waters.

"It's near Wisconsin, you say? Is it near any other U.S. state?"

"Canada is a state, dufis," the girl stated full of confidence.

"Yeah," the other said. "It's up near Manitoba, Ontario, Quebec, Vancouver, Brunswick, and Alaska. You know, those are the most northern of the 57 U.S. States."

"57? America has 50 states and Canada is a country all of its own." The Moderator said, incredulously.

"If you say so," the third said in a very snotty tone. "You're going to say that Mexico is not a state either, next I'll bet."

With disgust, the Moderator turned away and began heading over to the pier.

There were people jumping off at the end, screaming and having fun. Boats of all sorts glided out of the channel and into the Lake.

He stopped at a gentleman who was fishing on a rock with his son. They looked to be of Hispanic decent.

"Excuse me, sir, but do you know who the President of the Russian Federation is?"

"Putin," he said.

"Actually, he is the Prime Minister, but no one else ever got that close."

"So, what is the Occupy Wall Street Movement about?"

"Well, people who have money, like you, need to share what you have with people like me. People who have no money." The man said evenly.

"I went to college for 6 years and took on $100,000 in debt to get my degree. I worked as an unpaid intern for years before I could collect my first paycheck. What did you do?"

"I was born poor and did not have the opportunity for an education like you. I didn't have the money to go to school like you. People like you have a natural advantage that I didn't have. It is only fair that you share. Mr. Obama will see to it that Social Justice is done."

The Moderator thought about that for a moment. "How can taking something against one's will and giving that something, we'll call it money, to someone who didn't earn it create Justice?"

"You must understand that I am not as educated as you, and though it is not your fault that I'm not educated, it is your responsibility to help your fellow human being."

The Moderator thanked him and moved on down the pier, a troubled expression on his face. Of the conversations he had that day, this one troubled him the most. This man may not have been "educated", but he understood how the world worked and he was going to take advantage of that world without regard to right or wrong.

Randal was using his camera to record the women on the pier. Many were beginning to model for him and ham it up, hoping to make it on TV.

Randal had forgotten that he was there to support the Moderator, obviously.

The Moderator continued to wander down the pier, lost in thoughts while enjoying the warm, pleasant weather.

At the end of the pier, a 30' tall tower was topped with navigation lights. He was looking at this light while overhearing a person talking to another one about riots in Stamford, CT. No one knew what they were rioting about.

"Who are the rioters?" The Moderator asked a man with an earbud.

"No one knows. There was just a huge crowd of people in a suburban neighborhood having a party. People kept joining and joining. Occupy People went there to try to take it over and they just sort of were swallowed by the growing crowd."

The Moderator whistled and shook his head. He wondered which of his friends in the field team were going to cover the event.

"Yeah, when they ran out of booze, they "invaded" nearby stores. Total anarchy. Mobs invading wealthy neighbors and taking whatever they wanted."

The Moderator said, "sure sounds like the OWS folks."

"Nah, there are no signs, no protest, no nothin', just a huge party that seems to be spreading like a revolution."

The Moderator grew more concerned since his home was in the area this man was talking about. "What about riot police and tear gas?"

They tried that this morning. The mass of people is too big to surround and the riot police that went in to bottle them up inside the newer neighborhoods just got swallowed up. Their vehicles just sort of disappeared within the growing mass of people."

"Is anyone getting hurt?"

"Nah, no guns, no news of anyone getting hurt. Just a frat party of biblical proportions."

He could hear Randal laughing, hitting on some of the women near the pillar.

Turning his disapproving eye towards Randal he walked over to him. "Stop that, Randal, you are on the clock."

Randal looked down and around to see if he was standing on a clock.

The Moderator smacked his forehead and ran his hand down his face. Disbelieving his ill fortune to be saddles with such a moron.

When he opened his eyes he saw a slight brunette woman standing in front of him, her hair wet and slicked back, her two piece swimsuit damp and dripping. A wry smile spread across her comely face.

The Moderator looked over her shoulder.

Randal lay face down on the cement, the camera crammed in his posterior.

The Moderator was so jolted that he leapt backward, off the pier and into the channel. In shock, he rolled over and swam towards the other end, away from the demonic figure of DeRoy, who simply stood at the side of the pier watching him.

The current was pulling him into the harbor and he swam hard for a ladder on the Allegan county side of the channel. A big cabin cruiser nearly ran him down. He choked on fumes and water in its wake.

Dumping his shoes and his light jacket, he made it to the ladder in his expensive shorts and polo shirt. Dripping and gasping, the Moderator stood nearly alone on the far side.

His eyes sought out DeRoy's form on the other side. He could not find her at first, until she stood up straight upon 30' pillar.

Gracefully, she dove off the pillar and into the channel with hardly a splash.

The Moderator twitched and sniffed at the channel side. He saw neither bubbles nor ripples from the water. A large boat passed by and churned up the water.

He took his eyes off the water for a moment and flicked his eyes back just in time to see her form shoot up out of a rising wake at the base of the ladder. When the wake subsided, she was gripping the ladder rungs and climbing steadily.

Screaming, he stumbled backwards and ran down the pier towards the beach. Stumbling over a log near the road, he looked back but could not see her.

He stepped on a rock in his sock-clad foot and yelped. His other foot slipped on some uncurbed dog poo. He pinwheeled down a slope fell backwards into a ditch, hitting his head on a rotting log.

His vision cleared, showing him a blue sky with no clouds. Trees swayed gently in the breeze. A sweet, angelic voice seemed to whisper in his ear, "Yah got yerself a real nice house. Yah, a real nice house."

Then it was gone. He didn't even hear a twig break.

He peddled a bicycle to a nearby marina where he called for a cab to take him to the airport in Grand Rapids. He was a sorry sight. Dog poo on one foot, bloody footprints from his other foot. Nicks, cuts, and scrapes adorned his body.

In the cab, he heard the radio go on and on about the riots in Stamford. Apparently the battle for the city had been lost. The National Guard had been called in to contain the situation, but it looked hopeless. Soldiers would come staggering back to their command posts, drunk or worse. Some had flowers stuffed in their shirts, others came back without shirts and graffiti marked up their backs.

No harm done, but lots of mischief. 10,000 soldiers were lost to the mob along with most of their equipment.

Finally, as he was pulling into the airport, reports had come in that more National Guard units had been brought in from New York to try to contain the mass party. Instead of confronting the party, they stopped cars from trying to approach the area. They also removed all alcohol and tobacco from a 50 mile radius around the party. Without the beer and alcohol trucks, the party goers would burn out the available party fuel.

His flight had to orbit JFK International airport for an hour while they made sure the runway was clear. Large mobs had broken free of the party in search of booze and an open Waffle House. They were easy pickings for the National Guard.

The party was burning itself out.

Hours later, a convoy took him to his home...or at least where he remembered his home. Like hundreds of other homes, his appeared to be a blackened and stripped husk.

Dropping him off at his door, the Moderator walked up the drive way. Where his front door was supposed to be, only an arch remained.

Sitting upon a soiled couch was a man in a flannel shirt, nursing a can of beer. Next to him, swinging idly in a hammock over what used to be his $10,000 television set, was another man smoking a cigar. They seemed to be expecting him.

The one in the hammock blew a smoke ring while glancing at the Moderator.

"DeRoy whas raht, you sur do have a nice house."

The Moderator turned and sat on his porch, his head in his hands.

From above, a news helicopter was surveying the area. The local news channel was saying that his house appeared to be the epicenter of the most destructive mob action in the history of mankind.

Oh, I hope you had as much fun reading this as I did writing it.

Live well.

--Zavost

Ongoing quest to Meet the vast Unwashed

Upon the Stoa this evening, I will continue with our Moderator discovering just how many of us live in the hinterlands...you know, that place that isn't the NorthEast and that place that isn't San Francisco.

The Moderator drove on his way North from New Orleans. Between having to heal from from his injuries and beating the "rape" charges against him, it was warm out. The sun beat down on his van as he drove towards Memphis, his camera man snoring loudly in the seat next to him.

He no longer had a sound man. None would go with him. He could not get a standard camera man either. None would go with him and none could be forced. They had all argued to their Union that going out with him was the equivalent of going out to cover war zones and therefore entitled them to HUGE pay raises.

So instead of a professional camera man with a $30,000 unit, he has instead, Randal, with a $2,000 HD hand unit with boom sound. A twenty year old putz just out of junior college. He actually was a junior college drop out with an uncle in the studio. Nepotism strikes again.

He was The Moderator, darn it. He deserved better. All he wanted to do was show America what the run of the mill person was like today. A big variety pack of idiots and hard working, honest folk...mixed in with the truly stupid and the geniuses.

Pulling into Memphis he found some kind of music arts fair going on. Over a loud speaker he could hear some song about the kinds of people that shop at Walmart. He'd heard it before. It was quite funny.

Instead of his $3,000 business suit, he wore more casual clothing. One, it was hot out, now, and two, he could run faster if that psychopath showed up.

Wandering around the crowd, he came across a gaggle of screeching teenagers. Careful not to touch their shoulders, he leaned over to them, "Good afternoon, ladies, I'm with the Moderator show. Can I ask you a few questions?"

An ear piercing scream of delight, which he took as permission, he asked the first question, "What grade are you in?" Jumping and giggling ensued.

"9th Grade!" More jumping.

"Have you had geography and politics yet?"

The jumping stopped.

"You mean like were stuff is and stuff?"

"Something like that. Tell me, what do you think about the oil pipeline that was supposed to cross through Canada and down into Texas?"

One girl stepped forward, seriousness on her face, "I think the States should have been allowed to make the decision, not the Federal Government."

The Moderator signed in positive relief. Someone smart to talk to, "Well, the States wanted it, and Canada wanted it. It was the EPA and other government agencies that told Canada, they didn't want it."

"Like, thats what I mean! The governor of Canada wanted it and it would have created more American jobs there...I mean, what the heck was he thinking?"

The girls all nodded their approval. The Moderator's brow creased a bit. He was missing something here, "The leader of Canada is a Prime Minister, not a Governor."

"No way, man, like, States have Governors, not Prime whatchamacallits," she stated with seriousness.

"Young lady, you do know that Canada is a country all on its own and not a State of the United States?"

She gave him a blank stare. Her friends looked blankly at the girl.

Coughing, the Moderator changed gears, "How about the environmental impact of diverting water from the desert Southwest back into the river system." The Moderator wanted to see if her environmental education was better than her geography.

What came forth was a 20 minute discussion, well thought out, if a bit misleading, on modern green theory concerning the watershed of the Great Divide.

Finally, he just had to cut it off, "Awesome. You know all about the web of life and the Grand Pueblo Sandy-Back Cricket, but nothing about Canada. Simply stunning."

After a quick sign-off he went back to the van. He looked about, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. He conducted a few more interviews and got some reasonably good answers out of them. He found those under 30 to shamefully educated and those over 50 to partisan knuckle heads who refused to see reality.

No sign of DeRoy. Perhaps she'd grown tired of torturing him.

"Randal, don't stare into the lens like that and quit cleaning your ears out with the microphone sponge," Lord but that kid was an idiot.

He drove to the affiliate TV station in Memphis and picked up a credential for a free hotel stay. He packed Randal off to do whatever it was he did when he wasn't around irritating him.

The Moderator looked around the hotel and saw nothing out of the ordinary. He went down to the gym/pool area with his gym bag, intent on working out the stress of both his job and his fear of slight brunettes.

He peered into the locker room. It was empty and smelled of Chlorine. He went to a locker that was out of view from the archway and put his bag on the bench.

He opened the locker and looked in the top to place his wallet inside.

The next thing he knew there was a battle cry and then blinding pain in his groin. He went down like hamburger in front of George Foreman.

Grunting through the pain he looked over and saw DeRoy emerge from the bottom half of the locker. She had waited in ambush for him and the punched him dead away into the groin.

"Y'all damn predictable yah dumb'ass."

She stepped over his near heaving and possibly vomitous form in her yellow Sun dress. He caught a glimpse of white cotton underwear with a small, red rose.

Angry and irritated, he ground out from his teeth, "Nice angle."

She whirled about and kicked him in the face. He rolled over onto his stomach only to feel her begin stamping him over and over in the butt and lower back. She growled incoherently while she continued to try to stamp him into the concrete.

With a puff of air, she finally twirled her skirt about as she turned and left the locker room.

She passed Randal on the way out. He had a blow pop stuck up his nose.

She turned about and looked up at him. Randal had no idea who she was and looked somewhat proud to have gotten her attention.

With blindingly fast reflexes, she snatched the blow pop from his nose. Blood fountained on the floor at his feet.

He stared at her, unbelievingly for a moment, not sure about what just happened.

With a flick of her wrist she shattered it at the point between his eyes.

"Ya moh'a'ron", she spat and walked out into the lobby and then back to the street as Randal's form slid slowly to the cool tiles of the floor. A pool of vomit slowly creeped in his direction from the Moderator.

Well, hope this was as much fun for you as it was for me.

Live well.

--Zavost

The Hitler Youth and Society-1965. An alternate view.

From atop the Stoa this day, I wish to contribute the 3rd part of the alternate musings from history. There are others, though I will wait to be asked before I distract from my other musings.

Enjoy!


Transcript #206.222-9
Gestapo file 22a9C
21 June 1965

TOP SECRET, CLASS 1

Cleared for release to Information Ministry by SS-Untersturmfuherer Lothar Ott

Source: Microphones from the Adolf Hitler Polytechnic University, Berlin, DreiesDeutchesReich.
Senior Homeroom class. Supplementary data from cameras and personnel informants.
Instructor: Albert Hoffbauer, Ph.D.

Class begins to fill in at 0743. Students arrive and stand next to their desks. There is no talking and no movement that the cameras record. The men and women are standing at attention.

Instructor arrives at 0800 and heads to his podium. He turns to the portrait of Fuehrer Adolf Hitler and extends his arm at the same time as the students. They then recite their oath to the Fuehrer and the Reich. The students then take their seats.

The instructor turns back to the class and clears his throat.
Instructor: Welcome, class, to your last day of classes. I am glad to see all of you here today.

[Class: Murmuring of thanks.]

Instructor: I want all of you to know just how proud I am of you. Everyone from this class will be graduating tonight, though we have lost many along this four-year path.
[An SS soldier enters the open class carrying a large briefcase]

Instructor: As I understand it, each of you received your post-University assignments last night. The soldier here has your official orders. [The instructor signs for the pile of envelopes]

Instructor: I would like nothing more than to be your age again! When I was your age I was soldiering in the wastes of Ural Russia. Sorry if I seem more personable now then during your time in school, but its over now. I can speak with you as equals. You are about to begin your life of service to the Reich!

[The instructor then begins handing out the envelopes, obtaining a thumbprint from each student on his recording tablet.]

Instructor: Please do not open your orders now, since you already know what you will be doing this time next week.

[The instructor then goes back to his podium and rolls it into the corner of the class. He then begins to mill throughout the student tables]

Instructor: We are not yet completely over, however. I want to make sure you all have been paying attention to me these last few years and will be taking a kind of oral examination of the class as a whole.

Instructor: I would first like to begin by asking, by a show of hands, how many of you will be going on to the Officers Cadet Academy across town next week?

Class: Twelve hands go up out of the class of 25.

Instructor: Good, good, I’m sure you will find your experience fulfilling and worthwhile. I never made it higher than corporal. I was conscripted in 1944 out of University to help put down the Bolshevik sponsored Slavic uprising in the Ostmarch, and later the Slavic uprising in the Northern Ural province. Because I did not attend the Academy, nor did my family come from a military background, and I had a degree in History and Teaching, the High Command felt I could better serve the Fatherland as a rifleman. Those are experiences I will cherish for the rest of my life.

[A hand goes up in the student body]
Instructor: Yes, Rolf?

Rolf: How could you be drafted into the infantry after you graduated University? You are too smart for that.

Instructor: You have to remember, Rolf that I pre-date the system that you grew into. In my day there was no standardized testing to channel talents toward proper life-goals. I chose to become a teacher. I was born in 1920; please keep the snickering to a minimum. I witnessed Austria join the Reich. I was also there to see the world stand in opposition to our cause. I tried to join the Navy, but was rejected because I have one bad ear. My family then enrolled me in University. My father felt that I could serve my country better by joining the ranks of Academia. I know this sounds strange to you, so I will try to explain.

[The instructor pauses for a moment]

Instructor: I know that most of you have, at least once, wondered how people could grow up in family units in family homes. Though the concept is repugnant to you, I assure you that when your first tour is up, you will be allowed to live in an apartment, away from your barracks life, perhaps even take a wife. I’m sure also, that some of you may have trouble adjusting.

Instructor: How many of you come from a Kindergruppe?

[All twenty-five hands go up]

Instructor: Of course, just checking. All of you are the product of the Reich’s eugenics program. As you all know, several American thinkers postulated the concept of Eugenics in the 1910’s. It was a hot topic in America until after our defeat in the Great War, and then it died out. The Americans had no idea how shortsighted it was to reject this concept. I was born into a conventional family in Saarbrucken. I had a mother and a father, plus two brothers and four sisters. We lived in a house inherited from my mothers’ father. A rather large home built in the 19th century. My father was too old to serve in the War of German Liberation, but I did lose both my brothers to the war. I had a sister killed in a partisan attack in Scotland in 1943. She was there helping to distribute food-aid to the Scots when she was killed by a sniper. Needless to say the SS garrison in the city made the locals pay for their treachery.

My father died in 1953 and my mother currently lives in an Altfrau home here in Berlin. I donated the family estate to the Wehrmacht in 1945 to use in a new training base they were constructing nearby. I was well compensated by the Reich, and even got a telegram of thanks from SS-Reichfuherer Himmler the next week.

[The instructor paces for a moment]

Instructor: None of you have a father or a mother in the conventional sense. You are all each other’s brother and sister. A wonderful advantage bestowed upon you by National Socialism. Each of your biological fathers was matched with a perfect biological mother. Each of you comes from a perfect Aryan background. Each of you is the peak of human health and intelligence. No longer will nature tinker indiscriminately with our genes. All of you were born of your mothers and then brought to a selected Kindergruppe. It is irrelevant whether or not your actual parents were married, despite Victorian or American moralists may say. All thirty or so of you had a Pack Mother to take care of you, plus a large group of Untermench to see to your other needs. When you were five you entered your school instruction. When you were eight you took your first aptitude tests. Some of your pack brothers and sisters may have moved into different packs then, which is normal. When you were thirteen, you took more tests. At that time, those less capable were routed into packs that would destine them for manual labor or labor-like skills. When you were seventeen, more tests came that separated you into the skilled and the professional packs. Those in the skilled packs would become hands-on-thinkers. Those of you, like all of you before me now, would go on to inherit the leadership of the Reich. You will become the Generals, the Doctors, and the Government leaders that will carry the German culture to all the corners of the world.

[The instructor paces back to the head of the class]

Instructor: All of you are part of the larger family of Germany. You don’t need the old-fashioned family. It just gets in the way. I could have been in London for the executions of Winston Churchill and Neville Chamberlain in 1940 if not for my father. I could have seen the capture and execution of Stalin in the Ural Mountains in 1944, again, if not for my father. I’ve always been angry with that.

[The instructor raps his knuckles on the desktop of a student]

Instructor: Can any of you tell me why it was necessary to invade Great Britain in August 1940?

[All twenty-five hands go up]

Instructor: Yes, Elizabet?

Elizabet: The government in England refused to sign a peace treaty with the Reich. They declared war on the Reich even though we had not harmed them in any way. Fuehrer Hitler had no alternative then to invade and put a stop to British criminal activities.

Instructor: And the operation that brought England into the Reich?

Elizabet: First Operation Sea Lion to invade the Islands, then Operation Overlord to purify the population.

Instructor: Correct. We lost 30,000 men taking the Islands, then another 55,000 men, women, and children while pacifying and purifying the population. It was in Overlord that I lost my sister. Erie became a protectorate of the Reich in 1941…so ended the great experiment of Great Britain.

Why else did we need to bring Great Britain into the Reich?

Instructor: Yes, Ernst?

Ernst: The United States had made its intents all too clear to the Reich by 1940. President Roosevelt had been goading the Congress into helping England and the French colonies resist our advances. If the Americans had been able to use England as a base, then it is likely that we could have lost the war.

Instructor: Germany loses the war to the Americans? Are you sure you want to be saying this?

Ernst: To be intellectually honest, one must look at all facts and factors. Until 1952 or 53, the Reich was having to assimilate and purify itself. New economic models had to be worked out. Had the Americans had an ally in the matter of England, then they would have had an unsinkable base with which to launch an invasion of our soil. We still had the Jews to deal with at that time, and both the radical and weak elements in our own society to root out. It is possible that the war could have ended differently for us if we had not secured our Western Theater of Operations prior to Operation Barbarossa.

Instructor: Absolutely correct, Ernst. Now that you bring up Russia, let’s talk about them, shall we?

Instructor: Can anyone explain to me how we came to invade Russia? I know that is a big question, so just stick with the highpoints.

Instructor: Yes, Heinrich?

Heinrich: It was historical destiny for us to reach into those lands. The Russians certainly weren’t doing anything with it. We needed living space, we needed the resources that they were squandering, and we needed the oil that the land had.

Instructor: Let’s divert for a moment and talk about oil. By the time Barbarossa was launched in June 1941, the Reich had already incorporated much of the Middle East such as Egypt, Syria, Iraq, and Persia. That is 85% of all the oil in the world. Why invade Russia?

Heinrich: The Vichy French tried to conquer the remaining British colonies in the area and botched it. We had to send in soldiers from Egypt to bolster their forces. Iraqi and Persian forces collapsed much faster than we could have hoped and we found ourselves masters of that land with very little in the way of troops. We then realized that we now faced Russia both in the East and the South. It would be easy to build up troops in the South without arising Stalin’s suspicions. Had we not had the Southern attack routs open, it is possible that we would have been forced to attenuate our Eastward thrust into Soviet territory. By January 1942 we controlled all of Russia West of the Urals.

Instructor: Good, good, but why did we have to destroy the Soviets?

Gerhard: [cutting in] They were a nest of Communist rats that if we had not crushed them when we did could have eventually over-run us with numbers. Those Slavs breed like rats and if not for our sterilization programs we’d be knee deep in them today. They make good servants and workers, but you can’t trust them with anything more than that.

Instructor: Excellent, Gerhard. Now, how do our Italian and Japanese allies fit into the Reich?

[Gerhard snorts]

Instructor: Yes Helmut?

Helmut: Italy had been a source of trouble all through the 1940’s, with one failed operation after another. We finally replaced Italian leadership in 1949. Italy has been a full Province since 1954, much like Bohemia, France, England, Wales, Scotland, and Nordicum. The Balkans and Marches still need to be colonized more before they can become full Provinces. The Middle East countries continue to be administered as Protectorates. The only country to have some independence from the Reich is India (by an agreement with Japan). The other supposedly ‘Neutral’ nations of Sweden and Switzerland were brought into the Reich in 1943.
The Japanese have been useful in that they have kept the United States’ attention for many years. The only blunder our Yellow allies have had to date is the ill-fated operation against Pearl Harbor in December 1941. Though the Yellow monkeys have been able to hold onto the Philippines, they were unable to hold onto Wake or Midway Island. They currently stare at the Americans across the demilitarized zone in Australia. Since President Truman signed the end of the war with the Japs, Australia has threatened to re-start the war almost every year.

Instructor: Quite right. Now, why have we not helped our little yellow friends in their war with America?

Instructor: Yes, Julia?

Julia: It is in our best interests to keep the Japanese distracted with the United States. The Japs have been trying to keep a grip on China since 1931, Philippines since 1942, French Indochina since 1942, and the Eastern Marches of Siberia since 1943. Japan is a small nation with a smaller percentage of its population able to serve overseas. While they fight just to hold on to what they have, we continue to integrate our populations and industries. Also, the U.S. will not be permitted to defeat Japan.

Instructor: How so?

Julia: Since the treaty ending the war with America in 1942, we have been able to purify Europe and put the people to work on a number of technological inventions that the rest of the world cannot match, even today. America knows that if they seriously threaten our interests in the world, then we can drop Atomic Weapons on their cities, either with long-range bombers (of which only us and the United States have that can cross the Atlantic and return), or with Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles. It is simply impossible for the Americans to harm the Third Reich without also causing their country to be destroyed. We have existed like this now since 1946, the year we successfully tested our new Atomic Weapons. Only America has been able to duplicate our Atomics. It is also America that has tried to keep pace with our Space Program.

Instructor: Now that you bring up the space, lets talk about the Space Station.

Instructor: Yes, Philip?

Philip: The Reich was the first to put a man into orbit in 1956. Since 1958 we have sent probes to the moon and the inner planets. We currently have a 23-man crew on Space Station Von Braun, which was finished in 1962. They are constructing the vessel that will send our people to the moon. The Americans have put people into space, but they sent a Monkey first. Only they would send a monkey to do a mans’ job [snickers fill the class].

Instructor: Yes, yes. The American program has met with many, many setbacks. Even though it was an American who invented modern rocketry, it was the citizens of the Reich that perfected them. The Americans are trying to go directly from the Earth to the Moon without the use of a platform, and they may succeed, but to what end? Gather some rocks and put one, maybe two men down at a time? What is the point? We will go there to stay. We will spread ourselves throughout the planets.

Instructor: Ok, back to Russia for a moment. The Americans say that our superiority only comes about through the brutal terrorization of lesser peoples. How do you speak to that?

Instructor: Yes, Lothar?

Lothar: I’m sorry, but I’ve never understood how the Americans can think that we are doing anything original, or originally bad. Wasn’t it the European Americans that systematically exterminated the Native Americans? Didn’t they push them first onto reservations and then into near-oblivion? Hypocrites. I can’t even debate with an American unless I can get him to admit that the Indians deserved what history gave them. We have done to the Untermench nothing less then what they have done to the Indians. We have just taken things to their logical conclusion faster. Have we missed the Jews? No. Have we missed the Gypsies? No. Have we missed all those Slavs? No. They serve a useful purpose working in our factories and doing all the jobs we don’t wish to do. Darwin had it all right. We have been endowed by evolution with superiority. Nature selected that these lesser races become extinct. We just help it along. The Slavs and other non-Aryans make useful servants, nothing more. We tame the Slavs with our Wehrbauern (warrior farmers) and develop the land for useful purposes.

Instructor: Excellent, class. Now, have any of the women in the class been selected for the Eugenics Program?

[Three of the twelve women in class raise their hands and one man]

Instructor: Don’t worry; I’m sure that all of you will be allowed to have children in your lifetime. Sorry, Adolph, I didn’t mean to exclude you. It is quite an honor to be selected right out of University. I hope you all have many, many children. We need to fill the ranks of the Wehrbauern and pacify the eastern territories. That is best accomplished by growing our population exponentially.

Instructor: Well that is enough of that. Since this is your last day, and you all have worked hard to get here, I will allow you all to socialize with the other graduating packs today. You are all free to mix throughout the school. I cannot begin to tell you all how proud I am of you. Next week I will get another pack to educate, and you all will be embarking on your new careers. I release you.
Instructor: Heil Hitler.

[Class stands and raises their right arms]

Class: Heil Hitler!

Instructor: Heil Fuehrer Bormann!

Class: Heil Fuehrer Bormann!

Recording ends.

Note: This document will dissolve in ten days. Do not photocopy or otherwise duplicate under penalty of banishment.

Russia, 1944. Alternate Historical Musings

From the Stoa I again bring to you a story from the vaults. This is a musing about how things would have gone had Hitler had a clue and let his generals run the Soviet front. This is part of the 3 part story arc that goes to 1965. A world where Nazi German won WWII.

Enjoy.



Hunting in the Urals


Sturmbanfuherer Eric Jaeger watched the golden leaves on the tree behind the Russian soldier. He figured it to be about 15 knots from the North West.
Almost imperceptibly, he reached over and clicked his sights two to the right. He looked back through his scope. The red star on the soldier's garrison cap was centered in his "T" sights. Slowly, he dropped his rifle back down to the barrel support.
It wasn't this man's time yet. Patience. Patience. The job and duty of a sniper was to cultivate patience. Eric sipped on a canteen of water while he sized up his target.
In front of him was a small helipad base on the east slope of some god-forsaken mountain in the Urals. It was suspected that there was a larger complex beneath this Siberian forest. Intelligence was darn sure that Comrade Molotov was holed up in there somewhere. An entire Brigade was somewhere east of his position, both on the surface and below, mapping out the maze of caves they had discovered. It was hoped that Molotov and his advisors would attempt to escape the noose that was slowly tightening in on them. That was why Eric and his squad of snipers had been deployed along this ridgeline. They would be forced to escape this way, and then he'd have the honor of adding Molotov to his list of hits.
It was fall, 1944. Stalin had been executed just six weeks earlier. Foreign Minister Molotov assumed the First Chair of the Communist Party with barely a bump. The resiliency of the Russians surprised him. European Russia had been under the Reich's control since December of 1941. The decision that then befell Herr Hitler and the General Staff was where to draw the line? Do they stop west of the Ural Mountains or do they push on and hold the mountains and keep the Russians to the East of the range. The call had been for taking the mountains. He assumed some Industrialist who had Himmler or Goebbels' ear had really made the decision. The Urals were known to have significant resources that the Reich could exploit. So in he went with over two million other soldiers. The cost in manpower to take the mountains, or at least most of them, had been more costly than conquering European Russia. There always seemed to be a Russian behind every rock, up every tree, and under every plank of wood. It wasn't until last fall that the range was nominally safe and the hordes of Russians kept to the East.
His attention was brought back to the Helicopter that dominated the pad. A team of technicians was laboring to change out some part on the motor. At least it would not be going anywhere anytime soon. He marveled that the Russians even had spare parts, let alone helicopters. Though they were working like mad to get industry back on its pre-war footing, the Reich would never allow anything overt. To drive that point home, Novosibirsk and Yakustk had vanished in nuclear clouds of gas and dust by a Reich wonder weapon. He simply could not believe how many new gadgets the brains in the Reich were turning out, seemingly, every day. The Russians had dug into the permafrost and into the sides of mountains to hide their activities, but the new satellites the Reich had been putting out in space could detect the thermal activity. The sites never lasted long after being noticed by the eyes in space.
Eric heard a field telephone ring in the alcove leading down. It always amazed him how sound could travel. From three hundred meters away he could almost hear what was being said. The buzz of activity that followed the short conversation told him that they must be aware of the strike team in the tunnels below the countryside. The technicians began putting the part back into the engine and throwing the new part back into cabin of the 'copter. He figured it would take at least ten minutes put all the little pieces parts back together.
He felt, rather then heard some far off explosion. The rock shelf he was on conducted the shock waves well.
He flipped on the throat mike and mumbled his orders to his squad, "Target will be coming soon. Our boys are squeezing them out of the hole. Do not fire unless you positively ID your target. If it looks like we can't tag him, take out the helicopter."
Two clicks answered him back from the members of his team.
Eric began to set himself up when a long burst from a Russian submachine gun stopped him short. The location was difficult to gage, as the echoes came back at him from several rock faces. A few moments went by when he heard the sharp reports from a Lugar and a hand grenade. The sounds were from his left and higher up the cliff face. Either a Russian patrol must have come across one of his men, or his man must have been posted near a hidden egress point. Either way, it was over soon. All he heard after that was guttural, angry Russian orders being barked in every direction.
Eric continued to keep his eyes on the helicopter. He knew that the patrols would be scrounging the whole area looking the rest of his team.
A grenade dropped past him to the trail below. It detonated with a hollow thump. Shots began to pick up in tempo as furious Russians fired wildly into any nook and cranny that may house a sniper.
He heard and felt boots thumping hard over the rock shelf over his head just as soldiers began to boil out of the underground den. He brought his rifle up just as several of the Russian soldiers in the front dropped. Bullets began to tear into the mountainside. Some found their marks in their comrades who were searching the cliff face. The helicopter was not yet ready to fly, so the soldiers began to retreat back into the ground.
The unmistakable roar of a Sturmgewher preceded half a dozen Russians tumbling down the hillside. Another one of his men was fighting for his life above him. The fight did not last much longer then the last, though the Russians paid far more dearly for it.
Several explosions rocked the ground beneath him. Molotov's guards had run into the German strike team. There was confusion as they did not know where to turn. Out where the snipers were prowling, or back into the fight underground.
He caught a glimpse of Molotov through the crowd. The remainder of his team must have seen him as well. This close quarter action must have unnerved them because they began firing indiscriminately into the pack, hoping for a kill.
Sturmgewhers began going off all around him as the Russians routed out his men. His patience paid off. Just as a knot of Russians were working their way up to his position he had a clear head shot. He hardly thought of pulling the trigger. The rifle bucked under his shoulder of its own volition and Molotov's brains exploded all over the nearest guards.
A furious Russian threw a hand grenade at his hole. He swatted the grenade out of the air like an American Base Baller, letting go of the sniper rifle in mid-swing. He pulled up his assault rifle and blazed away at the mob charging his position. He wondered idly if the strike team would push its way out this far and save his team. The thought was fleeting as several more grenades came his way and his clip ran empty.



Frau Jaeger placed fresh flowers in the vase next to a color portrait of her son. An oak and glass case was on the wall above. The jewel of the case was in the center. A posthumous Knight's Cross with Swords and diamonds. It was probably the greatest military award the Reich could give. A letter signed by the Fuehrer himself was in an envelope behind the case.
Herr Jaeger was the proudest man in the block of flats. He sat in the window light, reading his newspaper. He hardly spoke much these days except to extol the virtues of their only son. She gave the vase some more attention and then turned to fix him his tea. She wanted her son back, hero or no hero. Only one soldier from her son's special unit returned. It was that soldier that relayed the story of how her son killed Molotov. It was also he that described her son's last moments. Sometimes she wished that she didn't know. She didn't want to know that he personally killed more than twelve of the enemy. She didn't want to know that when his ammunition ran out that he clubbed a Russian while pulling out his combat knife. She didn't want to know that he went down under a pile of bayonets and rifle butts. Why did that mother get her son back and she did not.
She put the right amount of sugar in her husband’s tea and stirred it silently. She knew she had grandchildren, though she would never know them. Her son was so proud when he was selected three times to sire children. He got three free trips to different places within the Reich: Norway, Egypt, and England. She wondered if they were German or just Aryan. It was hard to tell the difference these days.
She didn't like the way things were anymore. The government took their house for some reason or another and moved them into these communal flats. They were luxurious compared to where they once lived, but she didn't like the idea that they didn't own land any longer. She wasn't even sure if they owned the flat. What was to become of the family? Not just her family, but families in general? The new term these days was 'Wolf Packs' that were organized into 'dens'. No more fathers, no more mothers, just den masters and pack leaders. Who would ever lament the loss of a soldier’s life; or any life for that matter with no family to care for or about you? Life was regimented and took on the aspect of institutionalized conscription. No more grandmothers, no more grandfathers. The fool she was walking the tea out to did not seem to grasp that side-effect of the new ways.
She wanted her son back. She wanted to know her grandchildren. She wanted them to share the holidays with her. She wanted to spoil them and hug them and play with them. But it just wasn't to be. They would proceed down the Reich's human assembly line. They would either become soldiers or scientists, government prefects or government breeding stock. To what end she couldn't tell. Hopefully she wouldn't be alive long enough to see it.
"Hey, Argentina and Brazil just signed an alliance with the Reich!” her husband told her as she started to hand him the tea. Great, she thought, more meat for the machine.
"Now, if we can just pacify those damn Indians and South African darkies we'll shut the Americans out of the major shipping lanes."
She wished she would've dumped the scalding tea in his lap.

---

A Midwinter's Meandering

From atop the frost covered Stoa I would like to spend some time waxing about my friend DeRoy and The Moderator.

The TV flickered from station to station. The Hospital had a good cable package, though he didn't care for the "soothing sounds" channel.

He surfed down a channel. A woman's hands cracked an egg into a bowel of flour. A pinch of salt followed.

"Nah you fold the flour over thah egg and you keep doin' dis until you git a dough ball," the camera pulled back onto a rather comely young woman with dark, shoulder-length hair. She smiled broadly into the camera, the stage lights glinting in her eyes.

DeRoy! He flicked the channel to a music video while looking at his IV bag. There was some pain medication but nothing that should make him hallucinate.

A model danced next to a burning tree with flaming butterflies fluttering about. Crazy things the kids watch these days. The model turned as she danced and DeRoy again winked and nodded from the TV screen.

FLICK.

What the heck? Why was she everywhere?

The Weather Channel was up next and there she was again. Talking about the cold front moving through the mid-west. Her accent was still there, but less so in this personification.

FLICK.

Everywhere he flicked she was there.

"Loving wife, honored military hero. Expert wine collector and three time, ballroom dancing champion." A portrait of DeRoy took up most of the TV screen. The narrator showed pictures from a lifetime of service, though all the pictures and video was that of the same, 17 or 18 year old, petite DeRoy.

CLICK. The TV went blank.

Looking out of his door, he could see some doctor filling out paperwork at a desk. DeRoy glanced up at him and went right back to her work. Another DeRoy pushed a cleaning cart past his door.

Resigned to his hallucinations, he only flinched slightly when his nurse, looking like DeRoy padded silently into the room. His bed was elevated and she only came chest high to his mattress. He wondered if he was looking at her belly button or her eyes in real life since he remembered his nurse to be much taller.

She pulled out a syringe and tapped out the air bubbles. She wiped off the IV shunt with alcohol and inserted the needle.

"Now, you relax you som'bitch. You'all will pay for crossin' me," she whispered into his ear as his eyes rolled back in his head.

DeRoy walked in the hallway and looked around at the staff. No one paid her much attention. She rounded the corner and entered the staff locker room. She pulled up her blouse and pitched it at the woman tied up in the shower.

"Ah, quit yer whimperin'," she said as she flicked her shoes at the women as well.

She turned to an open locker and redressed. Almost as an afterthought she turned back to the woman in the shower. An 8" blade flicked out from a holster on her wrist and severed the bonds in a single swipe.

With a whip of her short hair, she vanished out the door chuckling.

After the alarms had been called off and the searched found nothing, the nurse went back to the room where The Moderator slept. As she neared the bed she dropped the tray of food she was carrying.

The Moderator lay in bed, a Sharpie had been used to draw a mustache and beard on his face. Drawn in wire-rimmed glasses completed the set.

His head had been super glued to the pillow. Safety pins had been inserted around his gown, pinning him to the bed. His toe nails had been painted as well. From the looks of it, they were blue with white skulls.

Stupefied, she slowly reached into her pocket and pulled out her iPhone. She slowly began to take pictures.

I hope you enjoyed.

Live well.

--Zavost

Alternate History Musings Part 1

From atop the Stoa, there has been a request for me delve into the vaults and pull out some prior work for republishing. These were mostly musings on my part to twist certain threads of history and then extrapolate the results. I will publish one each day.

If you really think on these, you will see the validity in these. Enjoy.



An American Reporter in the 3rd Reich. October, 1947.

The landing was as smooth as the whole flight. He almost resented the flawless flight in from New York. The brand new transatlantic jets the Reich had built were incredible machines. Huge, two jet engine craft, he almost could not believe that the thing could fly. But fly it did. He flew from New York to London, then on here to the Adolf Hitler International Airport. The service was polite, the food first class. He really resented the Reich. He could not abide this evil country.

He stepped off the plane and moved toward customs along with the two hundred and fifty other passengers. He turned over his brief case to the customs agent. Of course all they saw was his boxes of pencils and pens and notebooks. His bags, he was sure, were being rifled again, even though the Germans had already done that back in London.

After his bags cleared it was his turn with immigration. He was relieved to hand over his passport to a gray uniformed officer instead of the more ominous black. They were marginally better than the SS.

The officer took the passport without comment and studied the picture and the immigration tabs. He noted the typewriter keyboard that the officer worked on simply had a cord going into the wall. A green monitor looked back at him and seemed to be telling him what he wanted to hear. The officer handed back his passport with a curt, “Welcome back to the Reich, Mr. Redding. Please remember to wear your credentials at all times when in public.”

John Redding embarrassingly pulled out his “reporter” nametag from his kaki trench coat and stuck it into his fedora. Before he could turn to leave the officer stopped him with a raised finger, “It is to be clipped to your left breast pocket in plain view at all times. Please remember you are not in Detroit any longer, Mr. Redding. Move along, please.”

John pulled the tag off his hat and clipped it to his coat. Those Nazis don’t miss a detail, he thought to himself. The officer’s English was near perfect too. He added that to his list of resentments.

His bags were coming out on the baggage conveyer down the hall from customs. The airport, like everything else in the capital, was huge and imposing. All slate gray floors and marble walls. Romanesque columns stretched down the hallway, seemingly forever.

He slung his briefcase over his shoulder and bent down to begin pulling his bags. The first had his clothes; the second was a heavy trunk that had his typewriter safely stored away. Before he could even set down the trunk, a dolly appeared next to him. A Slavic man quickly began to pull the trunk first, then the bag onto the two-wheeled hand dolly.

John had been coming to Berlin to report for the Detroit Sentinel since the peace treaty with Germany had been signed with President Roosevelt in 1942. He knew enough how things worked here not to protest this man’s help. Without a word the man pushed the dolly quickly toward the cabby port, some quarter of a mile away. His pace was not uncomfortably quick, but it was efficient. Everything about the Reich was efficient.

His head swiveled about on his neck, taking in the sights as they made their way to the taxi. The only thing that had changed since he had gone home for a vacation was the massive photo-posters of Hitler and Goebbels, side by side, staring at him from everywhere. Of course Herr Hitler would have to die while he was home. Of course the Reichstag, according to Hitler’s will, would name Dr. Goebbels the new Fuherer. Every time he went home something important happened. The last time he went home, in 1944, the Nazi’s had captured and executed Comrade Stalin.

By his standards, the airport was busy, though you really didn’t notice it since the architecture was so incredibly imposing that the people seemed like so many ants going about their day. Statues rose everywhere, paintings adorned the higher walls. Murals of the mighty Aryan looked out at him on some walls; their faces indistinct and their features larger than life. Some of them reminded him of the “Oscar” handed out to the stars in Hollywood. Hitler had certainly given Dr. Speer a blank check when he said he wanted the best airport in the world.

German soldiers marched about here and there. The majority of them seemed to be catching flights to take them to some part of the vast German Empire. Most were carrying their bags over their shoulders (the Untermensch were not allowed to carry the bags of a soldier). His bag handler took a few extra steps to the side of the hallway to allow for a small group of black uniformed SS pass by. It was always good to give those fellows extra room. He then noticed his bag handler fix his eyes and face firmly on the floor in front of him and practically sink into the floor. John looked up to see a single, black uniformed Totenkopf soldier walk by. Even the gray uniformed Wehrmacht seemed to jostle among each other to allow for as much room as possible between their persons and the silver skull. Even John felt something cold in his stomach as that thing walked by. It was hard for him to recall the man in the uniform. All he could see was the silver skull glinting in the sunlight.

John mentally shook himself. He is just a man. A very evil man, but a man nonetheless. No point in attributing superhuman abilities to him. He’d heard rumors about them. He’d heard stories about the Eugenics programs. He’d heard about the Einsatzgruppen that terrorized the colonial territories. Those special groups were responsible for ‘purifying, pacifying and cleansing’ the conquered areas. They were the ones who decided how old and sick a person could be prior to euthanasia. They sat on panels that decided which babies would live and which would die. They headed quality control in the Eugenics programs. Those men bore the Silver Skull. Only god knew how many millions were buried in pits and shell holes, or how many were burned up in city-sized crematoriums. He’d heard about the concentration camps, but he could not verify them. Even if he could, he couldn’t get it printed back home. The Truman administration was not about to enflame relations with the Reich. He’d also never be permitted back into the Empire. Hell, he was sure that some Nazi sympathizer (of which their seemed to be millions in America) would murder him in his sleep if he ever published proof. So, he just stuck to the mundane. He’d win no prizes, but at least he would live.

They arrived at the taxi stand quickly. No sooner had he arrived then a large sedan pulled right up to the curb for him. The trunk popped and the Slav began to quickly and efficiently pack his bags. The Slavic man was well dressed in the airport uniform. Clean and well shaved, even at 4pm. The man seemed to have no desire in this world other than to complete is task without attracting attention; anyone’s attention. No sooner had John even looked at the man then he shut the trunk and trotted off back toward the baggage terminal.

The taxi driver, also, was efficient in getting him from the airport to his hotel room. The driver spoke English. He started off in English, which told him that he knew John was an American (he didn’t think he stuck out), or the driver already knew who his fare was. It didn’t matter either way to him. This was the most paranoid nation on Earth, and he was smack in the heart of the beast. He was sure he’d have the same Gestapo officers following him. It was always the same two guys. He was also pretty sure that they were British from the way they spoke to each other. He could never hear them, but they animated in a way that the regular, cold-blooded, German SS-Gestapo never would. They’d been his minders for several years now and he’d never said a word to them. It was probably better that way.

They arrived at his hotel on Kriegstrasse in short order. A Slavic bellhop sprinted out of the hotel and grabbed his bags. The taxi was gone before he could even thank the driver.

He stood on the sidewalk for a moment, sizing up the block. It hadn’t really changed much in the three months he was gone, except for their being more swastika-festooned flags. They hung everywhere, from poles and windows and even storefronts. The streets had not a bit of litter and the sidewalks had not a single piece of gum spotting it. There were no homeless in sight, and no paupers. There never were. He’d asked about them to some really young store clerk once and she just stared at him with wide eyes, eventually telling him that there weren’t any dispossessed in the Reich. Everyone had a job commensurate with his or her abilities. National Socialism saw to it, of course.

​

He noticed the corner café was open. The café sat on the corner of a large plaza. He would sit there on hot summer days sipping beer and eating bread while he wrote his pieces. He decided to walk over there and soak up the atmosphere for an hour or so. His bags would be in his usual room, no doubt about that. The hotel supervisor would put his name in the book and note the time and date of his arrival. He would sign off on it when he returned.

Someone unfamiliar with how the Reich worked would have wondered why he didn’t tip the airport baggage handler, nor did he pay or tip the taxi driver or the bellhop. Under National Socialism, individual pay for service was illegal. Everyone received his or her pay from the State. Any money that changed hands under the table was likely to get you a ticket to the Eastern Territories either as a farmer or a soldier. Either way was as harsh as a death sentence.

He sat at his favorite table. It was right on the corner where he could see down two streets. Foot traffic was brisk, but by no means busy.

The German waiter came out and took his order. There was only one other person eating outside that evening. It was a little brisk out. The streetlights were coming on and the people were hurrying to get home. All in all, it was going to be a pretty October night.

He pulled out his notebook and a sharpened pencil and laid it out on his table, positioning his plate of cookies and coffee so as not to get in his way. He just sat there sipping on his coffee for a good twenty minutes before he even wrote the date, “October 21, 1947. Dateline Berlin, Third Reich.”

He watched people walk by, eavesdropping on what they were talking about. He was fluent in German. He studied it in the University and perfected it with five years of living in country.

Normally, he never picked up much this way. This society was so closed and careful. He doubted husband and wife ever had an honest conversation. Usually, what was interesting was what they didn’t talk about. There was hardly a mention of Hitler or his successor. They talked about their day-to-day problems. Which family member was on the Eastern Front, who was posted in the deserts of North Africa, or who was guarding an oil pipeline in northern Iraq. Women talked about boyfriends or husbands. Some of the women talked about their Genetic-mates. Nobody would ever talk to him about them, but he figured that they were the other half in the Nazi Eugenics programs. He knew that the overwhelming percentage of these relationships were emotionless. They were simply performing their duty for National Socialism. The children were raised Spartan style in great packs, calling some barracks building their home.

Almost on cue he saw a group of six of these children. They looked professional in their Hitler Youth uniforms. They walked in two files of three, just like a small platoon. He was careful to keep the disapproving shake of his head to himself. He wondered what the world was going to look like when these children began running things. Right now the oldest of them were no older than 14 or so. He finished his beer quickly to take his mind off the retreating backs of the pack of teenagers. He was sure he’d never see anything like that in Des Moines or Dallas. Then again, this very sight could be had in cities like London, Dublin, Rome, Oslo, and Moscow. Entire generations of millions of children were growing up to worship the recently deceased god in the form of Adolf Hitler. He prayed to any god who may be listening that he never saw this in America. Boy Scouts but Nazified.

He folded up his notebook and slid back from the table. He was uptight about something that he could not put his finger on.

He figured he would go back to his room and write next to the window. He had an excellent perch to watch Berlin walk by. Maybe he could focus there.

As he thought, six other people had checked into the hotel after he had. The clerk had kindly written his name in and delivered his bags to his room.

Putting down his bag on one of the living room tables he headed for the window table. It was already open, with a newspaper and a pot of tea, steaming gently in the cool evening breeze.

He sipped it carefully, knowing it was still hot. They always seemed to know when and where he would be. God, he hated this place.

Where did it all go wrong? He thought, while he tapped his pencil on the note pad. The story was mostly written, but it lacked anything interesting. Oh, it gave the dates, names, and other notable facts about the death, of natural causes of course, of Herr Hitler, and the succession of “the Dr.”. It was dry and would not get him in trouble. But what had Hitler and Germany done right, and what had the rest of the world done wrong?

He knew that his story was full of half-truths and downright falsifications. His sources told him that Hitler had actually died of Parkinson’s disease. That he had been sick with it for some time, going back to at least 1940, and that Dr. Goebbels had been running the Reich for at least the last two years.

He wondered how things would have been different if Herr Hitler had not overcome his phobia of naval operations and not invaded Britain in August of 1940. Hitler had tried to negotiate with Mr. Churchill, and could not understand why he was being rebuffed. The invasion was more of a defensive measure than an offensive. Germany simply could not make the same mistake they made in 1914. If Britain would not sign a peace treaty, then they would be forced to join the Reich. The invasion was hard and costly, but not as bad as German High Command had envisioned. By the time June 1941 came around, Scotland and pockets in Wales were the only areas still resisting. Hitler tried repeatedly to come to peaceful terms with the regional leaders but to no avail. This forced Hitler to spend most of his energy on the United Kingdom, while his generals ran the war against the Soviet Union. He attempted to solve the English problem with a combination of politics (his specialty) and the military, while the Eastern Front was the simple application of brute force. Would things have been different if the “corporal” had run the war in Russia? He didn’t know.

Would America ever catch up with the Reich in terms of technology? The Germans were years ahead in Jet and Rocket technology. They already had transatlantic jet flights from London to New York. The Americans were just now constructing efficient jet engines. They were not putting them on large passenger airplanes yet. The German rocket program had already been putting up sub-orbital packages on larger and larger rocket motors. In the next few years, he was sure; they would be putting humans up in space. The Germans, it was thought, already had rockets powerful enough to go up to sub-orbit and then fall back to Earth wherever they wanted it to land, such as on New York or Washington D.C. Couple that with the new Atomic weapons that the Germans had invented and you truly had a nightmare scenario. John felt that the only reason why the U.S. did not press the war was fear of this weapon being used on American soil. The Germans have been exploding these terror weapons since 1944, in the Soviet territories of course.

John tapped the paper so hard the pencil lead broke. That is why he has been so uptight. The Nazis were evil. The Nazis were a virus within the human condition, bringing out the worst that a nation could possess; yet the liberty seeking Americans were wary of how they dealt them. The Americans, who had nearly two centuries of liberty behind them, feared the Germans and their near ability to exterminate all life on the planet. It just was not fair.

On the surface, the standard of living in the Reich was phenomenal. During the war there were sacrifices, of course, but since the end of the major ground campaigns, there was not a single nation on the planet that could match the individual wealth of Germany. This was bought with the lives of over 200 million souls, a conservative estimate he thought. Any ethnic group in the Reich that was not Aryan was of the servant class. How long could this last?

He finished his story and put it in a special envelope. The government censors would go over it to ensure its “accuracy” and then they would give it back to him with an approval. He would then transmit it over the wire for printing back home. This would all take place tonight. German censure offices never closed, not even on this holy holiday. The paper had to get out, and it was on a deadline. All he had to do was take it down to the street corner to the local office and pay a small fee. The go back to his room and look for the next story. A story that, hopefully, would not get him censured or killed.

God, he hated this place

Meeting the Great Unwashed Pt. 3

Upon the Stoa, I will once again put the serious issues of the day to the side in order to make the teenagers in our local High School laugh.

The sun rose over the Mississippi river. The dawn was warm and pleasant. The morning was busy as patrons ordered big fancy breakfasts at the restaurant along the river. This was an older crowd. In a place like New Orleans, the young would be hung over and in bed.

The Moderator moved from table to table growing more frustrated at the obvious ignorance of the population. Because his show targeted the intelligent and the educated he had no idea that the general population appeared so far below the curve.

He came to a table with a single couple in their early 60s. They were well dressed and just finishing up their breakfast.

"I'm with the Moderator Forum and I'd like to ask you a few questions." The couple seemed happy to be involved in the program.

"What do you think about the President's latest budget proposal?"

The woman spoke up first, "If the Congress will just pass his legislation then things will get better. If the fat cats in Wall Street will just get behind his proposals and pay their fair share, then we can heal as a nation."

The Moderator was delighted that he had someone intelligent to talk to, "Financial experts say that adding $1.3 trillion debts for the next 10 years will ruin the country, so should his proposals be passed without further thought?"

The woman looked like she had eaten a lemon, the man chuckled silently. "I am a lawyer and I'm familiar with the way the economy works. You are a journalist. What can you know of, let alone understand, the larger world." She said with a fairly condescending tone.

The Moderator, non-plussed, went on, "The United States became wealthy and powerful on real growth and productivity. The debt being proposed in next year's budget is more than all the years of this nation's debt since before Obama."

"Why you racist! The country has been ruined and it will take unprecedented, even heroic measures to save it!!" She was quickly incensed by the Moderator's even-toned question.

"Ma'am, if the goal is economic growth, you don't take all the money from the rich, saddle the middle-class with generational debt, and enslave the poor on government hand-outs. The issue is growth, not the inequities of income." The Moderator thought that this well-reasoned, intellectual discussion should spur on further, deep debate.

Instead, a half drank glass of orange juice slashed him straight in the face and down his $2,000 suit. "Come on, Dan, I can't listen to this bigot any more!" The woman stamped away from the table, the man throwing money quickly down on the table. The man refused to make eye contact with the Moderator.

Coward, he thought.

Wiping the orange juice from his suit, he turned to the camera man, "Boy, I hope this day gets better."

The camera man gestured to the back of a broad brimmed sun hat to his left.

The Moderator straightened his suit and placed his left hand on the woman's shoulder, "Ma'am, I'm with...aaaaaaahhhhh"

The woman snatched his hand and twisted two fingers back until they broke. She screamed, "HEP, HEP, I'M BEING RAPED!!" She let go of his hand only after pulling him to one side, where he had to catch himself by dropping the microphone and gripping the wooden table. A fruit carving knife followed, pinning his hand fast to the table.

The woman spun over and fell into the arms of a group of University fraternity men. The one group in the city not drunk.

"LOOK AT MAH BLOUSE, HE WAS GRABBIN' AT ME!"

Through the mayhem and the pain, the Moderator barely saw the blue and gold shirts that hurled over the table at him. For a moment he saw the greek letters: Alpha Tau Omega and then his hand tore free from the table.

He must have blacked out because the next thing he knew, there were flashing blue lights in his eyes. A woman, sobbed while speaking to a policeman, her large brimmed hat fluttered in the breeze, showing shoulder length black hair.

The next time he woke up he was in a New Orleans hospital being treated for two broken fingers, a severe laceration of the right hand, a broken nose, blown eye orbit, crushed cheek bone, three broken ribs, and two missing teeth.

Sitting next to him was a Louisiana State trooper informing him, now that he was conscious, that he was under arrest for assault and attempted rape.

How in the world does this stuff happen to him. That little monster gets him in trouble and keeps going free!

More later, folks.

Live well.

--Zavost

Modern Politics, Bar Room Style

This day upon the Stoa, I would like to place the current global political goings-on in this reframed format. I was perusing the American Spectator last night before bed, and something may have gotten stuck in my Cerebrum as when it collided with a news article being read over the radio, something clicked.

Too often I hear something and it makes me want to laugh until I realize that these are the people who will determine my economic and political future. Then I almost cry. But I'm a guy, and we don't cry. Stoics don't cry either, so stop looking at me funny.

Once again, we find ourselves in a vast open space, with wide stepped areas like a gentle sports area. Scattered about this open space are clusters of tables. Some tables, like the United States and the European Union, are vast clumps of tables and chairs and wandering people, represented by the leader of that cluster. In the United States it is currently Barack Hussein Obama. In Europe that person is...hold on, it changed again....I'll have to get back to you.

Other tables, like that of North Korea are set in a tent, locked away from everyone. A rabid little man pokes his head out constantly with a shotgun in both hands, mumbling something about people trying to take his stuff.

In the vast Middle East, some tables have one person, others have many. Some have piles of weapons on them and others are surrounded by sandbags...like Israel. The only way you can see Israel is to look for its flag poking up out of the battlements. The Arab world throwing bottles and feces at the battlements daily.

At the end of one of the tables, Iran, sits a man who at first glance must be hammered, then you think that he is sober...then you're just not sure and that just creeps you out. Especially since he seems to be building an atomic bomb; winking at you every so often.

So on this world stage we will start at 2009. The first full year of President Barack H. Obama. The smartest man to EVER sit in the White House. The SMARTEST MAN EVER to inhabit the entire freaking planet Earth. He and his henchmen, and women, prepare to "reset" the image of the United States in the world community.

The janitor of the joint drives a zamboni around the tables of the United States trying to clean up all the glitter, hoopla, trash (human and otherwise) that has accumulated since the great anointing, er, inauguration. A new man now represents the United States and he is determined to repair the image of the United States in the world.

The United States is a collection of 50 tables (not 57), with other, smaller tables that choose to sit closely with us. Each table has a leader and each table also sends representatives to the "Federal" table, to coordinate the whole. There are 535 people crammed about that table, throwing paper airplanes, food, and sometimes each other about. Out of all that noise, some common purpose must emerge and be represented in the person of Barack H. Obama.

One of the first things Obama does is to send Hillary Clinton, his new Secretary of State to Russia to try to repair relations that soured under "W". Now, first you must ask yourself, why did they sour? Well, "W" was holding them accountable. "W" was not letting them push an agenda that hurt the United States in particular and the World in general. "W" told them not to invade other tables, to play nice with others, and stop giving weapons to little twerps who end up shooting innocent people accidentallyonpurpose. The bastard.

Obama decided to change all that. Hillary went over to the Russian table and met with Vladimir Putin, effective dictator of Russia. Virtual Tsar. Past Colonel of the KGB in East Germany. You know, a lovable and kind man.

They exchanged pleasantries, drinks, and business cards. She told Putin what Obama wished to accomplish, smiled, and then handed him a symbolic button that looked just like the "That Was Easy" Staples button, only it was supposed to say "Reset" in Russian.

Putin took the button and handed it to his aid without any expression on his face. His aid looked down at the button and arched an eyebrow, but otherwise did nothing.

Hillary, satisfied with herself went back to the United States and gave her staff of Ultra-Intelligent brains a huge high-five.

Putins' aid pitched the button over his shoulder and in the trash saying, "Putz". One, the button actually said "recharge" in Russian, and Two, the Russians found such an expression, the gifting of a talking button, childish in the extreme. They eyed Hillary as she stalked back to her table in her man-pants.

Next, Obama went to England to pitch back to them their statue of Churchill. See, Obama disliked that fellow tremendously and having such a man of character stare at him in the Oval office was freaking him out.

So, he met the queen and tousled her hair and told her that it was her pleasure to meet him. He handed her an iPod, pre-loaded with 7 hours of his inspirational speeches and a box load of Beta-max video tapes of his favorite movies, patted her on the head again and then marched out to the people of England and reminded them that he is the world's President and not just that of the United States. He is the man that they have been waiting for. The crowd went wild.

The Queen was not amused.

Barack then went to Cairo, Egypt and gave a rousing speech. Rousing for the Islamists and concerning to the sitting government. The government that had been an ally in a sea of discontent. The ally that was buying a lot of our military equipment. The government that actually made a statement that they were NOT going to destroy Israel. The Islamists cheered and cheered.

Israel was not amused.

Egypt was not amused.

Folks wondered why he didn't go to Israel first. He made it a point to actually ignore them.

Then it was off to Saudi Arabia to meet the King. Upon meeting the King, Barack bowed deeply in a sign of honor and respect. He pledged his unending support of Saudi Arabia and the preservation of Islamic faith and freedom in the United States.

He then flew back to his own table.

The King of Saudi Arabia was both perplexed and unamused.

Getting back home, his financial guy, Geitner, told him that we were so far in debt, our grandchildren would still be paying on the INTEREST of the current debt. With bated breath he asked the great and wise Obama what they should do.

With a snap of his finger, Obama declared that "W" didn't spend enough money, and he certainly didn't spend it "smartly". So, the obvious answer was to borrow twice as much as he did in 2008, and THEN, DOUBLE that in 2010. That should fix it.

Obama's followers cheered and cheered.

Obama then met with Iran, the cooky dude who no one could figure out if he was drunk, drugged, or sober.

The meeting was interesting. Obama came in and held his hand out to shake. The odd little man refused, saying that Obama might poison him with a dermal poison patch. Obama laughed and then asked him what he had hidden under the tarp. The little man got twitchy and said, "nothin'". Obama smiled and said, "of course". Obama looked about the Iranian table and praised the freedom that he could see. He praised the educational standards, the freedom that woman had, and the religious tolerance on display.

The little man responded by saying that there is no such thing a homosexual in Iran. Obama smiled and went to pat him on the head in a fatherly way. The little man squirreled back and yelled again about the poison patch on Obama's skin.

Obama asked if he was going to play nice with world and the little man responded, "DEATH TO ISRAEL!" Obama smiled and said, "why, thats nice," and turned about to head back to the US, a piece of paper fluttered from his back that said, "KICK ME!". Maine and New York pulled it from his back and showed Barack. Barack only laughed and said, "why, that scamp!" and went off to visit China.

Obama went to China, who sat in his large chair leaning back on two legs, feet up on the table. A toothpick in his teeth, money lay piled behind the chair and all about the table. People in non-descript gray pajamas roamed about working. In the corner a fellow named "Tibet" was being sat on and beat every so often.

Obama bowed again to this fellow and then started by telling him that he needed to be more responsible with his economy. Wu looked him over up and down and did not answer him. You have terrible human rights, but we are willing to overlook that if you loan us a few hundred billion, you know, get us through to the holidays.

Wu continued to work the toothpick when Obama's cell phone rang. It was Geitner asking him about the loan.

Sure, Obama told him, China would love to help out an old friend. Obama winked and clicked his lips while snapping his fingers. "See ya, PEACE!" and then headed back to the United States.

Wu looked over at his aid and continued to work the toothpick. His aid just looked blankly back at Wu.

When Obama got back, Geitner was waiting for him. The auto industry was failing. Banks were failing. Real Estate was failing. The people were without hope. What should they do?

Obama snapped a finger and said, "buy them." Cheat the investors by simply telling them they lost money and simply appoint a Federal overseer to take the business over. Simple enough.

A cry went out over the land. Some of it was cheering, but most of it was screams of anger. Billions were being written off and thousands were losing their life savings with a snap of those fingers. The Unions were given power over the new car companies. GM was taken over outright, Chrysler was given to Fiat, and Ford was forced to take money that it didn't need.

Geitner came to tell him that they were running out of money again. The last Trillion didn't last as long as he had hoped. Obama snapped his fingers at this paltry little problem. "Borrow another trillion, do I have to think of everything?"

Geitner slavishly reminded him that he had already borrowed more money in 2011 than every President before him...combined... and he still had another year to go. Obama cuffed him and told him to go get another 2 Trillion dollars and stop bothering him.

When asked about the Oil Industry in the Gulf of Mexico, Obama said, "No drilling". When asked about the Oil pipeline to Texas from Canada he said, "No pipeline".
When asked about Real Estate Obama said, "Throw money at it."
When asked about Student Loan companies, Obama said, "Take it over."
When asked about Healthcare Insurance, Obama said, "Take it over."
When asked about doctors who don't toe the line, Obama said, "Jail them."
When asked about domestic terrorists, Obama said, "Put drones in the sky and strengthen the Patriot Act."
When asked about foreign terrorists, Obama said, "those don't exist."
When asked about Tunisia, Obama said, "Where?"
When asked about Egypt, Obama said, "I hate Mubarak."
When asked about Libya, Obama said, "I hate Ghadaffi."
When asked about Israel, Obama said, "I hate Israel...er, no, I, what the heck, I hate Israel."
When asked about Islam, Obama said, "I love Islam, it is so peaceful."
When asked about Christianity Obama said, "Terrorists."

And the crowds cheered.

The nations of South America hate us. China and Russia can not respect us. The Muslim world hates us because we are not Muslim. Our allies in the Middle East are DEAD or isolated, because we now hate them, and our European Allies are catatonic staring at their own debt troubles while we continue to act as if there is no such thing as debt for us.

Obama heads into the Oval Office, puts down his golf clubs and basket ball, throws his feet up on the desk and states, "Man, this is EASY!"

What is scary about this is I have not had to make any of this up. Most of these words I've either heard from is very mouth or from the mouths of his aids. Scary stuff. Almost as scary as him wanting 4 more years.

Don't take my word for it. Look it up yourself.

Right now, the bar is a weird and scary place. Friends aren't friends any more, enemies are still your enemies, and Obama thinks that by draping his arms over people who hate him that they will somehow love him.

Then again, what is not to love about a narcissist?

--Live well.

Zavost

Meeting the vast Unwashed, Pt. 2

Upon the Stoa this night, many issues concerning Obama, the economy, and our way of life are on hold while I generate the second installment of one man's journey across America. He searches for wisdom in a land of slackers and hard workers. The educated and the uneducated. It can all be found in our country. So, lets see if the Moderator can avoid getting mugged or killed by the local wildlife or by a ticked off young lady.

The van, repaired enough to be road legal, purred on its way to Melbourne, Florida. A new camera man and sound man road with him. The sound man drove while the camera man slept. The Moderator wondered if he should feel guilty about sizing up the fitness levels of the two men who rode with him. He didn't know what had happened to his last two crew. No one had seen or heard from them since that day.

With the blustery weather of Maine far behind him he stared at nothing in particular as they drove through the cities along the Atlantic seaboard. From Maine to Florida there were homes for sale and business space for lease. The only place he saw on his trip so far that was doing well was the area around Washington D.C.

They pulled into a public parking lot near the beach. There was a coffee shop that seemed filled with the locals. A perfect spot. Nice and public.

That psychopath DeRoy had to be locked away. Half the police of Virginia Beach were mobilized to bring that micro-monster down. She just had to be put away.

Slicking his eyebrows down and taking a deep breath he pushed his way into the coffee shop, his sound man and camera man following him.

The place was a bustle of activity. There were teenagers hanging out and a group of seasoned citizens talking and eating together in the corner.

He strode up to a table with 4 high school age kids. "Good afternoon everyone. I'm with the Moderator show and this segment will be aired next week. Do you care if I ask you some general questions?"

The four of them, two men and two women, looked back and forth at each other, shrugging.

"Ok, so what year did man land on the moon?"

"We've been on the moon..."
"It was a hoax, man..."
"1909?"
"What?"

"Wonderful. Moving on. What was the war that won the United States their Independence?"

"Didn't we fight Korea?"
"Wasn't that the Civil War?"
"Wasn't it Germany?"
"What?"

"Remarkable. Ok, then, Who is the Vice President of the United States?"

"Oh, easy man, it like ah, Hillary."
"Naw, man, its like this bald dude...Biden or something."
"Its bin Laden, isn't it?"
"Vice President of what?"

"Outstanding. You make your generation proud." He moved away from them and found a group of older people. Two couples, in their forties, sat at a nearby table.

He walked over and introduced himself.

"Ok, then, what countries border the United States?"

"Canada and Russia and South America?"
"No, Canada and Cuba."
"Idiot, we border Canada, Mexico, and Russia."
"Hey, South America is not a country."

"Wow. Moving on. Who is the Vice President of the United States?"

"Isn't it that Palin chick?"
"No, plug man Biden. Gaff man and hot air-dude."
"Clinton, Bill Clinton."
"Hey, Bill Clinton was already President."

"Oh let this day end. Moving on. Can you tell me what the Arab Spring is?"

"No, man, its "Irish Spring", you know the under arm deodorant."
"The what?"
"Arab Spring?"
"I hate that deodorant."

"Thank you all very much."

He moved on out of the bar, disgusted with the two generations of idiots. How these people could function in society was beyond him. How could they not starve? Who paid them for their labors? What could they offer society?

He rounded the corner of the building to see a slight, roughly 5 foot tall young woman leaning up against the van, her shoulder-length hair gently rippling in the wind.

The Moderator froze, arms swung wide to stop his crew, causing them to run into him.

She just stood next to the van looking back at him with large, almost almond eyes.

"That's ah nice van ya got there. Yes, sir, ah nice van."

She simply looked at him for another moment or two and then gracefully walked around to the other side of the van.

The Moderator did a semi-circle around the van and when he got to the other side she was no where to be seen.

"Did she get in the van? Did you see where she went?"

No one had seen her depart.

The next day he was on his way to New Orleans. He would have been there earlier but he had just had bail posted for filing a false police report. Ok, so the Melbourne Bomb squad had to disassemble his van, but he was certain that DeRoy had done something to the van. He was certain she had cut the brakes or put dead fish in the hubcaps.

Maybe he shouldn't have insulted the police sergeant's intelligence when the Moderator thought he was giving up too soon.

The van moved off one highway and onto another that would take him to the Hewy P. Long Bridge.

There were about a dozen people fishing off the side of the bridge as he turned onto the highway. Tall, lean, elderly black gentlemen with wide-brimmed hats sat in chairs or stood, leaning against the rail. At the far end, a shorter white female sat with an umbrella over her. She flipped her magazine down just as the van had to slow to make the turn onto the bridge. The sunglasses came down next and it was HER! Their eyes met and a small smile crept along the side of her face, bending into something like a smirk.

He accelerated into the turn and lost a hubcap. No sooner had he straightened out then lights began flashing on him. He was being pulled over for speeding! He knew it was her. Why was she following him! What the hell did he do to her! Damn cops. Why were they always after him!

End of part 2. Part three, coming soon.

Now, for the record, I want to say so very much that the questions and answers were made up within my fertile mind, but alas, the questions came from a high school interview of students. The questions were real and the answers, sob, sob, were real also.

Live well everyone.

--Zavost

Meeting the vast Unwashed

Upon the Stoa, we pull up our chairs and watch the TV show, "The Moderator". This week, he is going to roam from coast to coast to meet people in the various regions of this great and diverse country. Pour a glass of OJ and enjoy.

The Moderator checked the pen top on his signature marker. His wife would kill him if it spotted his $500 shirt. He just returned from signing off on a new contract to continue doing the show.

Lately the show had become quite hazardous to his health. His life insurance policy quadrupled in price and his health insurance carrier threatened to drop him after a shotgun blast came within inches of damaging his sweet TV face.

The new contract took all that into account and gave him a hefty raise to cover the added expenses.

This time there was no specific agenda or generational slant to the show. He was just going to roam a few sample cities from East to West, North to South and ask general trivia questions. Some producer somewhere in the company thought this would be cute. We'll just see how cute, thought the Moderator.

His last bodyguard quit...from his hospital bed. He had to write down his resignation since DeRoy had busted his jaw with the butt of a shotgun. At least she just knocked him out. She was in rather a hurry to get at him so she didn't waste time finishing him off.

At least DeRoy was safely put away somewhere where she couldn't hurt anyone.

Since that little, petite psychopath was the only person to ever try to kill him, he felt he didn't a bodyguard anymore.

He had a different cameraman as well. He demanded a transfer to a different show and he was given the choice of either staying on the cushy, party-filled life of the Moderator Forum or going to help film documentaries on Yak migratory patterns in the Siberian winter. He chose the Yak. His loss.

The sound man was the same, though. Apparently, the shotgun barrel ruptured his stomach and after the surgery, the smaller stomach allowed him to lose about 50 pounds. The sound man's wife did not let him quit and told him that the next time his about to get hit to please lead with his face. Guess she is hoping for some plastic surgery for her husband.

Their first stop was going to be in the North East, Bangor, Maine. Very cold this time of year.

He was standing in front of a small library on the corner of S.Main St. and School Street. What better place to test the average education and sophistication level of the average Bangorian?

Stamping his feet for warmth, he saw a man coming in a typical cold-weather jacket.

"Excuse me sir, I'm with the Moderator Forum. Can you tell me if you've gone to the University?" Mist gathered around him on this windless, cold day.

"Yeah, fat lot of good it did me, eh?" He said with this oddly Canadian accent.

"I'm $55,000 in debt, have no job and no prospects. I declared Bankruptcy but student loans ARE NOT dischargeable. What a racket the Feds have, eh?"

"Thank you, sir."

They waited around stamping the ground to keep circulation in their feet until they saw an older woman round the corner and walk their way.

"Excuse me, Ma'am, I'm with the Moderator Forum and I'd like to ask you about living on a fixed income."

"People used to think that the older people were better off these days. We're not. Our pensions have stayed the same while inflation has gone up. Gone up ALOT in the last few years. Social Security was flat last year but my rent and expenses weren't."

"Do you think the government is doing enough to help the elderly?"

"I think the government has done enough. Too much, actually. Look, I'm cold and I have to go feed my goldfish."

The Moderator turned to the camera to finish the segment but did not get the words out before, "MAH GOLDFISH ARE DEAD! WHY DO YOU HAVE MAH GOLDFISH!"

DeRoy lept out of an old 1978 AMC Gremlin, more rust, holes, and gray cement then sheet metal. She jumped out, leaving the door open and the car in gear. The car rolled forward and hit the front of the studio van, her non-factory installed brush bar breaking out the headlights on the van.

DeRoy ripped around the back side of the car and slipped, sliding into a parked car.

The old woman, terror written on her face attempted to hobble her way towards the Library and assumed safety.

"Bleep!" Shouted the Moderator into the microphone. He rushed past the camera man and had his hand on the door handle before DeRoy could get up from the fall. The sound man opened up the side door and threw his equipment into the van.

As DeRoy ran in place on the ice for a moment, she caught site of the camera man continuing to film, even as the van's engine turned over.

"YOU SOM'BITCH" She began to get traction on the ice and snow and began rocket towards the camera.

The sound man reached out and grabbed the camera man with one arm while holding onto the door frame with the other. The van backed out at high speed, ramming the vehicle behind them. The wheel spun and the van pulled into the road, the cameraman being pulled along beside the van before he could be yanked to safety.

The van ran an oncoming car of the road as DeRoy literally leapt over the parked Gremlin. Before the Moderator could straighten the steering wheel, he hit DeRoy head on. She slammed into the front of the van, her face plastered to the windshield, a stream of profanities steaming the windshield.

As he pulled the wheel to the right, turning on S.Main St., she was flung off the front, windshield wiper clutched in her hand. She rolled into the parking lot of the local Save-A-Lot and out of the Moderator's sight.

It was not until he turned left on Wilson St. and onto the bridge that he reduced speed.

"What the hell was that about? Is she stalking me? How can she be so insanely strong!"

The cameraman panted, his breath being stolen by the wind as the side door slammed against its latches. The sound man was too shaken to slam the door shut.

Hours later they rolled into the suburbs of Virginia Beach, Virginia. It was warmer, about 60 degrees. A far more pleasant place than the cold Maine environment.

Ready for the second segment, they sipped coffee from the local Star Schmucks and looked up the Neptune statue.

Even though it was the middle of winter, there were people out enjoying the relatively mild day. Skateboarders, rollerbladers, and bikes zipped and zoomed everywhere. There were lots of people out walking as well.

A well dressed woman strolled by and he moved to intercept her, "Excuse me ma'am, I'm with the Moderator Forum and I'd like to ask you a question."

"Sure," she said.

"What do you think about Obama recently declaring victory in Iraq?"

"Oh, I'm glad thats over. So much money and young people getting killed."

The Moderator decided to prod her for more details, "Bombing is out of control and more civilians have been killed in the last two months than all of last year. Don't you think that it was premature for Obama to declare victory?"

The woman's nose crinkled like she had bit into a prune, "That's a civilian matter, not a military one. The war is over, it is all up to them now."

The Moderator thought she didn't quite get the difference between a shooting war and a revolution.

"What about when Bush declared 'Mission Accomplished', people gave him grief over that."

"Oh, yeah, that peabrain, the fighting went on for years after that. Obama actually ended it."

"Ma'am, there is a difference between winning a war and walking away from one."

She snorted and walked off without a word.

The Moderator turned to look South along the boardwalk and saw a teenager on a skate board start to go around him.

"Son, son, I'm with a TV show and would like to ask you a few questions."

"Shoot." The guy says.

"I assume you're in high school, right?"

"Yup, honor student."

"Ok, then, we have been at war with Afghanistan since 2003, can you tell me where it is."

The guy pulls out an iPhone from his pocket and starts to look it up.

"No, no, no. Can you tell me without looking it up?"

The guy looked blankly at him for a moment, "why do I have to know that? I've always got the Internet for that?"

"Knowledge, wisdom, and intelligence are not found in the Internet, son."

The guy still looked at him blankly, "what?"

"Ok, ok. Who is the current President of the United States?"

"That's easy dude, Obama-man. He sings, you know. Man, he's cool."

The sound man squinted into the sun for a moment and then shrugged.

"Just because he sings, does not make him cool," the Moderator said.

The guy looked at him for a moment, "what?"

"How about this. Did you know that with the ballooning National Debt, you will have over $55,000 of debt assigned to you upon graduation?"

"Naw, man, like, Obama will pay that."

The sound man squinted again at something over the young man's shoulder.

"Son, you realize that he gets his money from you? The President taxes money, borrows money, or he prints money. You can't pay off debt by printing more money or borrowing more money."

"What?"

The Moderator is bumped on the head as the microphone drops into the camera frame.

Looking over, he sees the sound man beginning to run down the boardwalk, back towards where their car is parked in a pay lot on the corner of Atlantic Ave. and 33rd street.

The camera man, for some reason, swings the camera down and begins to run as well.

The Moderator leans to the side to see around the young man he is interviewing and sees a slight woman with hair just below the ears, running at full tilt in his direction.

At first he thought she was just another jogger and was about to dismiss the event when the sicking realization hit him. It was DeRoy!

He spun on his heel as well and began to run when he hears, "AHHHHHHHH, YOU BASTARD!"

He does not look back as he hears a meaty thud, a scream and then a skateboard breaking against the Neptune statue.

He is running as fast as he can, the sound man and the camera man are slowed down by their expensive equipment. He slowly gains on the camera man.

He begins to hear something that is not quite a huff. More like a low growl. He looks over his shoulder and sees this slight woman rapidly gaining on him. She will be on him in moments.

He can not begin to think about how this woman can be so tireless. Tireless and eternally angry at him.

It looks like he is going to have to do the manly thing and face her.

Eventually.

With a huff and a puff, the Moderator puts on some speed. Just enough to reach out and grab the harness on the back of the sound man. With a yank, he falls in a tumble of gear and lines. The Moderator jumps to the side just as DeRoy's hand was at the back of his neck.

With a screech and the sound of equipment being smashed against the pavement, the young woman becomes entangled with the sound man and his equipment.

As the Moderator continues to run towards their lampless van, the screams of the stricken and the damned echo off the beach front hotel and out onto the Atlantic Ocean.

Rounding the corner onto 33rd, he can see the van in the lot. The camera man is just ahead of him. His camera being less bulky than the sound equipment.

With fading effort, he glances back and sees DeRoy coming on fast again. Blood streaks her face and hands. He could swear that she has blood around her mouth, as if she had just fed upon the sound man.

Whimpering like an animal, the Moderator throws himself at the camera man, knocking him over as well. He nearly gets tangled up in the flailing limbs and equipment.

Again, DeRoy is so single-minded about catching the Moderator that she plows right in to the camera man's thrashing form.

"What is wrong with you!" the Moderator shouts back, fifty feet from the van.

"AH HATE YOU!"

"What did I ever do to you!" His hand is on the locked door. In a panic he smashes the window with his microphone and fumbles for the keys in his pocket.

"YOU RUINED MAH LIFE AND YOU KILLED MAH GOLDFISH YOU SOM'BITCH!"

The engine roared to life and he peeled out backwards, away from the now charging DeRoy. Spinning the wheel over, he straightens out the van. A hub cap pops off and takes out a motorcyclist.

"You're crazy!"

"DON'T CALL ME CRAZY, AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Something slams into the back of the van as he roars away.

There is banging on the roof and it begins to dent.

He jerks hard on the wheel, cutting over a curb, scattering pedestrians.

With another yank and a jumped curb, DeRoy's form sails through a restaurant window, the van's step ladder broken off in her hand, and into the laps of people trying to eat lunch.

He turns again on Arctic Avenue and does not see the mayhem that must be in progress.

He feels sorry for the two men he had to leave behind, but the show wasn't about them, it was about him and he had to be protected.

Turning on the radio there was a breaking news story of a woman rampaging in the Seafood Harbor restaurant in Virginia Beach. Several policemen were down already and the SWAT team had been called in to assist.

What the hell was wrong with this woman and why did she hate him so much? How did she keep getting free all the time!

With that, he turned his smoking van South towards Atlanta. Perhaps he could pick up another van on his way to Florida.

End of Part I, the national experience.

Live well.

--Zavost