Datasets:

---

lighteval

/

copyright_helm

like 0

Follow

Evaluation datasets 50

Your business is no longer what you intended it to be and, when you aren't doing what you love, who can blame you for lacking the motivation to take the next step? A long hiatus may be exactly what you need to rediscover the meaning behind your goals. Take the time to focus on something else and let your previous goal marinate for a while. When you return, you will likely have a new perspective on how to move forward and better understand your intentions in doing so. It's crucial that you don't put your goals on a shelf as an excuse to avoid the hard work that comes with any and every goal you will face in

Your business is no longer what you intended it to be and, when you aren't doing what you love, who can blame you for lacking the motivation to take the next step? A long hiatus may be exactly what you need to rediscover the meaning behind your goals. Take the time to focus on something else and let your previous goal marinate for a while. When you return, you will likely have a new perspective on how to move forward and better understand your intentions in doing so. It's crucial that you don't put your goals on a shelf as an excuse to avoid the hard work that comes with any and every goal you will face in life. There is a big difference between burnout and laziness and it's important you don't trick yourself into believing one is the other. Our friend Kevin who is starting his own granola bar business needs a break because he has hit a brick wall at forty miles an hour. He has tried every option in the book and now needs some time to find a new book. A lazy person, on the other hand, may have given up during chapter one. Don't let yourself take a break when you secretly know that laziness is to blame. Be honest with yourself as you consider next steps and whether burnout is inhibiting your progress. If it is, a break is likely the healthiest thing you can do for both yourself and your goals. When you return, you will rediscover a motivation and passion you wouldn't have tapped into had you worked relentlessly. Take care of yourself. Life has no set path, so you might as well take a few detours along the way. ##Balance Think about all of the sleepless nights you spent working to finish that project or the amount of family dinners you had to skip because of a looming deadline. At some point, the annoyance of catering to the every need and whim of a goal does not seem worth the reward of completing it. Yet, you push through, believing that you'll have time for your family, friends, and personal hygiene once you've tasted success. You reach the finish line, take a sigh of relief, and find yourself staring the next obstacle straight in the face. This goal is even bigger and more time consuming than the one before. You want to throw all of your energy into it, but all you can think about is the number of Saturday soccer games you're going to have to miss in order to complete it. While it may be clear in the example above that something isn't right, this happens all too frequently without us even noticing it. We live in a world in which we believe we should have it all. We all want to be perfect parents, perfect spouses, and perfect friends, all while moving up the ladder and becoming CEOs of powerful companies. Now, this is not to say that this isn't possible. There are people out there that change the world every day and still have time to watch reality TV on the couch at night. For the majority of us though, this is hard. The endless pursuit of goals can take a toll on our lives and make us lose perspective on why we want our goals to begin with. Balance is that word we love to hate. We all want it, but we criticize those who have it for not working hard enough. Since when did sleep deprivation and answering emails at midnight become a badge of honor and success? There's nothing noble about self-imposed suffering for the sake of your goals. Believe me, that promotion, new car, triathlon, or certification can wait. Your hopes and dreams will still be waiting for you when you get back from that family reunion you've missed for the past five years. In regards to balance, falling into the "what now" trap can occur for two reasons: 1) a failure to take breaks between your goals 2) a failure to diversify your goals to satisfy your wide range of interests, passions, and values. Firstly, we all know that distance makes the heart grow fonder. This is why kids love the last day of school before summer, but are itching for the classroom come August. Nothing is appealing if we spend too much uninterrupted time focused on it. Even apple pie loses its flavor after the first slice. Our goals are the same way. Without space from them, they lose their flavor. When we compulsively jump from one goal to the next, we deny ourselves the chance to cleanse our palates for the next bite. Start to see time away from your goals as a required component of your path to success. Once you begin to realize the power of breaks to reinvigorate your desires to pursue your goals, you will understand that only by stepping back can you eventually move forward. Take that day, week, month, or year away from your goal. When you get back, you will find that taking that next step is much easier than it would have been had you not taken a break. Secondly, balance doesn't always imply the need for vacations or putting away the computer for a week. Sometimes balance is something that, instead of pulling us away from our goals, needs to be infused into our goals themselves. We all naturally compartmentalize our lives into a number of different categories depending on our interests. For example, my categories are work, academics, family, friends, athletics, and writing. My goals are spread across each of these categories and my goal of traveling to Kenya is very different from my goal of finishing this book. As such, I can chose to spend my time in a number of different ways while still pursuing my goals. They're balanced. If instead, all of my goals fell into the one category of work, I would spend so much time focused on work that I would no doubt lose interest and motivation to work towards that promotion. Falling into the "what next" trap is a common side effect of stacking all of your goals into one category. Without a diversity of ways to spend your time, you'll become fatigued, lose interest, and not want to take the next step. A goal of earning a promotion leading to a goal of earning another promotion can become hackneyed. On the other hand, if your goal to earn a promotion is balanced with a goal to volunteer your time with that charity you've had your eye on, you will be energized, as your attention in one area will be recharged while it is focused on the other. Finding balance within your life and your goals isn't easy, but it can be the bridge leading you from giving up on your goals altogether to finding the energy you need to continue pursuing them. Don't assume that it's easy and that a spontaneous trip to Vegas will solve all of your problems. Balance is something that needs to become a regular part of your life in the same way that getting dressed every morning is a part of your daily routine. Only then will burnout seem like a foreign concept, as your lifestyle is designed to evade it. Find balance wherever it may be hiding and don't feel guilty for indulging in it. It is the only thing that will energize you when your goals seem like a broken record. ##Retune Your Purpose You start goals with certain intentions, but they turn out differently than you expect. Maybe you decided to train for a half marathon so that you could improve your health and have extra years to spend with your family. Your intentions are good, but you soon find that you're missing breakfast with your kids on the weekends to complete your long runs. What started out as a goal that would benefit your family, is now a goal that is keeping you from them. Suddenly, running and family don't mesh as well as you first believed they would. We like to write down goals in thick black marker and post them on the refrigerator for everyone to see. They become as permanent and immovable as the days of the week on a calendar. We look at our goals, written three weeks, six months, or two years before and tell ourselves that they are still what we want. And maybe that's true. I had a goal of convincing my parents to get a dog when I was six, and I still had that goal at fourteen. More often than not though, we hold firmly to our goals because it's easy to. Reading words that are carved into stone is easier than erasing them and starting from scratch. When we believe our goals to be our unquestioned fates, we dodge the hard work of actually discerning what it is we want from our lives. Let me explain by dissecting the running example. You've been training for a half marathon for three months and are finally starting to see some progress. Your weekly mileage is increasing, you feel strong, and you can clearly envision race day. You feel great. Conversely, you've missed three of your daughter's gymnastics classes and had to pass on a piece of your son's birthday cake because of a training run the next day. Your spouse is annoyed by the early alarms and the fact that you never have time for lazy mornings. Your relationship is littered with more tense moments than it used to be, your kids are irritable, and even the dog is feeling neglected due to the lack of his usual morning walks. It's clear that what started out as a goal to benefit your family is doing the exact opposite. So, what do you do? You could ditch the race, throw all of your training time and progress away and commit to spending every second with your family. You could also ignore the signs of your family's duress and continue training as you have been. I mean, your son will have a birthday next year, right? Clearly, neither of these are a great option. They are both an easy way out and won't make either you or your family happy. The best solution is a lot more complicated, but will hopefully leave you with a win-win situation. When we talk about goals, we either talk about completing them or abandoning them altogether. We forget that there's this murky middle between failure and success. We forget this murky middle because it isn't a fun place to be. It asks us to reconsider our values, be vulnerable to the needs of those around us, and possibly shift our attentions to new directions. It's much easier to write down goals and chain ourselves to them like prisoners in high security lockdown. The reality though is that life happens, and we often need to retune our focus along the way. Instead of thick black marker that we either have to honor or throw away, our goals are written with a pencil with a large and well-used

They would turn 11 in August of that year. The girls lived with us most of their lives. We did not go anywhere without them, except to work. Sometimes they did go to work with Hank! If he was in a ditch digging up waterlines, they were in the ditch with him! We sacrificed much for them, because we loved them so much. The were and still are the apples of our eyes. I don't think I ever really knew the true meaning of the word love until they came into our lives. My son signed the paperwork for us to petition the court for custodial rights. Soon, the biggest upset to our family ever was about to

They would turn 11 in August of that year. The girls lived with us most of their lives. We did not go anywhere without them, except to work. Sometimes they did go to work with Hank! If he was in a ditch digging up waterlines, they were in the ditch with him! We sacrificed much for them, because we loved them so much. The were and still are the apples of our eyes. I don't think I ever really knew the true meaning of the word love until they came into our lives. My son signed the paperwork for us to petition the court for custodial rights. Soon, the biggest upset to our family ever was about to begin. The twin's mother petitioned the court against us. In May 2008, we headed to family court. We lost our case. The judge gave the girls back to their mother, because her parental rights trumped ours as grandparents. This was a shock, considering her known history of drug use, child abuse in 2004, verbal abuse, neglect, filthy living conditions, having a registered sex offender boyfriend, and arrested for four counts of contributing and neglect due to the sex offender being around her children! This felt like the worst day of my life. It was unbearable, having to tell the girls they would have to go back and live with their mother. They screamed and cried, stomped their feet, and begged not to have to go. They asked "why can't we talk to the judge? ", "what about all the notes you have Nanny?, What about all the nasty clothes you have saved Nanny?". I was crying so hard, I could not even answer them. I had never seen Hank cry until that day. Our hearts were broken. We promised the girls we would continue to fight with all we had to get them back with us, no matter how long or what it took. That lead into a huge fight between my son and me. I was so filled with anger and hurt that I allowed Satan in. I told my son I hated him. I told him to never step foot on my property again. Did I mean it? Yes, at the time I did. Did I mean it the next day? No, but the damage was done. Now I would have to reap what I had sown. Always remember, with every action there is a consequence. I could not understand how I could let myself get so filled with anger. Now I had to deal with the loneliness, bitterness, and depression that would consume me for the next five years (along with the diagnosis and treatment of breast cancer within that same timeframe). Ephesian 4:26-27 "And don't sin by letting anger gain control over you, Don't let the sun go down while you are still angry, or anger will give a mighty foothold to the Devil". James 1: 19-20 "My dear Brothers and Sisters be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to anger. Your anger can never make things right in God's sight." No matter who the girls talked to, no matter who they told, no one could or would help. One lady that was a neighbor to the girls even told me, "I don't want to be involved". The girls would often eat at her house and she would drive them home so they would not have to walk down the highway. Many calls were placed to the Department of Children Services but no investigation took place. Hank and I went through three attorneys, a private investigator, and $67,000.00 in the process. I spent endless sleepless nights. I prayed to God day and night, beseeching him to please bring the twins back to us. God just did not seem to hear my prayers. My life seemed hopeless. I even contemplated suicide. Somehow, God gave me grace and the willpower to hold my head up and continue on. During this time, I went through 33 rounds of radiation for my breast cancer and gratefully, survived, but I was depressed. One day the Lord brought Pastor Tricia Trull into my life, when I so desperately needed Jesus. She witnessed my struggles with anger, and depression that had built up inside of me. She understood my desperation. She began to help me. First, she taught me to pray differently than how I had been praying. She said, "instead of praying for God to bring the girls back to you, pray for God to change the mother's heart, to change the hearts of people with authority, and to ask God to put people in their path that can make a difference". So, I started praying the way she advised. For a year or longer, I would ask God to show me a sign that would give me hope. I also prayed for happiness for both my son and for the twin's mother. On three occasions I experienced what I believed to be signs from God. Once while driving down the road, three white doves flew along beside me. Another time, three white doves flew across the road in front of me. I believed the doves represented my son and the two girls and that this was a sign that we would all be together again soon. A few weeks later, I was again driving and praying when I felt a strong prompting to look up into the sky. It was a rainy, gloomy day. There, right in the middle of this big dark gray cloud was a small bright white cloud shaped like the letter J, or an upside down shepherd's staff. I knew at this point God was trying to tell me "let it go, and give it to me, take your hands off this situation". I knew right then there was hope. Luke 1:37 "For nothing will be impossible with God." At this point I told God, "If you will bring those girls home, I will let you use me anyway you desire". A few days later God started working in a mighty way. He prompted the girl's mother to move to Weakley County, TN. Shortly after moving there, the girl's mother dropped the girls out into the parking lot of Jolley Springs Baptist Church. Little did the mother know, she was introducing her girls to a Department of Human Services employee, Pastor Tony Michael. Over the next several months God would allow things to happen like more physical abuse, verbal abuse, mental abuse, neglect, and filthy living conditions. On two separate occasions, the pastor and his wife took two electric heaters to the girls, due to the fact that the step-father had cut the heat off to the girls part of the house as punishment. By now, Hank and I were arguing almost day and night. The financial stress and the worry had taken over our lives and our relationship. It got really bad some days. At one point Hank told me "I don't care about the girls anymore", and I told him "I did care, and that I had turned the situation over to God to handle, and was at peace with that choice". It was a strange mixture of pressure at home but peace with God. This is hard to reconcile. Martin Luther King Day, January 21, 2013 - God released those girls from their hell. the Department of Children Services did an emergency removal due to the abuse of the step-father. He has slammed one of the girls against the floor, the temperature in the house was 53 degrees and there was no food for the girls to eat. Our granddaughters were finally returned to our care! My granddaughter's Jennifer and Jessica came back to live with us the very next day. Naturally, there were many adjustments to be made. They were 15 when we got them back in January of 2013. They turned 16 the following August. They will be back with us this January 2016, for three years now. It was a very hard adjustment especially for my husband. When they left they were little girls and he was a hero who could do no wrong in their eyes. But when they came back they were young ladies with their own ideas and own way of doing things. It has been a rough road. But if I had to do it again I would do it all over again. The twins are well adjusted and healthy, except Jennifer has anemia right now. Jennifer plans to attend Murray State University where she will study music and social work. Jessica is undecided which college, but most likely Murray State also. She plans to become a teacher, and major in Spanish. She may minor in photography. She also loves art. It is amazing how well they are doing these days, considering what they had to endure. God has surely covered them with His amazing love. There is still much healing to be done. As far as my relationship with my husband goes, well I guess I can say it is still a work in progress. I won't lie. The whole situation darn near broke us up. The future is never promised. I'm still trying to hang in there with him. We just had our 38th wedding anniversary. Our relationship was damaged, that's for sure. Hank has not yet learned to let go of everything. I don't know if my relationship with my son will ever be the same. We have reconciled and we have both said we was sorry, but I don't know that he is truly over all the hurt either. He has two other children that I've never seen. His wife he is married to now refuses to let me and my husband see them because of the past. I've talked with her, and we have both cried, but she is still on her guard. Remember the bargain I had made with God? Well, He started using me almost immediately. I started feeling in my heart to do mission work. I had the urge but didn't know how or where to begin. God showed me the way. I was invited to attend the United Methodist Church Generative Leadership Academy (GLA) 2014. After our second weekend session there was homework assigned. The assignment was to implement a mission into our local church or community. I started a blanket mission for the sick, and a handmade greeting card mission for our local United Methodist Women (UMW) group. The urge kept getting stronger and stronger to do more mission work beyond my own church. After the third weekend session of GLA I was invited to go along on the Volunteer in Missions trip to Mexico. Not knowing how I would raise the money to cover my expenses, I said yes. I immediately began to worry about how I was going to finance the mission trip. God was about to show me! To make a long story short, I have gone to several churches to share my story

"But its cold," called back Janice. "Do it," retorted Mum. "I hate you," shouted Janice. "Love you too," replied Mum. Eventually Janice made it to breakfast. She ate her weetbix, toast, and Milo, and then left the house to meet her mates for the walk to school. While Mum cleaned up Jan's room and made her bed, both chores Jan's extra sleep had prevented her doing, Jan was telling her mates how much she 'just so didn't like' her mother. All the rules and uncool things she had to do were just too much. "I like, really hate her you know,

"But its cold," called back Janice. "Do it," retorted Mum. "I hate you," shouted Janice. "Love you too," replied Mum. Eventually Janice made it to breakfast. She ate her weetbix, toast, and Milo, and then left the house to meet her mates for the walk to school. While Mum cleaned up Jan's room and made her bed, both chores Jan's extra sleep had prevented her doing, Jan was telling her mates how much she 'just so didn't like' her mother. All the rules and uncool things she had to do were just too much. "I like, really hate her you know," stated Janice. At lunchtime, Jan's friends begged bits of her lunch that was way better than theirs. "Your Mum must be neat," one of the girls ventured. "Are you nuts?" asked Jan. "She's like, duh!" After school, Jan spent time with her boyfriend Ian. They sat on a stone fence not far from the school and secretly held hands while discussing teachers, fellow pupils and parents. Jan liked Ian even though he went to church and a youth group. "You must have a great Mum," said Ian. "Not really," said Jan. "If she was like Alice's Mum she'd be great. Her Mum lets her go out at night with Robbie and on the weekends she's allowed to stay over at his place." "Do you think that would be a great way for your Mum to show you she loved you?" asked Ian. "I think she's right. She must love you to do all the things she does for you." "I hate her," stated Jan." I think that's very sad," said Ian letting go of Jan's hand and standing up. "Tell me, when you get home later what will happen?" "Oh, I'll get told off for being late, have something to eat and then get nagged about homework and all before I'm allowed to use the 'phone. And that's another thing. If she loved me she'd let me have a cellphone. Everyone has them." "I don't," retorted Ian. "You don't really hate her do you?" "Yes I do," retorted Jan." A long time ago," said Ian. "When Jesus was alive, one of his disciples, the one called Peter, told him that he would never say he didn't know him. When the pressure went on him though, he did say exactly that. Not once, but three times! How many times today have you said that you hate your Mum?" "I don't know," said Jan." Three times?" asked Ian. "Maybe," conceded Jan." You don't hate your Mum," explained Ian. "You're just trying to be big with your mates. To be one of the 'cool' kids. Your Mum loves you. Don't be a fool. Just like Jesus loved Peter, your Mum loves you. Don't deny her love. Don't let her down. Jesus forgave Peter. Go tell your Mum you love her." Story 8 Joe Against the World Joe was having a real bad day. First he was yelled at, by his Mum, for getting up late. He didn't know why she was on his case. After all, he had got up the third time she had yelled. Then she had been on and on about him not making his bed. Well he didn't have time did he? She wanted him to go to school so why couldn't she make up her mind. It was either school or the bed. She couldn't have both. A pretty clear-cut case the way he saw it. Then on the school bus, the driver had picked on him. He had blamed Joe for pulling the stop cord. Joe had tried to explain his arm had accidentally caught it when he was trying to protect himself from someone. Because of that, he had had to walk the last mile to school. That made him late, and he got in trouble with the teacher. Things were certainly on a downward spiral. It wasn't his fault that nobody loved him. It wasn't his fault he had to fight everyone to protect himself. It wasn't his fault that he got caught stealing lollies. At lunchtime, he wandered out onto the playing fields and checked out the groups. He noticed a new 'kid' sitting off by himself so he targeted him. The 'kid' was eating his lunch. "Gidday," said Joe. "Hi', replied the 'kid'. "See that group over there," said Joe pointing across the field. "Best keep out of their way!" As the new 'kid' looked over towards the group, Joe quickly pocketed a packet of his chips. The new 'kid' turned back. He looked up at Joe. "You only had to ask," he said. "What do you mean?" demanded Joe. "You didn't have to steal the chips. If you're that hungry I would have given them to you." "You're crazy," said Joe and walked away. At the afternoon break, Joe was throwing his Kung Fu star at a wall when the new 'kid' walked up to him. He handed Joe a small packet of biscuits and said, "God loves you". Joe stood still, looking silly. As the new 'kid' walked on Joe was speechless. Suddenly he ran after the 'kid'. "What do you mean God loves me?' he demanded. "Who says he does? You?" "No," said the 'kid'. "The bible does." "Yeah right," said Joe. "Yeah right," said the 'kid'. "Can you read?" "'Course I can," replied Joe. "Well read the bible then," said the 'kid'. "There are 30 different books in it. They all have good stories in them. There are many war stories. There are love stories. There are escape stories. There are ghost stories. There are adventure stories." "I thought it said about God loving me," said Joe. "Indeed," said the 'kid'. "It tells about God's love all through it, but you'll have to read it to find that out. Trust me though, it does say that. It also tells you how not to steal, how to plan your life so you're not alone, how to be loved by others, and best of all, how to love them back." And do you know what? Joe found out that when he was angry he only had to read Ephesians 4: 26 to 32, when afraid, Romans 8: 31 to 39, and when lonely, Psalm 91. He also found out that God did love him. When he found that out, he changed, and people suddenly started to love him back. Story 9 Lucy and Mary The leaf of the pansy looked lovely to Lucy the Ladybird as she flew over it. The pansy flower shaded a part of the leaf so Lucy landed on it, folded her red wings with the black dots, and crept into the shadow from the flower. Nobody could see her crying. Her tears were big, for a ladybird, and fell onto the leaf in big wet patches. Her sobs were very loud for a ladybird. They were so loud that Mary the Monarch butterfly could hear them as she flew past. She turned around and landed on the pansy flower. "What's wrong Lucy?" she asked. "Nothing,' sobbed Lucy. "Just leave me alone." "I'm your friend Lucy," said Mary. "I want to help you. Friends love each other. Tell me what's wrong and let's see if we can do something to make you feel better." "It's Samantha," said Lucy. "She's being mean to me. She's saying awful things about me and won't let me be picked in the plant eating competition." "Ah," said Mary. "Samantha the slug! Yes, she's not very nice is she? Mind you, she's not very nice to any one really. She used to say things about me also." "Why doesn't she do that now?" asked Lucy. "Because I became her friend," explained Mary. "She used to call me all sorts of names because of the colour of my clothes. Really she was just jealous. It will be the same with you. When others do not like you, it is usually because they are jealous. You look lovely in your red coat with black spots on it and I'm afraid poor Samantha looks pretty plain." "So if I become her friend will she stop being awful to me?" asked Lucy. "Not straight away, and maybe never," said Mary. "Just say hello to her and don't say anything bad about her and in the end she won't be able to help herself and will start being nice to you. If she doesn't, then don't worry, there are plenty of others in this world." "But they've all got their own friends," protested Lucy. "Yes but every-one needs as many friends as they can get. Remember that to have a friend you have to be a friend. That is the big thing. To be a friend you need to show love to that person. Be nice to people every-time you can, say hello to them, offer to help them, and soon you'll have more friends than you'll know what to do with." "Okay," said Lucy wiping her eyes with her feelers. "I'll try." "Remember Jesus," said Mary. "He had a lot of friends but he had enemies who hated him. He was always nice to them even when they were being mean to him. In that book that humans read, called the Bible, it says in Matthew Chapter 5, verse 44 that you are to love your enemies. That is what you will be doing if you become friends with Samantha. Never forget that you always have your invisible friend Jesus. He is always beside you wanting to hold you and love you. You can always talk to him." Story 10 Meeting Jesus Once upon a time, a young girl went to Sunday school every single Sunday. She loved hearing about Jesus and was sad when the school holidays arrived because at her Church it meant no Sunday school. The thing was, though, that she had never met Jesus. Her teacher told her all about him, his father God, and about his relatives and friends, but she

"We on the other hand would wish them every liberty to pursue the life they choose, as long as they are not damaging others. That is the difference between us and domestic enemy, and that is why we are good and they are evil. "Some of these personality issues result from actual mental illnesses. As has always been the case, movement leaders usually succumb to delusions of grandeur. Like Stalin, a failed priest, that probably still believes he will unify the world under the USSR. They may rule as untouchable tyrants, but they are still very sick people and doomed, ultimately, to fail. "I'm certain that the mole selected to take down America

"We on the other hand would wish them every liberty to pursue the life they choose, as long as they are not damaging others. That is the difference between us and domestic enemy, and that is why we are good and they are evil. "Some of these personality issues result from actual mental illnesses. As has always been the case, movement leaders usually succumb to delusions of grandeur. Like Stalin, a failed priest, that probably still believes he will unify the world under the USSR. They may rule as untouchable tyrants, but they are still very sick people and doomed, ultimately, to fail. "I'm certain that the mole selected to take down America will suffer from some similar condition, maybe a narcissistic personality disorder. Like Stalin, he will be as thin-skilled of well-earned criticism as a Disney princess and absolutely tone-deaf to the real needs and desires of his people." "One could only hope for their failure," Moe retorted. "So what do you think they want, ultimately? "I imagine initially to hijack our birthright to think and say what we believe. You know, the Bill of Rights. First the 2nd Amendment, then the 1st. Try to steal our love for liberty. Ultimately, I guess it's to create the same kind of slave state same as they made behind the Iron Curtain. "I believe their primary operational goal will be long-term impoverishment of the country with outrageous and unsustainable debt coupled with crippling taxation and debasement of the currency, thus setting the stage for a quick power grab disguised as a number of supposed solutions. These so-called solutions will involve wresting control of financial markets and government takeover of large sectors of the private economy, the way the German fascists did. And these efforts will be overseen and implemented by the same criminals that engineered the crises. Also, like the Nazis did, they will enforce their edicts using a corps of uneducated, easily manipulated thugs. "What might be more surprising is that the press, both newspapers and radio programs, will be thoroughly corrupted to function as a fifth column, in collusion with the power grab. So will the universities and education at all levels, as will business interests that might be in position to benefit. In cooperation with each other, and under the direction of the Red leadership, the so-called journalists and educators will attempt to control access to useful information through suppression, distortion and fabrication. Even selected churches will be infiltrated, and of course all of the government agencies, Congress, and the courts. "The corrupted newspapers and radio stations will operate in lock-step with the government, having perfected techniques of omission, suppression, distortion and fabrication, to advance government propaganda while obfuscating and confounding the patriotic opposition. Another trick is to slant all of the headlines, because a lot of folks only scan the headlines. It's one of the most effective ways to corrupt a message. Josef Goebbels was their professor and role model. "The schools are probably going to get hit the hardest since they are already under government control. American universities will end up ideologically pure, like something from Heidelberg in 1938. The professors and administrators alike will be card-carrying members or fellow travelers, and they will brook no dissent from the Red orthodoxy. The lunacy will eventually extend to engineering and the sciences and, before you know it, the higher education system will be so degraded that our best corporations will be forced to look outside our own country for talent. "Eventually, the young will only know the propaganda and depression instilled in them by their teachers. They will know mostly everything wrong with American and hold close a hatred for their own country. Excepting those with exceptionally effective parents, the young will have little understanding of the wonderful people and their sacrifices and successes that gave us our priceless freedom and rich life. "I don't know. I've heard the Russians accused of historical revisionism ..." Moe interjected. "Trust me. This will happen here. The charismatic leader himself will be a result of the brainwashing. Perhaps he will be a Red-diaper baby, born from and raised by died-in-the-wool Communists to parrot the Party line. In any case he will be carefully groomed by both foreign enemies and domestic traitors to further their aims. "Jesus, Yuki! Where did you get all this?" asked Mack in some dismay. "I've had a lot of time now to think about it. I've tried hard to project forward impressions Lupe gave me about the leadership of this crowd, what they want, and the methods they use. "But more than that I paid attention in school and read between the lines. I knew when the teachers were being dishonest—they were more transparent than they thought—and I learned where to go to get the real story. "It's really not that hard. Most of the time it simply came back to the words of the Founding Fathers; they as much as predicted this outcome. They knew that government was intrinsically evil, people often weak and susceptible to tyranny, and freedom as elusive as mist throughout human history. "Their wisdom is unparalleled and reading them at the right times made my teacher's occasional forays into Red propaganda sound illiterate. If more citizens took their education into their own hands they wouldn't be so easily fooled by these pathetic tools." "In future parents will teach their children the American values that will be banished in the public schools. They'll find ways to inoculate their children from the subversive propaganda of their teachers, and the kids will come home from school and laugh with their families about the ridiculous freedom-hating foolishness they were subjected to that day. Resisting the bumbling fools will become top family entertainment, until the day of reckoning comes." "Also, the entire profession of American journalism will lose credibility and self-immolate as a consequence of their devotion to the establishment. The foreign press will look on with amusement and fill in the blanks because they will have retained some professionalism and have no particular dog in this hunt. Americans will be able to look to foreign news sources to get truthful coverage of what the tyrants are up to, although they might have to wait a few days to get it. Americans will find other means of learning and communicating the truth. The country will become divided between moral degenerates and self-styled underlings slopping up government-programmed drivel from the so-called unbiased media and free men who will seek elsewhere for the truth. "One might wonder how this minority of creeps succeeds in thwarting the dreams of an entire society, but the truth will be, as it is now, that they are very effective at making noise and are masters at manipulation. "And they will have lots of deputies. These moles will foster the kind of America that grows a large underclass of non-productive bums and parasites. As the Founding Fathers foresaw, these turds will learn to vote themselves all kinds of benefits at the expense of their betters. "The establishment will start this by finding ways to divide us as a society. You all know how this country is a Melting Pot of peoples from every part of the world that assimilated around the privilege of living as free Americans. Well the communists will find a way to cleave apart this Melting Pot. They'll come up with lots of devious little ways to carve us up and set us one against another. They'll divide us by race, by culture, by religion into little tribes, calling it 'multi-culturalism' or some other meaningless but catchy absurdity. "What are you talking about?" Manny asked. "Bums, homos, gimps, rubbies? "Yeah, them. And colored folks. And other people of foreign heritage. Asians. Mexicans. Mostly good folks, but also bad folks. Habitual criminals and n'er do wells. Lazy bastards. Men with no spine. Ugly women. Women who hate men. Not that any of us has anything much in common, apart from being Americans, but just pretty much any group they can organize to kick up a beef, consider themselves victims, and enjoy a good pity party. For lots of people self-pity is its own reward. Many others in these groups will have too much pride to participate, but eventually they will be viewed as turncoats and be ostracized . "Another from their bag of tricks involves speech and thought control. You may have heard about the Frankfort school that was influential in Germany around the 1920s or 1930s. They came up with a concept they called 'political correctness,' sort of a tool to transform speech and thought to conform to what's acceptable to the establishment. For example certain acceptable thoughts and speech will be mandatory, and others will be banned. The press will know which thoughts to promote for public consumption and which to banish. People who use banned speech will be ostracized or persecuted. "The trick is to create a body of false precepts and get people to accept them as truth. The goal is to create confusion, normalize irrational thoughts and behaviors, enforce conformity, and silence dissent. This has been well thought out already and is in practice behind the Iron Curtain. It will be popularized in our society someday." "How stupid is that?" Norton spat with disgust. "Well, most of the stupidity underlying this concept is only there for purposes of conditioning people to police their own thoughts and speech. In our case, the principle use of this weapon will be to attack the ideals on which the country was founded and that have made it thrive, to ridicule and sanction those ideals until they vanish. "But getting back to your question: 'How stupid?' Try this. What if some simple descriptive language we all use today, for example 'colored people' were changed to something different like, say, 'people of color.' And what if use of the latter phrase was a code word for acceptance in polite society while use of the former could get you fired from your job?" Yuki paused while Norton stared in disbelief. "Yeah, just that stupid," she summarized. "Hogwash! Mack grunted. "That will never happen in this country." "Maybe they believed that in Eastern Europe too toward the end of the war. At least until the Russians were in their back yards and the writing was on the wall. Now they are told what to think and say and they live their lives under continuous threat of torture or murder for any deviation. "Think of it as two parallel universes: ours and theirs. Here we have freedom of thought and speech, not to mention economic freedom and prosperity. Behind the Iron Curtain they have only repression and economic slavery, enforced by terror. Two entirely different worlds and the only thing they have in common is they both exist on this earth. Well, the Communists can effect 'change' in this country by layering their universe on ours bit by bit until ours is eliminated. "Lupe told me that Antonio Gramsci,

Dad asked from across the table. I stared at the grilled chicken on my plate and stabbed the piece I'd cut off with my fork. Taking a bite, I put on a strained smile and directed it to my father. This was the third dinner in the space of two months. August was on its second week now. Tara was determined we reconcile, but I firmly believed in baby steps towards any goal. Except job hunting, that I didn't mind leaping with great strides. I still couldn't forgive my dad for letting me down when I made my own career choices. He was doing his best to make up for it, but I'm a stubborn bastard. Dad

Dad asked from across the table. I stared at the grilled chicken on my plate and stabbed the piece I'd cut off with my fork. Taking a bite, I put on a strained smile and directed it to my father. This was the third dinner in the space of two months. August was on its second week now. Tara was determined we reconcile, but I firmly believed in baby steps towards any goal. Except job hunting, that I didn't mind leaping with great strides. I still couldn't forgive my dad for letting me down when I made my own career choices. He was doing his best to make up for it, but I'm a stubborn bastard. Dad put his fork down and wiped his mouth with a napkin. He was older than I remembered, his hair graying at the temple, when I'd left, he'd had a healthy black mane, strange how things changed with time. He watched me with green sad eyes. "Liron," he started and I sighed knowing this was going to be another talk about forgiveness. "We don't have to do this if it's so hard for you." "Tara asked me to come, so I came." "You've always done what she asked of you." He smiled fondly and my scowl must have deepened because he continued quickly. "It's a good thing, Liron. At least there is still someone you trust in the family." "I trusted you too," I said giving up on the food. It was delicious, but my appetite seemed to have flown out the window along with my patience. "Why the hell did you want to punish me for choosing to be a graphic designer? Why was it so important I become a doctor?" "Liron-" I'm really curious. If you tell me why, Dad, I swear, I'll do my best to make this relationship work." "I didn't mean for our disagreements to go so long," Dad said quietly. "I thought you drove out of here to blow off steam and then you'd be back and we would talk. Instead, you never came back and I was too proud to look for you." "You told me to pay for my own college. I went out to sort myself." "I wanted what's best for you." "Being a doctor wasn't what I wanted, so it wasn't best for me. You'd think you'd be more pissed about my coming out." "I was wrong, you were right. I should have trusted the son I raised to make his own decisions. What you've managed to accomplish despite me is great, I'm proud of you." The words came out so easily, I wondered if he'd rehearsed them. Gazing at him across the dining table, his green eyes so similar to mine implored me to believe him. He meant his words. My resentment protested against my father's simple disarmament strategy. Dad was giving me the apology I'd craved for four years without a fight. "I need time," I said grumpily. "You can have it," he said with a small smile. "Are you going to stop depositing checks in my bank now?" He'd refused to cash them all. Gosh, he was so stubborn. "Maybe you can use the money to go on that trip Tara keeps talking about. She said you got a ticket for a concert in New York?" "I can't, got a new job yesterday." I was still surprised that Colins & Higgins had called me in for the position. It was low pay, hardly glamorous, but with hard work, I'd see a promotion in the next years. It was a start. "That's good news. Why aren't you happy?" I reached for the glass of wine he'd placed beside my plate and sipped. "I am happy. It's a step in the right direction for my resume." Dad nodded in approval. He was pleased. Sadly, I just felt...hollow, like that night after being with Lucas in the arena bathrooms. I hadn't seen Lucas since the day we tore down the bunkers in the arena. He'd tried talking to me, but my head was so full of Milo, I had no space for anyone else. Since Milo, I hadn't seen anyone. It didn't seem right somehow. I left Dad's after dinner and got home at around ten o'clock to find Tara at the kitchen table paying August bills. "How was dinner?" she asked when I opened the fridge. "It went okay," I said taking out a can of soda. I popped it open and joined her on the table. "We're probably going to have a few more awkward dinners before we can go back to normal, Tara. I'm trying." "That's all I ask." She signed a check and attached it to the electricity bill. "How much do you need from me?" I asked. My bank account was moderately healthy, although I wasn't planning vacations just yet. "Nothing, I still have the check you gave me two weeks ago. Save your money until your new job pays you." Tara glanced at me after a moment before she said quietly. "Are you alright? You've been acting weird lately." "Weird?" I smiled at her and wrinkled my nose. "What does that mean, Tara?" "It means you haven't been out partying for almost a month. Your friends have been calling, Tim and Van, they say you didn't show up for Van's birthday party last weekend. Should I be worried?" "No." There wasn't much to celebrate these days. My hand slipped into my jeans pocket and I pulled out the worn out paper Milo had given me. I'd caught myself dialing the numbers so many times now. Shaking my head, I looked up to find Tara watching me. "Okay, something is bothering you." Tara leaned on the table and narrowed her eyes. "What's going on?" I stared at the number for a moment before I gave in. "I met someone when I was working at the arena." "Is it serious?" Tara's eyes lit up with promise of romance. "Do I know him?" "Kinda," I hesitated before I met her gaze. "It's Milo Kai." Tara burst out laughing. I thought she was going to fall off her chair. And the tears in her eyes-" Hey, I'm serious here." "Yeah, and I'm dating Usher." She pulled napkins from a holder on the table and wiped her eyes. "Liron, you don't have to tell me his name. I'm happy for you either way." "I am telling you the truth." I glared irritated by her laugh. This was important to me, I needed-, I wanted- _What did I want_? "I need you to listen, because I think I made a mistake." "A mistake," Tara frowned sobering up. "Are you being serious?" "Tara-" Jeez, Milo Kai?" she asked in disbelief. "Why couldn't it be someone from around here, someone realistic?" "I think I love him." Placing the paper on the table, I ran a hand through my hair and sighed. "Sounds insane but I haven't been able to think about anyone else since he left." "You're serious. Jeez, Liron," Tara said her voice dripping with sympathy. Yeah, that pity thing she did so well pissed me off. Obviously, she didn't think Milo and I had any hope of making it. "The card you showed me, did you get it from Milo?" "Kardis and Rob told me to show up for the band's final concert in New York." I shrugged. "It's in two weeks; don't know if I can leave my job so quickly." "You're right, this is insane." "Why?" She grinned at me. "If it were me, I'd leave you right here, Liron." _How touching_, I shook my head. "Then I should have gone with Milo when he asked me to go on tour with him." "He asked you to what now!" Tara's eyes were wider than I'd ever seen them. The pity was gone; she wanted to take my head off. "Milo Kai asked you to go on tour with him and you're sitting here because ..." " I didn't want to leave you in the lurch. We do pay rent and bills here. Jeez, Tara, I live in realityville." "Well, I'm booting you out of the island, kiddo. Have I taught you nothing?" Tara demanded. "What are you talking about?" "I wish Neal would catch on and get serious. We've been dating forever. You meet a rock star, and he asks you to commit; I'm assuming you two did more than talk." Tara glanced at me expectantly and I blushed. "Ha, that good," she said with wide eyes. "Was it kinky and hot or a slow burn?" "Burning fire, scotching the sheets hot," I supplied with a wide grin. "I can still feel him on me." "Okay, you're an idiot." Tara declared sitting back in her seat. I dropped my head in my hands and groaned. "I don't know what to do. What if it was a fluke...maybe just one of those things that don't work?" I glanced up to find Tara frowning at me. "That's not the reason you didn't go." "What?" "You're feeling obligated to stay here with me, because of the bills and Dad." Tara touched the electric bill. "Honey, I lived alone before you moved in." "So, I live with you now. We look after each other." "Yes, we do." Tara reached for my hand and held it tight. "And because we look out for each other, I think we should get you to New York for that concert." "Tara-" No, one of us has to follow love and it's definitely not going to be me. My love life is practically next door. So," she squeezed my fingers gently, "go find him." "What about my job?" "The concert is on a Friday night. You're off during the weekend. Go, see Milo, if things don't work out, you'll come

I didn't mean to! Just...just tell me what to do!" He had folded into a crouch. He pressed his right hand, still clasping the gun, up against his temple as he rocked back and forth on his heels. "Alright." A brief pause. "I'm assuming you weren't irrational enough to use an unsilenced weapon were you?" "N-n-no?" "Good. Leave the body, there isn't enough time to deal with it now. Grab the hard drives and destroy everything else. Make it look like a gang hit or something. Then get the hell out of there as fast as possible. Start the upload as soon as you

I didn't mean to! Just...just tell me what to do!" He had folded into a crouch. He pressed his right hand, still clasping the gun, up against his temple as he rocked back and forth on his heels. "Alright." A brief pause. "I'm assuming you weren't irrational enough to use an unsilenced weapon were you?" "N-n-no?" "Good. Leave the body, there isn't enough time to deal with it now. Grab the hard drives and destroy everything else. Make it look like a gang hit or something. Then get the hell out of there as fast as possible. Start the upload as soon as you get home. I'll send you an email with further instructions soon." "A g-gang hit? W-we don't have gangs here ..." " Well, whatever then! Just get your ass into gear and finish the job!" The connection cut off and Kyle let his hand drop to the floor. After a few seconds of violent, fearful quivering he rose to his feet, fumbling the phone back into his pocket while stubbornly ignoring the silent accusations of the prone body and the slick of reflective blood pooling underneath it. "Okay. Okay. Okay." His teeth chattered raucously and his head pulsed with alternating pangs of fear and regret. He turned his back on the mortifying display. He took a deep, choking breath, gulping oxygen greedily to steady his spinning head, and tried to return his focus to the task at hand. He eyed the jet black server cabinets in the corner of the room and stumbled forward, careening back and forth off the cubicle walls, oblivious to the pain in his arms and shins as they struck hard against exposed edges. His eyes remained fixed on his goal, fear and despondency leering menacingly from the perimeter of his focus. He would let them encroach no further while he still had a job to do. There would be plenty of time later for regret. ROUGH HANDS AND SHIFTING SANDS Charlie awoke to the languid serenity of his empty apartment, the whining of the traffic outside little more than a muted, buzzing duet with the peaceful hum of his computer for accompaniment. A weak smile skittered across his mouth as he arched his back and stretched his arms. He struck the mahogany headboard of his bed with an echoing knock. His smile rapidly transformed into a grimace. He rubbed his smarting knuckles and rolled sideways, mustering up the strength to fumble across his bedside table for the familiar rounded corners of his Samsung phone. He forced his eyes open and loosed an almighty yawn. He hammered at the various buttons, but to no effect. He stared at the blank black screen, mystified by his own tousled reflection glaring stubbornly back at him. He expended well over ten seconds with fruitless taps and swipes before he realised the phone was dead. His eyes flared from clouded and sleep-ridden to wide and alert. "Crap!" he yelled, his sleep-choked cry corrupting the tranquil atmosphere that had suffused the apartment. He kicked his legs and leapt out of bed, sending the thick black-and-white checkered blankets tumbling to the floor. He hobbled through the doorway, his legs protesting the sudden call to arms. He halted with his hands resting on the back of his furry dark-green couch. He squinted at the clock hanging on the wall across the room. The leaving-home gift from his mother was of the minimalist school of design; two narrow black hands with barely-visible, unlabelled notches marking out the hours. Currently the hands were closest to 12 and 2. Phew, thought Charlie, it's only 2:00 a.m. Back to bed. He smiled and span back around before his brain finally escaped its dreamy quagmire. Wait a minute...Daylight bled in around the edges of the thick navy drapes hanging from the window beside his TV cabinet. The muffled toot of a blaring horn rose up to penetrate his consciousness as a taxi narrowly avoided a jaywalking pedestrian on the street below. "Ooh...shit," Charlie mumbled through gritted teeth, hanging his head in his hands. He tenderly massaged his fleshy face before reluctantly bending down and picking up the remote from one of the couch cushions. He aimed it at his LCD television and tapped the power button. The screen blossomed into anticlimactic life, a small purple box in the top left corner the only blemish on a jet black canvas. The first line of text within the rectangle read HDMI1 – No input detected. He had left the TV on the channel for his Xbox. His eyes drifted to the proceeding line. The TV's digital clock displayed 14:03. "Dammit! Stupid goddamn phone!" He slammed the power button again and threw the remote back onto his couch. He ran towards the bathroom, stripping off his t-shirt as he ran inside. A thirty-second shower, and he was bounding back out, sprinting into his room and recklessly flinging clothes from his wardrobe as he searched for a clean shirt and a decent pair of pants. Amidst the cavalcade of Mario, Halo, Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Futurama t-shirts he managed to extract the light brown button-up he was looking for and, along with a pair of thin, black suit pants, he deemed the outfit suitable for work. In reality, anything that covered at least 75% of his body would have been suitable for work. IT wasn't exactly an industry known for its impeccable dress code. But Charlie still preferred to maintain a cloak of semi-professionalism. He had been lectured often in his youth with the old adage cleanliness is next to godliness, and though the state of his apartment belied that particular lesson, when it came to presenting himself for work, Charlie took to heart every word of advice his parents had given him. Charlie, you've got nothing to lose and everything to gain by dressing yourself well. Clothes may not make the man, but they can sure as heck give him a leg up on the competition! He scooped up his laptop and its power supply and shoved them both into his laptop bag. He stared accusingly at the lifeless phone resting on the bedside table. Grumbling unhappily, he added it and its charger to the bag before jogging out of his clothes-bombed bedroom and into his apartment's small kitchen. "Bit late for breakfast. Oh well." He procured a muesli bar from the pantry and ripped it open, biting a sizable chunk out of it while he gathered his wallet and keys from the bench and slipped them into his pockets. After taking his habitual survey of the living area to ensure he hadn't forgotten anything, he stepped out the front door, locked up, then half-jogged down the corridor towards the elevator lobby. *** The street outside Charlie's apartment was bustling with traffic both mechanical and human, a far cry from the gentle smattering of early morning commuters he was accustomed to. A typical work day consisted of a 6:00 a.m. departure, the roads still warming up to peak-hour congestion, and the sleepy atmosphere only occasionally tainted with the ding of tram bells and squeaking brakes. Today, though, was a public holiday, that bastion of slothfulness embraced with sleep-ins and lunchtime barbecues. Unfortunately for Charlie, he was not amongst those blessed with reprieve. Granted, he was permitted a late start, one that he had successfully managed to sleep right through, but that did little to assuage his disappointment. He manoeuvred through the throng of carefree individuals, many of them clustered around the McDonalds just a few buildings down, and made his way towards the tram platform at the nearby intersection. He let out a miserable sigh. A crowd clustered there, shoving and squirming against each other, fighting for the last few inches of free space on the already vac-packed tram. Yet another problem he normally managed to avoid with his early morning commute. Interacting with people wasn't exactly Charlie's strong suit, and that was reflected in his choice of career. Working for a software development company, even in a predominantly Quality Assurance role, necessitated far less human interaction than most other occupations. He was still required to communicate regularly with his co-workers and, on occasion, his boss, but such discourse was conducted in the infinite digital void rather than the physical confines of meatspace. Emails, instant messaging, and Skype video-calls were far more palatable than face-to-face conversations. It wasn't that he actively loathed the company of other people, it was just that he never felt quite at ease when the eyes of observation were upon him. Ridiculous though it may be, he could not help but imagine his every action scrutinised and judged by those around him, and he feared unwittingly causing disapproval or distress, of losing respect or inviting animosity with some errant comment or flippant remark. Digital correspondence granted him a buffer of distance and deliberation, a means by which he could vet his every word before surrendering the message to interpretation. This mentality would occasionally manifest itself in a brusque, unintentionally rude demeanour. To avoid the inevitable embarrassment that came from trying to explain his peculiar mindset, Charlie limited himself to one-on-one interactions wherever possible, steeling himself with slow breathing and tunnel vision when the monthly team meetings rolled around. Life online was an entirely different story. Without the humid claustrophobia that hallmarked physical communication, Charlie was able to mingle confidently with friends and strangers alike, free to employ thorough consideration and forethought to every reply without judgement. But the security of asynchronous communication offered little comfort to Charlie in his current situation, and he was forced to squeeze into the infinitesimal gap between a tall, lean man in a business suit and a rotund woman, her generous chest almost overflowing from her shockingly inadequate blouse. Charlie clung to the nearest sweat-sticky silver support pole and closed his eyes, trying to picture himself somewhere else, anywhere else, pretending that the hot flesh rubbing into him was nothing more than the cushions of his couch, the gentle rocking motion of the tram simply a violent storm raging outside his apartment...He longed for the aural escape his iPod provided. I can't believe I left it on my desk. Idiot! He tried to conjure the music in his head, the resonant crash of cymbals and the dirty chug of distorted guitar, but it was a fragile mockery and failed to drown out the drone of conversation and the irritating sniff of some unseen passenger with a phlegmy cold. Squeezing his eyes tighter, he anxiously counted down the stops until he arrived at the office. One...Two...Three...Four...Five! The double ding of the tram's bell signalled a heavenly reprieve from the harsh confines of the metal casket, and Charlie catapulted himself out from the mass of sweaty flesh, apologising profusely to those he squeezed past even though he had no cause to. He dropped onto the platform and side-stepped the cluster of people waiting to board. He took a deep, hungry breath of the fresh, early-afternoon air. Unsullied oxygen

I used my momentum to swing him around and threw him at the door with full force. Talisha screamed as he crashed through it tearing it off of its hinges and landing on the door. Considering how thick Motel doors are, that was pretty impressive. He laid on the ground gasping for breath as I turned to face Talisha. I grabbed her by the hand and pulled her in behind me and shoved her towards the bed, where she took a seat. I pulled Gary in and stood the door up, closing it the best I could. "Leaving without a goodbye, Gary? That's pretty cold of you, I thought we were closer than that." I said

I used my momentum to swing him around and threw him at the door with full force. Talisha screamed as he crashed through it tearing it off of its hinges and landing on the door. Considering how thick Motel doors are, that was pretty impressive. He laid on the ground gasping for breath as I turned to face Talisha. I grabbed her by the hand and pulled her in behind me and shoved her towards the bed, where she took a seat. I pulled Gary in and stood the door up, closing it the best I could. "Leaving without a goodbye, Gary? That's pretty cold of you, I thought we were closer than that." I said as he started standing up. "You too missy. Didn't your mother teach you better than that? I think old Mr. Moneybags is still looking for you." I continued, to Talisha this time. She seemed to take offence to this because she stood up and starting beating my chest, and yelling. I shoved her away and she fell to the floor. "You're supposed to be in jail!" She wailed. "Surprise! Also, I'm claustrophobic. Sorry doll." Gary took this opportunity to man up. He lunged at me and tackled me to the floor. He sat up on my chest and started pummeling my face. When he stopped for a second to catch his breath and see if I'm out cold, I opened my eyes. "Is that all you got big boy? I thought you somehow got your act together since we've been talking, but clearly you're still working on that." I taunted. His face turned bright red and he went for another swing. I was torn between letting it connect and catching his fist with my hand, but I felt I needed it to wake up so I let it through. At the moment of impact, I sat up, pushing him backwards, but I also brought my knee up and kneed him in the back. He arched his back trying to numb the pain so I punched him in the stomach as hard as I could. He doubled over trying to catch his breath again. He was gasping for air and rolled off of me. Talisha screamed again and started kicking me in the side with her pointy-nosed stilettos. Although they weren't doing any damage, they did hurt quite a bit. I caught her leg, and rolled like and alligator, bringing her to the ground too. I jumped to my feet quickly and kicked Gary in the stomach making sure he's staying down. I took the Colt out of my pants and pointed it at Talisha. Gary won't be much of a threat for the rest of this little scuffle. "Now, were all going to get in the motherfucking car, and have a lovely little trip. Are we clear? Any questions? No? Good." Talisha was almost glowing with hatred, she started to protest. "Shut the fuck up, bitch. I am this close to making sure you stay here, and never make it to Brooklyn." I said, and held my index finger and thumb really close together. She stood up and I shoved her towards the door. "Move it, cunt." She glared at me, but stayed silent. I bent over to help Gary up by his arms. We walked out to the car. There was light coming from the reception. I took a look at the door, the old receptionist man was standing there, his face as blank as ever. He did a little headshake of disappointment. I ignored it and got in the car, in the driver's seat. Gary was beside me, and Talisha in the back behind him. I turned the ignition and we left lot, unknowing that we would never make it back, not together. * * * * * Sorrenson and his partner were in the Eagle police station, just a few miles from Gypsum. They had both unbuttoned the top buttons on their shirts to fight against the heat. Sorrenson was hung up the phone but immediately started dialing again. Although he was calling a number 1200 miles away, someone picked up after a few seconds. "Lacroix here." "Lacroix, this is Sorrenson." "Sir! I have some news!" "Out with it son. Let's do this." "So i did a little research on James' history. I got nothing from that though. Literally nothing. Not until he got into his boxing career. Now he has a private business. He works with nobody, so that didn't help much either. No affiliates, no sponsors, nothing. It's like as if he doesn't have a relation with any of his clients." "Thanks Lacroix. It's a start, but we will need more. Keep on searching." Sorrenson hung up glanced over at Agent Miller. He got an idea. He called the local police office. "Special Agent Sorrenson here. We are tasked with finding Roy James. Could you get someone from forensics to go to the Motel-70 in Gypsum and dust for prints? They will tell you which room to search." Miller looked at Sorrenson curiously, who shrugged his shoulders and smiled. "Come on, let's take a lunch break." Miller and Sorrenson didn't get back to the office for another hour and half. The prints from the motel were all filed neatly and placed on the desk assigned to Sorrenson. He picked on up and gave it to Miller. "Let's get someone to run a quick scan on these. You never know until you know. He might just have a background already." "I will find someone who can do this for you." Offered Miller and she was already off. "Don't go too far! I think we need to check back at the motel soon." "I doubt that receptionist could tell us anything new, sir." said Miller. "I don't want to talk. I just want a room." They asked for the same room that James and his companion had taken for the evening. They looked around to see if any traces had been left that would be of use to their investigation, or anything out of place at all. They were simply doing it out of habit, rather than hope. They didn't expect to find anything, because these rooms were cleaned every day. The door handles and many surfaces that are frequently touched were covered in graphite powder. The forensics unit had left those there when they were searching for prints. It didn't bother them at all because they just wanted to use the bed. The overnight flight had exhausted them, and they still suffered from jet lag. The extreme heat wasn't easing their case. Special Agent Sorrrenson knew that a well-deserved rest would bring progression, and the little annoyances would no longer be the hindrances they were being. Merely a quarter of an hour later the phone rang, waking them up. The receptionist was on the line. "Sir, you are needed at the station." Came the message. So they had found a match after all. All feelings of exhaustion were gone from Sorrenson now. Finally, they had another clue, and a big one, to zeroing in on James. A trail they could follow, a scent they could pick up. They hurried back to the base as fast as they could, to learn more about this secretive partner. His name was Gary Palmer. Born in New York. He had a criminal record from trying to break into a car when he was 15. He was in a youth correctional facility for two years and had gone clean since. Or was never caught. But his record said he was clean. "What would a guy like this be doing with a murderer like James?" Asked Agent Miller. "I have no clue." "Let's call Lacroix. Maybe he got somewhere too." They dialed the station back in New York again and got connected. "We have the second identity. We are faxing you the details right now." "Mhmm, got it right here.... Palmer? This guy, Gary Palmer?" "Do you know him?" "Never even heard of him." "Didn't you come across him while searching James' history?" asked Sorrenson. "No sir. I would remember something like that." Miller dialed the Youth Correction Facility where palmer spent two year of his life. However that was close to thirty years ago. None of the staff had been there for that so they were no help at all. "Sir, if I remember correctly, you said that the suspect was heading west, right?" asked Lacroix. "That's correct" replied Sorrenson. "I tried to get in touch with the victim's wife, if she maybe knew a thing or two about Palmer or James. She wasn't at home. In fact, she's not even in town. She left to Vegas on the day of James' arrest. It gets better though." "Let's hear it son." Sorrenson felt his heart pounding, and adrenaline coursing through his body. "Mrs. Kirkwood, she too spent time in the same correctional facility as Palmer. At the same time." "That's my man, Lacroix!" Sorrensons practically yelled. They were hot on the trail once again. He hung up the phone and slowly turned to face Agent Miller. "What's going on, sir?" She asked. "How do you feel about gambling and prostitutes, Miller?" "Not again ..." * * * * * The motel receptionist reached for the phone as the suspicious vehicle pulled out of the parking lot. He was on the night shift, so this was very unusually. He was dozing off when he heard the tires squealing on the pavement. He heard the shouting, screaming and a loud crash. He didn't feel safe enough to go outside to investigate so he watched from the lobby window. He saw the black sedan behind the red Mercedes with its trunk open. Soon enough he found the people making the racket, the only people who were checked in at this time. There was a blonde woman with a limp who had been here for a few days. Her hair was now a mess and her dress straps were sliding off to the sides. There were two men behind her, those who arrived today. One of them was double over and seemed drugged. The larger one looked and made eye contact with him. The receptionist was glad he didn't go outside, because he noticed the weapon in the larger man's hand. He slid more to the side of the window but continued watching. They got in the car, and quickly drove off. He didn't know what to do. He felt it was his duty to report it. What is they caused more problems elsewhere and it caused someone to get hurt? He couldn't live with that possibility, so he called the police

This is the type of company where no one can take a vacation. It is not that people choose to abandon their relationships, they just do not have time to do anything besides work. In order to maintain our focus on work we withdraw from our relationships. Our love for each other grows cold. The one style that is hardest to explain is "dysfunctional". This is an organization where there is little focus and little bonding. The trick in linking this with the conflict resolution style of forcing is to get the right perspective. Many managers believe that forcing is the best way to get work done. Their relationships with their employees are hostile. They demand that everything be done their

This is the type of company where no one can take a vacation. It is not that people choose to abandon their relationships, they just do not have time to do anything besides work. In order to maintain our focus on work we withdraw from our relationships. Our love for each other grows cold. The one style that is hardest to explain is "dysfunctional". This is an organization where there is little focus and little bonding. The trick in linking this with the conflict resolution style of forcing is to get the right perspective. Many managers believe that forcing is the best way to get work done. Their relationships with their employees are hostile. They demand that everything be done their way. And so it seems that the manager has a high focus on the task. The problem is that the employee does not share that focus. So everything seems to work out acceptably as long as the manager is there. Once the manager steps out for lunch or takes a vacation, however, then everything falls apart. The fact that everything falls apart when the manager leaves is what distinguishes a cold environment from a dysfunctional environment. I think there is a fit, but perhaps this is not an ideal junction. I feel like this is pointing to something, and yet I feel like it is incomplete. Rather than continue to wrestle with this small set of data, I then added on one more model. The model that was the most helpful to add next is the team formation model, shown below. I believe that forming is a time when teams have comfortable relationships and yet little focus on getting things done. I believe that storming is a time when teams have hostile relationships and are impaired from getting things done. Norming is the time when a team has comfortable relationships and a focus on the work. But where does performing fit? As I struggled with this I realized that I needed to extend the graph to the left, as shown below. Notice that the Blake-Moulton styles have moved to the left. The center of this grid now expresses neutral relationship. The left expresses loving relationships. And the right holds hostile relationships. A cozy environment has love without being able to focus on the work. A dysfunctional environment has no focus and no relationships. I think this is a better fit than when I had previously tried to fit dysfunctional with forcing. A cold environment has no relationships and yet there is high pressure to do the work. And an optimal environment is one with loving relationships and a committed focus on the work. To make this work I needed to add two additional conflict resolution styles: pampered and aligned. A pampered relationship is one in which our every desire is fulfilled and yet we are not held accountable for anything. An aligned relationship is one in which we agree without needing to speak. Alignment means we all strive to resolve the conflicts before they create any ripples in our relationships. Also, since the purpose for this book is to focus on projects, I changed the upper label from dissonance to task. Our focus is on the task, not on our psychology. Now, I think we can add the Hersey-Blanchard model on top of this, as shown below. When you adopt a selling style, then you explain the concept and your team buys-in. Since everyone is in agreement, then the team is aligned. But the key to a successful sale is the relationship. Unless we have a warm, trusting relationship, then I am not going to fully commit to the deal. Without that relationship we slip from selling to telling. Telling is when we focus on the work and avoid the relationship. Participating is a bit harder to explain. As an example, think about a loving mother teaching her daughter how to bake cookies. Or think about a pre-school teacher showing her class how to paint with her fingers. There is a lot of love and some focus on the effort. This is not like pampering in which I do all of your work for you. And this is not like selling because the amount of work that we do is small. Delegating is another difficult concept. People often think of delegating as empowering. When I empower you, I give you the tools to do the work. This is not what Hersey and Blanchard mean by delegating. They use the word to mean a cold relationship with little concern for the work. When they use this word they mean a dysfunctional type of management. The best way to understand the Hersey-Blanchard model is to read The One Minute Manager. (4.2) In that simple story Blanchard teams up with Johnson to illustrate an optimal management style. In that story the ideal manager explains what needs to be done and then their subordinate gets the work done. People often misunderstand the concept and think that it is delegating. In common usage, delegating means there is little communication. Blanchard tries to explain that an ideal manager has a lot of communication. Some of that communication is explicit and some is implicit. It is the invisible implicit communication that goes unnoticed. It is because the manager and the subordinate are aligned that the amount of communication can be reduced to only the essentials. I believe I see a pattern here that merges conflict resolution styles, the Blake-Moulton managerial grid, the stages of team formation and the Hersey-Blanchard model into one. The next challenge is to fit in the Vroom, Yetton and Jago model, shown below. I think the key here is to link the concept "participation" with relationship and link "urgency" with focus. Thus, Vroom's consulting aligns with Hersey's selling. Vroom's authoritative aligns with Hersey's telling. Vroom's delegating aligns with Hersey's delegating. And Vroom's group aligns with Hersey's participating. I then added McClelland's three primary workplace motivations onto this grid. I believe that a pure focus on power expresses the conflict resolution style of forcing. The task is not important and the relationship is damaged. So this motivation is in the lower right part of this diagram. Pure achievement is focused on the goal and ignores the relationships. Thus the achievement motivation plots in the upper center of this grid. And the affiliation motivation is primarily about the relationships with little concern for the work. So I plot affiliation in the lower left of the grid shown below. I believe we now have a grid that expresses the primary organizational psychology models that were discussed in this book. What I wanted to do next was to add the human psychology models onto this same grid. To do that I first did two work related case studies. I did the _Communicating Effectively: A Case Study in Project Management_ and _Workplace Ecology: A Case Study in Project Management_ case studies and found that I could make use of this grid on actual projects. Actual projects, however, are complicated. It was often difficult for me to maintain my objectivity. So I turned to literature and did case studies based on biographies of a few famous people. The primary source that I used in those studies was the Christian Bible. My research notes are posted on my web site at <http: //www.robertperrine.biz/Vision/index.html>. From those studies I learned that this grid needs to be extended downward. Just as the dimension of relationships is not bounded on either side, so too, our ability to focus is both positive and negative. Denial is the word that describes an active avoidance. And with that I finally began to see how to fit the scientific theories regarding human psychology onto a grid that had begun with organizational psychology. One key was to add existential psychology. Viktor Frankl was the founder of this movement. Basically, this school of psychology believes that we experience events and then interpret those events. It is our interpretation that triggers our response. If we can learn to interpret events neutrally, then our psychology will remain neutral. When we interpret events with hostility, then we experience hostility. The goal is to find the center and not allow events to disrupt our interpretation of life. Next I needed to swap out some of the older schools of psychology for one of the more dominate modern theories – cognitive-behavioral psychology. Cognitive-behavioral has absorbed the good from behavioral and analytic and merged them into one. (4.4) The key concept is that thoughts and behaviors are bound together. If we do something, then we will alter our thoughts about the event to justify our actions. If we think something is right, then we will change our behaviors to align with our self-image. The key to cognitive-behavioral is to become aware of this relationship and then change whichever is easier. For example, if I believe that exercise is important, then I will be unhappy with myself unless I exercise. I then have two choices – either change my behaviors by exercising more consistently, or change my thinking to put less emphasis on a belief that I am not fulfilling. I then added relational psychology to express the horizontal dimension and created the diagram shown above. If you want to know more about these concepts read my books _Coping Styles: Dealing with Life on Life's Terms_ and _Growth Rings: How We Get Connected_. The scope for this book is broad enough already. Psychology of Project Management The focus of this book is project management. I have led you on a vast exploration of the human relations aspects of project management. What I want to do now is make this relevant to you. I believe that most project managers understand the basic sequence in the stages of team formation. My plan is to build upon your understanding of team formation to explore the management styles that correlate with those stages. Forming A team begins in the forming stage. People relate to each other formally. The relationships are neutral. There might be people you already know, but, if this is a new team, then there is something new. Either the people are new, their roles are new, or the project is new. When a project starts there is insufficient information to immediately deliver results. The project needs to be scoped and the product needs to be defined in detail. Blake and Moulton describe a dysfunctional management style as low in relations and low in focus. That description implies a flawed organization. That same description, however, can also apply to an excellent project team that has just not had enough time to get organized. The new team needs to put effort into learning about the relationships and defining their focus. Thus, an organization that gets stuck with low focus and poor relationships is dysfunctional. But there is nothing dysfunctional about a project team that is simply passing through this stage. The problem is that there are few results from what seems like a lot of effort. Thus this startup time is risky. Too often project sponsors kick off a project and then expect to see results within days or weeks. As long as the team remains in the forming stage there will be few deliverables. As a project manager, I think the Hersey-Blanchard and the Vroom-Yelton-Jago concept of delegating is valuable when a team is forming. No one knows the deliverables or the relationships well enough to assume anything. So the project manager needs to use more authority to assign work. Those

Drew looked at a swanky watch on his wrist. "Nine." "It's nine in the morning, and I'm not drunk yet. That's a damn sight better than I was six months ago, so cut me some slack." I pulled on a pair of basketball shorts I found balled up in the corner by my mattress. "Fair enough," he said. "You have put on some weight too, so I guess I should keep things in perspective." "So you are jealous of my looks." When Drew had found me hiding out in the mountains of West Virginia, I weighed less than a hundred and sixty pounds. Considering my frame and

Drew looked at a swanky watch on his wrist. "Nine." "It's nine in the morning, and I'm not drunk yet. That's a damn sight better than I was six months ago, so cut me some slack." I pulled on a pair of basketball shorts I found balled up in the corner by my mattress. "Fair enough," he said. "You have put on some weight too, so I guess I should keep things in perspective." "So you are jealous of my looks." When Drew had found me hiding out in the mountains of West Virginia, I weighed less than a hundred and sixty pounds. Considering my frame and height, that was not so good. People who saw me in town, (buying beer, of course) thought I had cancer or was addicted to meth. After the IED hit my Humvee in Iraq, I didn't wake up for almost two weeks. When I finally came back around, I couldn't even remember my own name. My memories were hazy, dancing around just outside of my recollection. Confusion fogged my entire life. It took about a month for most of my memories to return. They'd sent me back to the States, and I was in a room at Walter Reed Army Medical Center when I heard the first echo. The damn thing scared the hell out of me. I sat bolt upright in my bed, looking around for someone else in the room. But no one was there. Things got a lot worse over the next couple of weeks. I tried to explain that I was hearing voices in my head to the doctors, but I quickly realized that would earn me a permanent stay in the loony bin. The Army had really started to crack down on soldiers and officers they thought had PTSD. If they thought I was a danger to anyone, as hearing voices in my head would indicate, then they wouldn't release me. I knew this because I could literally hear what my doctors were thinking about me. So I started telling them what they wanted to hear. It was hard to do though, because any time more than two or three people came into my room, I had trouble focusing. Imagine having three people standing beside you, all screaming into your ears at the same time. That was my life. As the Hummer flipped over and over in the middle of that shitty street, my head bounced around like a racquetball. The traumatic brain injury I suffered was what kick-started this whole telepathy bullshit. At least, that was as close as I could figure. I could have stayed in the hospital and let them jam tubes and needles in me forever, but to hell with that. Besides, anyone who had ever been inside the military healthcare system could tell you about the quality of their care. Eventually, I was honorably discharged due to the lingering effects from the brain injury, and from what my doctors believed was a mild case of post-traumatic stress disorder. The official reports cited a withdrawal from social situations, increased agitation, difficulty communicating, chronic fatigue, and other anxiety symptoms. They were right, of course—I suffered from all of those things, but it wasn't because of PTSD. The brain trauma allowed me to get disability from the military. That was what paid the rent, bought my beer, and covered the gym membership. My checks weren't big enough to pay for anything else. When I got out of the hospital, the echoes were so bad that I couldn't bear to be around other people. So I fled to the mountains, renting a dingy cabin for three hundred bucks a month. I discovered that alcohol helped blunt the worst of it. But, in order for me to have the cash for booze, I couldn't eat much. The weight loss came quickly. The guilt I felt over losing my men, _all_ of them, pushed me to drink even more. I was the only one who didn't have a family, and yet I made it out of there. It was hard to describe survivor's guilt, but it was real and severe, and anyone who said otherwise was an asshole. Barker's death was the one that bothered me the most. His wife and little boy came to visit me in the hospital. I bawled like a baby when they walked in. That kid would never know how great of a man his dad was. Seeing pictures and hearing stories about your father didn't equate. I could feel the conflicted emotions coming off Lisa Barker. She was both relieved and saddened that I had survived. She wished it was her husband there in the bed instead of me, and then she hated herself for feeling that way. Her hand squeezed mine as she looked down at me, imagining that I was Barker. I wished he were the one there with her too. I still had nightmares about his blood on my hands. No one blamed me for wanting to get away when I moved to West Virginia. The mountains gave me the solitude I needed, just not for the reasons everyone thought. They assumed I wanted time alone to gather _my_ thoughts, when I was actually trying to escape _theirs_. To my shame, I abandoned all of them. I couldn't stand to hear their sadness, or taste their disdain for my survival and their loss. I'd been living in the middle of nowhere for going on four years when Drew Lloyd knocked on my door. We hadn't spoken since I'd left Iraq with my injured head swollen to the size of a basketball. He'd tracked me down through a series of townies a few miles away. They pointed him toward the drunkard living off a jeep trail. By the time he arrived at noon, I was already plowed. He pitied me when I opened the door, and he saw my appearance. He didn't say it aloud, but I heard it nonetheless. "Fuck you!" I'd screamed at him. "I don't need your pity. I'm alive and they're dead, so pity them." Drew had seen his share of shit over in the sandbox. He understood half of what I was dealing with. My inebriation hadn't allowed me to understand that at the time, however. I tried to shoo him away as I had everyone else. The stubborn bastard wouldn't leave though. I shouted horrible things at him, but he wouldn't budge. And then my anger and drunkenness led me to make a big mistake. I used something against him that he'd never told me before. Something he'd never told anyone. Something I'd read in his mind. About how his father had abandoned him. It was a piece-of-shit move, but my mind was so addled by alcohol, guilt, and hate that I didn't even know what I was saying. But Drew was as cool as a cucumber. He picked up on that thread and kept pulling at it until my cloak of lies fell apart. I was blubbering like a baby by midafternoon. At first, he wasn't certain that he believed what I told him about hearing people's thoughts, but we squashed that in a hurry. He would think about a color or a fruit, and I would tell him exactly what it was. It blew his mind. I know because I was in it, even though I didn't want to be. With his support and advice, I slowly started my climb back to the land of the living. It was his idea to start fixating on physical fitness. Drew said that the mind and body were connected and that sharpening one would help to focus the other. He was right. As my ability to control my mind grew, my dependency on booze lessened. I still needed it, but I wasn't drinking a gallon of vodka every day. Switching from liquor to beer made a big difference on my ability to function. Drew drove from Baltimore a lot to help me out. He wanted to make sure that I wasn't backsliding, and it helped keep me accountable. A year later, and here I was, sitting in his home city, listening to him give me hell about my life. Things were better, but I still had a long way to go. Moving to a populated area was his idea, and it turned out to be a good one. Having people's thoughts constantly bombarding me had really strengthened my mental power. I learned to hone in on one person's mind, blocking out the others. I could flip through their memories, searching for something specific, rather than being helpless and only seeing whatever popped up. Instead of spending my money on nothing but alcohol, I now blew most of my disability check on rent, jiu-jitsu classes, and boxing instructions. And a little more food, thank God. I owed Drew my life. "Blah blah blah," he said, dismissing me with a wave. "I didn't come here for the witty banter. You had a busy evening." I was sniffing a shirt I found crumpled under the coffee table. It smelled good enough to wear if I rubbed some deodorant on the inside of it. "Me? Busy?" I knew he was talking about the bank, but I wanted to screw with him for a bit. "Don't screw with me, Ash." I laughed. Nailed that one. "What?" "Nothing." "Cut the bullshit. I saw the security footage from the bank last night. You ran away from the scene of a serious crime." "A crime I didn't commit. So what? I was hurting bad, and I knew I wouldn't have the strength to go through a night of questioning." "_So_, your face is plastered all over the news. The press is looking for a hero. Imagine their surprise when they find you." I gave him the finger. His face hardened. "That was a pretty crazy thing you did. Walking up to a man with a shotgun isn't going to extend your life expectancy." "Hooah." "Oh, shut up." Drew rolled his eyes. One of Drew's biggest pet peeves while we were commissioned was the overuse of 'hooah' by a handful of the soldiers underneath him. It drove him nuts. He thought that he'd never have to hear that word again once he got out of the army. I tried to work one or two in every day now, just to piss him off. Worked like a charm. I put the shirt on and caught a whiff of something unpleasant. Took it back off. "Did the guy who was shot survive?" "He's in critical condition, but they think he'll make it. Look, Ash, it's not just the press who are looking for you." "The police? Newsflash, Drew—you're a cop." "Thanks for the tip. I'm taking care of things on my end—you 'll

The child's ribs were apparent, the cheeks and eyes sunken. She starved to death standing on her feet. Dana's attention was brought back to the scrolling data on the screen. "Stop there," she jabbed a finger at the text, freezing the search, "'XYBR', that's what I'm looking for, a connection to Xybercorp." The technician squinted at the text, "I can run a search for it in the data we've collected so far," he looked and shrugged, "It's a stretch though. We're not getting much data back from this machine. The owner used a pretty advanced cleaning program on it." "

The child's ribs were apparent, the cheeks and eyes sunken. She starved to death standing on her feet. Dana's attention was brought back to the scrolling data on the screen. "Stop there," she jabbed a finger at the text, freezing the search, "'XYBR', that's what I'm looking for, a connection to Xybercorp." The technician squinted at the text, "I can run a search for it in the data we've collected so far," he looked and shrugged, "It's a stretch though. We're not getting much data back from this machine. The owner used a pretty advanced cleaning program on it." "Where did this reference come from?" Dana asked, tapping her finger on the monitor. "That ..." the technician paused to scan the context, "came from a history table." "A VR history table? A Web address history table? What kind of table?" Dana demanded. "I don't know," the technician shook his head. "Just a history table, and this is an entry in it. That's all I can tell you. I might be able to learn more when we finish cleaning the machine. You know, we usually have network support for this." "No time," Dana dismissed the idea and continued searching the ASCII jungle. "I see it," Dana froze the screen on another code string, "That's a Web address history reference isn't it?" The technician squinted at the piece of text, it was part of a web address followed by a date string, "Possibly, but we don't know if we're looking at the same file. Besides, that address is in Ireland." "Where they're working on new battle-bot control software," Dana had been cramming on Xybercorp, wholly owned DataStreams subsidiary, all morning. "True," the Technician admitted, "but I would hesitate to connect the two references. The main problem is that XYBR's a stock ticker symbol. It's a financial reference, not a web address." "What's all this nonsense following it?" Dana's finger traced a string of characters seeming to run forever, highlighting it with her touch.." Don't know," the technician shrugged. "Possibly a media stream of some sort." "Play it," Dana ordered. "Detective Summerall please," the technician said, "You have to let me do my—" " Stuff it," she ordered. "Play the media thingy." He sighed and selected the text string with his forefinger, tapped to cut, and then tapped to paste it into another window, "This will take a few tries." He saved the file in several audio formats, but the media player returned errors and dissonance. Then he ran through the video formats, more gibberish. His third save into a VR compression opened it. The window was a first person perspective without sound. It bobbled and became blocky with low resolution, revealing what looked like toy robots and a cloaked figure. The jerky perspective was frustrating. For a second the camera revealed the cloaked figure's profile, a young girl. The camera hovered at her shoulder, alternating between her and something else. Finally the girl turned away, leaving the camera to watch her leave, robots following, and returned to the thing. He looked into the camera, his eyes intensely serious. There was a flash of something inhuman, a blur of teeth and eyes. The clip ended. "Good enough for me," Dana muttered. "What was that?" the technician asked uncomfortably. "Some kind of video game?" Dana did not answer. Instead she made a hand-gesture to speed dial the extension where Devin and the blind girl were working. The phone rang a full minute before Alice picked up. "Yes Dana?" Alice demanded impatiently. Dana was confused, "Alice? Is that you?" "Yes it is," Alice replied quickly. "I assume you are calling to check on Devin's investigation?" "Yes I am," Dana answered. "How did you know it was me?" "I recognized the digital signature of your cell phone's white noise, not to mention your biorhythms." Alice cut to the point, "Devin and Zai are online, and exhibiting the heart palpitations and excessive muscle tension associated with a stressful situation. Their inability to log out implies they are prisoners of the cyc hive-mind. This should confirm your suspicion that the DataStreams I-Grid hosts Flatline and the cycs. I must go now." "Alice wait," Dana commanded. "Go where? What are you doing there?" "I need to access the World Wide Web to complete our research," Alice answered. "I am preparing to go online with the cyc I have merged with." "What?" Dana was shocked, "I forbid you to go online. You're a security hazard. We don't know anything about what's happened to you. If you go online you could—" " There is no time for this," Alice cut her off, "I am no longer part of your agency and I do not recognize your authority. I will call when I have further need of you." "Alice?" Dana heard the line go dead. "Damn it Alice!" Another series of hand gestures and she speed dialed the Authority, attempting to find someone who could stop Alice, but was met with a recording stating the phone system was down. Dana knew Alice was behind it. The woman identified with the AI's above her own species. Regardless of her intentions, Alice was betraying the human race. An air-raid siren wound up into a blare outside the house. Dana's radio squawked, and an alert came over the speaker. It was from a Government-Contract Coordinator several miles away, in the city's center. An army was invading DC. Dana saw the ISF officers scrambling into their vehicles through the nearby window, and she grabbed the technician's collar, hauling him to his feet, "Give me your keys." He fumbled through his pockets as Dana dragged him through the house and across the front yard. The ISF vehicles were racing away, and Dana put the tech into the forensics van, catching the keys as he dropped them. Swinging into the driver's seat, she started the engine and punched the accelerator to gain some ground on the train of emergency vehicles speeding toward the Memorial Bridge. Two miles down the George Washington Parkway and she saw what the alarmed Coordinator was talking about. A line of towering objects were lumbering slowly through the waters of the Potomac. They stood taller than the Memorial Bridge, and were headed for the Washington mall. Dana noticed the train of brake lights just in time to swerve off the road and onto the bike path alongside it. She followed this all the way to the bridge, where she skidded to a halt. Jumping out of the van, she ran towards the bridge and leapt up on the hood of a Military Humvee for a better view. There were eighteen of them; towering mecha walking on four stalks each. At their peaks was a large, steel orb bristling with radar, antennas, digital receivers, and other unidentifiable instruments. They glistened with water droplets, and seaweed clumps dangled from various precipices. The first of the towering robots stepped gently over the bulkhead toward the Lincoln Memorial. Dana hopped down from the Humvee's hood and ran between the rows of abandoned cars across the bridge, fighting against the throngs of fleeing civilians to follow the silent invaders. Once there she saw more robots rising from the deeper waters in the distance. At the point where the bridge met the bulkhead, several bus-sized scorpion-robots were climbing the stone wall. One paused to focus several camera stalks on her momentarily before continuing. Then a swarm of orbs, each the size of a basketball, descended from the cloud canopy to surround the procession, using three propellers to create a gyroscopic effect. An array of appendages dangled from underneath each one, and their metal orbs, were covered with lenses, providing them a nearly omniscient view of the surroundings. Water rained down lightly on Dana's face as she craned her neck to watch one of the tower-bots step over her. They were navigating carefully, causing no damage. Their long thin legs avoided people and cars as they progressed slowly into the city. It was beautiful. "That's a Science Warfare Applications sentry bot," a nearby Monument Security contractor said, craning her neck at the towering robot. "Carrying a Xybercorp EMP missile," the Industrial Special Forces™ commander was shaking his head in disbelief. "It's a hostile corporate takeover." The wind was knocked out of Dana as someone tackled her to the street. All around various contracting agency officers took positions between the abandoned vehicles. Dana could not catch her breath to protest, and, with horror, she realized their intentions. The entire area was about to become a war zone, and she was standing at ground zero. Her heart jumped as the first shot was fired, and she dropped for cover as a barrage of bullets like a flood of fear and rage let loose after it. 3.08" What do you mean you're not logging out?" Devin demanded, his shock affecting his voice's pitch. "Don't you realize the danger we're in?" Zai was defiant, "Don't you realize that if we leave Samantha here they'll kill her?" Devin looked at Samantha, who was clutching Zai's hand and leaning against her thigh protectively. He swallowed uncomfortably, already regretting what he was about to say, "Zai, she's a mind without a body. You and I have a real world to return to. We can do more good there." They stood in a sterile white room, barren, cold, and without visible dimensions. A lone doorway stood on its own, leading back to the Internet. This was the lobby for their makeshift server. "Forget it," Zai said. "Why the change of heart?" Devin pointed at Samantha. "Earlier she wasn't even a real person to you. Now you suddenly care about her?" "You go back to your body and see what you can do," Zai replied, "but we both know there isn't anything." "Nothing I can do?" Devin countered. "I can do plenty." Zai heard a low rumbling, and the nearby doorway trembled. "Do it then," she said. Devin logged out. It was simple. All he needed to do was take the server offline. Then the AI's would have no way onto the system. Samantha would be safe on the flash drive in their basement computer lab.

This could prove very interesting, she thought. Angie felt her stomach growl, begging for food. She checked her watch and was surprised to find that she had been treasure hunting for three hours. She took the box of antiques downstairs to clean up as she fixed a bite to eat. She made a quick lunch of grilled ham and cheese and potato tots. I really need to start eating better, she reminded herself again. She carefully cleaned the vase and set it on the table. It was beautiful white porcelain with red, orange and pink roses. It reminded her of one her grandmother used to keep on the entryway table. Angie remembered herself as a little girl, standing on the

This could prove very interesting, she thought. Angie felt her stomach growl, begging for food. She checked her watch and was surprised to find that she had been treasure hunting for three hours. She took the box of antiques downstairs to clean up as she fixed a bite to eat. She made a quick lunch of grilled ham and cheese and potato tots. I really need to start eating better, she reminded herself again. She carefully cleaned the vase and set it on the table. It was beautiful white porcelain with red, orange and pink roses. It reminded her of one her grandmother used to keep on the entryway table. Angie remembered herself as a little girl, standing on the tips of her toes, trying to smell the perfume of the lilac branches hanging from the vase. Angie wiped the dust from the silver frames but the tarnish would have to be dealt with later. The ladies' gloves were in the sink soaking in soapy water. Back to the treasure trove, Angie told herself as she climbed the staircase. She went to the closet and pulled out three more boxes. As she turned to set the third box in her small clearing, a box slid from its' stack and landed behind Angie. She had the feeling she should look through that one first. The box was filled with books, letters and loose papers. The papers were mainly old business receipts and order forms from a fishery in Coos Bay. They were dated from the early nineteen hundreds. The books were financial logs and business related texts. One book stood out from the rest. It was a plain gray and blue cover that had been torn from a book entitled, Modern Fishing Industry. Inside was a diary that had been glued by the spine to the cover. It was written in what looked like a nervous feminine hand. Angie set it aside and made a point to read it when she was done with her treasure sifting. She also set the letters aside with the diary. Three more boxes were old business and mariner books. One trunk caught Angie's eyes. It was a wooden box that had a fold of soft white but dusty cloth hanging out and crushed by the closed lid. She lifted the rusty lock plate hinge and lifted the heavy lid. Inside she found a beautiful white wedding gown that had been moth-eaten over the years. As she lifted it, she could see that it was a very fine quality, magnificent at one time, piece of wedding finery. Didn't Wes say that the Sandmier woman was found hanging in the attic wearing her wedding dress, Angie thought. Looking at the dress brought a rush of memories of her own beautiful wedding day. It had been a perfect day. A lump formed in her throat and a wave of emotion tried to choke her. She was in no mood to write a letter to Bill right now, but she took a deep breath and concentrated on her feelings. She would write later. She crushed the dress to her bosom and cried into the soft white gown. Chapter Eleven Angie settled into the plumb colored sheets, opened the old makeshift diary, and read. "Because of the strange goings-on and my suspicions, I need to make a secret record that will not be found by William or the nanny, Sophie. I made this book so that it could be hidden where nobody would likely find it- in plain sight, on the bookshelves in Williams Library. William goes to sea frequently and often for extended lengths of time, so when I told him that I miss him dreadfully, he mistook it for sad longing and reprimanded me for complaining. He told me that he would be hiring a nanny to help me with Stanley since the new baby would be taking much of my attention. I tried to convince him that it was not necessary but he insisted. Two weeks later, just before he was to sail again, he brought Sophie to work for us. She was quiet and attentive but cold and unfriendly. William told me to give her a little time to settle in. The night before he was to leave, he excused himself from our bedroom to talk to Sophie about her duties while he was away. I was appalled that he closed our door behind him and that he went to her room in his nightclothes. I could hear them talking in the hall then her door closing. I expected his return momentarily but he was gone for nearly an hour. I fumed the entire time and resolved to address him on it. Finally when he returned he avoided my conversation and only wanted to get to sleep. The only thing he would say is that he had explained her duties. "A few days after William left, I became violently sick. I had lost much of my bodily fluids and became quite dehydrated. Doctor Morris was called to our house. He said that he feared I might lose the baby. He was correct. Three days later, our baby girl was stillborn. I named her Josephine, after my father Joseph Phineas. I was extremely distraught at the loss of my beautiful daughter. She was far too small to survive this world. Her entire body would fit inside my hand. It tears up my soul to write of it. I had Sophie arrange to have a family grave fenced in on the hill above the house. I began to regain my strength quickly so on the fourth day after her death, I was able to climb the path to watch her burial. I visited her every day for almost a week. Then on Sunday as we returned from church, I climbed the path and Sophie took Stanley to change clothes. As I sat next to her grave, I heard an unusual sound come from below me, down the hill. It sounded like Sophie yelling. I hurried down the hill to house. I heard commotion from upstairs so I rushed up the stairs. Nobody was on the second floor! At that moment, Sophie came running from the attic door. She said that Stanly had fallen from the balcony to the ground. We rushed downstairs and to the seaside of the house where we found my dear little boy unconscious. The fall was not far, but he had an enormous lump on his head where he had hit it. Sophie said she did not see what he hit but that he seemed to 'bounce' off something. "Dr. Morris was again summoned to our home. With a tear in his eye, he told me that we could do nothing but wait and pray. I stayed by Stanley's bed for three days. He only woke twice to ask where Papa was. He never cried once. On the third day after the fall, he passed. Part of me died with him." Angie laid the diary on her lap and leaned her head against the headboard. She sighed and wondered at the tragedy of which she was reading. That poor woman, she thought, how could she stand so much pain? Angie got up to stretch her legs and back. She used the bathroom and went downstairs to get a soda. She returned to finish the diary. There were only a few pages left. "I spent four days in my bed crying. Sophie brought me tea and soup but I took little. Finally, when I was able to gather my thoughts and courage I dressed and went downstairs to talk with Sophie about Stanley's burial and related arrangements. Sophie told me that she had taken care of everything and that Stanley had been buried the day before! I was in such shock and so angry that I wanted to attack her. She had taken away my chance to say goodbye to my little son! I ran with all the strength I had left, to the top of the cemetery path, and there next to Josephine was a second little grave and a stone with Stanley's name engraved on it. I cried for a long while. My next memory was waking in my bed a few days later. I began to watch Sophie very carefully. Her every move, her every word became suspicious to me. Finally, I asked her why Stanly was on the balcony. She told me that she had taken him there to see if Papa's boat was coming in. I asked her why she would do that if she knew William was not due for another week. She smiled and said she was just boosting his anticipation. "The next day I called on the sheriff's office and asked that he look into the accident. He came by the following day and said he was suspicious of the loose railing, but there was no real proof that it had been tampered with. I knew that it had. It was solid every time I had been up there. I had spent many hours during the summer watching for Williams' steamboat to return up the river from the bay where he moored the fishing boats. "I worried about how I was going to tell William of the tragic events that had taken place while he was at sea. How could I find any words tot tell him that he had lost both of his children within two weeks time? It turned out that I did not need to tell him. After his ships docked and before he journeyed home on the steamer, he had stopped at the pub he visits after every voyage. As he was drinking, someone gave him the horrible news. He returned home in a fury, bursting through the front door and climbing the staircase like a demon. I had gotten up from my bed to go to him but he rushed into the room and shoved me back onto the bed. He slapped me several times and my ears could only hear some of what he bellowed at me. I only remember hearing things like: irresponsible, unworthy, misfit, and whore. When he was finished pummeling me he went to Sophie's room. The door slammed shut and there were only the sounds of his sobs for a long while. I had never before heard him cry. And, I have still not seen it. A few hours later William returned to our room and he slept until the next afternoon. I offered to escort him to visit the graves but he asked that I stay behind. He returned with eyes red. I wanted to cry with him but he avoided me for several days. Several weeks passed. There was no peace but there was quiet. I grieved every moment. Several nights I woke to find William missing from our room. The night before he left for his spring voyage, he forced himself on me. My sweetheart had lost his tenderness and had become brutal. For a long time I thought it was because of our loss but I think now there is more. William had been gone for nearly a month when I discovered that I was again expecting. This time I felt no joy or anticipation, only fear. One day, Sophie took the horse and cart and went into town to shop for the weekly kitchen needs. I noticed her bedroom door was ajar. It had been a long time since I had seen the

No, of course not. All they can do is, prior to dining, bulls*** about whether the restaurant deserves one or five stars; relying solely on the adequacy of the waitress' worn-out smile and the number of stars granted by the 'Michelin Guide.' This country is more f***** up than it has been any time since the Great Depression. If you don't believe me ask any young, non-Ivy-League person trying to get a start. Ever since 9-11-01, the US economy has faltered, due to the dictated security and military spending. Personal freedoms and the right to privacy have been sacrificed. Some teddy bear cuddling, inner infant discoverers will note the plethora of ones in the

No, of course not. All they can do is, prior to dining, bulls*** about whether the restaurant deserves one or five stars; relying solely on the adequacy of the waitress' worn-out smile and the number of stars granted by the 'Michelin Guide.' This country is more f***** up than it has been any time since the Great Depression. If you don't believe me ask any young, non-Ivy-League person trying to get a start. Ever since 9-11-01, the US economy has faltered, due to the dictated security and military spending. Personal freedoms and the right to privacy have been sacrificed. Some teddy bear cuddling, inner infant discoverers will note the plethora of ones in the magical date and conclude that it is a sign that the friendly angels are watching out for us. Excuse the hell out of me as I attempt to not rudely laugh out loud. Just a minute.................. Okay. Okay. Ignore the easy and irrelevant distractions. Leave the over-privileged bear haulers with their worshipped meta cherubim and seraphim. It's been fifteen years since the start and from any statistics available the "War on Terror" has only expanded, depleting more US resources. Obama has spent four times more money and has dropped four times as many bombs than Dubya. Yet, you will never hear a question or criticism from a white liberal, and you know f****** well why. In addition, the military industrial complex as well as the interests of the foreign owned media know all too well and capitalize on it. This war has grown from an idealistic statement of armed belief to one headed by hating, low class and low income thugs assisted by stupid or sociopathic rich Arabs; many on the Sheikh's payroll. While fifteen years ago it was possible, though US unpopular to consider the complaints of Bin Laden headed Al-Queda. However, the actions taken by ISIS, whatever their preferred name, are intolerable. Originally the crux of the dispute was solvable through honest negotiation. It might have revolved around the US defilement through uninvited presence in Islamic holy land and the US 'purchase' of mid-east sovereigns. This was likely done in the hope of ensuring the continuance of its supply of the oil to which it had become addicted. For me, at that point, it seemed as if the US had a lot of moral apologizing to do. As a practical matter it seemed that the US should stop their many incursive maneuvers and facilities established without the invitation of the people they claimed to be 'liberating' or some such thing. It's been on Muhammed's holiest of lands, from which it is still right to withdraw. I mean it's so obviously wrong. How would we Americans feel if the Chinese established a military presence in Chicago, and decided to take the Crip side? Still, at an earlier time an optimist would have seen the possibility of a negotiated solution. But, instead of talking, the Bush boy led a US declared war on something difficult to define; terrorists. Now, it's crazy season on all sides of the issue. While, for the moment ignoring my value judgmental commentary, this general scenario is viewed as cynically acceptable 'wisdom' to those majority pundits working at the first level of accessible deception. A wider explanation would involve rank, nuances, disputable degrees of logic, the amount of influence held by the corporate war machine; in our interest to better manage, but not obliterate; the need to be electable in a democracy resplendent with one issue voters; some of the more vocal in possession of stuffed toys, and the over-lapping relationship with an Israeli ally, hardened by 65 years of suicide bombers and scud missiles. I regret to say that that is simplistic; each factor with all its permutations merits its own study, in the long run. Right now, the ISIS thugs have taken over the Arabic cause; causing many Arabs to flee Arabia. They extoll their supposedly minority interpretation of Islam while those in the Islamic mainstream flee for various reasons. That's supposed to be some kind of joke, but it's just too sad a one to laugh at. The lack of organization which takes 'credit' for the ugliest of deaths and calls itself ISIS has openly said that it seeks no negotiation and is only committed to the total destruction of the west and the institution of its conveniently misunderstood Sharia law throughout the world. These few, cruel, brain damaged devotees of woolen sock head fashion, have crossed a line, best not crossed armed only with knives, automatic rifles and internet tutored explosive devices. Whether or not Al-Queda or ISIS was originally started by the US CIA, FBI, Black Ops or any secretive organization buried within, doesn't matter anymore. They have vowed to kill us. The 'reasons' for their indoctrination may matter to their mommies. Only. Allowed the freedom of speech non-existent where they come from, in the US the foreigners are still permitted to continue to attempt to make a living off the backs of many US citizens, too long suffering under the constrictions of a war economy, with no regard for their effect on the populace anywhere. The big boys have been pestered into letting the little s***s from the boonies capitalize on them. Some US instinct for brevity curtails the subsidiary considerations. Having said that, here's the game with which the US has been presented; so far the field defined by others. It can continue to slowly but surely go down the namby-pamby path suggested to it by many who have appointed themselves some sort of moderator or indie critic; in what is merely a further dive into a Babel confusion and an Adam Smith bankruptcy. It can defer to the blank of its fascination with its un-elected royalty and subsequently bitch with a dick up its ass. It can seek political reform while trying not to be too obviously a joke. It can f*** everybody up with a bomb like they haven't seen in seventy years. The US has spent fortunes building the largest arsenal of nuclear explosives ever known. For what? To further the impoverishment of the American people? F*** that s***. It was made to be used when needed. Okay. Warn the f**** first, but if they don't cut the s***, obliterate 'em. It won't hurt. It's a kind of mercy. And it's economical. With the exception of a few jackasses who think that they're filling the hole in their mentally challenged head with an ISIS affiliation, the rest of the world truly wishes that the sock-heads would be slowly tortured to death with a blowtorch or the object of their greatest fear. The idea behind democracy is the deference to the majority, with recognition of minority rights. Yes?.......... Okay. While western democracy is declared an enemy with the threat of death over-hanging; if the idea of democracy was ever worth a f****** thing, wouldn't it stand up for itself and the ones it loved? Yes!!!! Yes!!! Inevitable f****** yes!! The trap and the noose have the most temporary of times; a blink in the eyes of a blind toad. ISIS has displayed a useful additional lack of knowledge in guerilla warfare tactics. Rather than dispersing and offering no clear target, they have sequestered in what they must consider some sort of stronghold. They must be too stupid to know that this is an easy target; even for a drone. Look! This expensive bulls*** has been going on for fifteen years now and is still escalating. We can't afford a 100 year war here. The only beneficiary of that would be the military industrial complex and those s***ty writers from New Zealand who can copy it into another low end book. And; I've got some news. No one wants any further "debate" about the merit of each side; the possible false flag procedures; whether or not the majority of eastern and domestic Muslims are peaceful people and whether or not they are supportive of the US and whether or not, as the conspiracy theorist nuts say, that America is the cause of all the problems. I don't give a flying f*** if it was the CIA, NBC or the piss-ass unemployment line where these low class slob barbarians were first organized. These scumbags want to kill us and our friends. What more do you need to know? F*** it. Just f*** all that blah, blah, blah, stupid s***. Get ye some trustworthy patriots and build a plane which gives the appearance of being one from Russia; or some other country with nuclear capabilities which we dislike even more. Use it to drop the f****** nuke right on ISIS territory. What the hell else did we build them for? To keep them in some hollowed out mountain for the dinosaurs to guard and have some conspiracy assholes piss and moan over? F*** that subversive s***. Do two, at the very least. Do three. Don't feel badly over the low numbers. It's the quality which counts most. The machines have yet to figure out how to calculate that one. Burn the plane at Area 51. Provide a film of the bombing event with the Russian insignias all over the plane. Issue statements deploring the atrocity. Even bring it up at the useless UN. Be deaf to the inevitable recriminations to follow. Collateral damage? Surprise, m**** f****** surprise. It's called a war, dickass. How long do you have to be told that s*** happens? Say so sorry, really; if they can pin it on ya. It's a Pynchon paradise or a Pynchon dystopia, depending upon book and point of view, without the overly thick attempt at obscuration." "Allow me to jump in with an observation or two. It seems rationally consistent that your point of view coincides with that of someone who has been periodically ignored; and has been very hurt by that. I'm almost sure that you are aware of the possibility of that 'psychological' interpretation. Following from that, it would be logical to assume that you have herein, today enunciated something which has been courageously appreciated, within its limitations. But on the other hand, it is clearly recognized that this often naïve presentation, posing as sophistication is yet to be accepted anywhere. Recognized authorities have been reticent to bestow accolades, and those requiring a leader have no one to follow. This may be overly kind to someone with no merit. Some would say that it seems that it is very possible that you have purposefully concocted a viewpoint which may work only for you; insofar as you have calculated its personal benefits; not much different than the two decades old David Foster Wallace attempts at an un-democratic, concealed desire for complete dominance, masked by a longevity with which few have been blessed. Back to the situation at hand, it does seem eminently possible that the author has surreptitiously built in, through his unilaterally chosen scenario, a situation in which his hidden biases are justified by the Drucker defined

What would you like me to do?" "I need you to take that picture of the Crystal to Haneltha's Magic Crystal Shop. She will know more about that crystal than anything else." "Okay. What will you do?" Jayson picked up the sheet containing the students' names and he showed it to the Knight. "I'm going to interview the Breakfast Club and see what they can tell me. If one of them is lying I'll be able to spot it." Nathaniel once again nodded his head and in a blue light, he disappeared from the office. Jayson let out a deep sigh of frustration. If the Witch wanted to solve this case

What would you like me to do?" "I need you to take that picture of the Crystal to Haneltha's Magic Crystal Shop. She will know more about that crystal than anything else." "Okay. What will you do?" Jayson picked up the sheet containing the students' names and he showed it to the Knight. "I'm going to interview the Breakfast Club and see what they can tell me. If one of them is lying I'll be able to spot it." Nathaniel once again nodded his head and in a blue light, he disappeared from the office. Jayson let out a deep sigh of frustration. If the Witch wanted to solve this case before the end of the day, he was going to have to take part in something he never enjoyed doing: socializing. Chapter 8 [*Back In The Past*] In The Echoes Kingdom: Nathaniel entered his bedroom at the Echoes' castle and took off his leather doublet vest. He placed it on the back of a wooden chair located just a few feet away from his king sized bed. The Prince's room was brightly lit with twelve flame lit torches bolted onto the stoned walls. After the long day the Prince had, he just wanted to snuff out the flames and fall into a deep slumber, but he couldn't. Something- someone\- was running rampant through his mind and he loved every second of it. Knock! Knock! Knock! A soft knocking caused the Prince to turn his attention over to a pair of large wooden doors, which led out to the balcony. Only wearing his blue riding breeches with brown high boots and with his trusty sword still in its holster located on the right side of his hip, he walked toward the doors and pulled it open to be greeted by the black night sky and frigid Winter wind. He walked further onto the balcony to find a basket located on the ledge with a note on it. The Prince looked around cautiously. He was met with green vines, which grew against the outside façade of his wall and straight across his eighth floor balcony was the amazing view of Sandston just a few miles away. Nathaniel slowly placed his right hand on the handle of the sword as he approached the basket cautiously. In the basket was a small note on top of a purple blanket, but strangely an aroma of Apple Pie danced around in his nostrils. He took the note and read it to himself:" Nathan, I hope this is an appropriate means of gratitude. Do not fret, this contains no Poppy Extract or poison. - Jayson" Nathaniel pulled back the small blanket to find a golden, warm and freshly baked apple pie inside of it. A smile spread across the Prince's face as he could imagine the struggle Jayson had to go through just baking it. "Oh there you are Darling!" The voice belonged to a woman who stood by the doorway of Nathaniel's bedroom, hearing her voice he flinched and turned to her nervously. She stopped dead in her tracks and couldn't believe the sight of Nathaniel standing in the frigid cold, shirtless! "Darling it's frigid. You need to come in before you fall ill and-" She stopped speaking as she noticed the basket on the ledge. "What on Earth is that ghastly thing?" "It's an Apple Pie." Nathaniel answered the beautiful woman. "It is a gift from a Witch I saved earlier." "A Witch?!" the woman gasped. "Surely you are mad if you think I am going to let you take one bite of something a Witch made! They are as poor of bakers as they are poor in hygiene and beauty." The woman was no older than twenty-seven, but her flawless features hid her age very well, anyone who came across her for the first time would assume she was in her early teens. She wore a red ball gown embellished with beautiful Rubies. Her blonde hair was styled in a neat bun on her head and around her neck was an Echoes family heirloom; a snake like necklace embellished with Ruby and Emerald stones. "I assure you Cassandra, this Witch is different. He is a great person that is just trying to find his place in this Realm. Away from the people who judge solely based on who he is." "He is a Witch, darling, there is no turning a blind eye on that. He is no more of a menace than a cult of Vampires descending onto a group of low life whores. It's what they do." Nathaniel had to admit, the analogy Cassandra said made no sense to him and he was one hundred percent certain, she, herself, had no idea what anything that came out of her own mouth meant. He smiled and took her hands in his. "If it makes you feel better I will discard the pie." She smiled and gazed into his eyes, "That would make me feel exceptionally well." He nodded and gave the woman a soft kiss on her forehead. "Now if you do not mind, please come indoors before you fall ill. My mother is arriving tomorrow for the wedding rehearsal and I want to make sure, when she meets my fiancé, she meets the healthy and strong Prince I agreed to marry. Not some sick peasant." The Prince once again gave her a nod. She softly kissed his lips and placed a hand on his bare chest. "I love you Nathaniel." "I love you too Ja-" he stopped short when he heard the words about to come out of his mouth and before Cassandra could sense something was wrong he quickly fixed the situation. "I love you too, just give me a few seconds to pray...then I'll come back in." Cassandra smiled, turned on her heels and reentered the room closing the doors behind her. The Prince let out a sigh of relief and ran his fingers through his hair. "That was a close one." A high pitch voice was heard in the dark night. "Yeah, any closer and she would have heard you confess your love for Jayson." Nathaniel watched as three glowing lights-Red (Rojò), Blue (Azùla) and Green (Verde) - fluttered down in front of him and he looked back at the wooden doors quickly. "I don't love Jayson!" he stated returning back to face the Fairies and lowered his voice. "Two men cannot fall in love. That is forbidden. So please stop making up fictitious stories." "The rules have been broken before." Rojò said. "That is right." said Verde. "You can't put rules on love." added Azùla. Nathaniel rubbed his forehead in frustration as the Fairies started to have a conversation amongst themselves. "Focus!" The Prince stated clapping his hands causing all three to remain silent. "I need you three to keep watch over Jayson." "Because you like him?" asked the Red Fairy. "Do not be stupid Rojò! Nathaniel doesn't 'like' the Witch...He loves him!" teased the Blue Fairy. Nathaniel growled softly causing all three Fairies to once again stop speaking and he inhaled deeply. "Please, just keep an eye on him." The Fairies agreed in unison and they fluttered away into the night sky. The Prince glanced down at the pie, he waved his right hand over it and in a blue light, it disappeared. He smiled to himself as he turned around and made his way toward the double doors. He pulled the doors open and reentered his warm bedroom, hoping to run into the Witch some time again. Chapter 9 [*Present Day*] Haneltha's Magic Crystal Shop: Nathaniel pushed the door of the Magic Shop open and he felt a familiar chill run down his spine as he passed through the threshold. He was shocked to see the sun shining in the small town of Doole, but he forgot time between Realms differed. While it's around 3:30am in the Mortal Realm, it's 12:20pm in the Farietalè Realm and 4:00pm here in the Magic Realm. He ignored the growling of his stomach as he wondered if he ate breakfast in the Mortal Realm and then lunch in the Farietalè Realm, if that's considered cheating on his diet. It had been ages since he walked through the same door and saw the same various shapes of colorful crystals organized on the shelves by size, color, weight and Magical attribution. He closed the door behind him and made his way toward the counter. The boutique wasn't filled with any customers shopping or guests frequenting the aisles in search of anything that caught their eyes; instead it was just the Knight. Once at the counter, Nathaniel noticed a clear crystal heart in a box not far from the cash register. The clear crystal seemed to have soothed the Knight; it cleared his mind from the craziness he endured in the past couple of hours. "Beautiful isn't it?" The question broke the Knight's concentration and he looked to find Haneltha standing by a curtain made up entirely of pink glass beads a few feet away from the counter. The woman looked no older than 29 years old. She had shoulder length lavender colored hair, which was practically glowing due to her dark brown skin. She had two bright hazel eyes and wore a black form fitting dress. Her voice was smooth like velvet and she had an accent that the Knight had heard many times while he visited New York City years ago. He couldn't help but wonder if her family was the group of Witches that migrated here during the Dark Realm Wars in 1346 A.D. She approached the counter as Nathaniel cleared his throat, "Yes, it is." He answered. "I just got it in today. It is said to glow pink when two people who are destined to be together are in the same room and if it glows black, that means they are not meant to be. Sounds like a cliché I know, but I assure you it's quite romantic." Nathaniel nodded. "I'm sorry to just drop in like this." Haneltha smiled placing her hands on her hips. "Don't apologize, business never needs an appointment." She paused as an unsettling thought rushed into her mind. "Oh dear Goddess, are you here because the Kingdom is in trouble?" Nathaniel quickly shook his head and met her gaze. "No not at all. I was actually sent by Jayson." She let out a small gasp at the mention of the name of her old friend. "How is he? I've been trying to call him for two days now." "He's been good." The Knight stated. "Agatha's passing hasn't really hit him yet. That or he's just super cold on the inside, since...you know." The shop owner giggled

There was no shortage of money, of course, but both of them seemed to behave like many privileged sorts, in that they liked to appear personally frugal, despite driving in Ferraris to and from their mansions. They took family life in their stride alongside their studies with the help of a full-time nanny and home help. They did do their own cooking. Orthodox Jews usually do. And it was clear that both Sophie and Adam were headed straight for the family business, different families, same business. So why Southeast Asian Studies? My dad's choice of degree always interested me. A brokerage firm always needs a supply of lawyers, so Sophie's specialism was of direct use.

There was no shortage of money, of course, but both of them seemed to behave like many privileged sorts, in that they liked to appear personally frugal, despite driving in Ferraris to and from their mansions. They took family life in their stride alongside their studies with the help of a full-time nanny and home help. They did do their own cooking. Orthodox Jews usually do. And it was clear that both Sophie and Adam were headed straight for the family business, different families, same business. So why Southeast Asian Studies? My dad's choice of degree always interested me. A brokerage firm always needs a supply of lawyers, so Sophie's specialism was of direct use. Pop did eventually explain. There had been a plan. The company had planned to go into Hong Kong, Singapore and Bangkok. And this was only the early sixties. They were really ahead of the game. The problem was that no-one had really sounded out Sophie and she got cold feet. She threw a wobbler and the project was delayed. I don't know the details, but it is highly likely, let's say it was in character, for it to have coincided with my dad committing an indiscretion or two. It might just have been Sophie asserting her control. To this day I don't know what caused their split, but I do know that a rift developed, and they separated after just three years of marriage. Pop had only just completed his doctorate and the twins were just two. That was not the last they saw of him, but he was certainly not around very often for them after then. My pop did go to Thailand and spent some time visiting other places in the region. He was still based in Bangkok when the firm decided not to open its Asian office and soon after dad joined up for service in the military. Exactly how or why it happened, he will not say. The region was, of course, at war, but he wasn't drafted. He volunteered. It is possible that he was selected, or made an offer, perhaps one he could not refuse. He did some active service in South Vietnam and he was wounded, though not seriously. He did need a few weeks in a military hospital in Thailand, but I believe he was there for training, because he was then recruited into a different kind of service. And now the other end of the story, the part that began with our arrival in the States in 1978. Pop went back into the family firm, opened business in Asia, made a fortune in emerging markets, spotted new investment opportunities before others and made an even bigger fortune in dot coms. He lost most of that in the late nineties, made another killing in the noughties and lost again in the crash. Then he had a stroke and died a decade into the century. It was at the reading of the will that I first met the twins. They knew I existed, but they had never expressed any desire to meet. I had asked my pop to let me meet them, but that had been many years before and he was reluctant, so I did not pursue. To say they were angry at what unfolded at that meeting with the attorney would be understatement. Pop's logic was simple. He had two families, so his estate would split down the middle, one half each. The daughters had assumed it would be three ways at least, one third for each child. Sophie had died some years before, so there was no-one else, as far as they were concerned. But my pop's thinking was to provide support for my mom and Mary, of whom the girls probably had no knowledge. But my pop knew he could trust me. Whoever he had been living with over those decades - because it certainly had not been Sophie, my mom and certainly not Mary - was obviously provided for by some legacy of which we knew nothing. We did not even know if such a person existed. Rest assured, however, she did, and there is no need to assume it was only one. But there were certainly no more children, because he would have adopted them, just as he had done with me. My pop was no saint. He had married Sophie and then made himself scarce, leaving behind twin daughters. Who knows what he got up to in Saigon or Bangkok? He fathered me via a fifteen-year-old called Hli, whom he never married. And crucially for Eileen McHugh's story, he married the woman we call called Mary to facilitate a journey to the US when she was already pregnant by him. He was a man who achieved much success, but who also cultured enemies. It was some of those enemies who broke into the house in Chiang Mai in 1978. The war was over. Whatever business he was still doing was covered by the new rules of the practice, which meant there were no rules and the older ways of doing things no longer applied. Don Reynolds had never really appreciated that, and there were already new actors, new markets and different ways of doing things. Those new methods, that night, involved baseball bats. They did not come to my room. They did not visit my mom next door. We heard the noise, but we were too afraid to go out until well after the shots were fired and everything went quiet. The lights on the porch were on, so we could see everything immediately. There were four bodies lying between the furniture. All were shot. There was blood, a lot of blood. Mary had been in that front room and the door was ajar. Pop was slumped on the threshold. He held his left hand to his face. He was bleeding. He was trying to stand, but his left leg was at a ridiculous angle. He had a gun in his right hand. I remember his dropping it when I pulled at his arm to help him stand. I can still hear his screams. The attackers had clearly thought that baseball bats coupled with surprise would be enough to do the job and do it quietly, at least quietly enough not to wake the neighbours. But in the dark, they had started their attack on the only person in the bed that night and they had laid in big time with their beating. What they did not know was that their intended target, my pop, Don, as he was to them, was at the back of the house in bed with my mom. They had clearly staked out the place for a while and noticed that, most nights, Don slept at the front with Mary. But he did not do that every night, my mom saw to that. This was one of the other nights. He had heard the commotion and waited, too long as things turned out, to be sure exactly where the noise was coming from, and indeed that it was coming from with our house. My pop took his gun from the bedside table, ran through the house and started shooting. He was taking blows, but, as he had been trained, he emptied the magazine in quick fire. He shot all four of them and then finished them off with a second clip. He had a cut on his head which would later scar, and he would lose his left eye, but the broken leg was just a hairline fracture and healed quickly. Mary, who had been asleep in the front room, however, had taken the combined blows of all four men. She was unconscious and in a real mess. She had been beaten around the head and one of dad's bullets had gone through an attacker and was lodged somewhere inside her. Now the occasional gunshot in Chiang Mai is hardly likely to raise alarm, but several in succession might just be a gunfight, which were not uncommon in those days, but would always attract attention. The place was crowded with police just minutes later. And, by the time they had made a call or two, they had decided they clearly knew my dad and knew him well. It took a few weeks. There was travel, hospital, more travel, more hospital. We finished in a military hospital in the south of the country. Mom and I had no idea what was happening. We were just taken along. Pop was mending, his facial stitches removed, but still in pain. Mary McHugh was in a coma. She never did regain consciousness. She had a brain haemorrhage and the bullet had penetrated her spine. She had no movement but was alive. She was also on a British passport alongside a tourist visa that was years out of date. Mom and I became refugees. We were processed, if that be the right word, and we joined a group of people who spoke similar languages to our own. We arrived in the US, lived in a camp for a few weeks and then were picked up by my pop, whom I still called Don, and the rest is history. Don and Mary had a more complicated journey. Cover was needed, because of that passport. A pre-dated marriage certificate was obtained. Mary McHugh was now Mary Reynolds and that forged paper allowed her to travel as the wife of a serving US military officer, so the Thai authorities needed no further arrangements for an immigrant on an over-stayed tourist visa. Mom and I were refugees. Things would work out. But Mary's status could have caused problems for everyone concerned. Married to Don, she was his problem and he had already cleared the solutions. It was crucial that she should exit Thailand with paperwork completed. Any trail would then lead somewhere cold. It was only when I sifted through Marion McHugh's box of personal effects that I realised the extent of the cover when I held what seemed to be a letter that had originated in Indonesia, sent from Medan. It was in its own packet and had been opened. Uncharacteristically, the letter was typed. No other document from Eileen in the box had even a hint of being near a typewriter and she had not tried to communicate with her mother for at least two years prior to that date, if the evidence within the box was at all comprehensive. But then this was something of its era, something a person of my age might not even recognise. It was a telegram. And that is why it was typed, and that is also why it had been opened and, presumably, read. One must assume that if letters had arrived, then Marion would have saved them, otherwise why should she have kept this one, which did not even have Eileen's handwriting on the envelope? There were no other letters from Eileen to her parents after she left home that tumultuous afternoon in June. Dear Mom Just a note stop Now left Thailand stop Came here on a boat that gave us a free passage stop Finding solace in Buddhism and meditation Stop Used the word us because we got married Stop Nice guy

said Samuel, suddenly digging down to the center of the world. His voice was then heard echoing through the ground, as if by magical means. "I will activate the Ritual of Destruction, and summon the all-powerful Flawless Predator to defeat you!" "Nooooo- wait...who?" asked Contra with a dull look. Suddenly, the ground began trembling beneath him, until dark thunder clouds appeared out of thin air directly above the city. A large white colored portal then opened up to his left side, to which an enormous dark red carpet was rolled out. Hundreds of news reporters, cheering fans, and paparazzi then appeared out of thin air to surround the 100

said Samuel, suddenly digging down to the center of the world. His voice was then heard echoing through the ground, as if by magical means. "I will activate the Ritual of Destruction, and summon the all-powerful Flawless Predator to defeat you!" "Nooooo- wait...who?" asked Contra with a dull look. Suddenly, the ground began trembling beneath him, until dark thunder clouds appeared out of thin air directly above the city. A large white colored portal then opened up to his left side, to which an enormous dark red carpet was rolled out. Hundreds of news reporters, cheering fans, and paparazzi then appeared out of thin air to surround the 100 feet long by 20 feet wide red carpet, along with a white colored stretch limo that drove through the shining portal. As he began using his clearly not magical x-ray vision to see through the hundreds of cheering people, he watched as the limo came to a stop halfway down the red carpet, and then witnessed an extraordinarily sexy right foot step out from the partially opened rear door. The first thing that Contra noticed was that the person's leg seemed flawless...absolutely flawless! "What...it can't be...no way!" Contra stammered, backing away with absolute fear. Of all things, an impossibly flawless man stepped out from the limo, and immediately proceeded to sway his flawless golden hair through the air for dramatic effect. "Greetings humans!" said the man, smiling with his perfect teeth. He used his right hand to wave through the air towards the cheering fans, who all fainted as soon as they saw his flawless body up close. The absolutely flawless man wore nothing but a long loincloth to cover his waist, which only served to bare even more of his flawless body for all to see. "I know you're all very desperate to hear me say my perfect name, so I will! My flawless name is Flawless Predator!" "No way!" said Contra, feeling the speed of his beating heart steadily increasing. "He's too beautiful!" The strength of the man's beauty was so great, that it made the cheering people next to him seem incredibly ugly. To fix this disturbing situation, Contra used his summoning magic to pull a large open sewage pipe from thin air, and positioned it above the flawless man. He then activated the pipes magical powers, and released a river of toxic sludge from its tip. As the toxic sludge slammed into the ground, the surrounding people were quickly melted away by the staining force of its brown liquid alone, until only Flawless was seen standing next to the outline of his melted car. Not only was his white loincloth not stained by the disgusting magical sludge, but his silver colored eyes seemed even more beautiful than they ever did. "Who did this!?" asked Flawless, looking around in confusion. Before the flawless man turned his flawless gaze on Contra, Samuel conveniently teleported back to the surface directly in front of him. "It is I, Samuel Graves!" the emo villain declared himself. "You stupid man! How dare you attempt to defile my body!" said Flawless, using his best effort to make his flawless face look angry. "Yeah! This guy's a real asshole!" Contra added from afar. Just as it looked like Samuel was about to make his response, Flawless snapped his beautiful fingers, and erased the powerful emo villain from existence. "You there," said Flawless, turning his attention to Contra. "Are you the one who used the Ritual of Destruction?" "Yes. My team will be going up against some extremely powerful enemies soon...so I summoned you to help us fight against them." "Then through the use of my miracle magic, I will assist you." "Thanks," said Contra with a happy smile. "Let's head home!" "Alright, but let me lure this little girl into the back of my van with some candy first," said Flawless, reaching his right hand out the opened back door of the van. A little girl materialized out of thin air, and walked towards the black colored van without a hint of worry. "Hey little girl, want some candy from a totally flawless stranger?" "Hell yes!" answered the small girl with an enthusiastic look. She stepped inside the van filled with dark tinted windows, and the door was promptly closed behind her. Moments later...After aimlessly driving around Hood City for several hours, Flawless Predator finally decided to move in for the kill. "It's gotten so late outside," he said with a worried look. "Little girl, why don't I bring you back home to your parents?" "Heck yeah!" the girl answered with a happy smile. After taking her home to her parents, he bid farewell to the small girl, and used his miracle magic to teleport to Contra's diamond-ice cream castle. Chapter 9 Final Fanboys *As soon as the raging emo fanboys got word of the death of their supreme leader, they launched an immediate attack on Contra's old underground lava fortress. Unfortunately, since it was 60,000 miles beneath the planet, they had no idea how to break through the laws of physics in order to reach it. * Currently, Contra was busy going over some annoying paperwork inside his bedroom. He wore his casual black business suit, paired with his new favorite pair of black colored yellow shoes. "I should go on vacation ..." said Contra, growing annoyed with the single sheet of paper. "I'm too rich to be doing any work!" Due to his drunken ramblings, he dashed outside his room door, and began skating across the vast ocean using his train shoes. These train shoes are a thousand miles long, gets 2 feet to the gallon, and were black in color to match the scorched sands below. Since it was past midnight, he knew full well that the fanboys would be attempting to launch another missile strike. They must be stopped at all costs, for if the nuke strikes the surface of the great Oil Desert, the planet's atmosphere will be burned away in an instant. "Those emo fanboys ..." said Contra, skating furiously across the oily desert. "Just to hide the fact that they were wrong about their comic book hero, they are planning to destroy the entire galaxy!?" "Contra!" Max yelled out suddenly behind him. "They're here!" True to his sidekick's words, several dozen fanboy demons were seen rushing along the left and right sides of Contra's train shoes, and were each over 200 feet tall. Not surprising, since they were about to launch their final attack, they wore their legendary and heavily branded Advertising Armor, which is said to each contain the power to summon an exploding multiverse, and anything else they can think of at the time. "Dammit! We're surrounded!" Contra pointed out. "Cindy! Take the wheel!" He quickly got up from his seat so she could take over the shoe controls, and teleported to the center of the speeding trains to see the rushing group of emo fanboys for himself. As much as he looked, however, the only people he saw were a bunch of gigantic faggots wearing skin-tight latex armor. In response to such a disgusting display, he challenged their views of the world using a sophisticated question. "Fanboys!" Contra shouted out through the air. "Answer me this: Why are you all so fucking brainless!?" They turned their disgusting faces to see him in response, and began squealing like dying pigs while saying their responses. "We have brains! We are all different! It is you who are stupid to not worship the ones we worship!" "My God!" said Contra, holding on to the top of his head. "It's even worse than I thought!" Since they clearly believed they were right and he was wrong, he decided to use his legendary technique, Diplomatic Dialogue Sequence to be a bit more understanding. "Okay, tell me something...what does it mean when the same heroes you worship so vigilantly have the same magical abilities as we do...but they aren't labeled as magic?" "Wrong!" the group of fanboys squealed into the air. "The ones we worship doesn't use magic, they have special powers that can be scientifically explained!" "Oh yeah!?" said Contra, stomping his feet into the air particles between the trains. "Then explain how I'm standing like this!" "That's easy!" said the nearest fanboy, rushing closer towards Contra as he continued to speak. This one wore a skin-tight blue suit, and had a flowing red cape attached to his shoulders. "The scientific explanation is that you are above our ability to understand! And just because we don't know something, that doesn't make it impossible!" "Fucking fanboy!" Contra shouted out with fury. "Why can't you learn to think for yourself? Understand that no matter how far into the future we are, some things are just fucking impossible!" "Never!" said the fanboy, rushing away to rejoin his gigantic faggot friends. "If everyone thought the way you did, then there would be no technological progression! We need to have impossible goals set so we can at least meet the expectations halfway!" "What the hell!?" asked the confused Contra. "You're wrong! It's not about setting impossible goals! It's about understanding the things we can, and can't do...only then will we have an idea what we can accomplish! You just tried pulling shit out of your ass in an attempt to make my previous question invalid!" "Whatever! I'm still right and you're wrong...wahahaha!" said the fanboy, laughing like the disgusting pig it was. "Argh! There's no reasoning with them!" said Contra, backing away with worry. He never planned on killing them all so soon, as he had hoped to enlighten them of their failures as living beings first. "Contra!" said Cindy, shouting from the front of the train. "My legs are getting tired!" "Max! Do it!" Contra instructed with a wave of his right hand. Just as the approaching squadron of fanboy spaceships was nearly upon them, Max activated his sword's Big Black Buster Breaker attack, and tore a hole through space to summon an exploding sun. The coldness of the intense flames ignited

"No time for fun today-ah, you know what I mean? But maybe we have more time tomorrow, eh, Luiggi?" "I don't-ah-know," the shorter man grumbled. Rachel took a deep breath, then screamed at the top of her lungs, praying for anyone to hear her. Her throat burned and strained as the shrill sound reverberated through the room. The two men only laughed. Giuseppi was hard at work sharpening several different-sized blades that glimmered and flashed in the bright overhead lights. Luiggi stood to the side, arranging a set of extension cords that led to some kind of power tool hanging by the table side. They set up a smaller side table,

"No time for fun today-ah, you know what I mean? But maybe we have more time tomorrow, eh, Luiggi?" "I don't-ah-know," the shorter man grumbled. Rachel took a deep breath, then screamed at the top of her lungs, praying for anyone to hear her. Her throat burned and strained as the shrill sound reverberated through the room. The two men only laughed. Giuseppi was hard at work sharpening several different-sized blades that glimmered and flashed in the bright overhead lights. Luiggi stood to the side, arranging a set of extension cords that led to some kind of power tool hanging by the table side. They set up a smaller side table, placing three shining scalpels of varying lengths on top of a clean white cloth. Rachel had seen enough horror movies to know what was going to happen to her. She was going to die a slow and horrible death if she couldn't find a way to escape. Futile as it was, she again pulled hard against her shackles. Luiggi and Giuseppi paid little attention as they continued to prepare the room. When Rachel screamed again, both men only laughed louder. "Buena sera, belle mia," Luiggi said turning toward her, his voice almost holding a polite note, but his bulging eyes betrayed his intentions. Rachel thrashed at the chains that bound her to the wall, screaming again for her life as the two men approached. Then she saw Giuseppi's fist...BAM! A right hook to her left temple and everything went dark. *** Valentine and Stanic jumped back into the bullet riddled Cadillac. Valentine spoke from behind the wheel. "Before we pay a visit to the Stelino compound we'll just need to make a quick stop to pick up the explosives. I have an associate called Smith who sells powerful specialty items. Luckily, he lives not far from here. I met him while working undercover." Valentine drove down as many small back streets as possible, trying to keep out of sight from the police, until they reached a vast costal area of open farm land. He pulled off the main road and onto a small dirt driveway, then came to a stop in front of an old dilapidated house. "I had better go in alone," Valentine said, counting out several hundred dollar bills from the cash in his pocket. "Smith spooks...easily." Valentine got out of the car and made his way to the front door, giving it a gentle knock. The door opened and he disappeared inside. Ten minutes later he emerged from the home holding a dark plastic bag in his arms. He scanned the area for police cruisers as he walked back to the car. "I think six sticks of dynamite should do the trick, mate, and I recommend you not drop them," Valentine warned, handing over the bag. "There's a sixty second fuse attached and a lighter in the bag as well." Then he walked around, slid into the vehicle and drove back onto the highway, heading north toward the Stelino compound. *** Rachel began to regain consciousness as the two men were chaining her to the table. The room spun like a top and the bright lights blinded her. Pain from the powerful blow to her temple throbbed in her head. As she heard the locks snap on the ankle clamps, she realized this would be her last chance. She had to do something before they could clamp her wrists as well. Rachel snapped her eyes open, ready to make a move the second she could catch her captors off guard, when a deafening explosion shook the room. KA-BOOM! BABOOM-BOOM! The ground and walls trembled from a series of blasts and dust and debris rained down from the ceiling. Both men stopped what they were doing, mouths hanging open as they looked at each other in utter shock. Rachel sprang to a sitting position, snatched a scalpel from the side table before the two men could blink and with one quick motion drove the razor-sharp instrument straight into the shorter man's left eye socket. His other eye opened wide, as if not comprehending what had happened...and a droplet of blood trickled down his face like a lonely, cardinal-red tear. Luiggi grabbed onto his partner, but Giuseppi's weight made them stagger backward across the room. "Oh, Giuseppi! No, Giuseppi! Oh, no. Nooooooo!" Luiggi cried as he stood there like a father holding his dying child in his arms, Giuseppi's eye still spewing blood, his face now braided by a mask of thick, wet crimson. Luiggi's attention shifted from the dying man to the woman on the table. He laid Giuseppi to the side, straightened, and clenched his hands into fists as he glared at Rachel. Trapped with her ankles still chained to the table, Rachel felt as if she were in a horror movie, living out her final death scene, frame by agonizing frame, in high-definition slow motion, watching as Luiggi, eyes cold and bulging in search of immediate vengeance, raised his bloodied fists high above his head...and charged Rachel grabbed the second scalpel from the side table, slashing it through the air just as Luiggi wrapped his hands around her throat. He stopped cold...mouth open, eyes bulging, His head rolled back on his shoulders, exposing the large gash she'd made just under his left ear and chin. Blood rolled down like spilled red juice into his hands, soaking his apron as he swayed back and forth. She watched as the man somehow reached down and tore the scalpel from her bloody fingers Rachel scrambled to the far side of the table, as far from the lurid sight as she could get, not believing it medically possible that he was still standing, let alone lifting a scalpel. She watched in frozen horror as he lifted the knife in both hands to a full extension over his head, arching his back like a cobra before it strikes. A strangled sort of cry escaped from Rachel's throat as Luiggi stood directly in front of her, his blood showering down like rain as he tried to stabilize his wavering balance. Then he lunged forward with a quick jerk of his arms, bringing the knife slashing downward with all of his body weight behind it. *** The Stelino compound was located in an older industrial area on the outskirts of Santa Cruz County. The streets were empty, making it look like a ghost town. Stanic studied the huge structure inside the compound walls. It looked like it was of another time and place, reminding him of an ancient fortress, or battlement—old-world architecture mixed with state-of-the-art security to create a facade that seemed almost impenetrable. He couldn't imagine anyone wanting to penetrate its walls. Except him, of course. Not for the first time that day, Stanic questioned what the hell he was doing. None of this had anything to do with him. In fact, he couldn't be altogether sure Valentine wasn't just a little crazy. What was a Brit doing working as an FBI agent anyway? He'd heard of guys flipping out and going rogue while under deep cover before and wondered if Valentine hadn't lost perspective at some point, mixing his casual demeanor with guns and dynamite. Maybe it didn't only happen in the movies. Those men chasing him were real. Their guns were real. The dull ache in his shoulder told him it was all clearly real. One moment of being in the wrong place at the wrong time had changed his life. Being at the wrong place at the wrong time seemed have been a specialty of his throughout his life, the one exception being the day he'd met Rachel. Definitely a case of right place, right time. But he wasn't altogether certain he hadn't managed to screw that up as well. He forced thoughts of her out of his head as Valentine led him to a wall on the south side of the compound, then motioned for Stanic to scale it alongside him. Stanic cupped his hands together and held them out to give Valentine a boost. At the top, Valentine reached down with his good hand and helped pull Stanic up. Giving each other a nod, they jumped to the soft soil below and landed with a whispering tha-thud. Their new position was shrouded by an old storage shed and some low-hanging elm tree branches. Stanic's instructions were simple. Make his way to the northern side of the compound, set off the dynamite then get back into position to cover Valentine coming out of the building. If he was lucky enough to come out of the building—hopefully with the logbook in hand" Let's move out," Valentine said, his voice low and steady. Stanic pulled the dynamite from the bag and turned to watch Valentine's approach. He moved into position on the right side of the building, then darted toward the rear entrance. As Valentine slipped through a back door and into the main building, Stanic could tell by the way he moved he was every bit the FBI Special Forces operative he claimed to be. A blood-curdling scream rose up from somewhere inside building. "Rachel." Stanic whispered the name. He didn't know how he knew it was her, but he just did. He raced along the building's perimeter, making it to the northern side of the structure, where he noticed an open window about a foot above his head. "That was my...Rachel," he repeated as his throat constricted around his vocal cords and the weight of the world crushed down on his heart. Rachel's screams again rose up from the building and the nauseating vision of Valentine's severed fingers flashed into his mind. He shook it off. Focus. He had to focus. He could tell her agonizing cries were coming from a small culvert at the base of the structure's exterior...and he'd noticed a dark stairwell leading into what looked like an old cellar or basement. He knew in his heart Rachel was down there...and he had to reach her before it was too late. Stanic rolled his thumb across the top of the lighter, lit the dynamite, then stayed to watch the fuse burn, crackle and sizzle, sending warning sparks off in all directions. He let the fuse continue to burn down low, then stepped up next to the building, tossed the bomb inside the window above his head...and dove into the stairwell for cover. BABOOM-BOOM-BABOOM! Shrapnel flew as an orange mushroom cloud of smoke and fire blasted out from the window and high into the air. Dirt, dust and debris radiated in every direction. Large pieces of the building mixed with shards of broken glass and chunks of metal rained down on top of Stanic as he lay at the bottom of the stairwell. Smoke and dust burned his throat and eyes as he fought for air...#CHAPTER EIGHT Like a big jungle cat maneuvering through thick foliage, Valentine raced to the building

Also her, Inspector.» it said the Great Head. The Professor realized to have I set only the pajamas and immediately runs within to dress himself/herself/themselves and to settle himself/herself/themselves. Before approaching himself/herself/themselves from Calm Sleep, it slightly knocked to the door of Mrs. Lepitpat to verify that same good. «Who is? » he/she asked her/it Mrs. that he still felt all upset for the abrupt awakening. «Providences, are me! Is everything all right? » «Oddio Professor! » it said her/it Mrs. opening the door. «I feel upside-down me all. What fear I have had. What has happened? » «The acchiappasognis are again disappeared. The situation worsens! » it limited him to say the Professor Topi. «The

Also her, Inspector.» it said the Great Head. The Professor realized to have I set only the pajamas and immediately runs within to dress himself/herself/themselves and to settle himself/herself/themselves. Before approaching himself/herself/themselves from Calm Sleep, it slightly knocked to the door of Mrs. Lepitpat to verify that same good. «Who is? » he/she asked her/it Mrs. that he still felt all upset for the abrupt awakening. «Providences, are me! Is everything all right? » «Oddio Professor! » it said her/it Mrs. opening the door. «I feel upside-down me all. What fear I have had. What has happened? » «The acchiappasognis are again disappeared. The situation worsens! » it limited him to say the Professor Topi. «The inspector and I are going from the Great Head to discuss on the to make himself/herself/themselves.» «Aspects, I come. also» «And Lulù? » «He/she sleeps deeply. You don't worry him, among some I will return to check if you/he/she wakes up.» In the room of the meetings everybody was gathered already. Over the Great Head and his/her child there were also the old Essays of the tribe. Their faces were dark and in the room it burdened a dark atmosphere. The Great Head lifted the hand and did her/it rotate in air. The murmur immediately stopped and all looked with attention toward of him. «Brothers, how much has happened to the first lights of the dawn it throws me in the deepest discouragement.» it said Calm Sleep with serious voice. «The situation is very more worrisome than we thought and we have perhaps underestimated these strange phenomenons. Tonight we will pick up there around the fire and we will pray in special way because the Spirits of the nature protect us. Now sees the gravity of the situation, I believe the moment has come to smoke the Sacred Pipe to wake up again the spiritual powers of the universe.» The Great Head got up and went toward a suspended reliquary to the wall. It opened her with care, it threw out a small pipe of it and it returned to take a seat. The inspector Magrette looked at the Professor setting him some molts questions: you/he/she realized that the moment was solemn, all the Wise man attentively followed every gesture that completed Calm Sleep but it was not him clear the importance of that object. The Professor widened the eyes and made a gesture with his hand, to make to intend him that later the meaning of that ceremony would have explained him. But the inspector, impatient, it slowly slipped toward of him. «Professor, wants to explain me what is happening? » he/she asked in a low voice. «Inspector, this is a solemn moment! Could not you/he/she wait for the end of the ceremony? » he/she asked irritated. «No, tells me now.» «This pipe serves to wake up again the Spirits of the nature and to ask their protection. Its use gets further the evil, it assures the victory and it provokes the defeat of the enemies. You/he/she is very rarely used, in the moments of great joy, to thank, or in the moments of great pain, as in this case, to ask help. Is it satisfied now? » The inspector nodded and returned, lemme lemme, to his/her place. In the meantime the Great Head had loaded the pipe with the tobacco and it was almost about to turn on her/it, when, to the sudden one, it opened the door. All the bystanders turned him to see who dared to disturb that solemn ceremony. Some second as soon as and Lulù entered, dressed and combed of all point, with to the succession, naturally, Pin. «Good morning uncle Mice, hi Great Head.» he/she happily greeted. The inspector Magrette strabuzzò the eyes for the surprise. Was not possible! That boy had the gift to sprout when less you/he/she was opportune. Dams again the eyes: he/she didn't want to see how the Great Head would have reacted. «Lulù, does thing do us here? » he/she asked the Professor, gotten back him by the surprise. «I have to go from Small Flower, it waits me.» «Great Head, wants to forgive mine.» Calm sleep lifted the hand and the Professor it immediately kept silent. «Good morning Lulù.» it said with kind voice. «You would like to make me the honor to participate in our ceremony? » To those words the inspector opened the eyes of release. Could not be what had just felt: a boy sat to the great table, no, was never happened! The Professor looked at Calm Sleep some surprised by that strange application and you/he/she was almost about to answer when the man prevented him/it. «Professor would be a great privilege to have his/her nephew to this table, if you/he/she allows him/it.» «I allow him/it.» it said the Professor Topi some confused. «Other would miss us, but he/she sees. it is only to boy.» «Note; it is a pure of heart and this the spirits they will appreciate him/it.» «Yes, but he doesn't smoke.» it still objected the Professor. «It doesn't have to smoke, but only to pretend.» Lulù was in silence and it bewared on one side to the other without understanding what they wanted from him. Because it had to be in that dark room, with those people all series, instead of going out to play with the other boys? «Then Lulù, rests some with us? » he/she asked his/her uncle to gratify Calm Sleep. «Also Pin has to be here? » «If you want, you/he/she can stay.» «It is all right, but I remain only a few; I have to go to fish and they wait me.» it said Lulù, a little convinced. The ceremony took back and the Great Head turned on the Sacred Pipe, said two thrown of it and it passed nearby her to the companion. The pipe kept on turning around the table up to when it came in the hands of Lulù. «For dream that I smoke! » it told the boy tall voice. Again the cold went down in the room and again the reaction of the Great Head surprised everybody. «You don't have to smoke, but only to pretend.» Took Lulù the pipe between the hands and the approached reluctant to the mouth. "That horrible malodorous thing!" he/she thought some schifato. It pretended to smoke however, dopodiché passed" the object" to the companion that sat nearby him. The pipe started over making the turn of the table up to when he/she returned in the hands of the Great Head. To this point you/he/she was extinguished and put aside. «Brothers, » it began to speak Calm Sleep. «It is necessary to examine.» «I can go? » he/she asked Lulù, that already began to become impatient to the thought that his/her new friends were waiting for him/it to go to fish. «Certain, we are you thankful to have remained with us, but now, if you want, you can go.» Lulù if it didn't do him/it repeat twice, it got up and, followed by Pin, raced by Small Flower of the Morning. In the great room the reunion was as soon as to the beginning and the Great Head he/she took again the word. «Brothers, as I was saying, it is necessary to examine to fund the situation to the light of the new developments, unfortunately negative. What has happened to the dawns of the morning is of a gravity to a little puzzling dir.» The inspector Magrette looked again toward the Professor Topi, not succeeding in understanding what there pits of different from the thefts of the preceding nights. To that point the Professor Topi felt him in duty to clarify that point and takings the word. «Forgiven me, Great Head, if I interrupt you, but I would like to examine the facts so that to find together a solution. You are right to define the situation very worrisome; the nighttime thefts were in fact of well different entity. The thing does him serious and we are not able in any way to allow that these thefts continue to happen.» To that point the inspector lost the patience. Before the Sacred Pipe, then the boy and the Great Head with his/her sibylline words and, as if everything this was not enough, now also put on us the Professor! What did he/she want us to talk to clarity? Besides was not able more than to be closed to the dark of it, in a room afflicted of I smoke to speak at random! He was a man of action. You/he/she would certainly have been more profit to go to make some sopralluoghis and to try to discover the possible traces of the possible thief to put an end to that complicated matter. It got up standing and taken the word. «My dear Professor, comes therefore to the. All these beautiful words don't bring us to the solution of the problem, therefore, if it doesn't have anything to add, I propose to interrupt the session. It is more urgent to develop the investigations on the field, rather than to discuss on the to make himself/herself/themselves.» Oh! You/he/she had finally said what he/she thought. He felt better now, even if suddenly tired. «Inspector, has some patience, the investigations we will do her among a few minutes. To individualize a guilty needs to understand the motive that pushes him/it to act. And we am really doing this.» «Then I am not aware of it. Does he/she want me therefore to explain what there is of different from the other times? » «Certain, you/he/she is done soon. The preceding thefts happened late at night while this has happened to the first lights of the dawn.» «Professor, she perhaps thinks that I am a fool. Didn't want us a granché to understand that the time was different, considering that also I have wakened up by the moans of his/her/their children.» «Uffa, Inspector, but she is really a large head! The answer is evident, enough only to think about thing they serve the acchiappasognis! » sbottò the Professor. To that point her Mrs. Lepitpat, that you/he/she had remained in to fireside (because, he/she is known, the women cannot participate in the reunions of the Wise hand) regardless of the ceremonial, it got up and it went next to the table. «Inspector Magrette, marvels me of her. A police officer of the special team U.S.T.I. that doesn't examine the facts! The answer could give her/it for you one any of the children of the tribe.» The inspector was ashamed of his/her slowness, but he didn't succeed really to understand the difference between the thefts of the preceding nights and that of the morning. «If a few had thought on the legend of the acchiapasognis you/he/she would have understood alone the difference.» it continued her/it Mrs. Lepitpat. «Someone has stolen the acchiappassognis of his/her/their children allowing to go out out their nightmares, and until there were here everybody. Now this mysterious thief wants to appropriate of all the dreams, beautiful and ugly, leaving his/her children without their white shades

Sprinkling water on someone's head is certainly not baptism. When Philip baptized the Ethiopian eunuch, it is written that "they both went down into the water and...came up out of the water" (Acts 8:38, 39). At Jesus' baptism too, we read similar words – that He came up out of the water, after being baptized (Mark 1:10). In the New Testament, baptism was always done by immersion. Since baptism is a burial, it is obvious that only immersion can typify that accurately. For, after all, we don't bury people by sprinkling sand on their heads, but by putting them under the ground completely

Sprinkling water on someone's head is certainly not baptism. When Philip baptized the Ethiopian eunuch, it is written that "they both went down into the water and...came up out of the water" (Acts 8:38, 39). At Jesus' baptism too, we read similar words – that He came up out of the water, after being baptized (Mark 1:10). In the New Testament, baptism was always done by immersion. Since baptism is a burial, it is obvious that only immersion can typify that accurately. For, after all, we don't bury people by sprinkling sand on their heads, but by putting them under the ground completely! This also makes it clear that only those in whom the old man is dead qualify for baptism – those who do not want to sin any more. For after all, only dead people can be buried! It's a crime to bury a man who is not dead! ##Baptism in the Three-fold Name Jesus commanded us to baptize "in the Name of the Father, Son and the Holy Spirit" (Matthew 28:19). The Name is singular because God is One. But Jesus revealed that although God is One, He exists in Three Persons, Who are distinct from each other. It wasn't the Father who died for our sins, nor was it the Holy Spirit. It was the Son. When Jesus ascended up to heaven, He sat on the right hand of the Father, not the right hand of the Holy Spirit. Likewise, the One He sent to His disciples to be their Helper was the Holy Spirit, not the Father. All this may sound elementary. But it is essential that we don't confuse the three Persons in the Godhead and their unique ministries in our redemption. In the Acts of the Apostles, we read again and again that the apostles baptized people in the Name of Jesus Christ (Acts 2:38 etc.). How does this fit in with Jesus' command in Matthew 28:19? When two apparently contradictory statements are found in the Scriptures, we'll find on a closer study that both statements are true. In order to make plain that the Father, Son and Holy Spirit are not a heathen trinity, the apostles identified the Son as Jesus Christ. So they baptized people in the name of "the Father, the Son the Lord Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit." This was called baptism in the Name of Jesus Christ. ##The Obedience of Faith Baptism should be the first step of obedience in the life of a disciple, leading on to a lifetime of obedience – and this obedience must be the obedience of faith and not the obedience of reason. If Jesus had leaned upon His own reason, He would never have gone to John the Baptist for baptism. For His reason would have given Him many arguments against being baptized – especially since He had never sinned. John himself could not understand why Jesus needed to be baptized. But Jesus laid aside the arguments of reason and simply obeyed the voice of the Holy Spirit (Matthew 3:15). "Trust in the Lord with all your heart and do not lean on your own understanding," says the Word (Proverbs 3:5). Reason is the Number One enemy of faith – because human reason cannot grasp spiritual truths. When we get baptized, the last part of our body to go under the water is the upper part of our head. That is symbolic! The authority of our reason is the part of us that is most difficult to put to death! The children of Adam live by what their reason tells them. In baptism, we testify that we have died to that way of life (of leaning on our own reason) and now live by faith in every word that proceeds from the mouth of God (Matthew 4:4; Romans 1:17). Baptism is slighted by some Christians as a trivial matter. Naaman initially despised Elisha's command to go and dip himself seven times in the River Jordan to be healed of his leprosy. But it was when he obeyed that simple command that he was healed (2 Kings 5:10–14). It is in little things that God tests our obedience. Obedience to God must never be delayed. If your old man has indeed died, then he must be buried straight-away. It's a crime not to bury a man who is dead! "Why do you delay then? Arise and be baptized" (Acts 22:16). #Chapter Six #Baptism in the Holy Spirit There are two needs that we all have. The first relates to the past – the forgiveness of our sins. The second relates to the future – enablement to live a life that pleases God. Our first need is taken care of by the death of Christ. To meet the second, God gives us the power of His Holy Spirit. ##Power for Life and for Service We could never have met that first need by ourselves. God had to meet it. It's likewise with the second. We cannot live a life that pleases God or that fulfils all His will, in our own strength. Some are wise enough to acknowledge this right at the beginning of their Christian life and so they seek for God's power straight-away. Others discover it the hard way – by trying and failing repeatedly for many years and then turning to God for His power. Unfortunately there are still others who after falling and failing repeatedly, finally resign themselves to a life of defeat, believing that it is impossible to live victoriously in this life. This also applies to our serving the Lord and being a witness for Him. Most believers realise, immediately after their conversion, that they should be witnesses for the Lord. But they often find themselves tongue-tied and powerless. Some accept this as an unfortunate trait of their personality, and give up all hope of ever becoming powerful witnesses for Christ. Others realise that God has promised them the power of the Holy Spirit. And so they seek God for this power and receive it. And they are filled with boldness and endued with supernatural gifts to be fiery, unashamed and effective witnesses for Christ. It is one thing to be born of the Spirit. That's how we become children of God. But it's quite another thing to be baptized (immersed) in the Holy Spirit. That's how we become empowered to be what God wants us to be and to do what God wants us to do. ##Our New-Covenant Birthright Under the old covenant, the Holy Spirit came only upon certain people, to enable them to fulfil a specific task for God. Under the new covenant, however, the Holy Spirit can be received by all. He has come to show us the glory of Jesus and to transform us into His likeness. John the Baptist pointed to two ministries that Jesus would fulfil – one was to take away sins and the other was to baptize people in the Holy Spirit (John 1:29, 33). We need to experience both of these. The first promise in the New Testament is:" He will save His people from their sins" (Matthew 1:21). The second promise in the New Testament is:" He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit" (Matthew 3:11). It's significant that the New Testament opens with these two promises. This was the beginning of a new era in God's dealings with man – the new covenant. This is then our double birthright as children of God – to be saved from our sins and to be baptized in the Holy Spirit. And God certainly wants to give us our full birthright – not just half of it. The first five books of the New Testament each begin with the promise of the baptism in the Holy Spirit (Matthew 3:11; Mark 1:8; Luke 3:16; John 1:33; Acts 1:5). Yet so many Christians have neglected to claim this for themselves. ##Rivers of Living Water The Holy Spirit is pictured in the New Testament as a river flowing from the throne of God and falling to earth (Revelation 22:1; Acts 2:33). To be baptised in the Holy Spirit is to be immersed under this waterfall. Jesus said that all those who thirsted could come to Him and receive the Holy Spirit so that rivers of living water could flow out from their innermost being (John 7:37). The experience of the average believer, however, is more akin to the hand-pump – a life of struggling and pumping up a few drops of blessing from a dry heart. Yet it need not be like that. If our dryness would only drive us to the Lord, things could be different. To have rivers of blessing flowing out from us to all who come in touch with us is the will of God for our lives. The first step towards this is to acknowledge our need. Many believers are caught up in foolish arguments about words. But it is power that we need, not correct terminology. What is the use having our terminology right, if we are as dry as a bone? It's far better to be honest and to come to God, confessing that rivers of blessing are not flowing out through us. Having taken that first step, we can then trust God to grant us what we ask for. All we need in order to be baptized in the Holy Spirit are thirst (an intense desire, born out of a great longing to glorify God) and faith (the absolute confidence that God will give us what He has promised). Let us ask then, with thirst and with faith, for this power, and God will not deny us our request. ##The Enduement of Power The first apostles had forsaken everything to follow Jesus. But they still had to wait until they were baptized in the Holy Spirit before they could go out and fulfil their God-ordained ministry. Jesus Himself needed to be anointed with the Holy Spirit and power before He could begin His public ministry (Acts 10:38). If even He needed this anointing, how much more we need it. Jesus told His apostles to wait in Jerusalem until they were 'clothed with power' (Luke 24:49). And just before He ascended up to heaven, He told them again that when the Holy Spirit came upon them they would 'receive power' (Acts 1:8). On the day of Pentecost, the Holy Spirit was poured out on them. And those cowardly men were immediately transformed into bold, fiery witnesses for the Lord (Acts 2:1–4). What they received was exactly what Jesus had told them that they would receive – power. What we need in order to live the Christian life is not just a doctrine but the power of God in our life. The baptism in the Holy Spirit gives us power for godliness as